For anyone who has actually been in the ring share a personal true story!!

Sugar Ray Robinson showed me how to extend my jab by dipping a knee, how to draw a right hand and counter over it . . . and countless other tips and encouragement.

I tried to emulate everything about him, from what he wore in the gym to his stance in the ring. But it did me no more good than trying to hit home runs copying Ted Williams stance. And, as far as his gym gear, no matter how I pulled and tugged, it never looked quite the same on me.

Once after sparring a round, I looked down and saw Robinson at ringside. He gave me an approving nod. I couldn't have been prouder if I'd won a title.

 

LOL, the same thing happened to me, early on, with my trainer! He had to be at least 50 y-o at the time, and he took my 20 y-o butt apart. (skill, vs speed & strength) It was massively humbling.

 

everything you just wrote is amazing. that's so cool man.

 

Getting hit on the liver with a shot that wasn't even fully loaded. That was the 1st real painful shot I felt. I was lucky the thrower didn't have good timing, so the round ending bell rang soon after that punch. It made me determined not to be hit there ever again.

 

That's probably the coolest thing I've read on this forum, or anywhere. That's just crazy cool

 

In the waning days of Willie Pep’s career, he took the bouts for walkin’ around money.

All he had left was a twinkle in his eye and a wisecrack. Most boxers looked bigger in trunks; he looked smaller.

He was trainin’ at the 5th Street Gym in Miami. Heavyweight Cleveland “Big Cat” Williams was there as well. But, though faded, Pep was the star with gym rats, which grated on Williams, who was always sullen, while Willie kibitzed and clowned.

Williams was the closest thing to Superman -- a walkin’ anatomy chart…at his peak, before he got shot in the stomach.. His left-hook cannonades on the heavy bag shook the gym.

Fifth Street was compact -- always jammed, so Pep and Williams had to do floor exercises almost side by side. Pep’s fans constantly stoked his ego:

" Willie, you could kill that big bum! He'd never touch you."

"You'd make him look like a jerk, Willie.”

It went on like that for weeks.

No way Williams didn't hear it.... He was nine feet tall – proud, a knockout puncher, and bristling.

While Pep joked, Williams seethed. You could’ve cut the tension with a knife.

One day when Pep’s faithful were eggin’ him on:

"You could kick his ass, Willie"

"You'd make him look like fool, Willie!"

Pep turned to ‘em: "All I can tell you is: I'd hate to have him hang his HAMMER on me!"

Williams exploded with laughter.

 

hey John do you have any books out?

 

Was about to ask the same question, mate...

John Garfield, please bring out a book.

:deal

 

Thanks for the props, L

 

Stillman’s Gym was like rush-hour on Broadway in the mid 1940s: ATGs 'n trainers bumping into each other tearing across the cavernous former union hall, while a florid Lou Stillman growled non-stop epithets over a loud speaker drowning out clanging bells and telephones.

It was against that setting on a frigid afternoon, I climbed the 13 steps to Stillman’s to learn how to box and emulate local idols, Rocky Graziano and Jake LaMotta.

The gatekeeper at the head of the stairs, collecting quarters for entrance, was manager Jack Curley, under the gimlet eye of Lou Stillman seated on a raised chair next to ring # 1.

I paid and asked Jack Curley if he could set me up with a trainer.

After appraising me like pawnbroker, he crooked a finger at a character the image of the Penguin in a Batman comic book.

“Izzy, see what the kid’s got.”

He musta been mid-40s, 'bout 5-7 – bulging wall-eyes, the drained pallor of a lifetime in airless gyms, and dark, kinky-curly hair threatening to uncoil but bulldogged down and parted in the middle like a ‘20s bootlegger.

His nose was much too long for his face and pointy as a dart. He had no chin, no neck, was shaped like a pear and his stomach hiked up his trousers to his chest. He wore what must have been a white T-shirt at one time and unbuttoned cardigan sweater with a towel thrown over his shoulder.

Rocking back on his heels, he shuffled over, chest out, straight up and flatfooted; his shoes pointing outward like a Garment Center salesman. The only thing missing was the Penguin's umbrella.

He was my coach for the years I trained at Stillman’s. His name was Izzy Blank, and he looked after me like a son.

Though Izzy never gained the notoriety of a Charley Goldman, Ray Arcel, Whitey Bimstein, and the like, he was respected and embraced by the fraternity and was spared -- for the most part -- from Stillman’s wrath

As good or bad as I ever got, Izzy never allowed me to forget what he thought unpardonable: As a teen, I did what all the other kids did, I carried a condom in my wallet-- not that I had chance to use it-- but it was expected.

One day while changing, the rubber fell out of my wallet onto the floor and Izzy saw it. If I did anything after that that didn't live up to his expectation, he shrugged: "Sure! How can he fight? He's in the saddle!"

I had to do three times what anybody else did. If I so much as took a deep breathe: "The kid's in the saddle!"

Izzy Blank died…still unsung -- a funny, dear man that was my professor at the University of Eighth Ave.

 

bump

 

The check's in the mail, S

 

great story:good

 

Good thread. Some interesting stories.

 

:rofl:rofl