Fighters, fast cars and motorcycles - a bad combination
Fighters, fast cars and motorcycles - a bad combination
Chicago's Luther Rawlings was injured in a automobile accident in 1950. He was told his fighting days were over. He was bound in a cast from his hips down. His physicians said this boy could never fight in the ring. For a youngster who had risen to the top ten in the lightweight division, this was a terrific schock for him.
But after getting out of the hospital, Rawlings slowly, but with great detemination got back so he could punch the light bag and do his gym work. One year later, early in 1951, Luther was put in a test fight, knocking Ronnie Harper down six times for a 10 rounds stoppage win. Since then, he went on to beat some of the world's best, including Mario Trigo, Virgil Akins, Arthur Persley, Art Aragon, Enrique Balonos and many others to become rated number one contender for the lightweight title.
However, Jimmy Carter, Johnny Saxton, Joe Miceli spoiled his dreams come true.
A story from real life back then
Palais
But after getting out of the hospital, Rawlings slowly, but with great detemination got back so he could punch the light bag and do his gym work. One year later, early in 1951, Luther was put in a test fight, knocking Ronnie Harper down six times for a 10 rounds stoppage win. Since then, he went on to beat some of the world's best, including Mario Trigo, Virgil Akins, Arthur Persley, Art Aragon, Enrique Balonos and many others to become rated number one contender for the lightweight title.
However, Jimmy Carter, Johnny Saxton, Joe Miceli spoiled his dreams come true.
A story from real life back then
Palais
No, Broncano's spot on, Bollocks. Pintor was involved in a motorbike accident and, among other injuries, suffered a broken jaw. He didn't fight for several months and then relinquished his WBC bantamweight title. Kiko Bejines took part in his tragic clash for the vacant title with Alberto Davila in September 1983.bollocks wrote:Pintor lost his 122 pound title to Samart Payakarun. Who was not involved in any car or motorbike accidents that I know of - but he may well have been considering the state of him afterBroncano wrote:That just remained me of another great champion: Lupe Pintor.
After his epic TKO loss to Wilfredo Gomez he was also involved in a motorcycle accident in Mexico, while still holding the bantamweight title. He underwent surgery and that kept him out of the ring for more than a year. He never regained his title because he came back as a superbantamweight and won that belt he had failed to take from Gomez by beating Juan Kid Meza.
Then on his first defense he lost to a Thai challenger (I forget the name now) and many people still hold that he was never the same after the accident. He also made an entirely forgettable comeback in the mid 90s.he was viciously KO'd to lose his title
There's the also the tragic story of a 20 year old argentine bantamweight, Oscar (Rocky) Flores. He had an excellent amateur career and was undefeated in 9 pro bouts. He fell off a moving train and as a consequence of the injuries he suffered, his right arm was amputated.
Tito Lectoure, the argentine matchmaker who managed Monzon, Galindez, Juan Roldan and many others took care of all his bills and got Rocky a job at the Luna Park Arena, the most important boxing venue in Argentina. One sad story.
Tito Lectoure, the argentine matchmaker who managed Monzon, Galindez, Juan Roldan and many others took care of all his bills and got Rocky a job at the Luna Park Arena, the most important boxing venue in Argentina. One sad story.
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crooked nose
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Eric the Viking
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Teddy was a troubled teenager. Even though he came from a reasonably well-to-do family (pa was a doctor), according to Teddy his Dad was so busy in his job that he never had time for his son. So Teddy ran around with a rough crowd as a teen, and the scare was a result of a knife fight in thosde gangbanger days. There was a 3-part story written by a well-known intere\net boxing writer on Teddy's life that appeared last month, but the writer's name escapes me. If I find links to the trilogy, I'll post them here.
Ah, I managed to find the story (by Allan Scotto, writing for MaxBoxing.com) using Google. Here are the links to the 3 parts:
http://www.maxboxing.com/News/scotto111803.asp
http://www.maxboxing.com/News/scotto111903.asp
http://www.maxboxing.com/News/scotto112003.asp
I'll post the text of parts 1&2 below. The third part requires a MaxBoxing.com membership, which I don't have. if one of our readers does, would you be kind enough to post the text of part 3 in this thread?
Ah, I managed to find the story (by Allan Scotto, writing for MaxBoxing.com) using Google. Here are the links to the 3 parts:
http://www.maxboxing.com/News/scotto111803.asp
http://www.maxboxing.com/News/scotto111903.asp
http://www.maxboxing.com/News/scotto112003.asp
I'll post the text of parts 1&2 below. The third part requires a MaxBoxing.com membership, which I don't have. if one of our readers does, would you be kind enough to post the text of part 3 in this thread?
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Eric the Viking
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- Joined: 03 Apr 2003, 21:40
Teddy Atlas: This Ain't No Love Story (At least not your typical one)
Part 1 of 3 By Allan Scotto (November 18, 2003)
About a month ago, I asked my editor if I could do an article on Teddy Atlas.
I've known Atlas professionally for about three years, and reminding me of that,
he gave me a journalistic smack on the back of the head and said "Go ahead, but
I don't want a love story." "That's pretty funny," I thought, as my mind grabbed
a visual of Atlas nose to nose screaming in one of his fighter's faces, or breaking
somebody?s chops on Friday Night Fights. A love story about Teddy Atlas? I don't think so.
Actually though, my editor is not wrong. There are a lot of people that don?t like
Teddy Atlas. He can be arrogant, opinionated, and downright nasty, and he?s made
some very serious enemies along the way. Nobody is running around with palm leaves
and a donkey looking to lead him into Jerusalem singing Hosanna. But everybody in
boxing knows two things. One, whether you like him or despise him he doesn't care,
and two, Atlas is Atlas all the time. He doesn't pretend to be something he's not. Ever.
Teddy Atlas is old school. He's a dinosaur. He made his bones in the streets and in
gyms that stink from perspiration and moldy water pipes that always drip; where young
men pound heavy bags until their hands bleed and hurt so much that tears come to their
eyes from pain and old men scream at them to hit it again. Not because they?re cruel
but because it might be the difference between life and death when that heavy bag is
another man throwing punches at your head and there are three ropes of red white and
blue at your back. Where men look each other in the eye and touch gloves before they
fight, and embrace when they finish. Men like that live by a certain code of honor,
where a handshake is a contract and there's no need to write anything down because
betrayal is an unforgivable transgression.
They are men who actually believe that the Leo Farnsworth that Warren Beatty played
in "Heaven Can Wait" could actually exist. A guy who would innocently take the tray
out of a butlers hand and give him a drink and then tell the "suits" to find a way
to catch tuna without killing porpoises and become the "good guy tuna company." It's
simple enough, just work it into the ad campaign. "Would you pay a penny more to save
a fish that thinks?"
Atlas doesn't own a computer or a laptop. He doesn't want to, and wouldn't know what
to do with one if he did. By the same token, the guy who would sell it to him would
think a right cross is a politically correct piece of jewelry. Ah, when worlds collide.
A cell phone and a fax machine are about as far as he's reluctantly willing to go.
And if he wants to take a picture he'll use a camera not his phone (A camera with
film by the way, thanks). He?s just like Joey, who works at Ronnie's Auto Body Shop,
or Ritchie, who sweeps the halls at the North Middle School - the fight fans that
watch him on Friday nights.
When I caught up with Atlas to ask if he?d do the interview, he was preparing to fly
out to Las Vegas for a "Friday Night Fights show. We talked about some of the matchups
on the mega card being held December 13th in Atlantic City and the upcoming "Teddy Dinner,"
on November 20th, a benefit dinner that Atlas hosts every year in memory of his father.
I told Atlas I?d put some questions together and call him when he got back. "Yeah, good,"
he said, "cause otherwise this is gonna take fifty hours."
Atlas does not have a lot of patience for bumbling journalists.
It took about ten days for me to be able to contact Atlas again and he was pretty spent
when I asked him if we could finish the interview.
"Yeah, but not too many questions OK? I'm kinda tired."
"No problem." I said.
"You do that Internet stuff, right?" He asked me.
Like I said, Atlas was kicking and screaming when he bought his fax machine.
"Yeah, I do that Internet stuff," I said.
"Anyway, where were we?" he asked.
"Last time we spoke we were talking about the 'Teddy Dinner.' I'd like you to tell me
about your dad and your life."
There was a very long pause of dead silence. It went on so long that I thought we had
gotten disconnected.
"Are you there?" I asked him.
"Yeah, I'm here."
"I thought we got disconnected." I said
He didn't answer and again there was a long pause. He was obviously on the phone, he
just wasn't responding. It was very strange and awkward. I didn't understand it then,
but I do now.
I had never asked him a question that wasn't about boxing. Atlas is a very private and
guarded man and I had just caught him off guard. I didn't want to talk boxing. He doesn't
trust many people and his hands are always up. He'd had a rough week. He was tired and
his hands were down. There was silence because he was making a decision.
He's known me a long time, and I had inadvertently put him up against the wall. In a
roundabout way, after three years, I finally asked Atlas to trust me. And it was either
yes or no.
"My dad was the only guy I could ever really trust. The only guy who was the man he said
he was and who never lied to me," he said quietly.
For the next three and a half hours I took a fascinating journey as the memories of a
young boy guided me through the labyrinth that led to the man we now know as the color
commentator of Friday Night Fights.
Dr. Theodore Atlas and his wife Mary raised their family in Staten Island, New York.
Their son Teddy was born on July 29th 1956.
Dr. Atlas was the type of character that could have jumped out of a Norman Rockwell
painting. He was a doctor who loved people and treated them whether they could pay
or not. His office was always full and he worked seven days a week, 14 to 16 hours
a day. Cakes and Jell-O molds littered the counters as gifts from grateful patients
who had no money.
Young Teddy adored his father and whenever possible he used to hang out in his office
or accompany him as he drove around Staten Island making house calls. Like most men of
Dr. Atlas' generation he was very non-communicative, at least verbally. Yet by his
actions he spoke volumes. It took Atlas many self-destructive years to comprehend that.
Once, when Atlas' father made a house call twice in the same week at the home of an
elderly woman, the young Atlas was concerned for her and asked his father if the woman
was very ill. "She's strong as an ox," his father replied. "So why'd you come here twice?"
Atlas asked him. "To have tea," his father teasingly said. His father explained that the
woman was very old and alone. He would stop by and examine her and give her sugar pills.
She would make him tea and he would sit and talk to her for a little while. "It makes her
feel like someone is taking care of her," the father explained to his young son. "Remember,
loneliness is a sickness too."
As a teenager Atlas was no longer content to sit with his father as he tended to patients
in his office or to ride around with him as he made house calls. He desperately craved the
attention of his father, who was still working 14 to 16 hours a day. Atlas wasn't a little
boy any more and Staten Island was becoming a tough place. In his mind the kindly doctor that
everybody loved just became a workaholic that didn't make his football games. The line that
separates right from wrong became cloudy in his mind and if scoring touchdowns didn't get
his fathers attention, maybe sticking up gas stations or bars would. Either way, what
difference did it make? The "doctor" would fix it just like he did for everyone else.
The confused teenager was going to get his father?s attention by any means necessary.
Even if it killed him.
Atlas hit the streets with a vengeance. He hooked up with a group of street thugs and
started pulling robberies and getting into gang fights. The scar that runs along the
entire left side of his face and missed taking out his eye by a millimeter was caused
by a knife in such a fight. When brought to the hospital Atlas asked that his father be
called to stitch him up. His father only showed up to check up on him after they were done.
He looked, said nothing, and left.
A few months later Atlas showed up at his father's office with his head split open, and
blood streaming down his face, courtesy of a guy with a tire iron. Dr. Atlas' nurse
frantically rushed Atlas inside where Atlas' father looked and said. "Take him outside,
he waits like everybody else."
When it was Atlas' turn the nurse came in with a syringe and Novocain. Dr. Atlas told
his nurse, "He doesn't want that, if he's going to live like this, he should know what
it feels like." When the nurse left with the Novocain Dr. Atlas looked his son dead in
the eye and pushed a needle through his flesh.
Part 1 of 3 By Allan Scotto (November 18, 2003)
About a month ago, I asked my editor if I could do an article on Teddy Atlas.
I've known Atlas professionally for about three years, and reminding me of that,
he gave me a journalistic smack on the back of the head and said "Go ahead, but
I don't want a love story." "That's pretty funny," I thought, as my mind grabbed
a visual of Atlas nose to nose screaming in one of his fighter's faces, or breaking
somebody?s chops on Friday Night Fights. A love story about Teddy Atlas? I don't think so.
Actually though, my editor is not wrong. There are a lot of people that don?t like
Teddy Atlas. He can be arrogant, opinionated, and downright nasty, and he?s made
some very serious enemies along the way. Nobody is running around with palm leaves
and a donkey looking to lead him into Jerusalem singing Hosanna. But everybody in
boxing knows two things. One, whether you like him or despise him he doesn't care,
and two, Atlas is Atlas all the time. He doesn't pretend to be something he's not. Ever.
Teddy Atlas is old school. He's a dinosaur. He made his bones in the streets and in
gyms that stink from perspiration and moldy water pipes that always drip; where young
men pound heavy bags until their hands bleed and hurt so much that tears come to their
eyes from pain and old men scream at them to hit it again. Not because they?re cruel
but because it might be the difference between life and death when that heavy bag is
another man throwing punches at your head and there are three ropes of red white and
blue at your back. Where men look each other in the eye and touch gloves before they
fight, and embrace when they finish. Men like that live by a certain code of honor,
where a handshake is a contract and there's no need to write anything down because
betrayal is an unforgivable transgression.
They are men who actually believe that the Leo Farnsworth that Warren Beatty played
in "Heaven Can Wait" could actually exist. A guy who would innocently take the tray
out of a butlers hand and give him a drink and then tell the "suits" to find a way
to catch tuna without killing porpoises and become the "good guy tuna company." It's
simple enough, just work it into the ad campaign. "Would you pay a penny more to save
a fish that thinks?"
Atlas doesn't own a computer or a laptop. He doesn't want to, and wouldn't know what
to do with one if he did. By the same token, the guy who would sell it to him would
think a right cross is a politically correct piece of jewelry. Ah, when worlds collide.
A cell phone and a fax machine are about as far as he's reluctantly willing to go.
And if he wants to take a picture he'll use a camera not his phone (A camera with
film by the way, thanks). He?s just like Joey, who works at Ronnie's Auto Body Shop,
or Ritchie, who sweeps the halls at the North Middle School - the fight fans that
watch him on Friday nights.
When I caught up with Atlas to ask if he?d do the interview, he was preparing to fly
out to Las Vegas for a "Friday Night Fights show. We talked about some of the matchups
on the mega card being held December 13th in Atlantic City and the upcoming "Teddy Dinner,"
on November 20th, a benefit dinner that Atlas hosts every year in memory of his father.
I told Atlas I?d put some questions together and call him when he got back. "Yeah, good,"
he said, "cause otherwise this is gonna take fifty hours."
Atlas does not have a lot of patience for bumbling journalists.
It took about ten days for me to be able to contact Atlas again and he was pretty spent
when I asked him if we could finish the interview.
"Yeah, but not too many questions OK? I'm kinda tired."
"No problem." I said.
"You do that Internet stuff, right?" He asked me.
Like I said, Atlas was kicking and screaming when he bought his fax machine.
"Yeah, I do that Internet stuff," I said.
"Anyway, where were we?" he asked.
"Last time we spoke we were talking about the 'Teddy Dinner.' I'd like you to tell me
about your dad and your life."
There was a very long pause of dead silence. It went on so long that I thought we had
gotten disconnected.
"Are you there?" I asked him.
"Yeah, I'm here."
"I thought we got disconnected." I said
He didn't answer and again there was a long pause. He was obviously on the phone, he
just wasn't responding. It was very strange and awkward. I didn't understand it then,
but I do now.
I had never asked him a question that wasn't about boxing. Atlas is a very private and
guarded man and I had just caught him off guard. I didn't want to talk boxing. He doesn't
trust many people and his hands are always up. He'd had a rough week. He was tired and
his hands were down. There was silence because he was making a decision.
He's known me a long time, and I had inadvertently put him up against the wall. In a
roundabout way, after three years, I finally asked Atlas to trust me. And it was either
yes or no.
"My dad was the only guy I could ever really trust. The only guy who was the man he said
he was and who never lied to me," he said quietly.
For the next three and a half hours I took a fascinating journey as the memories of a
young boy guided me through the labyrinth that led to the man we now know as the color
commentator of Friday Night Fights.
Dr. Theodore Atlas and his wife Mary raised their family in Staten Island, New York.
Their son Teddy was born on July 29th 1956.
Dr. Atlas was the type of character that could have jumped out of a Norman Rockwell
painting. He was a doctor who loved people and treated them whether they could pay
or not. His office was always full and he worked seven days a week, 14 to 16 hours
a day. Cakes and Jell-O molds littered the counters as gifts from grateful patients
who had no money.
Young Teddy adored his father and whenever possible he used to hang out in his office
or accompany him as he drove around Staten Island making house calls. Like most men of
Dr. Atlas' generation he was very non-communicative, at least verbally. Yet by his
actions he spoke volumes. It took Atlas many self-destructive years to comprehend that.
Once, when Atlas' father made a house call twice in the same week at the home of an
elderly woman, the young Atlas was concerned for her and asked his father if the woman
was very ill. "She's strong as an ox," his father replied. "So why'd you come here twice?"
Atlas asked him. "To have tea," his father teasingly said. His father explained that the
woman was very old and alone. He would stop by and examine her and give her sugar pills.
She would make him tea and he would sit and talk to her for a little while. "It makes her
feel like someone is taking care of her," the father explained to his young son. "Remember,
loneliness is a sickness too."
As a teenager Atlas was no longer content to sit with his father as he tended to patients
in his office or to ride around with him as he made house calls. He desperately craved the
attention of his father, who was still working 14 to 16 hours a day. Atlas wasn't a little
boy any more and Staten Island was becoming a tough place. In his mind the kindly doctor that
everybody loved just became a workaholic that didn't make his football games. The line that
separates right from wrong became cloudy in his mind and if scoring touchdowns didn't get
his fathers attention, maybe sticking up gas stations or bars would. Either way, what
difference did it make? The "doctor" would fix it just like he did for everyone else.
The confused teenager was going to get his father?s attention by any means necessary.
Even if it killed him.
Atlas hit the streets with a vengeance. He hooked up with a group of street thugs and
started pulling robberies and getting into gang fights. The scar that runs along the
entire left side of his face and missed taking out his eye by a millimeter was caused
by a knife in such a fight. When brought to the hospital Atlas asked that his father be
called to stitch him up. His father only showed up to check up on him after they were done.
He looked, said nothing, and left.
A few months later Atlas showed up at his father's office with his head split open, and
blood streaming down his face, courtesy of a guy with a tire iron. Dr. Atlas' nurse
frantically rushed Atlas inside where Atlas' father looked and said. "Take him outside,
he waits like everybody else."
When it was Atlas' turn the nurse came in with a syringe and Novocain. Dr. Atlas told
his nurse, "He doesn't want that, if he's going to live like this, he should know what
it feels like." When the nurse left with the Novocain Dr. Atlas looked his son dead in
the eye and pushed a needle through his flesh.
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Eric the Viking
- Heavyweight
- Posts: 1354
- Joined: 03 Apr 2003, 21:40
Teddy Atlas: The Catskill Years
Part 2 of 3 By Allan Scotto (November 19, 2003)
In Part one of this three-part series, Allan Scotto detailed the early years of
Teddy Atlas and his relationship with his father. Atlas? rebellious teenage years
followed, and this is where we pick up the story...
After being busted on two felony counts in three days, Teddy Atlas was sent to a
cell on Rikers Island, and was now facing ten years. His father refused to bail
him out until Atlas' mother threatened to divorce him. Dr. Atlas put his house up
as collateral and freed his son. Forced by his wife, the doctor reluctantly fixed it.
While Atlas was out on bail a childhood friend he grew up with introduced him to
the legendary trainer Cus D'Amato.
That friend was Kevin Rooney.
Rooney had won the Golden Gloves in New York in 1975 and was now being trained by
D'Amato and living in his home in Catskill, New York.
Atlas followed Rooney down the yellow brick road to Oz and found the father figure
he longed for in D'Amato. And D'Amato, semi-retired, had all the time in the world
to spend with him. Atlas and Rooney had boxed at the PAL in Staten Island and Atlas
also became a pupil of D'Amato's and moved into his home.
When Atlas' court date came, D'Amato made a tearful plea to the judge not to imprison
Atlas. The judge granted his wish and put Atlas on probation with one condition. He had
to stay with D'Amato.
Atlas returned to the Catskills where he and Rooney went into training for the Golden Gloves
under D'Amato's watchful eye. The gym became Atlas' sanctuary, a place where D'Amato taught
Atlas and Rooney the sacred code of honor. It is a code that Atlas lives by to this very day.
What the three men did not know at the time was that a boy soon to be ripping chains off
people?s necks would put that code to the test in eight short years.
Atlas won the Golden Gloves title in the 139 lb. weight division, knocking out every
opponent he faced.
But Atlas had hurt his back pretty badly playing football and during a rematch with one of
the opponents he faced in the Gloves, his back seized up. And even though Atlas won by
knockout in the third round, he absorbed a lot of punishment. D'Amato knew what was
happening and he approached Atlas in the locker room after the fight.
"You ain't fightin' no more," D'Amato said.
Not sure if he was joking, Atlas nervously asked him, "What are you talkin' about Cus?"
D'Amato knew and admired Atlas' heart. He knew Atlas would never quit unless he forced him
to. He also knew he was the only man who could.
"You heard me Atlas!" said D?Amato. "I said you ain't fightin' no more! You're gonna
be a trainer."
"A trainer?" Atlas asked. "C'mon Cus I don?t know nothin' about bein' no trainer."
"That's right Atlas, you don?t know nothin'!" D'Amato said. "I'm gonna teach ya'.
Because you?re a born teacher."
Atlas could have gone to another trainer, but in his mind that would have been a
violation of the code and an insult to D'Amato.
He was retired. At 19.
Atlas worked with D'Amato for a while, training Rooney and a few other fighters, but
he was disheartened, and when his probation was over he returned to Staten Island,
where his father still worked 14 to 16 hours a day.
A couple of boys from the neighborhood asked Atlas if he would help them train and
he agreed. They begged some equipment from wherever they could and worked out in a
park. Atlas' mother told him years later that
an elderly priest would wait to take his daily walk in the same park until he saw
the three boys because he knew they'd protect him from the drug dealers.
One night when Atlas answered the phone, a familiar voice bellowed at him.
"Atlas! Rooney's fightin' in Ohio and he ain't got nobody to go with him so you
gotta get up here."
Atlas laughed when he told me this story, "I wanted to say," 'Well why don't you
go with him?' Of course I couldn't. I could think it, but I could never say it. I
mean you know, it was Cus."
Atlas has an odd love/hate relationship with D'Amato in his mind. He loves and
respects him as his teacher, yet hates him for falling short when he didn't honor
the code he forced Atlas to live by.
Regardless, Atlas accompanied Rooney to Ohio and worked his corner. The competition
was held at the Ohio State Fair, a major competition in those days and Rooney fought
his way to the finals. Atlas picks up the story. "Bernard Mays was a tremendous
amateur out of the Kronk. I think Rooney would have beaten him but he got cut and
they stopped it. So anyway, when I call Cus to tell him how Rooney did he tells me,
'Atlas I keep tellin' ya' you?re a trainer. Rooney wouldn't have gone that far without ya'."
Atlas returned to Staten Island and went back to working with his two fighters in
the park, whom he held to the same strict code of discipline he had been taught by
D'Amato. But he found it increasingly difficult to live it himself on the streets
of Staten Island. After yet another street fight, Atlas knew he had to make a change
and he called D'Amato at about ten o'clock at night.
"Hey Cus," Atlas said. "You still want me up there?"
"Come right now." D'Amato answered.
"Well I can't come right now," Atlas said, "but there's one condition."
"What is it?" D'Amato asked.
"Well, I've been trainin' these two guys... .
"Atlas, you son of a gun!" D'Amato interrupted. "I told you you was a trainer!
Where you been workin'?"
"In a park." Atlas replied.
A park! What the hell are you doin' in a park?" D'Amato said.
"Yeah. Well, you see the thing is," Atlas continued, "I can't just abandon these
guys, 'cause otherwise it makes me look like I'm full of shit."
"Bring 'em wit ya'" D'Amato replied.
Atlas embraced his new role with a passion. D'Amato was right; Atlas was born to
teach. He loved the gym. He formed a charter called the Catskill Boxing Club. He
trained the pros during the day and the kids - who now flocked to the gym - at night.
He worked 14 to 16 hours a day; seven days a week, just like his father. Only now he
was the doctor and the fighters were his patients. He especially enjoyed the kids.
One such kid was named Gary Young. He was about 11 and he wanted to learn how to box.
He came to see Atlas and Teddy noticed that when he spoke he kept his hand over his
mouth and Atlas couldn't understand a word he said, but he listened anyway. During
the conversation the young boy moved his hand slightly, revealing a horrible hair-lip
disfigurement. Atlas said nothing. When the boy finished whatever he was trying to say
Atlas said, "Come back tomorrow at six o'clock."
Atlas worked with the boy on his knees on the floor. "Yeah, I kept the kids on the
floor for a long time ya' know, 'cause they were afraid and not developed yet. I used
to wear out the knees in my dungarees, which was a problem 'cause Cus wasn't payin'
me nothin'."
As he worked with Gary, Atlas began to be able to understand what the boy was saying
when he spoke. And as Gary's self confidence grew, his speech became clearer, and people
could understand him. One of the rules for the kids at the gym was that they had to pass
all their subjects in school to be allowed to participate, and the kids very dutifully
brought their report cards in for inspection. When D'Amato read Gary's report card,
which Atlas had already seen, he was very proud of his young protégé'. A teacher had
written a comment on the bottom that read. "Please keep up the speech lessons!" "Hey Atlas!"
D'Amato screamed across the gym. "Boxing's supposed to make people not be able to talk.
What the hell are ya doin'?"
Mane Moore was a kid about ten years old who weighed around 75 pounds. He would come to
the gym every day and every time Atlas would try to get him in the ring he would cry and
run into a room across the hall. Ironically it was a courtroom. "Yeah, it was kinda nice
to be able to walk outta there when I was done talkin' to him." Atlas told me. The other
kids tipped Atlas off that a bully with the street name of "Goo" was terrorizing Mane and
stealing his lunch money every day. The next day when Mane ran into the courtroom Atlas
followed him again. Mane idolized Atlas.
"You know," Atlas told the young boy. "I used to be afraid too."
"You were afraid?" Mane replied.
"Yeah, I was." Atlas said. "I don't like to talk about it, but I was."
"What happened?" Mane asked him.
"Well some guy used to take my lunch money." Atlas said as Mane's eyes got as wide as saucers.
"Somebody took your lunch money. What did you do?" The boy asked.
"Well, I finally realized that if I stood up to him it could only hurt for a few minutes
and I was tired of it hurting all the time." Atlas explained.
"What happened?" Mane asked.
Atlas laughed and said, "I'm not really sure, but when it was over his feet were
sticking out of a garbage pail."
Atlas had given the boy permission to be frightened. He had taken away his shame.
Now he had to teach him to fight.
Atlas finally got Mane into the ring without crying. First one round, then two, and
then three. But he wasn't really fighting; he would just hold.
Atlas had started bringing the kids to the South Bronx on Friday nights in a beat
up old station wagon he would borrow, to fight in smokers run by a man named Nelson
Cuevas. He had developed a special spot in his heart for Mane and brought him along.
But he had to be very careful to find just the right opponent for this fragile little
boy. That opponent was Raul Rivera, who was scared to death too. After the two boys
spent three rounds hugging each other without ever throwing a punch, Cuevas told
Atlas, "Thank God I'll never see that again!"
"Yeah, you will, next week," Atlas replied.
Teddy matched Mane and Raul week after week and the boys gradually started throwing
jabs and then punches. Cuevas used that time as an opportunity to go to the bathroom.
Atlas then invited Cuevas to bring his crew up to the Catskills for a smoker that
Atlas would sponsor. Atlas went to the boys club where all the kids hung out and
gave the director twenty free tickets with one condition. "Goo" had to come.
When "Goo" arrived with his gang Atlas called him over.
"Whaddya want?" "Goo" asked Atlas.
"You got any spare trunks over there?" Atlas asked one of his kids.
The kid picked up on what was happening right away. "Yeah Teddy, right here."
The kid threw over a purple pair of trunks and Atlas tossed them to "Goo."
"Here try these on." Atlas told him.
"For what?" "Goo" said.
"Whaddya mean for what? To box." Atlas replied.
"I ain't boxin.'" "Goo" responded.
Atlas smiled at him. "Sure you are. You're gonna fight Mane. I hear you're pretty tough."
Atlas took a very long time opening a glove in front of "Goo" and his gang.
"You ready Mane?" He asked.
"Yeah Teddy, I'm ready." Mane replied. And he was.
Atlas held the glove toward "Goo's" left hand. "Slip your hand in there and see if it fits," he said.
Exposed for what he was, "Goo" bowed his head and said, "I ain't boxin'."
But Atlas felt sorry for the boy. He walked over to where the boy had gone to
sit alone and put his arm around him.
"You know you can come to the gym too." Atlas told him.
"You'd let me?" The boy asked.
"Sure I'd let you, but you gotta do right." Atlas told him.
"What's right?" "Goo" asked.
Atlas smiled at the boy and said. "You already know that."
"Teddy! Teddy! Guess what?" An excited Mane asked Atlas as he rushed into the gym on his
lunch break from school, smiling from ear to ear.
"What is it Mane? What are you doing here?" Atlas asked.
"Goo" asked me to sit at his table." The young boy said.
Mane Moore became a Junior Olympic Champion.
Part 2 of 3 By Allan Scotto (November 19, 2003)
In Part one of this three-part series, Allan Scotto detailed the early years of
Teddy Atlas and his relationship with his father. Atlas? rebellious teenage years
followed, and this is where we pick up the story...
After being busted on two felony counts in three days, Teddy Atlas was sent to a
cell on Rikers Island, and was now facing ten years. His father refused to bail
him out until Atlas' mother threatened to divorce him. Dr. Atlas put his house up
as collateral and freed his son. Forced by his wife, the doctor reluctantly fixed it.
While Atlas was out on bail a childhood friend he grew up with introduced him to
the legendary trainer Cus D'Amato.
That friend was Kevin Rooney.
Rooney had won the Golden Gloves in New York in 1975 and was now being trained by
D'Amato and living in his home in Catskill, New York.
Atlas followed Rooney down the yellow brick road to Oz and found the father figure
he longed for in D'Amato. And D'Amato, semi-retired, had all the time in the world
to spend with him. Atlas and Rooney had boxed at the PAL in Staten Island and Atlas
also became a pupil of D'Amato's and moved into his home.
When Atlas' court date came, D'Amato made a tearful plea to the judge not to imprison
Atlas. The judge granted his wish and put Atlas on probation with one condition. He had
to stay with D'Amato.
Atlas returned to the Catskills where he and Rooney went into training for the Golden Gloves
under D'Amato's watchful eye. The gym became Atlas' sanctuary, a place where D'Amato taught
Atlas and Rooney the sacred code of honor. It is a code that Atlas lives by to this very day.
What the three men did not know at the time was that a boy soon to be ripping chains off
people?s necks would put that code to the test in eight short years.
Atlas won the Golden Gloves title in the 139 lb. weight division, knocking out every
opponent he faced.
But Atlas had hurt his back pretty badly playing football and during a rematch with one of
the opponents he faced in the Gloves, his back seized up. And even though Atlas won by
knockout in the third round, he absorbed a lot of punishment. D'Amato knew what was
happening and he approached Atlas in the locker room after the fight.
"You ain't fightin' no more," D'Amato said.
Not sure if he was joking, Atlas nervously asked him, "What are you talkin' about Cus?"
D'Amato knew and admired Atlas' heart. He knew Atlas would never quit unless he forced him
to. He also knew he was the only man who could.
"You heard me Atlas!" said D?Amato. "I said you ain't fightin' no more! You're gonna
be a trainer."
"A trainer?" Atlas asked. "C'mon Cus I don?t know nothin' about bein' no trainer."
"That's right Atlas, you don?t know nothin'!" D'Amato said. "I'm gonna teach ya'.
Because you?re a born teacher."
Atlas could have gone to another trainer, but in his mind that would have been a
violation of the code and an insult to D'Amato.
He was retired. At 19.
Atlas worked with D'Amato for a while, training Rooney and a few other fighters, but
he was disheartened, and when his probation was over he returned to Staten Island,
where his father still worked 14 to 16 hours a day.
A couple of boys from the neighborhood asked Atlas if he would help them train and
he agreed. They begged some equipment from wherever they could and worked out in a
park. Atlas' mother told him years later that
an elderly priest would wait to take his daily walk in the same park until he saw
the three boys because he knew they'd protect him from the drug dealers.
One night when Atlas answered the phone, a familiar voice bellowed at him.
"Atlas! Rooney's fightin' in Ohio and he ain't got nobody to go with him so you
gotta get up here."
Atlas laughed when he told me this story, "I wanted to say," 'Well why don't you
go with him?' Of course I couldn't. I could think it, but I could never say it. I
mean you know, it was Cus."
Atlas has an odd love/hate relationship with D'Amato in his mind. He loves and
respects him as his teacher, yet hates him for falling short when he didn't honor
the code he forced Atlas to live by.
Regardless, Atlas accompanied Rooney to Ohio and worked his corner. The competition
was held at the Ohio State Fair, a major competition in those days and Rooney fought
his way to the finals. Atlas picks up the story. "Bernard Mays was a tremendous
amateur out of the Kronk. I think Rooney would have beaten him but he got cut and
they stopped it. So anyway, when I call Cus to tell him how Rooney did he tells me,
'Atlas I keep tellin' ya' you?re a trainer. Rooney wouldn't have gone that far without ya'."
Atlas returned to Staten Island and went back to working with his two fighters in
the park, whom he held to the same strict code of discipline he had been taught by
D'Amato. But he found it increasingly difficult to live it himself on the streets
of Staten Island. After yet another street fight, Atlas knew he had to make a change
and he called D'Amato at about ten o'clock at night.
"Hey Cus," Atlas said. "You still want me up there?"
"Come right now." D'Amato answered.
"Well I can't come right now," Atlas said, "but there's one condition."
"What is it?" D'Amato asked.
"Well, I've been trainin' these two guys... .
"Atlas, you son of a gun!" D'Amato interrupted. "I told you you was a trainer!
Where you been workin'?"
"In a park." Atlas replied.
A park! What the hell are you doin' in a park?" D'Amato said.
"Yeah. Well, you see the thing is," Atlas continued, "I can't just abandon these
guys, 'cause otherwise it makes me look like I'm full of shit."
"Bring 'em wit ya'" D'Amato replied.
Atlas embraced his new role with a passion. D'Amato was right; Atlas was born to
teach. He loved the gym. He formed a charter called the Catskill Boxing Club. He
trained the pros during the day and the kids - who now flocked to the gym - at night.
He worked 14 to 16 hours a day; seven days a week, just like his father. Only now he
was the doctor and the fighters were his patients. He especially enjoyed the kids.
One such kid was named Gary Young. He was about 11 and he wanted to learn how to box.
He came to see Atlas and Teddy noticed that when he spoke he kept his hand over his
mouth and Atlas couldn't understand a word he said, but he listened anyway. During
the conversation the young boy moved his hand slightly, revealing a horrible hair-lip
disfigurement. Atlas said nothing. When the boy finished whatever he was trying to say
Atlas said, "Come back tomorrow at six o'clock."
Atlas worked with the boy on his knees on the floor. "Yeah, I kept the kids on the
floor for a long time ya' know, 'cause they were afraid and not developed yet. I used
to wear out the knees in my dungarees, which was a problem 'cause Cus wasn't payin'
me nothin'."
As he worked with Gary, Atlas began to be able to understand what the boy was saying
when he spoke. And as Gary's self confidence grew, his speech became clearer, and people
could understand him. One of the rules for the kids at the gym was that they had to pass
all their subjects in school to be allowed to participate, and the kids very dutifully
brought their report cards in for inspection. When D'Amato read Gary's report card,
which Atlas had already seen, he was very proud of his young protégé'. A teacher had
written a comment on the bottom that read. "Please keep up the speech lessons!" "Hey Atlas!"
D'Amato screamed across the gym. "Boxing's supposed to make people not be able to talk.
What the hell are ya doin'?"
Mane Moore was a kid about ten years old who weighed around 75 pounds. He would come to
the gym every day and every time Atlas would try to get him in the ring he would cry and
run into a room across the hall. Ironically it was a courtroom. "Yeah, it was kinda nice
to be able to walk outta there when I was done talkin' to him." Atlas told me. The other
kids tipped Atlas off that a bully with the street name of "Goo" was terrorizing Mane and
stealing his lunch money every day. The next day when Mane ran into the courtroom Atlas
followed him again. Mane idolized Atlas.
"You know," Atlas told the young boy. "I used to be afraid too."
"You were afraid?" Mane replied.
"Yeah, I was." Atlas said. "I don't like to talk about it, but I was."
"What happened?" Mane asked him.
"Well some guy used to take my lunch money." Atlas said as Mane's eyes got as wide as saucers.
"Somebody took your lunch money. What did you do?" The boy asked.
"Well, I finally realized that if I stood up to him it could only hurt for a few minutes
and I was tired of it hurting all the time." Atlas explained.
"What happened?" Mane asked.
Atlas laughed and said, "I'm not really sure, but when it was over his feet were
sticking out of a garbage pail."
Atlas had given the boy permission to be frightened. He had taken away his shame.
Now he had to teach him to fight.
Atlas finally got Mane into the ring without crying. First one round, then two, and
then three. But he wasn't really fighting; he would just hold.
Atlas had started bringing the kids to the South Bronx on Friday nights in a beat
up old station wagon he would borrow, to fight in smokers run by a man named Nelson
Cuevas. He had developed a special spot in his heart for Mane and brought him along.
But he had to be very careful to find just the right opponent for this fragile little
boy. That opponent was Raul Rivera, who was scared to death too. After the two boys
spent three rounds hugging each other without ever throwing a punch, Cuevas told
Atlas, "Thank God I'll never see that again!"
"Yeah, you will, next week," Atlas replied.
Teddy matched Mane and Raul week after week and the boys gradually started throwing
jabs and then punches. Cuevas used that time as an opportunity to go to the bathroom.
Atlas then invited Cuevas to bring his crew up to the Catskills for a smoker that
Atlas would sponsor. Atlas went to the boys club where all the kids hung out and
gave the director twenty free tickets with one condition. "Goo" had to come.
When "Goo" arrived with his gang Atlas called him over.
"Whaddya want?" "Goo" asked Atlas.
"You got any spare trunks over there?" Atlas asked one of his kids.
The kid picked up on what was happening right away. "Yeah Teddy, right here."
The kid threw over a purple pair of trunks and Atlas tossed them to "Goo."
"Here try these on." Atlas told him.
"For what?" "Goo" said.
"Whaddya mean for what? To box." Atlas replied.
"I ain't boxin.'" "Goo" responded.
Atlas smiled at him. "Sure you are. You're gonna fight Mane. I hear you're pretty tough."
Atlas took a very long time opening a glove in front of "Goo" and his gang.
"You ready Mane?" He asked.
"Yeah Teddy, I'm ready." Mane replied. And he was.
Atlas held the glove toward "Goo's" left hand. "Slip your hand in there and see if it fits," he said.
Exposed for what he was, "Goo" bowed his head and said, "I ain't boxin'."
But Atlas felt sorry for the boy. He walked over to where the boy had gone to
sit alone and put his arm around him.
"You know you can come to the gym too." Atlas told him.
"You'd let me?" The boy asked.
"Sure I'd let you, but you gotta do right." Atlas told him.
"What's right?" "Goo" asked.
Atlas smiled at the boy and said. "You already know that."
"Teddy! Teddy! Guess what?" An excited Mane asked Atlas as he rushed into the gym on his
lunch break from school, smiling from ear to ear.
"What is it Mane? What are you doing here?" Atlas asked.
"Goo" asked me to sit at his table." The young boy said.
Mane Moore became a Junior Olympic Champion.
Fighters, fast cars and motorcycles - a bad combination
Pål Arne Fagernes, Norway's latest professional heavyweight boxer, died in a car frontal crash, August, 4th, 2003. Fagernes was also a world class javelin star, but got banned from the sport because of drug problems.
Palais
Palais
Fighters, fast cars and motorcycles - a bad combination
Five members of a Denver boxing team who took part in the Rex Layne-Al Spaulding boxing program in Salt Lake City on November 17, 1952, were killed in an automoblie crash near Evanston, Wyoming, as they drove back home to Denver after the fights.
The tragedy occurred wwhen their car slipped from an icy road and plugged into the Bear River. Three boxers, a manager and a trainer were killed.
They were George Harvey, 21; Garfield Sisneros, 28; Freeman Edward Losten, 21; Joe Levison, 47, Manager; and James Howard Bealer, 44, trainer. There was one survivor - Jimmy McDondle, another boxer. McDondle said he tallked to the other victims for more than two hours in the partially submerged car before he passed out himself. The accident remained undiscovered for four hours.
The tragedy occurred about 1:30 in the morning on a secondary state highway near the Bear River bridge about ten miles south of Evanston. The boxing team apparently took the side road to escape a snow storm.
The Ring, February 1952, by Jay Hayes.
Palais
The tragedy occurred wwhen their car slipped from an icy road and plugged into the Bear River. Three boxers, a manager and a trainer were killed.
They were George Harvey, 21; Garfield Sisneros, 28; Freeman Edward Losten, 21; Joe Levison, 47, Manager; and James Howard Bealer, 44, trainer. There was one survivor - Jimmy McDondle, another boxer. McDondle said he tallked to the other victims for more than two hours in the partially submerged car before he passed out himself. The accident remained undiscovered for four hours.
The tragedy occurred about 1:30 in the morning on a secondary state highway near the Bear River bridge about ten miles south of Evanston. The boxing team apparently took the side road to escape a snow storm.
The Ring, February 1952, by Jay Hayes.
Palais
-
crooked nose
- Heavyweight
- Posts: 284
- Joined: 17 Oct 2003, 18:54
ken norton
Ken Norton had a serious car accident, which ended his fledgling acting career.
Victor Galindez' death
Galindez died in a car accident, but he was walking at the time. He was copilot of Lizeviche in a car race, and they just quit because of car malfunction and were walking to the boxes area when another car hit both of them
Gustas
Gustas
crooked nose wrote:I had forgotten about Williams. I never heard the details of the story, but I know he came back and had a title shot vs. Ali.
Speaking of fighters, cars, guns and cops, I'm reminded of Rubin Carter and his whole ordeal. Looking for a black man in a white car, and Hurricane fit the description. Only cost him 22 years of his life.
Didn't Cleveland Williams die after being run down by a car a few years ago? I seem to remember a story about that.
Alister
-
crooked nose
- Heavyweight
- Posts: 284
- Joined: 17 Oct 2003, 18:54