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  INTERLUDE Sugar, Meet Sugar

  An “uncrowned” champion, as Sugar Ray Robinson was being called, couldn’t escape the spotlight. To certain overactive minds, such a fighter became a mark for other fighters who were trying to forge a reputation. This was true, at least, for the brave fighter whose camp thought he could upset the uncrowned champion and snatch the spotlight for himself. George Costner was such a fighter.

  Costner, a welterweight and native of Cincinnati, Ohio, had turned pro in 1939, a year before Robinson’s ascension. He was rangy, had reach, could hit—“and moves about the ring like a tiger,” noted one publication. Promoters were eager to book him. Many began thinking he possessed Robinson-like skills. Costner would not argue otherwise; he even adopted the nickname Sugar, and reporters started writing him up as George “Sugar” Costner. Robinson did not appreciate the thieving of his moniker.

  On January 19, 1945, Costner knocked out Richard “Sheik” Rangel just a minute and twenty-two seconds into the first round of their Chicago Stadium engagement. The knockout brought fans out of their seats. As he strolled around the ring, Costner heard them calling his name: Sugar, Sugar, Sugar. The Rangel knockout got Costner a date with the other Sugar. (Costner’s camp knew that Robinson had once knocked out Rangel—but it had taken that Sugar a full two rounds to do so.)

  The interest in the bout, orchestrated by Chicago promoters Irving Schoenwald and Jack Begun and scheduled for February 14, 1945, was immediate and fevered. “This bout is a natural,” Begun declared. “This boy, Costner, is a honey and it wouldn’t surprise the followers of this Cincinnati scrapper if he upsets the dope cart and wins.” There was a feeling in some boxing camps that LaMotta had exposed Robinson’s vulnerabilities, that now he was ripe for the taking. “We never had such an advance sale since Tony Zale defended his middleweight title against Al Hostak in the Stadium four years ago when 15,087 paid $48,475 to see Zale … knock out Al in the second round,” Begun said.

  Costner expressed confidence in a win, and he had his followers: “If he does [win],” the Chicago Defender offered, “it will not only be a big upset but will back thousands who are of the opinion that Costner is about the best welterweight in the country today.”

  In early February, the original Sugar asked for a one-week delay in the bout. He was suffering from a sore throat. It was rescheduled for February 14. Supporters of Sugar II wondered if Sugar was worried.

  The seats inside Chicago Stadium filled early on the evening of the bout. “Not since Joe Louis fought James J. Braddock in Comiskey Park in June 1937 has Chicago been host to so many out-of-town sepia sport and boxing fans,” proclaimed Chicago Defender columnist Fay Young. The attendance was put at 20,193; the gate a muscular $94,000. In George “Sugar” Costner’s previous twenty-three bouts, he had recorded twenty-three wins; twenty-two of his victims suffered knockouts.

  Each fighter’s quickness was evident at the bout’s beginning. Sugar Ray saw a waling right coming for his head toward the end of that opening round, at the two minute and fifty-five second mark. His duck was quick, fluid, and natural, and with that he stepped in close and feinted with his own right. Sugar II prepared to go under the feint, but the feint was just a feint and Sugar Ray let loose with a powerful left hook. The hook connected and Sugar II went down—never having seen it coming—taking the effects of the follow-up right blast with him. Those in their seats who didn’t see it—blinded by the ref or at an odd angle in the stadium—let out a grating gasp because the accompanying sounds told them they had just missed something spectacular. Sugar II was on the canvas. Sugar Ray stood glowering at him. Sugar II heard the counts—one, then four, five, then eight, then nine—and couldn’t rise. He took the full count on one knee. The much-hyped bout was over. A knockout in the first round. What had gone wrong? Costner had never fought before a crowd this large. Some imagined jitters, noting that in previous bouts he had always seemed jumpy and coltish in the moments before a fight. But on this night he had seemed strangely quiet and still in his corner—like a child approaching a high dive for the first time.

  The men in their shined shoes and the women in their fur hardly planned to let the evening pass so quickly. Many headed over to the Negro side of Chicago, known as “Bronzeville.” And Bronzeville, according to the Chicago Defender, “jumped” in the hours after the bout: “… [A]ll you had to do was to drop in your favorite bar and you’d find a friend from out-of-town who had come to see the two gladiators battle at the Chicago Stadium.” Robinson sped through the wintry night with an assemblage of Chicago and New York friends until they reached the cozy warmth of the Grand Hotel bar, where he relaxed. Admirers came to him, men and women. Sugar Ray grinned as he signed photographs of himself and shared harmless gossip about his friend Joe Louis and life in Manhattan and Harlem. (Someone in his camp always carried press photographs of the fighter.) Not long into the night, there was a bit of noise, a gentle commotion; nothing to worry about, but someone else was approaching and the appearance was causing a stir. Heads craned back and forth: It was George Costner. There was an embrace—two foes, but no ill feelings on Sugar Ray’s part, which is why he had insisted Costner drop by. Sugar Ray introduced Costner to his beguiling wife Edna Mae. More photographs were handed out. There was music; the tinkling of ice in glasses as drinks were poured. The warmth of the bar suited Sugar Ray nicely, the glint of jewelry shining from necks and wrists, the wide smiles cast in his direction. Sugar’s defeated foe stared about with a mixture of amazement and amusement. And as George Costner readied to leave that night, looking about, witnessing the constant waves of adulation that radiated toward his opponent—the lovely victorious moments ticking by, that old mixture of boxing laughter and nighttime style playing like its own symphony—he knew exactly what the others gathered about knew: There was only one Sugar.

  ACTS FOUR, FIVE, AND SIX It’s on TV! Blood on the TV Screen

  The fourth Robinson-LaMotta bout was announced for February 23, 1945. In the 727 days that would pass before the event—it would come just two days shy of the two-year anniversary of their last encounter—the country existed in that haze of wartime worry. Still, political and cultural events churned on.

  In 1943 a stringbean singer from Hoboken, New Jersey, made his first appearance on Your Hit Parade. Many—and not just bobby-soxers and Italians—were enraptured by the voice of Frank Sinatra. That same year a new subway system was unveiled in Chicago. The New York Yankees won the ’43 World Series. On the college gridiron, Notre Dame took the football crown that year. There was plenty of music on the radio. A big hit was “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” by the Ink Spots; “Let’s Get Lost” by Vaughn Monroe also moved listeners. The following year, 1944, saw Roosevelt elected to his fourth term, and the Missouri senator Harry S. Truman assumed the vice presidency. (Truman, who had been a haberdasher back in Missouri, dressed in a style right out of Esquire magazine.) That year also saw the cancellation—a by-product of war—of both the U.S. Open golf tournament and the Indianapolis 500. One of the more curious events in the sports world in 1944 involved the Cincinnati Reds. They used a fifteen-year-old left-handed pitcher—youngest major-league player in the game’s recorded history—by the name of Joe Nuxhall for part of an inning against St. Louis because their ranks were so depleted. The St. Louis players, however, paid little mind to the novelty and went on to whip their opponents 18–0. Little boys and girls rushed for the comic strips with the premiere in 1944 of the Batman and Robin serial.

  Among the flamboyant personalities that flourished during the tumultuous 1940s was a new kind of tough character: the outsized newspaperman. Figures like Damon Runyon, Hype Igoe, Stanley Woodward, and Jimmy Cannon—all sportswriters, and all quick to quote literary giants if only to prove the depth of their knowledge beyond the sports pages—were as well known as the sporting figures they covered. In New York City especially, home to more than half a dozen major newspapers, the competition for scoops and salacious information was fierce. In the
days leading up to the fourth Robinson-LaMotta bout, one of the most tantalizing and gossip-fueled stories revolved around Sugar Ray Robinson’s military record, which had taken on a boomeranglike life of its own. And the talk made him seethe.

  Robinson’s quick knockout of George Costner in Chicago—along with the other fights he had fought and won since his military release—had been brought to the attention of the Army discharge board, which had granted his release based on medical reasons. If Robinson could have recovered so quickly, the board now wondered, might they have been duped? The board contacted Robinson, demanding that he show up for a reexamination immediately following the upcoming fourth LaMotta fight. Military impropriety was a serious issue, especially as seen against the emotional backdrop of wartime patriotism. A fighter risked losing fan approval if found to have shirked military responsibility in any way. It was Dan Parker of the New York Daily Mirror who had written of Robinson’s bewildering exit from the Army. (Parker was a tireless crusader against the corruption that had infected professional boxing, and thus any impropriety on the part of a fighter and Uncle Sam’s Army would certainly have piqued his curiosity.) Now, on the eve of a big fight, questions were being raised in the press about Robinson’s character and military record. George Gainford was incensed about the story, particularly its timing, feeling it might have an adverse effect on his fighter’s concentration. Robinson, whose paranoia took off on flights of fancy with little or no encouragement under normal circumstances, blamed Parker’s writing for the imbroglio and also privately wondered if the LaMotta camp had anything to do with it. (Other publications around the country had picked up the story.) It was Jesse Abramson of the New York Herald Tribune who came to Robinson’s defense. “All the rumors and suspicions involving the military career and current status of Ray Robinson … are being aired again this week,” huffed Abramson on the eve of the fight. Abramson felt that the airing of these “lurid details” of Robinson’s military discharge was unfounded, and reminded readers that boxing boards—which had access to military records—had approved Robinson for fights in Illinois as well as New York after his military discharge. Abramson also possessed shrewd boxing insight into how two of the nation’s most well-known fighters were currently perceived: “Every one likes Joe Louis, not every one likes Ray Robinson.” Despite his anger, Robinson stayed mum about it all, not wanting to give the public or the promoters ammunition that might affect contract negotiations and radio rights, or even result in last-minute withdrawals from bouts. (Robinson would indeed undergo a new military examination, but nothing would come of it. His military career was officially over, even though the issue of his service would be revived again a decade later during congressional hearings about favoritism shown athletes and entertainers regarding military service.)

  Many of the familiar faces—entertainers, bookies, sportsmen, newspapermen—were eagerly looking forward to the fourth matchup. There was a feeling that the bad blood between the two fighters was truly roiling. “They were out to kill each other,” says Arthur Mercante, the onetime Golden Gloves referee. There would be one figure, however, missing from the proceedings, and both Robinson and LaMotta would lament his absence.

  No one knew how old Hype Igoe—the longtime boxing writer for the New York Journal-American—really was when he died twelve days before the Robinson-LaMotta match. He had covered Louis-Schmeling, Braddock-Louis, Louis-Baer, and hundreds of other memorable encounters across America and into Puerto Rico. Igoe was one of the first writers to sense nuance and cultural sensibilities in the Robinson-LaMotta pairing, scavenging for new angles as he wrote about each fighter. Over the years there had been more than one “sixty-fifth” birthday party for Hype. His coterie of admirers came anyway, laughing into the wee hours. He was overweight, obviously vain about his age, enjoyed the remoteness of woodsy boxing camps, practiced magic tricks in idle moments, was an admired cartoonist, wore a signature fedora, and could often be found atop a Manhattan barstool. There were plenty of odd and eccentric occurrences in the life of Hype Igoe. He once hitched a ride out to the Indianopolis 500 with the great flying ace Eddie Rickenbacker piloting the plane. A voluble sort, Hype moved easily amongst the Hoosier crowd. In a field, whiling away some time, he began displaying his magic coin tricks, turning nickels into pennies, dimes into quarters. Both children and adults gathered. But there was confusion about the speed at which money was changing hands. Law officers came closer and weren’t amused by the trickery. They quickly suspected Hype of being a con artist from back East and whisked him into custody. Colleagues helped convince authorities Hype meant no harm. He seemed to like everything about the heartbreaking fight game—the way heroes (Joe Louis) could come out of nowhere; the sheer will of the comeback champion (Braddock); the business acumen practiced as if it were all part of a carnival act by so many fight promoters (Mike Jacobs); the falling-apart heroes (Joe Louis again) who he thought had some kind of majesty in their efforts to hang on. He was a sightseeing passenger with a notebook on a vessel that moved between Madison Square Garden, Chicago Stadium, Yankee Stadium, and smaller joints in between. The old newspaperman of indeterminate age had a Runyonesque guys-and-dolls sensibility. (Runyon was at the funeral out on Long Island.) Caswell Adams, writing in the New York Daily Mirror, would refer to Herbert “Hype” Igoe as “a definite legend in the curious business of writing sports.”

  The LaMotta camp announced on fight’s eve that their contender would weigh in at 159 pounds for the engagement. In fighting against the likes of Robinson and others in his class, LaMotta had unwittingly cursed himself: He had started his career as a light heavyweight; now, he was backtracking, forced to keep a careful eye on the weight scales as he prepared for fights in the welterweight division. The tactic created more drama than it should have and outright frustration on LaMotta’s part when he stepped into the ring with a lightning-quick fighter—fast of feet and fist—like Robinson. Robinson had loosened his demands for the previous two fights, allowing LaMotta to fight heavier, at 165 pounds. But for this bout, a 160-pound contract was in effect, and LaMotta needed to come in below that earlier figure. “There are only three or four pounds involved, but they are mighty important pounds for LaMotta,” the New York Herald Tribune noted.

  There were times, given his haphazard training regimen, when LaMotta’s weight was known to have ballooned to 170 pounds or more. With a scheduled bout at hand, the weight would come off, but the Bull hated the toll the regimen exacted.

  Both fighters felt supremely at home in Manhattan and naturally gravitated to their respective watering holes (jazz clubs for Sugar Ray; Italian social clubs for LaMotta), where patrons wished them well. Robinson was favored—3 to 1 by some oddsmakers; only 2 to 1 by others—but LaMotta partisans held on to the fact that LaMotta was the only fighter who had beaten the previously undefeated Robinson. They were also quick to point out that LaMotta had never been knocked to the canvas by anyone.

  Robinson did his pre-fight workouts at Fred Irvin’s uptown gym while LaMotta sparred at Bobby Gleason’s gym in the Bronx. The fight would mark Robinson’s first return to Madison Square Garden since that gentle defeat of his idol Henry Armstrong a year and a half earlier.

  Fight promoters were strangely caught off guard by the public’s eagerness to see the two fighters again: The lowest-priced seats—accommodations for the gallery gods—had sold out midafternoon on the day of the bout. And two hours before the ringing of the bell, there were only standing-room tickets left. Promoter Mike Jacobs predicted fifteen thousand for the bout. Instead, more than eighteen thousand would arrive at the Garden—couples; loners over from the Bowery; denizens of Broadway; photographers and newspapermen, all shuffling to their seats. The photographers were toting their Speed Graphics, their press credentials hung from their neck or tucked in the brim of their fedora.

  Just seconds into the first round, it became clear that Robinson’s early ring strategy had shifted to one of outright aggression. Robinson quickly fired several rig
hts and lefts at LaMotta, all of them connecting. LaMotta was stunned and showed a deep cut on his forehead in that round, as Gainford yelled at his fighter to keep hitting. In the third round LaMotta—with his one-dimensional though powerful fighting style—decided to charge Robinson, “pawing away at the body,” as Jim Jennings of the New York Daily Mirror put it. It was an unwise move; Robinson let loose with a left that snapped LaMotta’s head back and bloodied his upper lip. There were frenzied whoops from the crowd. Jennings saw LaMotta as a “slow-thinking” mauler in this ring and concluded that he was up against a meaner and more determined Sugar Ray. In round four, a Robinson strike—“a murderous left hook,” as Herald Tribune writer Jesse Abramson described it—hurled LaMotta into the ropes. The Bull stopped himself from hitting the canvas; it would have been a first in his career. LaMotta, showing pure rage, had to be pulled away from Robinson: Jake continued swinging at the sound of the bell. It might have taken LaMotta this many fights to realize it, but Robinson had a tough, hard jaw. And there was something else: Robinson had begun keeping an eye on the clock—a move, those who knew him would say, adopted from his former foe Fritzie Zivic—in an effort to time the intervals of his punches to draw more points from the sitting judges. “His left was a classic” throughout, noted the Herald Tribune.

  By the fifth round, LaMotta looked woozy and certainly dazed. But it was a scheduled ten-round bout, and Jake always believed a fight could turn on just one devastating punch. It was in the sixth—the Bull having cornered Robinson—that the temper of the noise shifted and suddenly rose to a deafening level: a resurgent LaMotta began pummeling Robinson’s face and midsection; the photographers clicked as LaMotta bore into Sugar Ray, who had bizarrely dropped his hands and took the punishing blows standing near the ropes. More than ten seconds passed. Gainford waved his fighter away from LaMotta. The reporters tried to decipher the words spewing from Gainford’s mouth. Some sensed a knockout, believing LaMotta had revived himself and this was his moment to turn the bout in his favor. But just as quickly—like a deer at rest in the woods before an unseen noise shocks it into movement—Robinson, his dark trunks shimmering against the lights, danced away, back to the center of the ring. And once there, glove to glove with LaMotta, he unleashed a versatile array of blows—“right crosses, upper cuts, bolos, left hooks, left jabs”—that left LaMotta reeling and toyed with the unsettled loyalties of the agitated crowd. The astute observer could now see that standing as still as a mummy and taking LaMotta’s punches was a ruse on Robinson’s part, an effort to tire his challenger and lure him to the center of the ring—only to unleash his own sustained fury. (It was a strategy the old magician Hype Igoe might have loved witnessing.) The Robinson maneuver was “one of the slickest bits of gallery playing on record,” noted Dan Burley of the Amsterdam News. LaMotta looked bewildered at what was happening. He had gone into the fight with a ten-pound weight advantage over Robinson, but it mattered little as Robinson’s strategies—attacking early, the whirling mind games—seemed to vanquish LaMotta’s heft.