For the love of boxing

March 8th 1971.

My heart rate soared - reverberating through my whole body - my hands were sweating profusely. The air was thick with a tension. Clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke billowed out of the mouths of everyone seeking tobacco-solace from the stress and anticipation

The arena was filled to the rafters - everyone was completely fixated on the action. Everything that day seemed so different - almost other worldly. You could sense that something very special was taking place.

The 15th and final round was about to begin. I couldn’t believe that it was going the distance. One man’s facial features were distorted - swollen by the accumulation of punches and punishment but he was unfazed - still relentless - with pride and purpose. The other, his opponent, was amazed that none of the punches of the myriad he threw could wear his adversary down or stop his opponent’s merciless attack.

This was a war of attrition - not a boxing match. I was completely focused on the action. The two combatants were relentless - putting everything, including their lives on the line.

Then the bell sounded to start the round. They were at each other in what seemed to be a fraction of a second then one of them threw a punch, rocking his opponent - the face of the sport and both their destinies changed at that moment. It was a perfectly timed - textbook left hook, that expressed his contempt and conviction, thrown by a man who refused to believe in defeat. A man on a mission to win this epic battle - of the two best heavyweights - both of them former Olympic gold medalists and undefeated Heavyweight champions.

Joe Frazier’s devastating punch connected with Muhammad Ali’s jaw, viciously concussing his head, snapping it to the side - the blow sent him down to the canvas - for the only knockdown of the fight. It was one of the many left hooks Smokin’ Joe threw that night, but this one was different.

Though Ali got up, he no longer had any answers to Joe’s continuing onslaught. His jaw was swollen from the repeated blows, while Frazier, the recipient of so many of Ali’s punches, looked even worse.

Several other hellacious punches landed on Ali before the round ended and he miraculously weathered the storm. I choked back tears when the results were announced - inconsolable that Ali had lost for the first time. Every one of Frazier’s punches had rocked my world - this was not supposed to be the ending I had envisioned.

Ali was supposed to be invincible.

My love affair with boxing started in the days of Black and White television, when families would gather around the TV and watch Ed Sullivan, The Lone Ranger, Bonanza and a smattering of other programs among them, including The Gillette Fight Nights. I got really excited every time they televised a boxing match - looking forward to those Friday nights with my father who had a real affinity and love for the sport.

We watched as Cassius Clay (Muhammad Ali) captivated us and took the world by storm. His bouts and personality electrifying the television audience. Those first years of exposure to the sweet science planted the seeds which would grow into a life-long passion for me, spanning over half a century.

But it really didn’t begin in my own lifetime.

My father Samuel grew up in a poor family just before and during the great depression. He was raised by my grandmother who was widowed at a young age with five children. Times were hard and all the children had to work to help make ends meet. Their heroes were boxers. Those who fought their way out of the ghettos and hardship. Jack Dempsey, Benny Leonard, Mickey Walker, Harry Greb and Gene Tunney were household names. Larger than life heroes for them at the time.

There were no Michael Jordan’s nor football stars - it was the heyday for boxing, which captured and enraptured the public like no other sport. At 13 my father’s younger brother, Jack left home to find work and sustenance, ending up on a farm just outside Strathroy Ontario. His boss, a former boxer, loved to share his knowledge in the sweet science and saw some potential in my uncle who was a lanky-scrawny adolescent at the time. In the barn was a ring and all the necessary training equipment. It became the place where he took his passion for the sweet science and started learning how to box. He was feisty, with a natural athleticism and learned very fast.

After several years of training he started to compete in the Amateur ranks at bantamweight, compiling an undefeated record. Just before the war broke out, he turned professional but without a good manager and up against seasoned pros, he lost a few of his bouts before he enlisted and went overseas. During WW II he was stationed in England and became a boxing coach in the army.

The fondest memories I have of my childhood revolve around the sweet science. Just before a bout we were about to watch together, my father would tell me in vivid detail about Dempsey, Joe Louis, Sugar Ray Robinson, Barney Ross, Henry Armstrong and all the legends. I soaked up every detail like a parched sponge. Though I was born after that era - too young to have seen any of them during their fighting years, through my dad and my uncle Jack, I learned about the legends of the sport. They became my heroes as well.

The late 1950’s and 60’s was a heyday for boxing. Champions defended their belts fighting the best - though some were past their-primes. The lion’s share of the televised match-ups were exhilarating contests. Most of the bouts were between top contenders - making the sport so exciting to watch. It was long before the IBF and WBO began adding to the confusion and proliferation of divisions and champions. We witnessed the tail end of Sugar Ray Robinson’s career, Rocky Marciano had long since retired and the world’s attention was fixated on that brash, witty and highly talented young upstart, Cassius Clay, as he called himself then. That was before he took his stand against the Vietnam war and racism - changing his name to Muhammad Ali.

As a young boy, I watched in awe as his career and legend unfolded. He became my favorite athlete and personality - a larger than life figurehead for me - a superhero. I can remember sitting beside my father as an eight-year-old, watching bouts with him, sensing his admiration for Ali’s talent.

We respected all the boxers. Emile Griffith, Pascal Perez, Nino Benvenuti, Vicente Saldivar, and Archie Moore. As we watched, my father would punctuate the action with poignant observations describing the necessary skills and intelligence it took to survive in the square circle and come out on top. To a young kid growing up - these were my gladiators - role models that I looked up to. Those were the best times and fondest memories of the time I spent with my father. We were inseparable when it came to the sweet science. Then suddenly, without my knowledge he contracted terminal cancer.

Little did I know when he took me to see the Ali vs Frazier in 1971 that it would be the last thing, I ever did with him. He passed away in December of that year and left a deep void in my life. I’ve never forgotten all those things he taught me. His intimate knowledge of the sport and the profound admiration he had for the men who put it all on the line for all of us to enjoy. I often wonder what he would think of the way boxing is today.

I’ve watched boxing transform from a simpler sport in my childhood, with fewer sanctioning bodies to the modern version. With its proliferation of championship belts, champions and money-driven businessmen who keep important bouts from happening in the name of profit and business.

There were no PEDs until fairly recently and fewer protected fighters, hiding behind blemish-free records. In comparison, during boxing’s heyday, the best fought top contenders regularly.

There was no question that anyone who wanted to be called a champion would have to face the elite of their division to hold a belt and maintain respect in the sport.

A young Sugar Ray Leonard was never protected, fighting Roberto Duran and all the greats with no exception - ducking no one. Aaron Pryor and Alexis Arguello followed suit. Tommy Hearns fought anyone and everyone who was willing. Back then, no self-respecting elite fighters would have missed a super match-up like Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao did in their primes to protect their careers.

Sure, there were easier match-ups and some bouts were not as competitive, but nobody ducked the other top fighters or champions - nor waited till old age and injury wilted a former top shelf talent.

Now there are hundreds of champions, interim belt holders and total chaos brought on by the multiple sanctioning bodies. There are many talented boxers and some would fare well in any era but the businessmen behind them are holding out on the fans and the purists who deserve to see these warriors fight each other in their primes, not protected for ulterior motives.

If my father was alive today, these are the issues he would find fault with in today’s era. As gifted as some of our greats are in 2019, their talent is frequently used as a commodity rather than respectfully to shine at what they do best.

He’d accept those who over-compensate for their poor upbringing - everyone reacts differently to fame and fortune, which is completely understandable. But the purist in him would have more respect for those who kept their humility and pride intact, respectful to those who paved the way for their good fortune - their predecessors, roots and the hardships they faced - those who would never compromise the sport for business interests and giving the fans what they truly deserve.

That is what real boxing is to me.

Rest in peace Dad.