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October 2001
Each month we bring you a selection of articles from the current and past issues of BOXING MONTHLY. To buy the magazine, see our subscription or back issues pages, or use our world distribution map to find a news-stand copy. Why not use our Interactive Forum to express your own boxing comments and opinions!
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HE’S A GOOFi KINDA GUY Rock Newman said he'd finished with boxing after the Bowe years. He says he doesn't need the sport today. So why has he come back with Lance/Mount Whitaker, who has renamed himself GOOFi, of all things? STEVE FARHOOD investigates |
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'I met with Whitaker on a Wednesday morning. If you had told me on Tuesday night that I'd be talking to a fighter about representing him, I would've said you were crazy' - ROCK NEWMAN
- Get Big Pic I had never interviewed a fighter named GOOFi, and I wasn't quite sure how to proceed. No prob: I already knew the answer to the only question I needed to ask heavyweight contender Lance Whitaker.
After advancing into the top 10 under the guidance of promoter America Presents and trainer Joe Goossen, GOOFi (Whitaker's chosen name and spelling) had recently jumped to Newman and trainer Phil Borgia.
"We're fighting together," Whitaker said, sounding anything but goofy. "I feel like Rock's my bodyguard. I kind of feel like it's me and Rock against everybody else."
If GOOFi's sentiment sounds familiar, it's because Newman's run with former heavyweight champion Riddick Bowe might as well have been sub-titled Rock and "Big Daddy" vs. the rest of the world. In an all-out brawl that lasted the better part of eight years, there were cheap shots and verbal assaults and other intentional fouls. Championship belts were tossed into trash bins, and bridges were burned at every turn. But the ultimate outsiders remained competitive throughout. Better yet, during Bowe's one-year stretch as undisputed world champion, he and Rock kicked ass.
"I really think I approach this business of boxing in an out of the ordinary way," said Newman, who, after Bowe fought for the last time in 1996, promised he wouldn't return to the game. "It's one of the things I do, but it's not who I am."
If Whitaker had asked me about Newman, instead of the other way around, this is what I would've said: Some might call Rock loud; some might call him obnoxious; some might call him bombastic, and I've been one of the some. But he'll watch his fighter's back from the signing of the contracts until the roadies are breaking down the ring.
"Rock was indefatigable," said Madison Square Garden's Seth Abraham, the former president of HBO Sports. "It was very obvious he would fight for every nickel, every penny, for Riddick. In negotiating, he was either going to drive his head through a wall for Riddick, or drive my head through a wall."
An illustration of the depth of Newman's self-confidence:
"I grew up in Brandywine, Maryland," Newman, 49, recalled during our talk at the Amtrack station in New York City. "I was 12 years old and in sixth grade when Cassius Clay challenged Sonny Liston. My mother thought I was one step away from lunacy; that's how rabid I was about it. And I was the only one who believed Clay would win. Nobody in my school, in my family, at Sunday School, on my Little League team, thought he had a chance.
"When Clay won, you can imagine what that did to me in terms of maintaining my convictions. That definitely did something for me. No question it was a seminal moment."
A glance at his resume establishes a fact that Newman is proud of: He doesn't need boxing. He's sold insurance and cars. ("New cars," he was quick to point out.) He's worked as a counsellor at Howard University and a radio talk-show host. He's headed the transition teams for two mayors of Washington, D.C., and flirted with the idea of running for office himself. He's part-owner of a minor league ice hockey team in Syracuse, New York, and a restaurant in Las Vegas.
And now he promotes a 6ft 7ins heavyweight named GOOFi.
"I've gotten name recognition from boxing," Newman said, "but I look at it as just something else I've done."
Newman's entrance into boxing came in the early-'80s, when he was covering Maryland-based Sugar Ray Leonard on local radio. "At Leonard-Hearns I," he said, "I saw Dan Duva, who promoted the fight. I said:
'He's 29, and I'm 29. If he can do it, I can do it.' I lost some money, but I learned in the process."
Newman worked as a publicist for light-heavyweight champion Dwight (Braxton) Qawi before establishing himself as de facto manager. He next worked with Butch Lewis and Michael Spinks. Then came the 1988 Olympics, after which no one showed interest in signing Bowe, a lazy, jocular silver medalist from the nightmarish streets of Brooklyn, New York.
Four years later, Bowe upset Evander Holyfield to win the unified title, placing Newman in a unique position of power. During Bowe's reign, it was definitely not business as usual.
"It was a roller coaster, with incredible highs and sad lows," Newman said. "When we heard,
'. . . and the NEW . . .` . . . and then the audience with the Pope . . . and dinner with Mandela . . . It was an incredible experience. The trouble Riddick got into after he was finished fighting was not how I saw the script written."
For Newman, the Bowe experience was bittersweet. By the time he engaged in his second bout with Andrew Golota, Big Daddy was fighting like a grandfather. Worse yet, his personal life began to crumble, and he was subsequently arrested for kidnapping and assault in a desperate attempt at winning back his wife and five children.
Bowe has since experienced further personal and legal problems, and in the late-'90s, suffered the embarrassment of living his lifelong dream by enlisting in the Marines, only to last 11 days.
In Tarnished Armour, Dominic Calder Smith wrote of Bowe, "[his] demise had been as depressingly fast as any in history."
"Bowe was not a guy who had a lot of self-motivation," said Newman. "Part of the challenge with him was trying to redirect his instincts, which had been learned in a pretty dysfunctional family. He had been told by someone who had great influence on him:
'No one works hard except for a fool and a mule.' Once Bowe got money, he wasn't motivated anymore.
"The support he had around him - myself, [trainer] Eddie Futch, the accountants, the legal team
- I don't know if anyone ever had a greater team. I don't know if I can say this without sounding self-serving, but if there were any signs of trouble, I certainly tried to address them. Was his downfall inevitable? I honest to God didn't see that."
Newman estimates that in purses, Bowe earned about $60-million. Moreover, his "exit package" from HBO was a two-year deal at $60,000 per month; the network viewed Big Daddy as a goodwill ambassador and potentially, an integral part of its outreach program. But there wasn't a smooth transition from the ring to the real world.
Bowe's rapid decline as a fighter, Newman believes, was related to "big, dramatic shifts in weight that ultimately destroyed his reflexes." But his personal issues were unrelated to boxing. "They were related to an overall lack of discipline and focus," Newman said. "I think some old habits and instincts just surfaced."
Newman hasn't spoken to Bowe in two years. Planning a comeback, Big Daddy wanted to know whether Newman was in or out. Responding in a letter, Rock wrote that boxing was no longer the right thing for Bowe to pursue. End of communication.
I asked whether, during Newman's hiatus from boxing, he reconsidered any of his methods. His answer was revealing.
"If anything," he said, "I've felt vindication. Two years ago, when Arum and King and the Duvas and Cedric Kushner and all the other power players of the
'90s were involved in the IBF trial, there wasn't a scintilla [of evidence] against me. And I was the one who had the heavyweight champion of the world at the time! Nobody said:
'Gee, whiz: That might be a badge of honour for Rock Newman.' I got a lot of criticism at times, but it worked for me. And I still did it my way."
For Newman, the fall of Bowe left a sour taste that a lifetime won't wash away. He was hesitant to as much as consider a relationship with another fighter . . . until GOOFi came along.
"I had seen Whitaker fight one time by accident on a Shane Mosley card," said Newman. "Otherwise, I didn't know him at all.
"In mid-June, I was working out with a personal trainer at a gym that he worked out at also. The personal trainer said Whitaker was unhappy, and maybe I could talk to him. I told him I wasn't interested. A couple of days later, the trainer told me Whitaker's contract was running out, and maybe I could give him some advice. Again, I said no. The following day the trainer asked me to talk to Whitaker as a personal favour to him. He brought Whitaker to my house and we started talking about our experiences. We started to bond.
"I met with Whitaker on a Wednesday morning. If you had told me on Tuesday night that I'd be talking to a fighter about representing him, I would've said you were crazy."
Unlike Bowe, who turned pro under Newman, Whitaker is an established commodity. In the mid-'90s, he was the top-rated amateur heavyweight in the USA. His stock plummeted, and during the first phase of his pro career, he was easily dismissed. His promoter, America Presents, had signed a handful of underachieving big men from the Class of
'96 (see Wolfgramm and Duncan Dokiwari), and Whitaker fit right in. When he lost for the first time, by narrow decision to Lou Savarese in 1999, he was no longer a blip on the division's radar screen. His handlers had changed his name to Mount Whitaker, but what good was a mountain of a heavyweight if he wasn't a threat to at least occasionally erupt?
Surprise, surprise: Whitaker, a strong in-fighter for a tall heavyweight, rebounded by outpointing the previously unbeaten Monte Barrett and crushing another undefeated opponent, prospect Robert Davis. Then, in March, he captured the hearts of the fans by halting top-10 contender Oleg Maskaev (KO2); it was Whitaker's first start after learning that his six-year-old son had been diagnosed with leukaemia. (Lance Jr., his father is happy to report, is doing well.)
"I'd like to put together a fight right now between GOOFi and Kirk Johnson," said Newman, who was in New York City to discuss Whitaker's future with HBO.
Newman's initial hesitancy in representing Whitaker dissipated after one of their conversations.
"I had to have some in-depth talks with Lance to see where his motivation emanated from," Newman said. "He talked about being homeless at one point in time and hating himself. He discovered boxing, which made him feel good about himself. It's a challenge for him to see how good he can become. Never once, from meeting him until the time we signed, did he talk about money. That was really important to me.
"The only reason I'm involved is because I can guide this guy to the heavyweight championship and beyond."
Has Newman's experience with Bowe scarred him? Will he heed the advice of those who warn managers and promoters not to "fall in love" with their fighters?
Newman smiled. "I don't know how to do that," he said.
It cost Newman to corral Whitaker. "I had to step up and pay six figures," he said. "When it's all said and done, it might be seven figures."
There were also legal issues; America Presents claimed a valid contract with Whitaker, and lawsuits were fired back and forth. When the sides settled, America Presents maintained a small controlling interest.
"You know when you turn the lights on in the kitchen and see the rats scramble for the corners?" said Dan Goossen, who until recently ran America Presents. "That's the Rock Newmans of this business.
"Whitaker is now in a position to be a top player in the division. He either got there because he was well-managed, well-trained, and well-promoted, or despite of all that. The bottom line is he's where he's at today.
"Am I surprised [that Whitaker made the change]? No. This kind of conduct isn't uncommon in our business. Disappointed? Yes."
For his part, Whitaker said his former connections "didn't take me seriously". He added, "I was part of a whole bunch of fighters in the stable, and I was put on the back-burner. Joe [Goossen] is a great trainer and everything, but I was a leftover after he trained Joel Casamayor and David Tua.
"Rock? We're like partners. He doesn't have any other fighters, and I'm willing to give him every ounce."
That's 4,096 ounces. Sounds like he ain't GOOFing around.
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