Since 25 February 1995, I have carried around in my wallet a ticket bearing that date. It also reads “Nigel Benn v Gerald McClellan”. The fight was one of the best and worst to ever take place. A triumphant and tragic microcosm of boxing.
The many who watched saw a man reach down into his inner being and summon something to destroy a force supposedly greater than himself. And as we looked on, amazed and enthralled, we cheered as life slipped away from a fellow man slumped, defeated, in his corner.
When I first read that this fight was going to take place, I was absolutely thrilled. As all boxing fans know, natural match-ups that we make readily over a beer don’t often happen. If they do, it is usually when one or both of the fighters are well past their peak. Not in this case, although it could be argued that Benn was starting to slide.
Despite being a student and typically skint with Christmas spends to cope with, this was irrelevant. I was going to London Arena and that was that. There are rare events where you know lifelong memory will pay you back richly when measured against mere temporary financial worries.
Bob Arum, talking before Benn’s 1990 fight with Iran Barkley, said: “Hiring judges for this fight is the biggest waste of money in the history of boxing.” A legendary slugfest ended in the first round in Benn’s favour. That was the thing with Nigel. You knew what you were getting. Or rather you didn’t, which is more to the point. In his earlier days he would come out blazing and try and despatch his opponent with the minimum amount of fuss. This meant he would usually knock them out sooner or later. But on two occasions, these tactics meant that he himself was stopped.
The Benn knockout aura had diminished somewhat in the two years approaching early 1995 — four of his previous five fights had gone to points (the only stoppage being a fourth-round KO of the brave but overmatched Lou Gent) as Benn turned boxer, realising that trying to blast all-comers away would not work every time.
In McClellan he was meeting an opponent who was using his old approach with even more devastating results, destroying more clinically than the “Dark Destroyer” himself.
Benn had the “No Fear” logo emblazoned on his clothes in the period running up to the McClellan fight. He might not have been frightened but his thousands of fans, myself among them, were petrified.
“If I nail somebody, he’s going down,” McClellan said, as he went about clinically knocking out 29 of his 31 beaten opponents. An astonishing 20 of these were in the first round. True, McClellan had two defeats on his record but these were educational points losses back in 1989 when he was serving his apprenticeship. And his victims were not solely of the “Mexican road sweeper” genre — a term Benn himself had made popular.
In fact McClellan, nicknamed “The mini-Mike Tyson” by Don King, was the WBC middleweight champion, stepping up in weight to meet Benn. And his last three defences had all ended in the first round, including a chilling 93-second demolition of Julian Jackson (brutal conqueror of Herol Graham) in his most recent fight. McClellan’s power was not in question and he was coming to London with one thought in mind. Get in, knock him out, get home. He said: “Why stand there for 12 rounds when I can get it done in one?”
Around 12,000 fans filled the London Arena with the best atmosphere I’ve ever been privileged to experience at any sporting occasion. Watching the TV coverage later on tape (as I have done several times over the years, never escaping the macabre feeling later events dictate), McClellan was in his changing room doing a warm up the likes of which I have never seen. It was the slowest shadow boxing known to man, where Gerald would simply throw single, deliberate shots. His intentions were clear.
ITV listed nine national newspapers’ predictions of the outcome. All had gone for McClellan. The most optimistic predicted a sixth-round finish. Half a minute into the first round it looked like the doom-mongers were all too correct. Benn’s major defensive tactic was to bend as low as he would be permitted to, especially when pinned to the ropes, perhaps feeling McClellan rarely used uppercuts. It backfired. Badly. McClellan unleashed a hurtful combination to the top of Benn’s head and he went through the ropes, landing on a ringside table.
Enter the man whose actions helped save Benn, French referee Alfred Asaro. By now I was watching helplessly through my fingers, willing Nigel to at least make it to his feet. But there was over two minutes left in the round and Benn was badly dazed and facing one of the most destructive punchers in the world. McClellan was waiting calmly to claim his fourth consecutive first-round victory.
When Benn clambered to his unsteady feet, Asaro helped him by ensuring a decent distance was between the fighters before allowing the action to recommence. He did this several times in the round, often pushing McClellan backwards when he was fully entitled to go in to try and finish the job. A desperate Benn grabbed, held and did everything he could in an anguished but seemingly futile attempt to hear the bell. With the referee’s help, he somehow survived.
Benn was by no means chinny but was not exactly famed for his recuperative powers. Surely it was merely a matter of time. Quick time at that.
I, and if the truth be told, everyone around me expected the fight to be over at the start of the second. All I hoped was that Nigel could stay out of McClellan’s way for a while and clear his head. Benn came from his corner and in the first few seconds landed a big right hand on McClellan’s chin. Stay away? Who was I kidding? And, in my opinion, he won the round. Watching later on television, McClellan seemed to be developing the strange habit of pushing out his gum shield. He returned to his corner and said: “Something’s not right.”
In the third, Benn had the cheek to lead with a right uppercut that landed and caught McClellan quite flush. The American stepped back and stared incredulously at Benn, as if to say: “How dare you?” Benn was head hunting, while McClellan worked off the jab. A close session.
The Dark Destroyer, his weeks of solo training runs up Mount Teide in Tenerife in the bank, pressed forward, setting a high tempo. In the first of several portentous comments from the ITV ringside commentary team of Reg Gutteridge and Jim Watt, the latter said: “At this pace alone something has to give.”
The fifth round was the first in which McClellan’s strangely protruding gum shield was noticed by Gutteridge. It seemed as if the frenetic tempo of the fight was getting to the American who was desperately sucking in air to try and feed his burning muscles. His plan wasn’t working and he was going to have to think of a Plan B. He had never had to think of a Plan B before. McClellan had never been more than eight rounds in his career, not past five during his last 14 fights, and was now faced with a super-fit and resolute champion who had taken his usually destructive punches and was still standing.
It didn’t seem as if a Plan B was forthcoming. He stood with his arms down, as if his opponent was some kind of rogue actor who would soon realise he wasn’t following the script. He showed Benn little respect and was greeted with a hurtful right cross for his trouble. This nightmarish figure in front of him was all too real and not going anywhere.
A 21-year-old Naseem Hamed sitting at ringside simply said: “McClellan has blown himself out.” Watt observed: “Sheer exhaustion could decide this fight,” and hailed the performance, whatever the outcome, as Benn’s best. The sixth was strange — McClellan’s work was the better and probably clinched the round on the cards yet his gumshield, limply hanging out for much of the time, was finally removed by Benn. Another psychological blow to the American. To compound it, Benn gave McClellan a couple of digs after the bell, which went unpunished by the referee.
Astonishingly, McClellan seemed reinvigorated at the start of the seventh and was on the front foot for most of the round, winning it on work rate if nothing else. If he thought his efforts were going to dishearten Benn, he must have been heartbroken when during the round, Benn shouted at him to “Come on!”
McClellan did just that at the start of the eighth. It seemed as if Plan A might yet work — an agonised crowd stood in disbelief as a straight right followed by a combination from the seemingly spent American badly rocked Benn. Typically, Nigel desperately fought back but once again the end seemed inevitable. Benn threw a huge, hopeful left hook, missed and toppled over. McClellan must have been willing this courageous, wounded beast to stay down. Intractable, he rose, took an eight-count and even had the temerity to fight back until the bell sounded.
Right at the beginning of the ninth, McClellan connected with a huge right cross but Benn would simply not give up. His effort was becoming super-human. Benn was taking McClellan to places he had never been before and I don’t just mean distance.
His whole being was asked questions; physical and mental demands were placed which few people on the planet ever have to experience. The American’s gumshield was permanently jutting out as he forlornly tried to quench the fire in his depleted lungs. A despairing Benn launched a huge right hand and again fell to the canvas as he missed. In doing so, the top of his head caught McClellan’s forehead and he looked hurt. Extreme pain, fatigue, bewilderment all conspired to make McClellan drop to one knee in a corner. It seemed as if the boxing gods had cast their die.
Incredibly, McClellan started the 10th round with a stiff, hurtful jab as he manfully battled through torment. Worryingly, he was continually blinking, as if he couldn’t focus. Benn was merciless and anyone who would expect him to be is an utter fool as this fight had gone beyond mere sport and become visceral, base combat. He measured a straight right which connected flush on the chin of an utterly exhausted McClellan, forcing him to drop to one knee. The American, almost bankrupt of every physical and mental resource, managed to rise at eight. An uppercut sent him down for a second time in the round. In an unfortunate but understandable choice of words, Gutteridge and Watt gleefully shouted: “He’s quit!” McClellan stayed on his knee for the full 10-count and then trudged back to his corner. The epic ended at one minute, 38 seconds of the 10th round.
So did McClellan’s life as he had previously known it. Those celebrating, dancing round his now unconscious body slumped against his corner post, were not to know that at the time. Watching the post-fight melee on tape is truly harrowing.
Commenting over pictures of a victorious Benn, Watt said: “He has punched the life out of Gerald McClellan.” Gutteridge suggested that it seemed as if there might be another reason. Watt ventured, “Heart problem”. Gutteridge then chillingly repeated his colleague’s sentiments: “That is what they call punching the life out of you.” The director then cut to a shot of McClellan, seemingly unconscious, fighting for his life before our very eyes. Of course, Watt, Gutteridge and the watching millions had no knowledge of how serious the situation was. Hindsight is 20/20 as they say.
To make matters worse, Gary Newbon attempted to conduct an interview in the ring with the victor and referred to his prostrate opponent as Mike McCallum, adding insult to what were developing into life-threatening injuries. It was becoming obvious that McClellan’s situation was very serious and announcer Jimmy Lennon Jr asked for the aisles to be cleared to allow access.
There is one memory I will take with me to my grave. Sat next to me all night was a Benn fan, a Londoner about my age with whom I’d had brief conversations during the evening. He had seemed like a reasonable bloke. After Lennon’s announcement, this man, eyes full of irrational hatred, apoplectic, stood on his seat and shouted in the direction of McClellan’s corner: “Die, you bastard! Die!”
I wonder if he remembers it as well as I do? I wonder if he even cares that Gerald McClellan almost died that night from a subdural haematoma which has left him dependent on 24-hour care from his sisters, barely able to walk, completely blind, mostly deaf and with severe memory problems?
The British Boxing Board of Control were praised for the efficiency of the medical attention given at ringside (a welcome spin-off from the Michael Watson tragedy) and the operating surgeon observed that without this, McClellan might have died. “G-Man” was still coherent enough in the ambulance to remove his oxygen mask and ask what had happened. But the swelling in his brain was worsening. Doctors had to drill a hole in his head and perform four hours of surgery before inducing a coma to stem potential damage.
His purse for the Benn fight was $250,000. He cleared $62,920.75.
In 1998 in association with HBO Sports and Ring 8, Roy Jones Jr launched a campaign to establish a trust fund for Gerald McClellan’s three children. In November 2002, Jones joined other boxing greats such as Oscar De La Hoya and Shane Mosley in a fund raising night to honour Gerald. During a speech in which Jones spoke eloquently about the dangers fighters face in the ring, he observed: “Gerald McClellan could have been Roy Jones.”
Jones’s detractors who jumped on this comment as if it confirms his arrogance should remember two things. Firstly, Jones is one of the few who has actually helped McClellan financially rather than just mouth sympathy. Secondly, if you read between the lines, Jones is saying something else. “Roy Jones could have been Gerald McClellan.”
At the beginning of 1995, McClellan was on the cusp of greatness and riches. But as Maya Angelou said: “We are all walking on the kerb.” That night in London Arena, he slipped, almost fatally. The potential Gerald McClellan had seems to make his already tragic story even worse. He beat Roy Jones in the semi-finals of the 1988 national Golden Gloves tournament.
Former trainer Emanuel Steward (though not in his corner on the fateful night) said: “I never had a more talented fighter than Gerald McClellan. Gerald could have beaten Roy again. I really believe that. He had the punching power, he had the speed, he was tall and physical and he had a good chin, too.”
Two days before the Benn fight, McClellan spoke some alarming words, the impact of which never fades. He said: “In boxing you are going to war, and in war you must be prepared to die.” In the light of this, perhaps sympathy is not what McClellan deserves. But acknowledgement is the least he merits.
The story of Gerald McClellan is a painful one, one that fighters, boxing writers and fans seem to find it easy not to discuss. He is another statistic, one that has been forgotten by many in the boxing community. This is because he is a living embodiment of the risks fighters take every time they step through the ropes, a reminder of the dangers that are ignored at peril. To dwell on cases like Gerald McClellan would destroy the sport. To ignore him is to debase ourselves.
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