Faces of Boxing Dark Shadows in My Subconscious Mind

Editorial By Robert Brizel, Head Real Combat Media Boxing Correspondent

*Photo Credit: Robert Brizel, Real Combat Media

Every boxing reporter has thoughts and feelings, especially when it comes to the boxers of past and present. Emile Griffith had his boxing shadow with the late Benny “Kid” Paret, who died after fighting him in the ring. Like Griffith, at times this reporter is intertwined with his boxing shadows, of boxers past and present, of boxers whose careers were, or never were.

In this editorial, perhaps one of the most different and difficult this reporter has ever written, certain names, faces and events float to the surface from time to time, clearly a projection of my memories and recollections of my era. The late Hank Kaplan carried many ghosts of the faces and memories of his boxing experiences in his time. While my personal experiences are far from Emanuel Steward and Bert Sugar, I would like, in this editorial of revelation, to recall some of the memories in my subconscious mind, rich in color, but dark shadows in terms of their historical impact on the sport of boxing.

Magomed Abdusalamov is the first memory which comes to mind. ‘Mago’ was 18-0 when he lost at Madison Square Garden in November 2013. The winner of a 22 million dollars lawsuit after brain surgery, Abdusalamov, still paralyzed on his right side, made a miracle emotional and physical recovery of sorts after many years, and still watches reruns of his final bout with Mike Perez, wondering what might have been if his career had not ended. Mago and I were friends when he was on the way up.

Sometimes I think of Alexis Arguello, Arturo Gatti, Tony Ayala Jr., Edwin Valero and Johnny Tapia, boxers who supposedly took their own lives. In the case of Arguello and Gatti, maybe not, but then again, we’ll never know.

Sometimes I think of Tommy Morrison and Estevan DeJesus and Lamar Parks, boxers who supposedly had HIV/AIDS. Morrison’s widow Trish has been fighting what she still claims was a false positive diagnosis of Morrison in the Nevada courts for over a decade. Parks supposedly tested positive for HIV in 1993, nearly 30 years ago, but never died or got sick. Did Morrison and Parks actually have HIV? Good question for the ages.

At times I think of boxers like James Butler, Clifford Etienne and James Page, locked away for murder and robbery, whose promising careers never reached their promise. Sometimes I think of the late James Shuler, who lost to Tommy Hearns, then lost his life in a motorcycle accident. Paul “The Punisher” Williams also got injured in a motorcycle accident, and vanished from the boxing scene after his injuries as mysteriously as he arrived. I often think of Gerald McClellan, my mind as alive as Gerald the night he lost his career and sight to Nigel Benn. Boxers like George Sosa, who I knew, and Felix Verdejo, committed murders like influenced by their emotional state after taking too many punches. I think of Paul Sykes, who spent more time in British jails than he did in the ring.

Sometimes I think of Diego Corrales and Francisco Rodriguez, boxers who do to injuries either inside or outside the ring, had great promise for greatness, but never realized it. At other times I think of Alex Ramos and Matt Farrago, who both worked with charitable foundations (Farrago led Ring 8 and Ring 10, while Ramos led the Retired Boxers Foundation). Ramos and Farrago did so much good, yet are now in declining health.

Sometimes I think of Omar Henry, a rising unbeaten junior middleweight who wanted me to promote his career, but who suddenly got sick and died. I think of my friend Patrick Day, a rising boxer who was educated, who suddenly died after a ferocious ring battle. I think of Chicago prospect Ed “Bag Boy” Brown, who I met before he turned pro, was full of life and dreams, but who got murdered. I think of Avtandil Khurtsidze, a short but talented middleweight who was my friend, who went to jail after problems with the law.

I often think of Ike Ibeabuchi and Julio Cesar Mathews, whose careers were derailed due to problems with the law, but who I stayed friends with until they got released, and moved on with their lives. I sometimes think of middleweight Carlos Monzon on furlough, dying in a car accident on the road after so many ferocious ring battles. Once in a while I think of Victor Galindez, the great light heavyweight, who died on a racecar track. Rarely, I think of the late lightweight Johnny Lira, telling me about his liver transplant. Rarely, I remember cut man Nelson Cuevas, trainer brother Nazim Richardson and my boxing friends long gone. I remember Luis Rosa, a young boxer gone too soon whose career I followed. The faces and some of the boxing events associated with them are dark shadows in my mind. Some of my memories are beautiful, but at other times my memories ask me why? Why did certain things happen to some boxers? The subconscious shadows sometimes appear, but without logical answers. The correct answer is what happens in boxing just happens. Things happened. There is not always a reason, but later on, after time passes, the subconscious still wants to understand. Boxing is a sport, a physical sport, and by the odds and law of averages things happen, both favorable and unfavorable. Not every boxer I meet becomes a world champion. In boxing, though, I have met a lot of nice people along the way.




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