Originally Posted by MagnaNasakki
My father on both counts.
He had all the attributes I admired about Mr. Futch, and a couple of things that made him right for me.
He left my mother when I was young. We were friends and colleagues, even more than he was my DAD. He didn't treat me with favoritism, because he didn't see me daily. I would BEG him to train with him and the legends he worked around, and the only condition he leveled on me was that he work me twice as hard so as to keep the respect of his mates for bringing his kid a long.
It was always about me, also. He wouldn't wake me up to run; That was on me. But when we were on the road, he was ruthless. He didn't ever tell me it was time to spar. I had to do it, I had to ask the partners, I had to schedule the ring time, but when the bell rang, he was in trainer mode. He'd let me fight, keeping utterly silent till the bell, then in the corner, give the most thorough 60 second lecture I've ever been given. It was never "Move, use your jab, PUNCH!", but always "Your feet are too close together, you aren't turning over your shoulder when you jab, and you aren't pushing with the toes when you hook. Turn that foot, okay?"
For an independent guy like me who LOVES the boxing textbook, I loved training with my Dad.
As for the cutman thing, all the guys back then learned their cuts shit. Dad was just as good as anybody. My favorite memory is not wanting to sit down in between rounds because my legs were going, and my Dad, as tall and big as me, working my eyes while nobody else in the ring even came to our nipples. Looking at me, pupil to pupil, calm, focused, and precise.
We were on the same team. I miss the ****er, he was brilliant. Never got his due, never got a hold of a fighter more talented then me to get his mug on TV and get a break. I was the best he got, and that just wasn't fair to him.