BoxRec

Hey, John. It's me HAFA! Let's hear some stories. [/quote]

Hey, HAFA, These two stories are for you:

Here are two post-fight interviews that will probably leave you shaking your head.

A friend of mine, Tommy Gallagher, a trainer-- and the closest thing you'll ever meet to Popeye Doyle from the FRENCH CONNECTION, was training Yuri Vaulin, a tall, light-hitting Russian Cruiserweight.

And the Russian was matched with Tommy Morrison, who was on track for a title fight, in a bout on national TV...and supposed to be no more than tune-up for Morrison.

Well, from round one through 4, the Russian was surprising everyone, out jabbing and outboxing Morrison.

The crowd and Gallagher could sense an upset was in the wind, and the big money for a title fight was in grasp.

Suddenly, in the 5th round, Morrison caught the Russian with a left hook to the body and he crumpled to the floor and could not beat the 10 count.

The fight announcer jumped into the ring and shoved a Mic in Gallagher's face, while he was helping Vaulin.

"Tommy, Tommy, your kid was so close to a title shot. What happened?

"The cocksucker quit!" Gallagher said.


This was so startling... so outrageous and off-the-wall, I couldn't believe my ears: Yaqui Lopez was fighting Mike Rossman on national TV and was a huge underdog.

After a fierce fight, Lopez earned a decision. When the color broadcaster jumped into the ring and shoved a mic in Lopez' face, he asked:

"Yaqui, how did you do it? You were such a big underdog; how did you beat Rossman?"

"I hate Jews," Lopez replied... Everyone was stunned, and the broadcaster quickly nudged Lopez off camera.

john garfield

First, it's very important you get a really clear picture:

I've described Cleveland Williams as a monster; you read about him being huge. None of that does him justice. The only thing he was missing was the big red "S" on his chest.

He was a walking anatomy chart, and we're talking here when he was at his best, before he got shot.

Pep was in the waning days of his career, but still had more than enough in his tank to run rings around most anybody. But it was walking around money.

Willie was Peck's bad boy, with a twinkle in his eye and no muscle tone at all. Most fighters look bigger; he looked smaller.

The 5th St. Gym in Miami was not a large place, so Williams and Pep had to train and do their floor excercises pretty near each other.

The gym rats kept trying to stoke Willie's ego:

" Willie, You could kill that big bum! He'd never touch you."

"You'd make him look like a jerk, Willie" And, it went on an on like that for weeks.

There was no way that Williams didn't hear it.... And he was 9 feet tall, so it started to get under his skin.

One day when all those guys were really egging Pep on:

"You could kick his ass, Willie"

"You'd make him look like fool, Willie!"

Pep just turned to them and said:

"All I can tell you is: I'd hate to have him hang his hammer on me!" And Williams exploded with laughter.

john garfield

This was back in New York at the old Gramercy Gym on 14th St.

I was sitting ringside watching sparring and talking fights with some of the other regulars, and another guy joined the conversation and introduced himself as Harold Green.

Harold Green was a helluva middleweight from the 40's , who beat Rocky Grazino twice.

As soon as one of the guys heard him say: Harold Green, he was all over him with questions. He wanted know every detail of what it was like facing Graziano. Was Graziano as hard a puncher as everyone said? Did Graziano every hurt him?

The guy couldn't have been nicer; he spent about two hours answering every question before he had to leave. The guy that was asking the questions was Harold Green.

john garfield

LoL, great stories Garfield!

As a kid, I had a buddy named Sal, who was a tough street fighter and gave it a shot as a pro heavyweight . No amateur experience--just balls and a big punch.

Sal worshiped at the idol of Joe DiMaggio; everything out of his mouth was: Joe DiMaggio this and Joe DiMaggio that, and he was the best Italian athlete ever...and blah, blah, blah. It never stopped.

Every day Sal took a pounding sparring, and it was worse in the few prelims that he got.

When he packed-it-in, Sal opened an Italian restaurant in Queens, named after his idol: "Joltin Joe's. Every inch of the inside was covered with pictures and paintings of DiMaggio, newspaper clippings about him, and the wall paper was all Yankee pinstripes.

For years, the guys would go in Joltin Joe's for dinner every week, but you could hardly eat, with all his DiMaggio stories.

I had a friend who did some business with people connected to DiMaggio, and I told him all about Sal and what a thrill it would be for him if DiMaggio would come to his restaurant.

Not too long after, the guy calls me back and says Joe will do it this Friday at 8 P.M.

So, I roundup all our friends, and we make it our busines to be in the restaurant early. We couldn't wait to see Sal's reaction when DiMaggio came in the door.

We all made small talk...but it was killing us. Finally, the door opens and there's DiMaggio--"Joe D," in person-- as dapper as you could imagine in a double breasted sharkskin suit.

I thought Sal was going to have a coronary. His mouth dropped open; his eyes went wide. He practically leaped over to where DiMaggio was: "Joe...Joe! This the greatest dream of my life! I never thought I would ever meet you. Look... your pictures are every place!... You've been my hero since I was kid!"

I thought we were all going to cry.

"Sit! sit! Joe. I make you something personally" Sal almost kissed us as he headed into the kitchen.

Joe was seated and waited. We were feeling wonderful to see Sal's dream come true.

When Sal came out and placed the food on the table, he said to Joe, with his eyes glistening: "My son feels the same way about you that I do, Joe. Could you autograph this menu... to Paulie?"

DiMaggio looked up and said, "I get $5 for that."

All the air was sucked out of the room.

Sal looked at him... not believing what he heard...then hurled himself on top of DiMaggio, trying to strangle him, yelling, "YOU MISERABLE MUTHA fornicator!

It took all of us to pull him off DiMaggio. Sal kept trying to dive back at him. We were barely able to get DiMaggio out of there and back into his car.

Be careful what you wish for... you may get it.

john garfield

Back in the early 60's in New York, there was a sweet, welterweight, standup boxer-puncher from the Village, Billy Garrity, who never went to school.

Garrity was a gym rat, but he was street smart.

He had a plan...with a vengeance. He was going to impress rich sponsors to look after him, and he'd make a million dollars.

Well, he was impressing the hell out of everybody in the gym and in all of his amateur fights, where he knocked everybody out early-- looked better each time and was never being hit.

After awhile, I used to see this same group, more and more, of wealthy looking guys who looked out of place in a gym, huddling together at ringside watching Garrity spar.

I asked Garrity in the lockerroom if he knew who they were. He said they were a bunch of furriers trying to decide if they wanted to form a syndicate for him...and they were "this close" to making a decision.

The next week , the furriers came in again, but Garrity looked terrible; he kept getting hit with fearsome right hand leads that my grandmother could have avoided.

I said to him: "Billy, what's the matter with you? Those shots are coming from right field!"

"It's part of my plan, he said...I hear the talk: Can he take a shot? I got these guys in my pocket... Now, they know I can!"

The furriers didn't come back.

I read a few weeks later, Billy died of a drug overdose.

john garfield

John, did Sal keep his restaurant that was named for DiMaggio after the autograph deal? RB

RICHBART,

Sal went on a tirade and shredded the place, and with the help of all of his friends--over a period of months-- he got it back on it's feet, under the name: "Sal's"

Sadly, both Sal and the restaurant are long gone.

john garfield

That DiMaggio story is a classic. He was so damn proud of himself. I've heard similar (less extreme) stories about Pete Rose. I could read these for hours John Garfield, keep 'em coming if you've got 'em.

Everything I've heard about ex-boxers is that they are just happy to be recognised. Another reason to hate baseball players. Like I need another reason. All todays baseball players should have to fight for a living. Big overpaid PUSSIES.

Great stories John but your recall of the Mayweather-Paz bout was slightly off. Duva did take a shot from Mayweather but he just dropped to his knees and stumbled up again with blood seeping from an abrasion on his left cheek. Once the melee calmed down he left the ring under his own steam.

I think it was following the Bowe-Golota riot that Duva was stretchered away from the ring and yes, he looked in a really bad way.

Thanks, bladder.

Were you there, too?

john garfield

In the early 70's in New York, I watched a stocky, young lightweight in the Novice finals of the Golden Gloves in the Felt Forum at Madison Square Garden. His name was John Nittolo. He put me in mind of a lion cub that hadn't quite grown into its paws.

All Nittolo wanted to do was crack the other kid with this overhand right that he threw from the floor.

Nittolo had no style; he just wanted to get the guy in front of him and kill him, like a kid in a street fight that wanted to follow his punches with kicks.

He fought with fire. He excited the fans...the way Graziano used to with that same fury, but he was in no condition and running out of steam.

Nittolo's opponent was a trained boxer, in good shape, and he landed enough punches to earn a decision, even though Nittolo shook him every time he landed that right.

After the fight was over, Nittolo leaped into the middle of his boys, and they carried him on their shoulders to the dressing room. He was a ringleader.

As the Forum was emptying, I spotted him smoking in an old sweat shirt and jeans on the main floor and went over. I told him he was a natural. He could be a helluva pro and I wanted to train him. If he was interested, to look me up any afternoon at the Gramercy Gym.

As we spoke, I could see he was 16... going on 40, with a voice that sounded like the grinding of a cement truck. His words came like pushes before the right hand. I could almost hear Luca Brazzi saying, "Don Corlieone...may your first child be a masculine child." He looked at me sideways, trying to figure my angle.

A couple days later, he shambled into the gym in the same swearshirt and jeans, but he was still leery and ready to lash out. All he got from our talk was: "helluva pro" = money.

After seeing me work with some other fighters and checking me out, Nittolo agreed to give it a try, with little enthusiasm.

For several months, I worked him very hard in the gym, and I was sure, from the look in his eye, there were more than a few moments, he wanted to whack me with that right. The only thing that kept him in the gym...and me from being drilled, was: He started to learn moves... and he liked it.

But, he was a pain in the ass. Everybody wanted him out of the gym. They were convinced I was wasting my time: he was a thug and had no future but jail.

Nittolo couldn't control his temper. He wouldn't listen to anybody but me...barely, and he only wanted to do things his way. And most of the time, he didn't want to do anything, if I didn't push him. He was more interested in crap games, the over-and-under, the horses, and selling sweaters out of the trunk of his car.

I took him to a bunch of smokers all over the city, and he was still greener than most of the competition, but when he landed that right, he hurt people, stopped them or knocked them out. The refs had a tough time tearing him away from anybody he hurt.

Once I took him to a smoker at church in Brooklyn, and he was matched with a kid named Duffy from the parrish, who'd already won the Gloves, had a big reputation all over the city, and brought the whole neighborhood to cheer for him.

Nittolo couldn't wait to knock him out so he could go and party. His attention span was shorter than his temper.

Duffy was a classic standup boxer, with all the practised moves of hours and hours in the gym. So he landed jab after jab, and Nittolo would walk through them and hunt him down and wing that right. And whenever he landed it, Duffy did a Zab Judah dance. The priest awarded the decision to Duffy, who was out on his feet at the final bell .

In the lockerrom while I was I was taking the tape off Nittolo's hands, a Duffy supporter came over talking trash to Nittolo . Boom: Nittolo flashed the right, knocking him dead, leaving him in a heap on the floor.

We grabbed our stuff up as quick as we could and tried to get to our car. Outside, we were greeted by hundreds of Duffy fans--barely held in check by the police-- who were screaming for Nittolo's blood. Nittolo challenged the mob and gave them the finger. How we got out of there... I'll never know.

Nittolo sparred with some top pros, and was beginning to lose some of the rough edges, and use angles. But his mind was always into hustling: how to turn a buck.

He didn't have patience to learn how to fight. He just wanted to knock people out and make money now...and it wasn't happening fast enough for him. Nothing did.

So, he drifted away from the gym. When I would speak to him, I encouraged him to go to a gambling school to become a dealer in a casino. He took to it like a duck to water.

When he graduated, he went to Vegas and got a job as a dealer. Eventually became a pit boss.

But Nittolo lived on "Action"... he loved the "Juice," The bigger the gamble the better. So, he started promoting fights and rock concerts in Vegas and Atlantic City. He added touring shows, like MY FAIR LADY.

Numbers were Nittolo's thing, so nobody short changed him...and if they tried, he spoke to them in a language they understood.

In the last 15 years, Nittolo's become one of the leading concert promoters in the country. And he still wants more.

He's now in his late 40's... still has the same swagger he had as a kid, but now he's dressed in Hugo Boss, and weighs over 200.

He still has the killer instinct and no patience, but he does his fighting in boardrooms. Everything that people said would get him in trouble, has made him the man that he is. He's a lion that's grown into his paws.

john garfield

Bump.

Great stories John- Do you have any Ali stories?

ShoeShine wrote:Great stories John- Do you have any Ali stories?

Not sure if John visits this site anymore, it's a very old thread I 'bumped' up as I thought it deserved a second read.