Shortly before noon three men got out of a taxi and scuttled under the marquee of the Washington Coliseum to avoid the rain. One of them was Young Joe Walcott (real name Harvey McCullough and no relation to the former heavyweight champion or Barbados Joe), who did not carry about him the fine flush of youth. With a ducktail haircut, dark glasses, padded-shoulder sports coat and tight, black pants, Young Joe might have been an aging rock n roll singer. He chewed on a toothpick, turning his lumpy face up to sneak a look at the blue-letter marquee. If he expected to see his name he was disappointed, TONIGHT, it read, giving him no hint of fame, SUGAR RAY ROBINSON V HOLLY MIMS IN CO-FEATURE. Walcotts advisers, a fat man in a gold coat and a fatter one whose suit looked fresh from an ashcan, trooped into the office to inquire about the weigh-in. A myopic lady in a print dress knew nothing. At the arenas main gate a lone ticket attendant told them to go around to the stage door at the rear of the building. They walked rapidly through the rain, the man in the gold coat holding a protective newspaper over his head. Rain dripped down Young Joes seamed face, but he did not mind. Just one more indignity to bear in a life of cheeseburgers and long bus rides. After much door-banging a crotchety old man with a red face appeared to disclaim knowledge of any fight, whereupon he slammed the door. The trio made the long trek back to the front of the arena, Young Joe volunteering his only spontaneous remark of the day: Man, Im gonna walk all my weight off. This time the entourage was admitted, after more confusion, to a gloomy, battleship-gray room in the depths of the Coliseum. A young, officious man took Walcotts pulse, poked him in the ribs and asked an embarrassing question: The papers say you have a 6-10-2 record. That right? The pugilist looked uncertainly at his two handlers. The gold coat shrugged in the manner of a lawyer whose client is caught with hot goods. With a laconic uh-huh Walcott pleaded guilty. He was guided into an adjoining room to be fingerprinted. They are not very trusting in Washington. Half a dozen prelim fighters were going through the same ritual. None of them bothered to look up at Walcott. Sugar Ray arrived a good half hour late. He walked in easily, wearing dark slacks and a paisley-print sport shirt, his eyes harboring the cloudy look of a man just aroused from deep slumber. Everybody hi-Sugared and howdy-Rayed as Robinson sidestepped an old-fashioned set of scales on rollers, shucked his shirt and dropped onto a straight-back chair. He seemed uncertain whether he should speak to Robinson or ignore him, as Sugar was ignoring him. Young Walcott weighed 156 but looked smaller. When the ex-champ mounted the scales—in shorts, undershirt and sneakers—there was a moment of consternation. Sugar Ray muttered under his breath, stripped to the skin and still came in 10 ounces over the 160-pound limit. More mumbles. Gainford said, Lemme see, Ray. His thumb performed a certain magic on the scales. Hunnert and sixty on the nose, he proclaimed. Nobody disputed him. There was a surprisingly good crowd that night—nearly 4,000 paying from $2 to $7 per seat-had rocked the arena when Robinson appeared 15 minutes late, bobbing and dancing in the white robe with Sugar Ray etched on it in apricot hues, ignored the cheers. By contrast, Walcott had paused on the ring apron to stare in disbelief at a tiny knot of fans applauding him. His next act was to misstep into the rosin box, turning it over. At the bell Walcott seemed confused. Before he could get himself untracked Sugar Ray had hammered several quick lefts on his nose. Robinson rocked Walcott with a right uppercut and a moment later nailed him with a straight right that had Young Joe retreating. Robinson returned to his corner untouched by human hands. In the second and third rounds Robinson jabbed and followed through, just as his mother had told him to do. The crowd applauded Robinsons showmanship, and it was easy to feel you were watching the Sugar Ray of old. Round four brought Walcott a painful lesson in the art of infighting. Sugars hands worked at his opponents torso and under the chin. At ringside, in a white sequined dress, Millie Bruce came out of her chair, yelling: Come on, baby. Come on, love. When Robinson paused to pull up his trunks Young Joe thought he saw his chance. He tried a long, looping right and immediately got tangled in his own shoelaces. Exposed, vulnerable, he struggled frantically for balance. Sugar Ray feinted a punch that could have sent everybody home to early supper, but he did not throw it. He dropped his arms, laughed aloud and tugged again at his shorts. It was more of the same in the fifth. Robinson boxed Walcott off-balance three times and reprieved him three times. Once, when Walcott moved forward, Robinson chortled aloud, embraced him in the middle of the ring, then wheeled and mashed poor Walcotts sore nose with a stinging left. But maybe Sugar hadnt been all that sweet. The exertion was taking something out of him. Suddenly, between the fifth and sixth rounds, he looked old. At first the crowd thought he was resting for the final big push. There were cries of O.K., Ray, nows the time, Put im away, Sugar Boy. But the old combination one-two-three now misfired. So did some long right hands. Punches that earlier rocked against Young Joes chin now slipped harmlessly over his shoulders. It was hot under the ring lights. Sugar Ray grasped through the seventh, sweating buckets. Walcott hit him in the face a number of times, his first meaningful blows of the fight. In the eighth he did it again, and now Young Joe was looking tough. Robinson wasnt grinning anymore. There were scattered boos at the bell. In the ninth Walcott pounded Robinson in the body, and though Sugar had chopped home a few blows of his own they lacked power. When the two pawed and clutched a moment later in the center of the ring a voice from the $2 seats yelled, Waltz me around again, Sugar, and too many people laughed. Many in the crowd were already heading for the exits before the end of the 10th, in which nothing happened except that Young Joe sent in a few more futile body blows. At the finish there was a roll of boos. Sugar Ray, tarnished but the obvious winner, accepted the victory calmly. All three judges favored him heavily. But the cheers were mostly for Walcott as he swaggered from the ring, proud, apparently, that he had not been knocked out. Sucking a soft-drink bottle in his dressing room, Robinson thanked the writers who came by to see him. The old conceit, the old lip, the old arrogance were there, if his reflexes and the punch were not. No, he hadnt been hurt—but that boy was tough, no doubt about it. No, the heat hadnt bothered him too much. No, he hadnt really been looking for a knockout. He would be sharper for the champion Giardello if he went the distance a few more times. Nobody was counting, but Robinson had gone the distance three of his last four times out. The newsmen rushed off to meet their deadlines. The last curious fans faded away in the halls. Houselights dimmed over the empty arena. His manager Gainford gathered up Robinsons fight paraphernalia, methodically stuffing a small bag. From the shower, standing under a sting of spray, Sugar Ray called, Hey, George! What was that cats name I fought tonight? (by Larry L. King) .
Posted on: Thu, 11 Dec 2014 12:54:51 +0000
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