Sweet Thunder Read online

  It is not just the boxing, of course, that has made so many fighters—from Joe Louis to Muhammad Ali to Tommy Hearns to Hilmer Kenty to Sugar Ray Leonard (the genesis of his nom de guerre obvious) to Oscar De La Hoya—believe Sugar Ray was the best ever. It was the aura and greatness he forged through his own will. And yet, the question of his greatness has to take in more than just the ring. Sugar Ray Robinson was the cool narrator of boxing’s history. He seemed to say, from the earliest: This is where the sport came from, and this is where I plan to take it. He pushed boxing in a new direction, giving it something it had never had—a ballast of music and style. Boxing ruined men because they never tamed the sport; he tamed it to fit his own emotions and resolve, and this is why artists and poets found in him more than they found in the average champion. He made them feel he understood the recesses from which their own art sprang. They sensed an originality, the celebration of discipline and genius. He was beyond fads and possessed a certain hauteur. Poseurs assaulted his pride and vulgarity angered him. The Speed Graphic camera tried to catch his quickness but he seemed faster than the flash: a dark ghost of the ring. He made calculations in the ring that took him beyond vengeance, and the citizenry realized it, which is why so many clamored to see him when his fights were first being broadcast on TV. He was like something ferocious that had been let out of an enclosure, and he made the action resemble a fast and dazzlingly tight Broadway musical. This was boxing, but it was something else: a cultural force being unleashed and witnessed. Before him, fighters who wished to entertain in the ring took on a clownish air; he was the boxer as entertainer, but relentlessly serious while entertaining. He studied the sport like an archaeologist, digging up secrets that only abetted his demonic gifts. No fighter ever knocked him out. Maxim had dropped him, of course, but it was in the heat and considered a TKO as opposed to an uncontested knockout. What he had was greatness; it is why he has become such a touchstone, a point of reference in the vaunted history of the sport. The final record stands at 173 wins, 19 losses, and 6 draws against a backdrop of a quarter century spent in the ring. It is easy and far too simple to keep making the pound-for-pound claim; the arc of his fighting career demands a deeper consideration. He lives because he lies beyond imitation. He is, as Stravinsky was to music, a wonder, a mystery, a piece of time.

  Two of Sugar Ray’s contemporaries, Rocky Graziano (Somebody Up There Likes Me) and Jake LaMotta (Raging Bull), were both subjects of Hollywood movies. With his epic life, continental style, championship belts, riveting comeback, supple intelligence, race-defying posture—not to mention the debt all fighters owe him because of his battles on behalf of income inequality with TV and radio revenues—it seems a missed opportunity that Robinson’s life has yet to be added to that medium. Upon the anniversary rerelease of Martin Scorsese’s Raging Bull, the film critic David Thomson observed that “to miss Sugar and fall on LaMotta suggests something very different on Scorsese’s mind, and something tricky to spell out.” Sugar Ray had less than five minutes in the LaMotta biopic.

  Just weeks after his death, officials at Salem Methodist Episcopal Church—where it had all begun for him with the Salem Crescent Athletic Club—announced plans for a gala tribute in honor of the prizefighter. And on a Sunday afternoon in June, they gathered in Harlem. There was Evelyn, his sole surviving sister. She looked beautiful in a black dress, pearls, white heels, white hat, white gloves: that Robinson style. There was former champion Floyd Patterson; attorney and future mayor of New York City David Dinkins. The low-pitched voices were broken by louder voices: The Bull. Madison Square Garden officials may have ignored Jake LaMotta, but not the ministers of Salem. There was Honi Coles, the tap dancer, and Ralph Cooper, the old impresario from Sugar Ray’s nightclub act. There were members of the Copasetics, a smooth dance ensemble. There were some still-lovely ladies who used to dance in the Harlem nightclubs of the thirties and forties. Five hundred people showed up. The organizers had expected more but were happy with the crowd.

  Inside the church, at the pulpit, there were memories of Walker Smith Jr., as he was when he first burst upon the scene—the scrawny kid from Detroit who had seemed so devoted and relentless. There were memories of the great fights at the Garden: LaMotta was asked to rise, and that still tough-looking man seemed softened by the reverential applause. “It’s about the things he stood for,” said Rev. Robert Royal, one of the event’s organizers, speaking of Robinson. “We have brought together today people who haven’t seen each other for years.” Bodies were gently swaying in seats. Heads rocked into amens. It was as if that pink Cadillac were still parked right outside. Rev. Thomas Grissom, a member of the Salem ministry, pointed out the pew where Sugar would sit on Sunday mornings. “He always had an entourage of no less than twelve,” he recalled. “They’d sit down and we’d say, ‘Well, we can have church now.’”

  Afterwards, Evelyn Robinson led the assembled group up Seventh Avenue. They were carrying a fifteen-foot-long banner with the words “Salem Crescent Athletic Club” printed on it. City officials had provided a police escort during the walk. Over at the site of his old nightclub, they unveiled a plaque:

  WALKER SMITH JR.

  Sugar Ray Robinson

  CHAMPION OF CHAMPIONS

  May 3, 1921–April 12, 1989

  A sepia-toned picture of the fighter appeared in the plaque’s center. The following weekend, there were salutes and toasts to Sugar Ray Robinson at the Showman’s Café, at the Casablanca Café, at 22 West Restaurant, at many of the bars and nightclubs up and down the streets of Harlem. He was yet again, as he had always dreamed, a part of the soliloquies sweeping around town as men and women discussed him: Swirling beneath the ring light of Madison Square Garden as a Golden Glover; taking the welterweight crown from Tommy Bell in that tough fifteen-rounder; cackling with Duke Ellington and Miles inside his nightclub; gliding into a eatery with Army buddy Joe Louis and forking into slices of sweet potato pie; sitting in the back of his top-down convertible during the parade after he won the first of those five middleweight crowns; cutting a dance step at the Savoy; catching the boat for Paris and returning with gifts for his barmaids and doormen; walking Lena to the front door of his club; sharing a low-pitched conversation with Langston Hughes out in front of the Hotel Theresa; turning in the winter light on the street corner, his trench coat wrapped just so, the black fedora in his hand; having a manicure at his barbershop and seeing the faces of children pressed against the window, watching him with their moon-wide eyes; climbing into the Cadillac with Chico the midget behind the wheel. And rolling away, waving to all the sweethearts, off to take on the very best while the world shuddered with anticipation. Who is to say that, in the harsh and terrifying world he sprang from, it wasn’t the beautiful end of a beautiful story?

  acknowledgments

  MY FIRST EXPERIENCE with professional boxing came as a cub reporter in Columbus, Ohio, in the late 1970s. I worked for a weekly publication, sent over to the fairgrounds coliseum to cover bouts. (Sugar Ray Robinson fought in Columbus once—in 1950, before I was born—and he dispatched someone by the name of Cliff Beckett in three rounds.) Even as a young reporter, I was transfixed by the sport, its silhouetted figures—our coliseum was so huge it doubled as a rodeo site—beneath the glow of light and coming right into my widening gaze. Even then, traveling around with some of those fighters, among them Bill Douglas, whose son Buster would grow up to become heavyweight champion of the world, I knew this: A fighter’s life was often as fascinating outside the ring as inside it. Bill, a fearsome middleweight, was never less than warm and generous toward me and my questions about the boxing business. I can’t help but think that something between my curiosity and this mysterious sport was lit back then.

  As to the middleweight who dominates this chronicle, the first individual I ever met who had known Sugar Ray, who, in fact, as a kid played bumper pool with him in his Los Angeles home, was Peter Gethers. Peter grew up to become an esteemed book editor at Knopf. Who knows if somet
hing had been lit for him back when he met the great prizefighter? I’m inclined to think so. Peter listened to my passion for Sugar Ray, read the proposal, and confided to me: “I’ve been waiting on someone to come to me wanting to write the Sugar Ray biography.” This book marks the third in a trilogy—Adam Clayton Powell Jr., Sammy Davis Jr., now Sugar Ray—of enigmatic American lives that have deeply fascinated me. Peter has given his gifts to the latter two, and I’m hugely fortunate.

  Every time Claudia Herr, the brilliant Knopf editor, laid her eyes and pencil upon this book, it got better. Her questions were shrewd and her insights bountiful. She obliged my deep curiosity about the cultural swirl around Sugar Ray and then offered suggestions on how to make it all—Lena’s voice, Miles’s music, Langston’s prose—work around the main figure. I simply could not have done better than the Gethers-Herr dynamic. Also at Knopf I thank Sonny Mehta, Kathy Zuckerman, Brady Emerson, Christina Malach, Abby Weintraub, Maggie Hinders, Victoria Pearson, and Holly Webber.

  My agent, Esther Newberg, grew up in Connecticut hearing stories of the great Willie Pep (boon buddy to Sugar Ray) from her father. This experience would come to pique her interest in Robinson himself. She understood the scope of this project and championed it every step of the way. She is fearlessly unique.

  A writer worries, wondering if friends care to hear just one more conversation about their biographical subject, then one more after that. I feel blessed. These friends never doubted: Sabrina Goodwin Monday, Steve Flannigan (who delved into his archives and sent fight tapes), Carol Tyler, Cindy Bitterman, Serena Williams, Professor Valerie Boyd (whose invite to the University of Georgia as Visiting Writer provided a welcome break), Dick Rhodes, Tom Mulvoy, Larry Young, Peggy King, Tina Moody, Dave Lieber, my nephew Tony Stigger, and the folks at Politics and Prose. I also thank Mary Jo Green, Warren Tyler, Marty Anderson, and Jerry Hammond for the roundtable discussions and four-star in-house dining.

  Larry James, Michael Coleman, and Jerry Saunders have my gratitude.

  Lynn Peterson—whom I first met in a bookstore some years back—took time to find the obscure boxing book and send it my way, not to mention the wonderful music of Miles. She is special.

  This book is dedicated to three longtime allies. I’ve known Phil Bennett for two decades now, beginning in Boston, when we were young reporters awash in newspapering, where we used to hang out at the Brattle Theatre (“Forget it Jake. It’s Chinatown”) watching movies, then at the Washington Post, where he served as managing editor before joining Duke University as professor of journalism and public policy. Peter Guralnick, fellow biographer (Elvis, Sam Cooke), has been a years-long model to me of discipline, focus, and graciousness. Listening to him discuss Sugar Ray delighted and inspired me. Greg Moore used to be an amateur boxer; now he’s editor of the Denver Post. It was in Colorado at his gorgeous hacienda beside the mountains where I first started talking to him about Sugar Ray. His enthusiasm was infectious. Later he sent me some Sugar Ray files he had collected over the years that proved extremely helpful.

  It was Deb Heard, formerly of the Washington Post, who extended a leave of absence to complete this book, and I thank her. Len Downie, former editor of the Post and now a teacher and novelist, brought me to the newspaper. The preternaturally cool Steve Reiss, my story editor at the Post, has taught me things about the craft of writing I shall not forget. Also at the Post I would like to thank the inspiring Kevin Merida, as well as publisher Katharine Weymouth, Don Graham, Anton Ramkissoon, Lisa Frazier Page, Aimee Sanders, Frank Rose, Michael Cotterman, Julia Ewan, Jill Grisco, Cheryl Rucker, and Shirley Carswell. The graciousness of each has been unforgettable.

  source notes

  A BIOGRAPHY is a journey along a particular road. The navigation of this four-year odyssey was made so much more pleasant by individuals who took a special interest in the destination. Steve Lott of Bigfights sent every video of Sugar Ray Robinson in the ring that I requested. Then he sent tapes of other fighters from Robinson’s era that he insisted I study. Jeff Brophy, of the Boxing Hall of Fame in Canastota, New York, never failed to answer a question, or provide materials. Brett Snyder found copies of vintage magazines. Bruce Martin and Betty Culpepper of the Library of Congress gave me office space in that wondrous institution to do research. I shall not forget an evening program—“The Great Punch-Out”—sponsored by the library, which took place, fortuitously, during my study there. I sat in a darkened theatre and watched Sugar Ray battle Jake LaMotta, then Randy Turpin. Even the moody black-and-white newsreel footage advertising the fights was rewarding to see. I like to think I experienced the same sensation watching those fights as fans felt in the days when they rushed to a theatre—on Broadway or in Kansas City—in the aftermath of a Robinson fight and watched it replayed on the big screen.

  I am exceedingly grateful to those who welcomed me into their homes to talk about not only Sugar Ray but in many instances, Lena, Langston, and Miles as well. They are listed below, but five individuals truly stand out: Rev. Robert Royal and Jimmy Booker shared their memories of Sugar Ray’s nightclub, as well as his last years in Harlem. Congressman Charlie Rangel helped me understand the Sugar Ray–Joe Louis dynamic. Emile Milne, a Rangel aide, was also helpful with Harlem sources. And Mel Dick, who knew Robinson for five decades—who seemed to sense the sensation that swept through me as I fingered the Robinson championship belt in his possession—sat with me for hours in Miami answering my endless questions. Others who were interviewed include: Hilmer Kenty, Jack Winchester, Carmen Basilio, David Dinkins, Billie Allen, Edward Peeks, Nat Hentoff, Dave Anderson, Jake LaMotta, Edward Allen, Richard Berardinelli (Joey Maxim’s brother), Louis Stokes, Arthur Barnes, Jimmy Bivens, Jess Rand, Arthur Mercante, Ken Bristow, Lou Duva, Artie Levine, Angelo Dundee, Gene Fullmer, Karen Fullmer, Budd Schulberg, Albert Murray, Evelyn Cunningham, Jimmy Breslin, Marty Plax, and Larry L. King.

  (Note: All citations of win-loss records and dates of professional bouts are taken from The Boxing Register [4th edition], long considered the bible of fight data.)

  selected bibliography

  Anderson, Jervis. This Was Harlem: A Cultural Portrait, 1900–1950. New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 1983.

  Armstrong, Henry. Gloves, Glory and God: An Autobiography. Westwood, N.J.: Fleming H. Revell Company, 1956.

  Baker, Jean-Claude, and Chris Chase. Josephine: The Hungry Heart. New York: Cooper Square Press, 2001.

  Beevor, Antony, and Artemis Cooper. Paris After the Liberation: 1944–1949. New York: Penguin Books, 2004.

  Bernard, Emily, ed. Remember Me to Harlem: The Letters of Langston Hughes and Carl Van Vechten, 1925–1964. New York: Knopf, 2001.

  Birtley, Jack. The Tragedy of Randolph Turpin. London: New English Library, 1976.

  Blumenthal, Ralph. Stork Club: America’s Most Famous Nightspot and the Lost World of Café Society. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 2000.

  Boyle, Kevin. Arc of Justice: A Saga of Race, Civil Rights and Murder in the Jazz Age. New York: Henry Holt, 2004.

  Branch, Taylor. Parting the Waters: America in the King Years: 1954–63. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1988.

  Buckley, Lumet Gail. The Hornes: An American Family. New York: Knopf, 1986.

  Cavanaugh, Jack. Tunney: Boxing’s Brainiest Champ and His Upset of the Great Jack Dempsey. New York: Random House, 2006.

  Cook, Richard. It’s About that Time: Miles Davis On and Off Record. New York: Oxford University Press, 2007.

  Cramer, Ben Richard. Joe DiMaggio: The Hero’s Life. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2000.

  Crouch, Stanley. Considering Genius: Writings On Jazz. New York: Basic Civitas Books, 2006.

  Davis, Miles, with Quincy Troupe. Miles: The Autobiography. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1989.

  Erenberg, Lewis. Louis vs. Schmeling: The Greatest Fight of Our Generation. New York: Oxford University Press, 2006.

  Evans, Harold. The American Century. New York: Knopf, 2000.

  Farrell, Bill. Cradle of Champions: 60 Years of Ne
w York Daily News Golden Gloves. Champaign, Ill.: Sports Publishing L.L.C., 2006.

  Friedrich, Otto. City of Nets: A Portrait of Hollywood in the 1940’s. New York: Harper & Row, 1986.

  Fried, Ronald K. Corner Men: Great Boxing Trainers. New York: Four Walls Eight Windows, 1991.

  Gabler, Neal. Winchell: Gossip, Power and the Culture of Celebrity. New York: Knopf, 1994.

  Gingrich, Arnold. Nothing but People: The Early Years at Esquire. New York: Crown, 1971.

  Goodwin, Doris Kearns. No Ordinary Time: Franklin & Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1994.

  Hajdu, David. Lush Life: A Biography of Billy Strayhorn. New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 1996.

  Halberstam, David. The Fifties. New York: Fawcett Columbine, 1993.

  ______. What a Time It Was: The Best of W. C. Heinz on Sports. San Francisco: Da Capo, 2001.

  Hoff, Charles. The Fights. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1996.

  Karnow, Stanley. Paris in the Fifties. New York: Times Books, 1997.

  Kitt, Eartha. Thursday’s Child. New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1956.

  LaGumina, Salvatore. WOP: A Documentary History of Anti-Italian Discrimination in the United States. San Francisco: Straight Arrow Books, 1973.

  LaMotta, Jake. Raging Bull: My Story. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Da Capo, 1970.

  LaMotta, Vikki, and Thomas Hauser. Knockout: The Sexy, Violent, Extraordinary Life of Vikki LaMotta. Toronto: Sports Media Publishing, 2006.