Thoughts on Big George

I came to boxing in the late '80s and early '90s. At that point George Foreman was the commentator for HBO Boxing, along with Jim Lampley and Larry Merchant. I was aware that George Foreman was a former heavyweight champion and also that he was staging a professional boxing comeback after a long absence. He was fighting often, but usually against no-hopers. His comeback was often dismissed as a novelty act or a vanity project.  

My first real exposure to Foreman was him wearing a tuxedo, calling fights and always having an ear-to-ear grin on his face. Foreman and Merchant had an entertaining double act in those days. Practically every broadcast Merchant would react incredulously toward some statement that Foreman would make. While we all were watching the fights in the ring, the sparring between the broadcasters provided extra entertainment. Maybe Merchant regarded much of what Foreman said as gibberish, believing that Big George was just another member of the jockocracy who didn't have anything to offer other than his own biography. Maybe he believed that Foreman was underprepared for the action in the ring. Or maybe Merchant was just predisposed toward argument. It was Foreman's wide-eyed optimism vs. Merchant's inherent cynicism. It made for great television. 

And many of Foreman's comments were dismissible. It often seemed as if he was watching a different fight than the rest of us. But every now and then he would offer a truly fascinating pearl of wisdom. 

Image courtesy of Top Rank

What I specifically learned from Foreman was "lean" and "mean." In a fight between big men, or a brutal bout that extended into the late rounds, if Foreman ever saw a fighter leaning on the other, he almost always would note how taxing that leaning was on the other fighter, how it could deplete the opponent. Foreman had been a master at using his physicality in the ring and I'm sure that he understood both sides of the "lean." It was a tactic that was often missed by other ring commentators; they dismissed it as clinching or getting a break, but George saw it differently. It was another way for a fighter to win, one that was often missed in the ensuing fight report the next day. Ultimately, it was a vital piece of information about how fights can be actually won or lost. 

I can still hear Foreman's voice in my head when a fighter is underperforming or unwilling to mix it up. "He has to get mean," Foreman would say. To Foreman, much about boxing was a temperament issue. It's not that he wasn't interested in X's and O's, but he understood that the intangibles, specifically a fighter needing to do whatever it took to win, was paramount at the upper reaches of the sport. Spite was needed. It was the hurt business after all.

He loved to look at a fighter's eyes and interject whether he thought that the boxer had what it took on a psychological level to win. Was the will to win present? Was the moment too big for the fighter? He was always keyed in on a fighter's body language and temperament, and left the describing of the fight action to others. 

***

In the usual descriptions of George Foreman's stunning knockout win over Michael Moorer, where he became heavyweight champion for a second time, 20 years after his initial reign, Foreman's age was the main focus. Heavyweights weren't supposed to be world champions in their mid-40s. And in truth, that was quite a story!

But to me, the overall unlikeliness of that event, the absurdity of it, had to do with the final combination of the fight. Foreman flashed a jab and then threw what looked like an arm punch with his right hand. And then Moorer splattered on the canvas. It looked like a nothing punch. It wasn't an epic sequence that led to the victory; no, it was a basic combination, and one that looked like it had very little mustard on it. 

However, that final sequence demonstrated once again that Foreman had unusual power. He didn't have great hand speed or torque with his punches; he just had sledgehammers in his hands. Throughout his career, wins or losses, Foreman's power played differently. He had unusual results: blasting out the destructive force of Joe Frazier like it was taking a little kid's lunch money; nuking Ken Norton; and forcing the great Muhammad Ali, the man who flew like a butterfly, to languish on the ropes out of desperation. 

***

To me, the first sign that Foreman's comeback was a serious proposition was his fight against Holyfield in 1991. Holyfield had just beaten Buster Douglas to become the heavyweight king and the Foreman fight was viewed as a way to make a big money fight with little risk. Few gave Foreman a serious chance in the fight.

However, Foreman blew up that narrative quickly and the first two-thirds of that fight was one of the best heavyweight wars of the 1990's. Holyfield had faced many punchers in his time at cruiserweight and heavyweight, yet he seemed, like others before him, unprepared for Foreman's level of power. Here was a supreme athlete with all of the tools, yet he had to spend significant portions of the fight in recuperation or even survival mode. Foreman didn't have Holyfield's speed, legs, coordination, or conditioning, but he blasted Holyfield in the pocket at numerous times throughout the fight. 

Holyfield would eventually win the bout. He essentially outhustled Foreman and had much more to give in the final third of the fight. But it was more than just an uncomfortable night at the office for him. That night reminded the boxing world that Foreman was still a threat and demonstrated that Holyfield had real vulnerabilities when trading. Holyfield would have another rough fight next against hard-hitting journeyman Bert Cooper and would go on to lose in 1992 against Riddick Bowe. After Foreman, the inevitability of Evander Holyfield was now more uncertain. 

***

Foreman's first fight against Joe Frazier was just as absurd or unbelievable as the Moorer bout. Frazier was the baddest man in boxing, the guy who decisively beat Ali. And yet against Foreman, Frazier could barely stay on his feet. Time after time, Foreman would pop Frazier with a big right hand as Smokin' Joe would try to close the distance. And Frazier reacted like he was on roller skates. Quickly his legs were gone. Frazier kept getting up and Foreman kept knocking him down. Six times in two rounds. It was as if Foreman was playing a different sport. 

***

I interviewed Cus D'Amato's biographer, Dr. Scott Weiss, many years ago. One fascinating nugget that emerged during the interview was that D'Amato was petrified about Foreman's style as it related to his young charge, Mike Tyson. Now keep in mind, Foreman was still in his first retirement during those years, but there were rumblings that he was about to return to the sport. 

D'Amato studied fight films with a zealotry that few possessed. He knew the strengths and weakness of every fighter, of every style. And as much as he loved the bob-and-weave for Tyson, he understood that there was a Kryptonite to the style, a heavy puncher who could come underneath with either hand as Tyson was trying to get in close. Foreman was so skilled in the pocket, so devastating with short punches from either hand, that D'Amato advised his team to avoid Foreman if at all possible. For as much as D'Amato was about the art of overcoming fear, even by unconventional means like hypnosis, he was still spooked by a retired Foreman. 

***

The Rumble in the Jungle occurred before I was born. And when I initially watched the fight, I had already known the outcome. But even with that knowledge, it was still a stunning result. Foreman spent round after round wailing away at Ali, who was stuck on the ropes. And these were not the short, thudding punches that I mentioned earlier. This was Foreman unloading with everything he possessed, physically and psychologically. He was determined to end Ali that night. But if we're being honest, there was also an element of fear in Foreman's performance, like if he stopped or took a rest, that bad things were going to happen. 

The Rope-a-Dope is perhaps the most famous strategic gambit in the history of professional boxing. Perhaps it could only be achieved on that scale once. No one could conceive of a fighter taking that much punishment from Foreman and simply trying to outlast him. What fighter would even do that to himself? This was Ali junking a game plan and deciding to go mano-a-mano, not with technique or power, but with sheer will. Ali figured out early that he could not win a regular fight against Foreman. He was outgunned. But he thought that he was mentally stronger, and on that night he was. 

***

The Foreman fight against Jimmy Young in 1977 was the one that made him go into retirement for the first time. And it's a tough watch. Foreman isn't even 30 yet in the fight, but he looked so listless during large portions of the match, like he had completely run out of ideas. 

Young came into the fight with an unimpressive record (20-5-2) but don't let that fool you. Many thought that Young had beaten Ali the prior year. He had also authored a convincing win over Ron Lyle, whereas Foreman had previously gone life-and-death with Lyle. 

Young was a slippery defensive fighter from Philadelphia and if I said earlier that Foreman looked like he was playing a different sport than others, so was Young. Young was a non-puncher, but more than that, he was unconcerned with power. He was an angles fighter who would often stick his body or head between the ropes to get an unconventional line of attack on an opponent. He could glide around the ring, but he was also incredibly awkward. He was an expert at using his forearms and elbows to maneuver an opponent into a hitting position or to escape damage. Perhaps the closest the heavyweight division has seen to Young in the last 40 years has been Chris Byrd, but Byrd was far more conventional. 

Foreman against Young was an example of a guy trying to kill a bee with an ax. The axman would swing at air and then the bee would come back around to sting the big, bad aggressor. The process continued on an inescapable loop. Foreman could not handle that type of fight. He looked so far removed from the killer of the '70s. He seemed dispirited in the ring. 

But his spirit would soon return. He maintains that immediately after the Young fight was where Jesus called to him. He would leave the sport, become a preacher. His life forever changed.   

***

For a final absurd Foreman bout, check out the five-round slugfest against Ron Lyle from 1976, which was one of the decade's best fights. This was Foreman's first fight after Ali and it was clear to me that he wasn't quite all the way back to his best. Lyle was a tough dude, a good puncher and someone who was rough on the inside, and Foreman's legs just didn't look right to me. 

The two went to war and it's still amazing to see how badly hurt Foreman is in the fight and yet somehow pulls off an almost miraculous reversal of fortune to get the knockout win. Throughout all of Foreman's career, I believe that he had never been as busted up as he was here, even against Ali. 

And if one of Foreman's weaknesses during the first phase of his career was a questionable psychological will, here is the counter to that narrative. Foreman was completely battered in the fight, sprawling on the canvas, a second or two from the fight being stopped. But he finds a way. He summons the courage. I have no idea how he pulled out that win. In a career full of remarkable feats, his victory over Lyle was his most impressive to me. Not because it was a dominant showing or a clean victory, but it was an example of Foreman being more than a bully or a gifted puncher. No, here he stared at the abyss, but he wasn't going to let it take him that day. He would prevail. 

***

Throughout Foreman's second career as an active fighter and in his later years, he was one of the best interviews in the sport. Humble almost to a fault, he was exceedingly gracious regarding those whom he had shared the ring with, even the fighters who had beaten him. He hilariously referred to himself as the "Dope" when recounting the Rumble in the Jungle. 

Foreman wasn't burdened by the negative aspects of pride. He seemed comfortable with his life. He knew that he had made a mark and didn't feel the need to remind others of his accomplishments. That he believed life was a blessing, and that he had become a blessed man, was evident in his words and deeds. 

Most refreshingly, Foreman, unlike many past greats, always had time for a kind word for the top fighters who came after him. He often would praise fighters like Manny Pacquiao or Tyson Fury. He didn't believe that the best of boxing ended with his retirement and those of his contemporaries. He understood that the sport evolved, that athletes changed, and that greatness could be defined in any era. 

His passing on Friday marked the end of a sunnier time of boxing for many. When Foreman was king, the world cared about boxing in a much more profound way than it does today. I'm sure that Foreman's death to many represented even more than the passing of a man, but with it, another reminder of a past that most likely will never return.

But Foreman's later years were not marked by bitterness toward the sport. He understood that greatness was still within it. He knew that boxing gave him a life and a platform to do well and to do good. It's a sport that provides opportunities for the downtrodden, the deadenders, like Foreman himself claimed that he once was. It can be a sport of uplift, of grace and of transformation. Those characteristics remain. There is still good in boxing. Foreman saw that. And perhaps we should remind ourselves of that too. For all of boxing's myriad problems, which we all can recite without notes or preparation, the good that it contains should never be forgotten. That's what Big George understood.  

Adam Abramowitz is the founder and head writer of saturdaynightboxing.com. 

He's a contributing writer for Ring Magazine, a member of the Ring Magazine Ratings Panel, the Transnational Boxing Rankings Board, and the Boxing Writers Association of America.

Email: saturdaynightboxing@hotmail.com

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Opinions and Observations: Benavidez, Matias

In spectacular performances on Saturday, David Benavidez and Subriel Matias again demonstrated that they are two of boxing’s elite punchers. Both fighters won by corner stoppage, with undefeated opponents Demetrius Andrade and Shohjahon Ergashev failing to answer the bell for the seventh and sixth rounds, respectively. 

 

As we all know, punching power is a vital attribute for boxers. It can be a key separator between fighters. It may be the reason why a fighter can prosper at the highest level despite significant weaknesses. And certainly, knockouts directly lead to wins. But power can also be a more elastic concept; it's far more than the biggest single punch. Neither Benavidez nor Matias is a one-shot knockout artist, yet they are clearly among the most gifted punchers in the sport. And even within that group in which Benavidez and Matias belong, the two are vastly different from each other in how they stop opponents; there are subsets within subsets of power punchers. 

Benavidez (right) landing a right hand on Andrade
Photo courtesy of Amanda Westcott/Showtime

Power can come from all different places. It could be how a punch is thrown with perfect rotational torque. Maybe it's a genetic disposition where a given fighter is blessed with superior physical strength for his weight class. Perhaps it's the combination of blinding hand speed with expert punch placement – hitting opponents with punches they don't see.

 

The source of Matias' power wouldn't fit in any of those categories. He throws hooks to the head from maybe six to eight inches away from an opponent. For most fighters, they would not have enough distance to create maximum power from that close, and yet Matias' short shots detonate on an opponent. Matias (a current champion at 140 lbs.) has to have crazy forearm and wrist strength; he's not a big swinger like a Benavidez. And yet his short punches cause immense damage. Perhaps the only other elite-level active fighter who has such prodigious power from that close is Artur Beterbiev. 

 

These are unusual punchers and opponents aren't used to them. For so many fighters, getting in close to an opponent takes the sting off their punches, especially head shots. But it seems to be physically impossible to smother Matias. He gets his punches off so quickly and at such short range. Throw in that these punches can be fight-changers, and one can see how treacherous facing him can be. His punches look so innocuous, but they are devastating. 

 

Benavidez, an undefeated former two-time champion at super middleweight (he lost his belts both times due to out-of-the ring issues), is also an atypical puncher in that he can take out opponents from every range. Although his bread-and-butter is beating people up with body shots on the inside, he is a major threat from distance. In the fourth round against Andrade, he connected with an overhand right from the outside that changed the fight for good. Andrade even had a glove up and partially blocked the shot, but the punch was so concussive that he still fell to the canvas a moment later.

 

In addition, Benavidez has one of the true sledgehammer jabs in the sport. Although he possesses towering dimensions in the super middleweight division at 6'2", Benavidez somehow can jab to the body as effectively as he does to an opponent's head. While Benavidez isn't considered an elite athlete by many (which is off base...and I'll get to that in a minute), he can give up his height without putting himself at a major risk to be countered. These are athletic maneuvers that appear to be easier than they actually are.

 

Benavidez has been accused of being a weight bully, of being clunky, of lacking athletic polish. People will criticize his footwork (he occasionally will cross his feet!) and his straight-line movements. Yet Benavidez has now beaten two of the better movers in the sport (Caleb Plant and Andrade), and he made sure that neither fight was in doubt. So, if you believe that Benavidez isn't a serious athlete, what would explain his success against top opponents who know how to use their legs? 

 

Ultimately, Benavidez has a few secrets that have been missed by many observers of the sport. First, Benavidez is an unusual pressure fighter. Sure, he's coming forward, but he often initiates from the outside. And he's not just throwing from the outside; he's hurting opponents from that range. Thus, the movers aren't prepared for how good he is from distance and how much ground his punches can cover. They are worried about the short punches, but it's his longer ones that often hurt them. 

 

He also has the element of surprise. With a full arsenal of punches, Benavidez has a tool for almost every circumstance. How about an overhand right? How about a long, sweeping left hook? How about a lead right hook? These are often untraditional shots that opponents haven't prepared for. 

 

Two additional elements of his game further explain his success. One, he has an unwavering commitment to the body. The Plant fight was a sublime example of how to make a mover not move so much. Benavidez may have lost some early rounds, but he was doing damage to the body even if he was mathematically down in the fight.

 

Furthermore, his defense is far better than given credit for. Yes, you can hit him and even win rounds, but he's almost always defensively responsible. And more to the point, he doesn't mind taking a punch or two to land his. So, in aggregate, we have an unusual pressure fighter who has power from all ranges with pretty good defense and an understanding of how to break down even the most mobile of opponents. This sounds like a pretty good fighter, doesn't it? I'd say that he's on the short list of the best in the sport. And as Al Bernstein stated on the Showtime broadcast after the fight, "You either have to box perfectly against Benavidez for 12 rounds or really hurt him." So far no one has been able to do either. 

Matias (left) throws a short left hook
Photo courtesy of Ryan Hafey/PBC

Now Matias is a little different in terms of his approach in the ring. Like Benavidez, he will give up some early rounds until he gets going, but he's not necessarily doing anything in the interim until he starts to come forward. He got ragdolled by Jeremias Ponce in the first two rounds of their fight earlier this year and Ergashev landed some thunderous left hands in the first against him on Saturday. 

As devastating as Matias is in the ring, there is a pathway to beating him (and he has lost before, to Petros Ananyan, although he did avenge that defeat in impressive fashion). Matias is susceptible to a long-range puncher. But it will take a fighter to have the discipline to keep firing, while not punching himself out. That opponent will also have to be able to move without over-moving. It will require a fighter to thread a very fine needle against Matias to beat him, or perhaps someone who could bomb him out in the first round. 

 

Although Matias doesn't offer much at long range, he can get inside pretty well. Like the best pressure fighters, he knows how to block or parry a punch while still coming forward.

 

Matias will also square up a lot on the inside and despite this being a "no-no" from many trainers, I think it's a critical aspect of his success. So often in boxing what is supposed to be "wrong" for many fighters winds up being right for another. Very few trainers would advise their fighters to square up, because that gives an opponent much more of a target to hit. But you know which trainer preached squaring up at close range? Cus D'Amato, the man who molded Mike Tyson. From D'Amato's biography, Cus believed that squaring up at close range gave his fighter the opportunity to inflict maximum damage. At that moment, Tyson could throw power shots with either hand and an opponent would not have the ability to anticipate the selection or sequencing of punches. This position leads to breaking down an opponent's defensive construct. Where does he place his hands? Where will the shots be coming from? 

 

Matias' success has reminded me of D'Amato's beliefs. Right in front of an opponent, Matias will unspool wicked hooks and uppercuts with either hand. There's no longer a lead hand or a back hand; it's now two hands that can cause maximum damage. Even a decorated amateur and well-schooled fighter like Ergashev fell apart under that type of duress. He couldn't anticipate Matias at that position. His defensive construct suddenly lost its effectiveness. He had no answers.  

 

Benavidez at 28-0 and 24 KOs and Matias at 20-1 with 20 KOs will never be mistaken for Deontay Wilder or Julian Jackson. They are not one-punch knockout specialists who will be talked about reverently for generations. However, they are two of the best punchers in the sport and possess unique gifts that even top opponents can't acclimate to. How many fighters can beat you up from any range in the ring? Who can end your night with six-inch punches from either hand in no particular pattern?  

 

Both Benavidez and Matias are must-watch fighters. They provide unique and thrilling dimensions. They remind us that the orthodoxies of "right" and "wrong" can be fungible. Yes, Benavidez will walk forward and not always be in a boxing stance ready to throw. He'll cross his feet. He'll throw rear hooks from what many would consider irresponsible angles. And Matias will square up giving an opponent his whole body to hit. But he knows at that position, he's the far superior fighter with more power and tools. 

Benavidez and Matias break molds. They challenge conventional wisdom. But while all of that is interesting on a theoretical basis, what they really do is deliver hurt. They administer beatings. They thrill the fans. And that's what keeps the sport humming.   

Adam Abramowitz is the founder and head writer of saturdaynightboxing.com. 

He's a contributing writer for Ring Magazine, a member of Ring Magazine's Ring Ratings Panel and a Board Member for the Transnational Boxing Rankings Board. 

Email: saturdaynightboxing@hotmail.com

snboxing on twitter. SN Boxing on Facebook. 

Q&A: Dr. Scott Weiss on Cus D'Amato Part II

Saturday Night Boxing recently spoke with Dr. Scott Weiss, the co-author of the book ”Confusing the Enemy: The Cus D'Amato Story" (Acanthus Publishing, 2013). Weiss, a physical therapist and athletic trainer for the United States Olympic Team, has written (along with Paige Stover) the most comprehensive volume to date on one of boxing's most fascinating and enigmatic trainers. Using his experience as a martial artist and former amateur boxer, Weiss delves into the technical, psychological and personal characteristics that helped D'Amato, with his peek-a-boo ring style, shape champions such as Mike Tyson, Floyd Patterson and Jose Torres. 

Click Here to Read Part I of the Interview. 

Part II of the Q&A covers the rise of Mike Tyson, Teddy Atlas, Jose Torres and Cus D'Amato's legacy in the sport.

Interview by Adam Abramowitz:

(This interview has been condensed.)

Jose Torres is probably the least known of the three main champions that Cus had but he was a wonderful fighter in his own right. What can you tell us about Torres and Cus D’Amato?
 

Cus got him so young. He fielded him from Puerto Rico. He sent him telegrams to try and get him to come out of Puerto Rico and visit. Actually, the original telegram was sent accidentally to the famous Puerto Rican baseball player, Jose Torres. Finally, the telegram gets to Jose and his father lets him go. They came to visit Cus and like I said earlier Cus was just very charismatic. He would win families over. He said I’ll take care of your boy.  He got him at just a young enough age that he didn’t have to peel that many layers back. He was able to really instill the seed or the nucleus and Jose was able to grow.

One thing about Cus was his relatively small size and stature and yet he was a very intimidating presence. How do you account for that?

I would say that when you really know something that well, you speak about it with a confidence, a direct focus and a positive regard. And for Cus, boxing was his whole life. It was his whole being. As I said before, it wasn’t his vocation; it was his life. When something is your life, you just speak it. The lexicon is just there. And I think he dominated or overpowered people with his spirit and knowledge of the science of boxing.

What would Cus say would be his perfect performance or moment in the ring? Was there one fight that gave him the most pleasure out of all his victories in the ring?

He commented a lot about certain fights of Floyd’s [Patterson] and Jose’s. The exact one fight is not coming to mind but what he would want is a fighter to be hit minimally and be able to within the first three rounds totally annihilate and dominate the other fighter without ever struggling.

If the psychology of what he taught you worked and your dominance and spirit is in check and you are really ready physically for the fight, you won’t need anything more than those things for the first three rounds, unless the other fighter’s will and strength is better than yours. Then Cus would say, “You’re going to be here all night, my friend.” After the third round, Cus realized that’s when things change.

There was a great era of trainers in the ‘60s and ‘70s. You had major figures such as Angelo Dundee and Eddie Futch. What were his relationships like with these trainers?

They did respect him, Adam. They respected Cus but he was always an outcast for some reason. He was always the weird guy on Fourteenth Street close to Pete’s Tavern who was just different. The gym was different. If a fighter got good at his place, they couldn’t become the best at his place. They would have to then go to Stillman’s. That’s why he would have to pass Floyd off to [Dan] Florio. He wasn’t allowed to hold his fighters’ hand the whole way. So that was a really big limitation.

How did Cus perceive some of the other trainers of the era?

He liked pieces of their styles. He liked the way that Charlie Goldman talked to his fighters. He liked the way Ray Arcel worked the corner, like the Florio brothers did…Al Gavin and Bob Jackson, he thought that they were some of the youngest, greatest guys out there, especially Al. He loved Al – the way he worked cuts and things like that. So, he got along with them but some of his colleagues and peers just thought of him as an outcast.

There was a fairly long gap between Jose Torres’ career and Cus’ reemergence with Mike Tyson. Cus would leave New York City and go to Catskill, New York. How would you characterize his time in Catskill? He did open a gym there but he wasn’t the active trainer he was earlier in terms of having big-time fighters. What was his life like in that era, in the early and mid ‘70s?

Things were changing a lot in those times. You know, people always ask me if Cus was getting run out of Manhattan. He wasn’t getting run out, but it was more like pushed out. He was an old man by then. He had no more cards in his hand. He didn’t have a champion, and that was really hard and frustrating. He started to look to settle down. Jimmy said, “Go find a wife. I’m thinking about doing the same thing.” They wanted to relax and throw things back so to speak.

Cus’ family lived in the Catskill area. He used to always go out there for vacations. And all of his bass fishing was out there. My parents used to go to the Concorde and the Raleigh and those places. It seemed like Cus and those guys opened those places up. They would have demonstrations there and boxing training camps there. That’s really what happened in those days.

Mike Tyson gets brought to Cus, who is immediately enamored with him. That part of the story is well known. One aspect that I think is interesting is Cus’ relationship with his acolytes – Teddy Atlas and Kevin Rooney. There was the famous story with Atlas pulling the gun on Tyson and Atlas getting dismissed. From Cus’ perspective, can you walk us through some of those events? How did Cus perceive that disruption? Why did he make some of the decisions that he made?

Just to put it briefly, why would I want to put cold water on hot coals? Cus is thinking Mike is my last hurrah. And if you were Cus – you have to think about it from Cus’ mindset – anybody that interferes and puts water on my hot coals that may be my final, homegrown heavyweight champion of the world, that I created from the get-go…my Sonny Liston was the way that Cus thought about it. Nothing was going to stop him from doing that. Teddy Atlas, no matter how good he was – and I do respect a lot of things about Teddy, I have his number in my cell phone – but he has just not come to grips with it yet. One day there will be a book or an interview where he decides to open up, but he’s not ready to open up and tell the truth about his angle and what he saw. Trust me, I gave him many opportunities.

Teddy didn’t like the way that Cus was favoring Mike. Several times, Cus would undermine Teddy in front of Mike and Teddy felt a loss of respect. By the way, the gun story is 100% true and Teddy definitely fired a shot.

Was there competition between Teddy and some of the other younger trainers at Cus’ gym?

No, Teddy was the man. 100%. He was the senior student if you will. If you understand the martial arts world, he always stood front and right. He was the senior student. Nobody got in the way of Teddy except for Cus. Once people started to see Mike screwing off, they started to lose respect for Teddy. But that also became a sketchy scene and Teddy wasn’t always there. Teddy started to really become enveloped in the community. His wife was from there. She owned a nice Italian restaurant out there and he started to get ingrained in the community. He and Cus went at it once they started to gripe about Mike. Cus did not want to stop anybody from throwing water on his hot coals.

Were there discussions at the time about keeping Mike’s amateur status longer?

No, not at all. The main gist by Bill Cayton and Jimmy [Jacobs] was to send a VHS tape out in little packets, and I have one of these packets. They sent these packets out to every sports agent across the country. And they did like a guerrilla-style marketing.

They didn’t even want to wait. The way they pushed Mike, you can’t even do it like that anymore. Maybe you could through the Internet but not the way that they did. They did a guerilla-style marketing effort with Mike and they did not want him to stay an amateur.

His style was not an amateur style. Mike was not good at points. Look at the Tillman fights. Tillman I and II were a mess. Even seeing Mike at Colorado Springs [home or the United States Olympic training grounds], watching Mike fight, he was just atrocious as an amateur. Mike was a professional [style] from the day he started. They wanted him to get out of the amateurs immediately. Period.

As Cus started to deteriorate as he got older, Kevin Rooney took more of a lead role with Mike. Can you talk more about Rooney and what his role was in helping to shape the fighter who Mike Tyson became?

Kevin was there before Teddy. I know it sounds simple but it’s true. Kevin was a professional. Teddy couldn’t be a professional, so that’s why he started training with Cus. He had scoliosis. I treat patients with scoliosis to this day. You don’t stop fighting because of that unless your Cobb angle is greater than a certain degree. I think it’s 30 degrees if I’m not mistaken. He did not have that.

Cus didn’t want Teddy getting hurt. That’s the honest truth. He didn’t want him being a professional. He didn’t want him getting beat up. Cus also wanted Teddy to be his disciple. Cus knew he didn’t have long to live and he wanted to make sure he would pass on his legacy. So he made Teddy a trainer. At that time, Rooney was still fighting.

And then when it switched, when he [Cus] didn’t like Teddy anymore, there was no better person to help Mike than the guy who was actually doing it, and that was Kevin. Not only did Mike respect Kevin for that, but Cus respected Kevin for that.

What were some of the last moments of Cus’ life like? He had a fighter on the brink of becoming the youngest heavyweight champion in the world. There was this tremendous momentum building. But Cus wasn’t one to dwell on his declining health. Could you walk us through the last 12-18 months of Cus’ life?

They were pretty sad in a lot of ways. He never drove. People were always driving Cus around and doing things for him. And at that time, it became apparent that his physical conditioning and his ability to do the things to keep on living were just a task for him. His sleeping was not consistent throughout the night. He always slept alone. He never slept with Camille [his wife] ever. He would be so loud in his room that he would wake Camille and some of the other fighters up with his snoring and post nasal drip. He was just really becoming physically bad.

Unfortunately, and I hate to say it, but he became an angry, old Italian man, cursing at things. If you didn’t butter your bread properly, he would get mad at you. But while you were sleeping, he would come to you at your bedside and say, I’m sorry. That’s the type of guy Cus was. He was going through a lot of emotional variability. He was very up and down. It was very labile with his emotions at the time. Jimmy was really taking care of him the most at the time.

He formulated the plan for Mike. He made sure that Jimmy and Bill knew exactly the path that he wanted. Cus knew how to create champions – from the press part to the physical part to the mental part – and he didn’t want anything to stand in his way when it came to his last shot, which was Mike.

How would Cus perceive his own legacy in the sport?

Well Cus would want to have something to say about his own legacy. He would want to direct his past, present and future. That’s the funny part. He would want to be cracking jokes and telling you the way it should have been.

Cus really wanted to be a fighter like his brother Gerry, but he couldn’t pass the ocular test. He used to say that if Harry Greb could fight with a glass eye, so could he. He never really got to do everything he wanted to do. He felt like he could have done more and be better. Yeah, Mike was a great kid, but [using the Cus voice] “He wasn’t exactly what I wanted. He accomplished the goals that we set forth, but he could have done more. He could have done better.”

Cus believed there could have been a lot more people like that…if he had like a master and a student, who would bow down to him on his knees and listen to everything that Cus said. Not only listen to what Cus said, but he’d have to live in a monastery. He would have to sweep the monastery. Make rice. Really learn all of the attributes and that’s what he really wanted.

There’s a theme of regret that runs through Cus, if that’s the right word for it.

He’ll never be happy. He’ll never be satisfied. He always could do it better. Cus wanted to do it himself, but he could never. He wanted to get out there and really try and do it himself but he was never able to fully express himself in his lifetime, and that frustrated him. He was lonely.

As he got older, were there other fighters of that era whom he respected? Was he still a student of modern boxing?

He loved Ali. He really loved Ali a lot. He gave a lot of props to Muhammad for his charisma, the way he commanded his personality in the press, the way he commanded himself in the ring. I try to allude to this in the book that he had a better relationship with Ali than Angelo [Dundee] did and he had a closer relationship with Ali than most people really understood. So that was a huge person that he loved.

I would also say the other people he looked up to at that time when he was kind of fading...he loved the Hilton brothers in Canada. I don’t know if you heard of them but they were really big at the time. He really appreciated their zest for the art of the boxing. He did appreciate Roberto Duran’s camp until the whole No Mas fight. He also liked Hearns and while he was scared of Big George [Foreman], he respected him. He almost worked him out at one point, when Cus was in the Catskills.

Again, at that time, Cus was really out of it. The vibe of that era was nobody was calling Cus and saying, “Hey, what did you think about that fight. Hey what did you think about this fighter coming up.” It was quiet. The phone wasn’t ringing. There was a guy who I spoke to who was in that era of Cus’ life. They would just sit in the backyard with a lounge chair talking about the past, but nobody was calling Cus. That was a hard time for him. He was more of a critic or a criticizer of boxing at that time than somebody who was saying I like certain fighters.

Cus was thought of as a critical personality by some.

He thought boxing was safer than football. He would always say, “If people got hit as much as they thought a boxer did, then nobody would box.” The art and science of boxing is not to get hit. And he would try and get you into a verbal headlock and try to convince you of anything – like the reason why people stutter and get dementia has nothing to do with boxing.

Cus had his band of devotees and then a lot of critics. Were there any bridges that he burned that he regretted?

Floyd [Patterson] was the biggest one. Floyd was his big regret. Meaning, underneath his breath, while he was getting ready to pass away, he was still mumbling Floyd, I love Floyd. Period. Forget about Mike. Forget about Jose. Floyd was his boy. Floyd was his heyday. That’s when he had his vitality. He was able to train Floyd. I think Floyd was really his big regret of any connection he had with anyone.

His brothers also. Rocco was his older brother. He always had some issues with Rocco and I guess it was a control thing with Rocco being the only brother born in Italy. He always had battles with him in a way, as well as Tony, who always owed him money. And they always fought over that, even if it was for 10 bucks. I guess 10 bucks those days was more money but...he fought with his family a lot. There were a lot of heated fights.

Putting your speculation hat on for a second, in today’s boxing, who do you think are some people in the sport – trainers or fighters – that Cus would really respect?

There’s a group that tries to mimic Cus’ style. There’s a UFC fighter Dominic Cruz who’s part of a camp that tries do something that Cus did with numbering, but instead of numbering punches, they number punches, movements and kicks. So I think he would really appreciate their coaching.  That’s one group.

You know Cus didn’t like the people who were on top. He would really get upset looking, I would say, at a guy like Floyd Mayweather, making more money than any athlete in the world, just because of his style. He would say that that man really doesn’t want to give it up to get. He [Mayweather] would stay his distance and control the fight and make it go the way he wants, and that’s fine, but Cus didn’t like that. He didn’t like people who didn’t want to get challenged, that were afraid to show their true colors. That wouldn’t show a true champion. That’s why some people dislike Floyd. So part of it is Cus wouldn’t like what is out there. But any fighter who put his life on the line and truly immersed himself in boxing, Cus would appreciate.

How about somebody like Pacquiao who fights in a very aggressive style?

He would love that. I think I said that before. When you are faced down like that…god bless nothing like that ever happened where I had to get taken out either from a martial arts bout or a boxing match face down. That’s a tumultuous experience. The psychology that one needs to get coached back from something like that is paramount. More important than the training is to be able to get in there with the confidence; it takes a lot. Cus would have liked to have been there. That’s his thing – the psychology of it, how to get you back. He would have taken advantage of all of his skills with Manny Pacquiao.

What should today’s boxing trainers learn from Cus?

It’s all about your fighter. It’s not about you. Cus used to say, “The fighter fights. Just do what your job is and do it well, whether you hold the spit bucket or you’re the cutman.” You should know your role in the entourage. You’re sitting shotgun. You’re not in the driver’s seat. So that’s the first thing. Like I work with Gabe Bracero right now. I’m sitting shotgun with him. If not, I’m sitting shot-back-left. You’re in the car. That’s important to respect and remember. You have a spot in the training camp. I would say that would be the most important thing, that you have a role.

I’m trying to square what you just said with how Cus would take his fighters, break them down and make them conform to his wishes. Is what you said similar to how Cus would train his fighters?

Let me give you an example – Buster Mathis. Buster was an overweight guy that came to him. They said, Cus, train this guy. He said we’re not even getting in the gym. He said I’m not doing any boxing with you. He threw on roller skates and just wanted to see this big guy on roller skates. He wanted to see how he moved. He wanted to see how he talked to people and how he got along in crowds. 

That’s what Cus was about – who you really are as a person and a personality, because that comes through when you fight.

It seems hard to explain but you didn’t throw a punch or a kick until you know how to clean the monastery and make the rice paddies. That’s what was Cus was about, breaking you down, or learning about you is really what it comes down to. That’s what he did.

Adam Abramowitz is the head writer and founder of saturdaynightboxing.com.

He is also a member of the Transnational Boxing Rankings Board.
Contact Adam at saturdaynightboxing@hotmail.com
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Q&A: Dr. Scott Weiss on Cus D'Amato, Part I.

Saturday Night Boxing recently spoke with Dr. Scott Weiss, the co-author of the book ”Confusing the Enemy: The Cus D'Amato Story" (Acanthus Publishing, 2013). Weiss, a physical therapist and athletic trainer for the United States Olympic Team, has written (along with Paige Stover) the most comprehensive volume to date on one of boxing's most fascinating and enigmatic trainers. Using his experience as a martial artist and former amateur boxer, Weiss delves into the technical, psychological and personal characteristics that helped D'Amato, with his peek-a-boo ring style, shape champions such as Mike Tyson, Floyd Patterson and Jose Torres.

With an extensive background as a researcher and an intense passion for his subject, Weiss successfully pieces together a robust understanding of an often intentionally oblique man. Leafing through archives and conducting scores of fresh interviews with those in the New York boxing scene and friends and family of D'Amato (who died in 1985), Weiss presents a florid picture of post-war New York City boxing, the men who controlled it and how one outcast figure found his own way to the top, often by controversial methods.  

 

Part I of the Q&A covers similarities between D'Amato and Bruce Lee, the mob's involvement with boxing in New York City, Floyd Patterson, the technical and psychological components of the peek-a-boo style and why D'Amato was scared of George Foreman.

 

Interview by Adam Abramowitz:

(This interview has been condensed.)

One of the things that I learned from your introduction was how Cus D’Amato was a seminal influence on your own martial arts training. Can you talk about his initial influence on you?

My first connection was when I heard about the young Mike Tyson coming up in the ranks. Being a boxer and a martial artist, almost going to the Olympics myself in 1988 [for tae kwon do], I knew about Mike Tyson from my training. And being a martial artist, I said to myself, who’s this guy? Who’s his master? So I would say in the early 80s, it was really Mike’s influence that made me track down Cus and find out who Cus was. That was the initiation.

The other influence you talked about was Bruce Lee. As you initially learned more about Mike Tyson and Cus D’Amato, what drew you to his style?

Similar to Bruce, it’s a lifestyle. It’s not just something you do on the side. I lived my life thinking all of those thoughts. I realized that Bruce and Cus did it as a lifestyle, not just as a vocation. That was the first thing that I realized about them that was similar to me.

From there, I realized that Cus and Bruce had a similar idea about how to totally be able to express yourself. For instance, when a fighter really gets hurt, the other boxer would square off on the fighter and start throwing bombs left and right. Cus said let’s try to get into the stance immediately, which is similar to a horse stance, so you can get the same power left and right if you know how to shift your weight correctly.

So it was like putting together the East and the West, and Cus didn’t even know that he was doing it. Bruce epitomized it and Cus was kind of dabbling with it in the West.

Once you moved away from actively competing in martial arts, what stuck with you about Cus? What were some of the facets about Cus’ teachings that drew you to pursue a more exploratory role about his life?

Cus’ style transcended boxing. His whole approach was adopting a lifestyle as I was alluding to before – that idea of adapting a lifestyle of nutrition, training, psychology, the right sleep. Everything that he was saying was so analogous to what I’m doing with the Olympians that I work with right now as a physical therapist. I’ll be at the training center in Colorado Springs while our athletes are at the Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia.

To be able to see how the best athletes train was really a goal of mine. Seeing how Cus trained and how the Olympians trained, there was such a crossover. But Cus was way before his time.

Some of the specifics [of the crossover] were: when you screw up and when you fail at what you are trying to do, getting back into your rhythm is the hardest thing in life. The girl falls off the balance beam and how do you get back up and say, “Holy shit, I just did that. It’s the Olympics. How do I keep going?”  Cus developed the confidence in you. He knew hypnosis. He knew the right training, the right words to say.

What made your pursue Cus in particular as the subject of your first book?

Being a smaller fighter, I liked the style of the peek-a-boo. The rhythm and timing was more offbeat. It was what I did naturally – so those are kind of the stylistic qualities. Also, realizing that what you are doing is more than just fighting, it was expanding on that. I realized that Cus did that naturally, with his fighters always giving everything they can, and taught them to be a complete person first, and a great athlete – that was very important – not just a great boxer. That’s what I liked about Cus.

How did you hook up with your co-author, Paige Stover, for this project?

After being at the Olympics my second time, in Beijing, I talked to Michael Phelps. I talked to Tim Morehouse, a couple of people who wrote their books. After speaking to both of them, I went with who they directed me towards. Paige had done a few things in the boxing world and was really burgeoning at that time. I needed help in editing, expressing and directing the things that I was saying and that I knew so well from the interviews that I did. Paige was a vital part of that.

One theme in your book that you talked about was how difficult it was to track down good information about Cus D’Amato. And how, in your words, that was almost by design. With that said, how did the construct of the fictional narrator come out in your work? What advantages and disadvantages did you see in having this fictional narrator take us through the events of Cus’ life?

Cus lived the life of the immaculate puzzle, and he wanted it that way. I can’t express that enough. That’s what he wanted. Be that as it may, it made it very difficult because when you speak to the people that were around, they knew a little bit of Cus…certain things, even his family members.

It became frustrating at one point. But then I began to understand what was going on in his life. I started to understand the big picture. You know, it was tough to decipher just what Cus was doing. I’m a researcher. In the medical field, you have to have three to four references no matter what statement you say. And I couldn’t do that with Cus. So to write a straight biography to me would have been a falsehood or a fallacy. I would never be able to do a direct, straight biography. 

So that’s why after interviewing so many of his family members and the people around him – 80-something interviews – that’s when I realized I started to see through his kaleidoscope and was able to almost think like him. That’s when I started to be able to put together the truth of the story. Instead of staying, “Cus woke up at this time. He did that.” I decided to put it into a story.

Cus opened his gym in New York in 1933 – the Empire Sporting Club. How did he make his bones or penetrate professional boxing? Could you walk us through Cus’ early years as a trainer?

It was his brother. His brother became a boxer and worked with a manager. His brother worked with [boxer] Yama Bahama. I think his manager was Bob Melnick at the time. After Cus really saw the inner workings of boxing from the side, from really watching it at the Bronx, up at Sunnyside Boulevard, at some of the churches where his brother would box, that was his main injection into boxing.

I think I alluded to this in the book that the first essence of boxing in Cus’ life was through an uncle. His uncle was also a wrestler and gave all the boys boxing gloves and punching bags for Christmas once. That was the genesis of boxing in Cus’ mind. But he realized the inner workings of boxing with what he went through watching his brother in the pros.

How was Cus able to first able to achieve success as a trainer?

Probably in the army. Cus had a way of being so charismatic and he always commanded such a personality that they would say, “wow, this guy knows what he’s talking about,” and they listened. When he was an MP in the army and he started taking his brother’s knowledge and evolving it, he realized that people started to listen to him. People wanted to know how to fight and defend themselves. And Cus knew that his whole life. I think the army was an integral place for Cus to know who he was as a person.

One thing that I learned from your book was Cus’ early involvement with Rocky Graziano [Graziano would later become middleweight champion in 1947]. That’s not a fighter who is closely associated with him these days. Can you shed some light on that relationship?

He was a Lower East Side boy and Cus ran the Lower East Side. And that’s what it came down to. When Graziano came about, they needed a substitute for a fight, and Graziano worked at the Empire Sporting Club – he was fighting for Cus’ Empire Sporting Club. It was almost like a boxing organization that you had to be a part of just to be able to get good fights. Graziano was just a young kid from the Lower East Side – just a good looking kid that everybody knew would knock people out. It was really because he was a Lower East Side boy and he filled in for someone.

Another interesting aspect of the book is your painting the picture of the mob’s involvement with boxing at that time. You talk about how challenging that environment was for someone who wasn’t that well connected.  Could you talk about the specific challenges that Cus faced as he started to get more involved in big-time New York City boxing?

Just look how hard it is these days. To really break through, there are only so many avenues, so many paths. Back then, there weren’t even that many. There were only one or two paths to get to the top of the mountain and if you were road blocked, you had a rough day.

Cus had to let his own fighters fight each other in the stable he had. Or let the fighters in his stable fight the guys who left and were at Gleason’s or other gyms. Go to Europe. Start fighting there. And that’s what Cus needed to do. When there’s not a path, you have to find your own path. That was one of his main pillars in the genesis of who he was. It was find another path. When you’re blocked, you’re blocked. But Cus had a little bit more of a harder time and had to climb a higher mountain, and sidestep some landmines.

Can you shed some more light on the mob involvement? I think a lot of elements of that scene would be very surprising to today's boxing fans.

I’d be in the mob and I would tell you only negative things about Cus. Everybody spoke against him. Everybody was negative. If somebody asked about what’s the book on Cus. The guy would say, “He’s a fag. Don’t talk to him. I don’t want to have anything to do with him. Don’t go down to his gym."

That time after the Depression. It was a really rough time. And people wouldn’t let him in. Every time you poke your head in, and you almost had something, they would push you right back out. Cus needed to go through the back door instead of the front door. And that was simply the milieu. That’s what it was. Everybody was in on it to push you out.  

It would be like you trying to get an interview with Manny Pacquiao after the fight. Everybody else who would be part of the mob, they would get the first offer to talk to him. After that, if he wanted to hang around, maybe you will get it. If not, you’re done. You don’t get anything. You might just get a little piece of something that he said to another reporter. It became very tough.

Let’s talk about Floyd Patterson, Cus’ first big champion. Tell us about the relationship between the two of them. How did it progress through the years and how was Cus was able to guide him to the top?

Cus prided himself on not getting people later in their career after they were champion. He prided himself on getting them as a boy, creating them as a man and making them a great fighter. That’s the example of Floyd. Floyd knew nothing when he started with Cus. He didn’t read or write. He didn’t know how to communicate with people. He was really a struggling kid. Cus loved the idea of making sure that this guy became a man in life. That was really his main goal with Floyd.

Over the years, just to make it simple, Floyd stuck with him as much as he could but then got taken advantage of. [Patterson] had a big meeting with Roy Cohn and one of the big priests of that time, one of the cardinals. They had a big dinner. And long story short, people started to deceive Floyd to make him think that Cus was doing the wrong thing for him.

The guy who helped pull Floyd over the hill to their side was Julius November, a lawyer. He made sure that Floyd had money. He was working for Floyd and Cus and it became a horrible situation. That’s what happened over time. It just deteriorated. People started telling Floyd that Cus was not on his side, and Floyd eventually believed it.

When Floyd was coming up, how was the peek-a-boo style perceived?

It was a big joke. Adam, it was one, big joke. [Matchmaker] Teddy Brenner used to say, “What’s this guy doing, hiding behind his gloves? What is he playing peek-a-boo or paddy cake, like I do with my kids?”

All the media laughed. All the mob media were writing in their pads while they were tilting their hats down, if you know what I mean. It was all a big game in that era. They were making fun of Cus’ little guy. He’s not even a heavyweight! Look at this kid! He’s going to get knocked out by anybody! They were laughing at him.

How did Cus deal with Patterson’s loss to Sonny Liston and how did that affect him as a person?

Right away, Cus wanted him [Patterson] to start getting hypnotized again. Hypnosis was a big point in Cus’ world. Mike [Tyson] used to get hypnotized two or three times a day – before  practices, before fights. So hypnosis was huge. Psychology was huge. Cus called it your own internal dialogue. What you say to yourself the day of your fight is either going to make you or break you.

So as Floyd advanced, that became more and more important. When he lost, Cus unfortunately wasn’t that involved at the time. And he tried to reach out to Floyd but Floyd was on that mountain where I was alluding to before – almost on the top of that mountain believing everybody else. He was just gone from Cus. At the time, Cus wanted to speak to Floyd and Floyd blew him off. They were supposed to meet after a fight at one of the entrances but he never showed up. Cus was there waiting, and he was really, really upset.

He never got to share the feelings and the psychology of coming back and being strong in the second fight. He never really got to teach him and tell him everything that he wanted to…to be able to come back from a huge loss. Again, just like Mike, nobody was there to teach him how to come back from a tough loss. But look at Manny Pacquiao; he came back from a huge, tremendous loss. That’s developing a champion. And Cus wanted his fighters to understand that and learn that.

I know you are big into technique and philosophy. Can you give us a quick tutorial on the peek-a boy style? What does it enable fighters to do well? What are some potential weaknesses? Why did it work well for Patterson and Tyson? Why hasn’t that style carried over to other fighters?

I’ll give you a couple of things on both sides. For the pros, look at the Thai boxers. They are known in the UFC. They are known for any type of hand striking to be the best. It’s called the Art of Eight Limbs. Look where they keep their hands – up high. Keeping your hands up high is one of the biggest things you could do to protect yourself from getting hit in the head.

Cus also believed in tucking your chin. If you really saw Mike as a young kid or Floyd as a young kid, they would be tucking their chin so much into their chest that if you looked at them from the back, you almost didn’t see their head. It was almost like a magic trick. Tucking your chin and keeping your hands up high were very important for any strike to the head.

Another huge positive thing was movement. Cus always said to make sure your head was not in the same spot, if you throw a punch or if you move. That was huge. Throwing a punch and dipping or throwing a punch and slipping to one side, mostly to the left, head movement was really important.

Also, a final big pro of that style was the footwork. It wasn’t so orthodox. There were more martial arts movements, where there was hopping and springing to one side. Switching feet to get your strong side into the uppercut. Jumping to the other side to throw a right, what Cus would say a “6” to the liver or the kidney, a really deep shot. He would constantly move the body.

A negative about the style was you really had to close the gap properly. A shorter fighter, like a Mike, fighting a taller guy like a Buster Douglas or a  Lennox [Lewis], the movements going forward are different than the movements in a vertical plane. Mike worked furiously. Cus called it a “furious concentration” to move forward and dip and weave and only then would you be able to get into a spot where you could throw a punch with your bad intentions.

There was a weakness in closing the gap. There was a weakness to people who could really throw the uppercut or throw a low body shot. And a further weakness was against somebody who weighed more than you and could push you on your heels.

Cus’ fight library is legendary. He used to have all-night screenings and make his boxers watch tons of old fight films. Were there particular fights or fighters that he kept coming back to as influences?

Oh yeah. Off the top of my head, Cus loved Robinson. He loved Ray Robinson’s spinal posture and the way he threw his shoulders into the punch. He loved the technique of Robinson but he liked the movement of Henry Armstrong. Armstrong was a guy that was always dodging and weaving and punching as he moved forward. He’s almost like the Floyd Mayweather of today.

Another guy would be Tony Canzoneri – another lighter-weight fighter that had the power of a heavyweight but he moved like a lightweight. Those are the people who Cus loved. He came back to all of their fights.

But Cus was afraid, and it is true, he was afraid of George Foreman. If you looked at the way that George Foreman punched, and if you stand up and pretend that you’re in a boxing stance, his right hand comes around and underneath. And that unfortunately gets the peek-a-boo fighter in a bad position because every punch is like a clockwise motion. They are like wide, rounding uppercuts. Cus would say, “You’ll never fight George Foreman. Don’t do it.”

Another aspect of Cus’ technique was the array of punches that he would make his fighters throw. When you think of modern fighters, many of them are known for two or three punches, whether it’s the jab or the straight right hand or the left hook. But Cus really worked on seven, eight or nine different punches. He was a real believer in punch variety and punches from different angles. Was this more philosophical in nature?

No, this was actual. He wanted fighters to throw five or six punches in two-fifths of a second. He was timing it. It was a goal of his. Jose [Torres] was the first person before Floyd who accomplished it. Jose was actually able to throw six punches in two-fifths of a second. His point was no matter what fighter you put in front of my boy, you’re going to stand still for two-fifths of a second and that’s when my guy can lay six punches. He really talked about the science of it and the timing of it. Jose was also instrumental in ingraining the peek-a-boo.

What would you say were some of the defensive underpinnings of Cus’ style? 

No matter what punch you threw, there was a head movement for it. No matter what punch was thrown at you there was head movement for it. Head movements were so important. Whatever you threw or they threw, there were head movements. Being defensive and not getting hit was more important than truly being offensive and hitting.

If you’ve ever studied Wing Chun, if there’s a block there’s a punch at the same time. That’s what Cus developed. It was always a simultaneous offense and defense. You are blocking and hitting at the same time. That was a very different piece that Cus had to his style

I wanted to talk about Cus’ psychological techniques.

A lot of fighters couldn’t deal with them.

Yes. But what made him unique in this area? What were some of the techniques that he used and how was he able to have success in this area and prop his boxers up to make them the great fighters they would become?

He wanted and needed all of you, psychologically and physically. If you could give yourself fully to him, you would be able to use all of those attributes and all of your weight into doing the task at hand. That’s what Cus’ goal was – really teaching you to be the best you can and express the best you can with the body you have. And that’s why I love Bruce as well, because Bruce Lee’s whole goal was fully expressing yourself with your body. Integrating whatever worked to make it work for you. And that’s what Cus and Bruce did.

And Mike just happened to have all of the attributes perfectly. Jose had some of them in one direction. Floyd had some of them in the other direction. But when Mike came along, all of the stars were aligned.

Click here to read Part II.

Adam Abramowitz is the head writer and founder of saturdaynightboxing.com.

He is also a member of the Transnational Boxing Rankings Board.
Contact Adam at saturdaynightboxing@hotmail.com
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