Sweet Thunder Page 26

  LaMotta had anchored his prowess as a fighter to raw power. At times he seemed to be encased in cement, his feet moving only when necessary. He was indeed vintage—a throwback to an 1890s or 1920s boxer, when a fighter met power with power. But Robinson was something new, unseen by the likes of LaMotta or anyone: He moved like someone on a great movie musical soundstage. He brewed power with artistic flourishes. His feet moved with the quickness of grasshoppers. The deeper LaMotta believed in his method—moving by inches in its tight dark shadow—the more unwittingly he exposed himself to the myriad gifts of Robinson. Robinson checkmated LaMotta’s power and brutishness with speed and round-by-round mental adjustments. Whereas LaMotta hewed to only one musical note, Robinson jumped to a jazzy vibe, thus turning the boxing canvas to the musical stage syncopations that best suited him.

  Suspense circled the Garden at bout’s end, evidence of contentment at a memorable battle having been fought. But Robinson had carried the evening: Referee Eddie Joseph scored it six rounds for Robinson and four for LaMotta. The two other judges differed starkly in their assessments: Bill Healy gave six rounds to Robinson, three to LaMotta, and called one even. Jack Gordon gave seven rounds to Robinson, calling two even, with the other round going to the Bull.

  “Class,” said James Dawson of The New York Times—using a word more often associated with artistic or stylistic interpretations and not fistic matters—“told against bull-like strength” in the ten-round matchup. Many saw heroics in LaMotta’s mere survival: “How LaMotta stood up under all that fire is a major mystery,” said the Amsterdam News.

  Purists would come to note that changes had taken place in the fighting style of Sugar Ray Robinson during the LaMotta battles. Because LaMotta simply would not go down, Robinson had learned patience in the ring, taking punishing body blows and all the while adjusting his mental resolve. There would be bruising; there would be blood. He adjusted the artistic bent of his fighting game—he had a habit of humming jazz tunes to himself between rounds—to withstand power from the other direction. It was a determined reaction to LaMotta’s style, but it would also supply him with the confidence to extend his career when others cautioned against it. Inside that strategy, of course, lay a downside: blows to the head can result in long-term damage.

  As the fighters made their way to their dressing rooms, and as the bettors collected themselves up in the stands; as the loners descended the steps angling toward the night air, and the reporters rushed to meet their deadlines, a sentiment hovered that the two fighters were hardly finished with each other. “You don’t keep fighting unless the fights are close,” LaMotta would say years afterward, believing that each of his losses, up to this point, had been so close that he could have won with more charitable judging.

  Gainford hovered over his fighter down in the dressing room, applying ointments and massaging his muscles. Robinson’s lips were bruised purple from the blows he had taken. Though comforted by the victorious outcome, he lay on a table with a look of exhaustion. Many of those gathered wanted to know about those climactic moments in the sixth round, when it seemed as if LaMotta might send him through the ropes again, as he had done in Detroit. “I was getting a little tired, so I figured I could rest while I made him miss,” Robinson said, aiming for levity. “My eye wasn’t so good,” he went on. “I rolled with some punches and I rolled into others.” While cornered, he sensed something in LaMotta’s eyes—raw fury—and admitted that he had to make a quick adjustment, which had him dancing back to the center of the ring.

  In the much more somber environment of LaMotta’s dressing room, the defeated fighter offered that he thought Robinson had been toying with him in that sixth round.

  Both fighters now believed that each encounter had put them closer to supremacy over the other. Robinson’s logic was plausible, as it showed in the cross-country headlines and the decrees of the fight judges; LaMotta’s was emotional, anchored to his belief that since each fight was—in his mind—scintillatingly close, there wasn’t much that separated the two. He put forth theories about newspapermen who wrote about him and Robinson, believing they had maligned him: “There was a time when there wasn’t more than two or three of them I was on speaking terms with, and why? Because they said all I knew how to do was get in there and slug, I didn’t have any style or what they call finesse, not that any of these writers were ever in a ring themselves.”

  Jake LaMotta was that odd figure, in whom losses only fortified will and confidence. Hadn’t he knocked Robinson from the ring? And had Robinson ever put him on his rear end? He had not.

  With four thrilling fights now behind them, which were seen by tens of thousands in person and listened to by many millions more on radio, they had created their own cinema. They were magnetically linked. Both had now possessed the American imagination. They were connected not only by klieg lights but by the blood they were willing to spill to outlast each other.

  One might have imagined, in the aftermath of the fourth battle, that the two required distance from each other. But distance would only serve to frustrate, as if they were antsy gladiators stomping upon sand in the middle of the stadium. “I knew what I wanted, and he knew what he wanted,” LaMotta would say years later. “We were two of the best fighters in the world.”

  The calls for another fight erupted immediately. By fall, the plans were in place: Expectations were that the fifth bout would be in early September 1945, in Chicago—a place where the autumnal winds blew hard and fierce.

  President Roosevelt, the man whose voice had trilled over the radio wires into the lives of so many—Joe Louis on the march against Schmeling, Henry Armstrong hoboing across the country, Sugar Ray in his crisp Army uniform, the LaMotta family in the hard tenements of New York; millions of other citizens—died in Warm Springs, Georgia, on April 12, 1945, seven weeks after the most recent Robinson-LaMotta bout. His body was carried North on railroad tracks, and thousands who had gathered along the tracks, ragamuffin and well-heeled alike, stretched their palms outward as if they might somehow make that huge man visible one last time. Harry S. Truman assumed the presidency. The deaths caused by the dropping of the atomic bombs which Truman had ordered ushered in the end of war. Many Americans were able to start lives anew. Rationing, which had spread to shoe purchases and canned goods among so many other items, was slowly lifted. It was now okay to begin filming fight footage again—film stock had been a precious commodity during the war—to use in newsreels advertising upcoming fights in movie houses across the country. The velvet curtains would pull back in the darkened movie theatres, and there they were again, fighters in grainy black-and-white footage, claiming our darkest dreams—to inflict pain upon one’s enemy.

  Sugar Ray Robinson did not always find it easy adjusting to domestic life. Edna Mae had no intention of sitting home and simply becoming Mrs. Sugar Ray Robinson. She had friends from the world of entertainment and nightclubs before she met him, and she did not wish to lose them. Robinson depended on his sisters and mother to keep Edna Mae company when he was off on extended golf outings or training for fights, but Edna Mae did not always relish their company. She came from an educated class of Negroes; the Robinsons did not. But for Robinson there was a trade-off in contending with the cumbersome details of the relationship—Edna Mae’s large family, the marital expectations of both—and it was the star quality of Edna Mae herself. She was beautiful. As a couple they looked dazzling on the streets of Manhattan together, fur wrapped around her, his evening suit fitting him just so. Jazz figures desired their company. They socialized frequently with Billy Eckstine and his beau tiful wife, June. “She complemented Sugar Ray,” Arthur Barnes recalls of Edna Mae. They went house hunting during those seven months in 1945 between the fourth and fifth LaMotta bouts, eventually purchasing that lovely home in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. It had a large lawn, and on summer evenings friends would come by and Edna Mae would light candles. Everyone listened to Duke Ellington and Charlie Parker beneath moonlight. It was t
he kind of living Robinson had long ago dreamed of and Edna Mae simply expected.

  During that seven-month interval leading up to the outdoor September fight in Chicago, Sugar Ray adopted a far more conservative schedule than usual—obviously concerned about wear and tear as he prepared for LaMotta—and fought just three times. He took on Jose Basora in Philadelphia. That fight was more difficult than Robinson had envisioned; he had to settle for a ten-round decision. Prognosticators imagined a spirited challenge as well from Jimmy McDaniels, a tough Los Angeles fighter who had never suffered a knockout in his career. Sugar Ray introduced him to the experience: It came one minute and twenty-three seconds into the second round. And Jimmy Mandell suffered a fifth-round TKO in Buffalo.

  LaMotta, on the other hand—as if to remind the world of his fearlessness and addiction to the ring—fought seven times. He fought twice in both March and April. He won all of his bouts, though not without sweaty effort: Jose Basora—the fighter Robinson had required all ten rounds to beat—took him to nine rounds. Those keeping track of the fighters, their opponents, and their respective records noted that George Costner—the imposter who had been beaten in one round by Sugar Ray—hung on with LaMotta for six before losing.

  Chicagoans had long reveled in their city being a prime fight town. Their Comiskey Park, where Robinson-LaMotta would unfold, was a cherished venue. The Windy City crowd had become enamored of Robinson’s fight style when he was appearing in the city years earlier on behalf of the New York City Golden Gloves team. But even as a pro, Robinson had a Chicago streak going: He had knocked out all three opponents—Tony Motisi, Lou Woods, and Costner—whom he had faced in the city. “What makes Robinson doubly anxious to keep his local knockout record clean,” offered the Chicago Defender, “is the fact that LaMotta has been able to withstand Ray’s murderous punches for 40 rounds so far.”

  The fight was being promoted by Jack Kearns, onetime manager of Jack Dempsey. Kearns—who had tried for his first riches by running off to join the Alaskan Yukon gold rush in his youth—was eager to stage the engagement. Weeks before the bout, he ushered a gaggle of newspapermen, radio announcers, and members of the Chicago Boxing Commission to a meeting at the Morrison Hotel. He slapped backs and grinned, though the grinning faded when reporters started talking about the fact that Robinson wanted his opponent at 160 pounds or under—a demand that had yet to be guaranteed by LaMotta. It was obvious Kearns still had work to do to appease both camps. In mid-September, Robinson sought a delay because of back pain, and the final date settled on was the twenty-sixth. When Kearns staged his second press gathering, it was to announce that both fighters would arrive in Chicago two weeks before the bout to continue their training.

  Two things about their fight would be different this time around. First, it would be staged as a twelve-rounder, two rounds longer than each of their previous encounters. The additional two rounds were seen as favoring LaMotta, since endurance was one of his major assets. And, second, Robinson himself aimed to fight heavier, at 150 pounds, because he believed he would need the extra weight to counter LaMotta’s strength. Kearns, the promoter, was predicting the gate would crack $100,000. Wilfrid Smith, the Chicago Daily Tribune writer, was not the only one to remark that the Robinson-LaMotta matches had caught the nation off guard. They were two fighters fighting out of their divisions, and yet, as Smith knew, in the past three years they were simply “the best money match of the war period.”

  Both fighters’ arrivals in Chicago caused instant excitement. History was now swaying upon the shoulders of each. Negroes had begun reaching out to Robinson with growing affection and curiosity, as they had once done with Joe Louis. Sugar Ray was viewed as an inevitable champion, thus drawing the interests of politicians, real estate magnates, lawyers, physicians, and gimlet-eyed hustlers. The musicians that he knew from town to town had turned into an adopted choir now, jawboning and preaching asides about the wicked-punching prizefighter they knew from Harlem. “We’ll wager the best fists to be tossed at Savoy [a nightclub] during Sugar Ray Robinson’s training period will come from the battler himself …,” the Chicago Defender announced.

  As for LaMotta, he couldn’t set foot in Chicago without his own internal musings: Chicago was where Tony Zale—the onetime middleweight champion—had fought so many times, and where he had been adopted as a fighter. Zale belonged to Chicagoans. In 1934 Zale fought twenty-one times, and all but three of those matches were in Chicago. As much as LaMotta wanted a crack at Zale—LaMotta’s “ultimate goal is a fight with Chicago’s Tony Zale,” the Tribune reminded readers—he couldn’t have it because Zale was off in the war, unavailable to fight between 1943 and 1945. So Zale was the invisible figure that hovered over LaMotta’s middleweight title hopes. No matter how much he fought or who he whipped, LaMotta had a realization that gnawed at him: “I still was no nearer a crack at the title.” Still, with its large Italian population, Chicago showed affection toward him: The Italian social clubs sent emissaries to greet him, inviting LaMotta out for dinners, pleading with him to visit recreation centers and CYO clubs where Italian youth congregated and became bright-eyed at the prospect of meeting him. (LaMotta’s exploits had recently begun drawing the interests of the Italian press overseas as well.) But everywhere LaMotta looked—especially in the big hard fight cities of Detroit, New York, Cleveland, and now Chicago—he saw the influence of the Mob at work; and they were the men he loathed, who he believed were keeping him from getting his chance at a title shot.

  The two combatants did their training at local CYO gymnasiums, the Chicago reporters scribbling notes about the look of each fighter: LaMotta looked bulky as ever, but Robinson had also added a few pounds. There were those who wondered right away if the extra weight would slow him in the ring, stifling his stamina if the bout should last the full twelve rounds.

  When scheduling outdoor fights, promoters are always at the mercy of the weather. For several days preceding the bout, there had been rainfall. But the rain held off on the day of the event; the temperature of fifty-six degrees on the evening of the fight suggested proper attire: Topcoats, scarves, tweed jackets, and lamb’s wool were all draped over the attendees. (Some thought Kearns might delay for a day, but he couldn’t: The Chicago Cubs were in the World Series and scheduled for a game at Comiskey the next day.)

  As the throng made its way to stadium seats, the whole scene—like so many outdoor fights—managed to offer a kind of spectral beauty: A mass of souls snaking along the aisles; klieg lights draping Comiskey; stars in the sky with the deepening of evening; two fighters seen bending beneath the ropes and into applause, nodding and rolling their shoulders and their necks, getting looser, going to their respective corners—everything set against the sounds of nature and unfolding beneath raw sky.

  Among the fourteen thousand plus in the crowd was a figure rarely seen on such occasions: Leila Smith, Sugar Ray’s mother. She sat with Marie and Evelyn, her two daughters. And, as was her habit, she prayed for her son’s well-being.

  The two fighters stood against the moonlight. They touched gloves, retreated to their corners, then emerged eyeing each other without mercy.

  LaMotta aimed to be the aggressor and it showed in the very first round. Fighting at a weight that made him more relaxed, he charged early and often in the first three rounds. Robinson countered with fast left jabs, but LaMotta bore in, punching at Robinson’s stomach and sides. It wasn’t until the fifth round that Robinson’s lightning-quick punches began to show dividends: He stung LaMotta several times. In the sixth, Robinson did more clutching than usual, buying time for rest. LaMotta’s moves were staccato during the round, quick steps toward Robinson. Sugar Ray began fighting backward, a strategy that mixed offense with defense: As he moved away from LaMotta, he also fired punches. He was one of the few fighters who could attempt such a feat and make it work, as it demanded a superhuman effort at balance and body adjustment. The strategy so angered LaMotta that at one point he urged Robinson to charge him, motioni
ng with his hands palm up in the manner of a schoolyard bully. Robinson refused to oblige. But then, a round later—the seconds ticking toward the end of the seventh—Robinson approached LaMotta and let loose with a battery of right-left, left-right punches. LaMotta took the blows. The scene lifted the crowd; Robinson’s sisters screamed. People thought a knockout might be imminent. But stamina had always been one of LaMotta’s prized assets. And by round nine, sure enough, LaMotta had reversed the momentum: He had begun fighting, noted Wilfrid Smith of the Chicago Daily Tribune, with an “inspiring” edge that seemed to carry him through into both rounds ten and eleven. LaMotta’s punches proved relentless; Robinson was “visibly tired” at the end of the eleventh. If the fight had ended then, the judges might have had a difficult time determining the winner. Robinson’s backing-away strategy had actually drawn some boos from the crowd. In the first minute of the final round, both fighters traded perfunctory blows. Then, with a minute to go, it happened. Robinson struck in a ferocious manner: His left slammed into LaMotta’s jaw; the Bull spun. Robinson then unleashed another left, but it didn’t fully connect, so he brought a right “out from nowhere” which clearly shook La Motta. And then the bell sounded across the klieg-lit darkness of Comiskey Park, and it was all over.