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  Hitting the Paris streets the following day, Robinson was caught off guard by the reception. Fans stopped his pink Caddy in the middle of the street, pleading for autographs. Crowds would gather, stopping traffic. It took the intervention of police officers for Robinson to proceed. Shop owners poured out of their businesses at the sight of his traveling entourage; schoolchildren scampered down the streets, with the midget Jimmy cackling and staring at them all from behind the automobile’s window. “The return of Napoleon Bonaparte on his white steed,” remembered Gordon Parks, “couldn’t have charged Paris with much more excitement than did the coming of Sugar Ray” and his camp. Like so many before him, Robinson fell under the sway of the historic and charmed city: “I loved to drive around Paris, with the top down and the radio on loud, and me wearing a beret.” Little Jimmy squealed with delight, pointing his knobby fingers out the windows, waving and cackling. Robinson and his entourage seemed tight as a gospel choir. Gordon Parks himself had never seen anything like it. “On the Champs-Elysées in Paris,” he would recall, “all it took for movie queues to break rank was for Sugar Ray’s fushcia Cadillac to appear. Parisian bicyclists immediately pedaled into high gear to follow, like gulls after a yacht.” (Robinson eventually hired a French chauffeur.) Dozens of invitations to parties and soirees were delivered to his hotel; his traveling secretary had to parcel them. In restaurants women tried to be discreet, but when Robinson glided off to the men’s room, they followed him through the doors—ostensibly for an autograph. He signed menus, napkins, scraps of paper. He had members of his entourage hand out those handsome black-and-white photos of himself.

  French officials were quite prepared for Robinson’s visit. He came bearing gifts—in the form of Damon Runyon Cancer Fund checks, which he would dispense throughout Europe—and his generosity demanded the appearance of politicians to express their gratitude. At one charity event, a benefit for aging French comedians held at the Palais de Chaillot, Robinson, dressed in white tie and a cutaway, three-quarter-length tux, surprised onlookers by joining the band and playing the drums. Then he broke into a tap number on the stage, kicking his patent-leather heels to shrieks of wonderment and delight. After the impromptu performance, French starlets surrounded him with heart-stricken looks in their eyes. Monsieur Robinson had become their dreamboat. Parks realized such a scene could not have played out in America with its racial customs, and he relished all the jubilant mingling. At one event, Madame Auriol, France’s first lady, showed up to thank Robinson personally for his cancer fund donation. He kissed the charming lady on both cheeks. Robinson had a scheduled fight on May 21—his first during the visit—against Kid Marcel in Paris; Gainford began worrying about Robinson’s socializing and public events. Robinson assured Gainford he’d be fine.

  In 1951 Sugar Ray Robinson landed in Europe. Parisians fell in love with him. It was his style, his sense of fashion. (Edith Piaf clamored for an introduction.) Here the great French titleholder, Georges Carpentier, seated at table, far right, hosts a dinner for Robinson. In London, streets would have to be blocked off as thousands angled to get a glimpse of the fighter.

  Robinson attended an event to honor the memory of Marcel Cerdan. Edith Piaf couldn’t take her eyes off the American fighter. An American-based magazine gushingly referred to Robinson as “Paris’ No. 1 celebrity in residence.”

  While at the fashionable Lido nightclub one evening along with Robinson and his assemblage, Gordon Parks noticed a familiar face: French actress Martine Carol. A voluptuous presence—and France’s reigning sex symbol—she was in a sleeveless dress with a fur stole draped around her arms. Her blonde hair flowed; she looked dazzling. Carol—who would celebrate her twenty-ninth birthday on May 16, while Robinson was in the city—had been acting in French cinema since 1943, drawing praise for both her beauty and acting talent. In 1951 she had filmed Caroline Chérie, and the reviews were admirable. At the Lido, Parks—always angling for an interesting photo—asked Sugar Ray if he would dance with Carol. Robinson put aside his Coca-Cola: “Sure, if she wants to.” He made Parks walk over and ask the screen siren. The actress smilingly agreed. And then there they were, on the dance floor, Robinson’s black right hand on her bare white back, both smiling, the music wafting. Parks snapped away, he and Robinson stealing glances at each other, two Negroes quite aware that what was taking place would have been almost impossible on the other side of the Atlantic. Pictures of the dancing couple wound up in the French press, sparking rumors of a Robinson-Carol romance—fragile rumors, it turned out, as Robinson’s wife Edna Mae had accompanied him to Paris.

  Robinson had grown fond of doing his impromptu nightclub-like performances. (Could he have been rehearsing for bigger things he had in mind?) There were also rounds of golf—he had brought his monogrammed golf bag from America—and dinner engagements and all-night card parties. He would regale a group of American businessmen in Paris with stories about his life—“about Detroit and Georgia and Harlem.” Gainford kept reminding his fighter he had come to Europe to fight.

  Under the eyes of the first lady, Madame Auriol, along with his entourage and with six thousand others looking on, Robinson entered the ring at the Palace of Sports on May 21 for his bout with Kid Marcel, the reigning French middleweight champion. In the fifth, a Robinson fusillade widened the eyes of Marcel’s cornermen; they feared for their fighter’s well-being. Shortly after that the ref determined the Kid had been punished enough and called the bout. Robinson donated his earnings to the French Cancer Fund. Other foreign fighters might have been booed after besting a native fighter on his home turf, but not Robinson. It doubtless had something to with the fact he so charmed the French—they were “at his feet,” as Parks would remember—in the days leading up to the Kid Marcel match.

  On May 26, Robinson was in Zurich for a bout with Jean Wanes, a Frenchman. Wanes had announced before the contest he might well suffer a defeat, but he aimed to go the distance in the ten-rounder. The Frenchman hardly inspired confidence as he tumbled to the canvas in the third round from a Robinson blow. It happened again two rounds later, but he gamely popped up. In the seventh round Wanes hit the canvas yet again—this time it was a vicious Robinson right—sending shivers of additional concern through his cornermen. But there appeared flashes of an odd little smile upon the Frenchman’s face, giving his countenance a rather sweet fearlessness. Wanes lay on the canvas in the ninth, taking a nine count. “But even this blow could not damage the Frenchman’s ardor,” as the AP would put it. Robinson was awarded a tenth-round decision and could only offer Wanes—still grinning—his compliments. Two weeks later, in Antwerp, Belgium, Robinson was pitted against Jan de Bruin. It seemed to be a scrappy battle, though anyone could see de Bruin was taking the majority of the blows. In the eighth round, de Bruin, obviously desperate to bring a stop to those Robinson blows, did something that had a touch of slapstick to it: He grabbed Robinson’s arm and lifted it over the champion’s head, signaling the winner before the ref could. Robinson had a perplexed look on his face; members of his entourage swiveled their necks like owls looking at one another. “You are too good for me,” de Bruin simply told Robinson. No one disagreed.

  On June 24 Robinson found himself in West Berlin, at the outdoor Waldbühne Stadium to battle Gerhard Hecht. Hecht was the country’s highest-ranked light heavyweight. There were an estimated thirty thousand in attendance and the air was warm as the watching Germans munched on pretzels and drank beer. Gainford and Robinson both noticed the large contingent of American soldiers in the audience—just the type of scene that made Robinson reflect momentarily upon his own military service, strange as it happened to have been. The German crowd was excited; it had been more than two decades since a world champion had appeared in a West Berlin ring. Toward the end of the first round, Hecht crumpled to the canvas after taking “a combination of smashing blows” to his head. A cascade of boos erupted: Hecht’s corner complained to the ref that Robinson had hit their fighter with a kidney punch—which was ill
egal under German rules. Hecht needed extra seconds between the first and second rounds to be attended to. Gainford and Robinson couldn’t understand the booing and the finger-pointing from Hecht’s corner. The bell rang for the second round. Robinson needed only ten seconds to put Hecht down again. This time Hecht’s cornermen leaped into the ring. “Foul! Foul! Foul!” they cried out, charging Robinson with another kidney punch. Anger now seeped from the grounds into the ring, Germans yelling in protest. “Just like Schmeling!” they howled, recalling Schmeling’s claim that he took some illegal punches in his second matchup with Joe Louis. Robinson stood at center ring, listening as the noise took on an ominous tone. Then came the nasty clamor of beer bottles flying through the air and shattering inside the ropes. Fans popped up from their seats, flinging their seat cushions toward the ring. Those seated at ringside were forced to scamper beneath their seats. Robinson realized this was cause for concern; Gainford and his corner motioned to him, Gainford flinging a protective arm around Robinson, and they all began to move from the ring. But on all sides, fans were angling toward them. Members of Robinson’s entourage were attacked; his wife Edna Mae suffered a nasty bruise on her leg. They knew they couldn’t navigate through the throng and dipped beneath the ring, which was elevated. They continued to hear the cacophony of the angry crowd, hissing in their German tongue. Without help, they couldn’t move. It finally arrived, after nearly five minutes and a spike in George Gainford’s blood pressure. Nearly two dozen police officers pulled the Robinson contingent toward safety. They were soon joined by a group of American soldiers, bolting into action from deep within the crowd. When Robinson and Gainford and the others had reached safety, it was quickly determined best to leave West Berlin as soon as possible. An hour after the melee, Robinson and his entourage were hustled aboard a U.S. military train and happily bid the city goodbye.

  Robinson now longed for a return to those gentle evenings in Paris. Instead, there was an engagement in Turin, Italy. Robinson and his traveling companions found the Turin surroundings—with the Italian Alps in the distance—quite lovely. They were also impressed with service at the Principi di Piemonte Hotel, with its high ceilings and richly textured interiors. Gainford browbeat the hotel staff with questions about food and lodging and who would get the final bill. He was assured the fight promoter, Signor Agnelli, would handle expenses. (Gainford could never shake the worries he’d had when traveling with the Salem Crescent boxing team, counting dollar bills and fretting about expenses.) But Agnelli—the gentleman promoting the Turin bout—happened to own the luxurious hotel where Robinson’s entourage was staying. This brought a smile to Gainford’s face.

  Nearly twenty-five thousand showed for the Robinson bout. They had a short stay: Cyrille Delannoit, Robinson’s opponent, held on for just three rounds before succumbing to a TKO.

  When Robinson returned to Paris, Gainford told him that negotiations for a final bout on the Continent were under way. Robinson relaxed in his light-filled hotel suite. When Gainford had completed the contract, it was announced Robinson would be going to London to take on Randy Turpin. Turpin was a brawler whom Robinson knew little about. The fight was announced for July 10. Robinson and his entourage packed up and headed across the Channel. Again, the pink Caddy was part of the luggage.

  He wasn’t in America that summer, yet in America Sugar Ray was everywhere: On June 25, 1951, he appeared on the cover of Henry Luce’s Time magazine. It was a potent tribute to his acclaim. The headline—“Sugar Ray Robinson: Rhythm in his feet and pleasure in his work”—seemed to acknowledge both his deftness as a hoofer and his skills in the ring. But more significantly, it cemented his presence in the cultural brew of America. The narrative on the pages is rather bloodless, too plain and stark for the figure described. Still, Sugar Ray had become only the third Negro—after Louis Armstrong and Joe Louis—to appear on Time’s cover. With his wavy hair, dark complexion, and thin mustache—offset by a red shirt buttoned to the neck, plaid suit jacket, and gentle smile—he has the insouciance of a jazzy bandleader. Behind his head on the cover sits a circular globe, and on it are a set of boxing gloves hanging from a piece of string. Each glove has two spindly legs attached—artwork signaling Robinson’s march across Europe and his fistic victories. In Sugar Ray’s Manhattan, young fighters made beelines to corner newsstands to purchase copies.

  He was mobbed in London. Fans flooded the entryway to the Savoy Hotel, where Robinson and his party had checked in. Right away Gainford began to worry about what the noise and throngs of people would do to Robinson’s concentration. Within hours of his arrival, there were overeager fans galloping up and down the hallways, trying to find his suite. Savoy staffers became alarmed. With a nudge from hotel management, which was in a tizzy over the pandemonium. Gainford announced he and Robinson would find someplace else.

  Gainford, a savvy negotiator when pressed for time, found a massive fifteenth-century stone building miles from the center of the city and, flashing cash, commandeered it. The location was top secret—that is, until it wasn’t. Within a day, there were teenyboppers screaming from the pavement. Both Robinson and photographer Gordon Parks—who had come to London with him—were taken aback at the crowds. People followed him everywhere; he required a police escort. Bobbies circled him as he moved about. Sugar Ray Robinson was a full-fledged international star. Robinson’s chauffeur became so agitated that he announced he was going to fling the windows of the castlelike structure open and toot a trumpet to appease the throngs down below. The driver, alas, decided against it.

  Robinson hit the London nightclubs, signing autographs, dancing. Tables would be pushed together when his entourage arrived to eat. Diners chuckled when they spotted Jimmy, the midget, sitting on Robinson’s lap. Laughter came from all directions. But Gordon Parks was a bit nonplussed by the nonstop gaiety and nonchalance: There was a fight on the horizon! Robinson may not have known much about Randy Turpin, but he did know he held the British middleweight crown. Robinson’s camp, when reminded of Turpin’s ranking, seemed to yawn and talk about Kid Marcel, the French middleweight champion whom Robinson had all but toyed with in the ring. Parks would remember Robinson in the days leading up to the Turpin bout: “There were no workouts. Sugar Ray played at golf through the days, and at card tables late into the nights.” The July weather was indeed beautiful; Robinson golfed at Datchet, a local course, and fans lined up to watch him. Ben Phlagar, an AP reporter, shadowed Robinson one day: “Robinson slept late, amused himself at the piano during the morning and took a long walk this afternoon.”

  When Robinson returned to his room deep into the night, music—“blues and boogie-woogie”—could be heard from behind the door. Other nights, there were the jumpy voices of card players pitched against the music.

  As for Randy Turpin, Robinson’s underdog opponent, he had secured a movie projector and as many copies of Robinson fights as he could get his hands on. Randy Turpin watched those fights in darkness. And he altered the speed of the projector because he preferred watching the action in slow motion, believing a slower Robinson—even on screen—just might expose vulnerabilities.

  Gamblers and bookies were hardly surprised when the odds for the fight, to take place at Earls Court Arena, were announced: Robinson was a 4–1 favorite.

  Gordon Parks predicted that Robinson would “take Turpin apart and return home to even more hero-worship.” A columnist for the Times of London conceded that the chance of a Turpin victory was just a “forlorn hope” but expressed the desire to see the British fighter at least acquit himself with dignity and pride.

  When Lionel Turpin—originally of British Guiana—returned home to London after World War I, where he had fought at the Battle of the Somme, he met Beatrice Whitehouse. He fell in love. The union might have seemed unremarkable—save the fact that Lionel was Negro and Beatrice a white woman. Lionel ignored the racial epithets that flew in their direction, but not Beatrice, who yelled back and shook her fingers at her neighbors. Lionel’s deat
h, the result of gas poisoning from the war, left his widow with five children, the youngest being Randy, born in 1928, just shortly after his father’s death. The family resided in Leamington Spa, about seventy miles outside London. They were the only “coloured” family in the small town.

  Beatrice Turpin’s father, Tom, had been a bare-knuckle fighter, and he passed along tips to Beatrice’s three boys. Randy was often snickered at by other children, called “Blackie” because of his heritage. He began fighting back, remembering what his grandfather had taught him. In time, the three brothers—Dick and Jackie, in addition to Randy—all learned the skills of boxing, which they honed by following carnivals around and setting up fighting booths for spectators to gawk into and toss coins. All joined the amateur boxing ranks. As a sixteen-year-old, Randy won a national amateur title. He volunteered for the Royal Navy near the end of World War II. He was a cook, but managed to do quite a bit of boxing. His service was marred, however, by a bizarre incident: Following a domestic spat with his girlfriend, Turpin swallowed a poisonous liquid. In order to save his life, doctors had to pump his stomach. Naval officials believed it was an attempted suicide, which, under British law, could put him at risk of a criminal inquiry. Turpin’s boxing prowess saved him and the incident was hushed up.

  Turpin—honey-skinned, handsome, and broad-shouldered—turned pro in 1946. His first bout was against Gordon Griffiths. Peter Wilson, a boxing writer for the London Daily Express, covered the match: “The way Turpin leapt on Griffiths, like a bronze tiger devouring a tethered kid, battering him half-way through the ropes until the referee intervened in the first round,” he wrote, “was enough to prove that a new middleweight menace had already arrived …” But all of the pro-boxing Turpin brothers were a menace: Dick had his sights on the British Empire championship, a prospect that put British boxing commissioners in a dilemma. The Empire championship was limited to white fighters only. Under mounting pressure, the organization rescinded the rule and Dick Turpin fought his way to the middleweight crown by defeating Vince Hawkins. It seemed a genuine nick in the colonial-era mindset, and England’s colored population celebrated wildly. On April 24, 1950, at Nottingham Hall, Dick Turpin lost his crown to Albert Finch, a onetime truck driver, in a fifteen-round contest. Misery didn’t last long in the Turpin family. Six months after Dick Turpin’s defeat, Randy stepped into the ring in London to face Finch. By the third round, Finch was bloodied; he could not decipher Randy Turpin’s up-and-down style, nor did he have any defense against the wicked blows. Randy Turpin was crowned British champion. He had now positioned himself to get the opportunity with Robinson.