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

I've been a boxing fan, since my grandfather let me watch Mike Tyson fight. They taught me how to jab and eventually, I went into a boxing class for my school and was one of the few survivors of that class (75% of the people that began the class dropped out.)

On the last day we sparred some of the more experienced guys, and I got my ass handed to me each time. When I got hit for the first time with a jab I smiled for some reason, while I felt a small tingling sensation after absorbing the punch on my face. I honestly do not remember much after that, because I got caught with a good hook that had me groggy and I cannot remember what happened after.

 

My sophomore year in college, I was made to spar a guy who had crazy dimensional advantages over me for 5 rounds (5" height, 40lbs, 3" reach.) I'm naturally a "smaller guy" (I'm 5'9" and probably weighed about 145 at the time) and also an out-fighter, so I was kinda weary about it, but I had done it before and had actually hurt and floored a guy of similar stature in high school, but this was real sparring, not back-yard boxing.


I took my first real ass-kicking for the first 2 rounds. The guy was better at my style of fighting than I was, being the bigger, taller, longer fighter. I couldn't use my main tools to gain an advantage because I use my length when I fight (I have a 74" reach.) I was floored hard twice in the 2nd round, and he had me ready to go at the end of the round. I had to try and get inside if I had any hope of scoring and even so, he was much bigger than me so I'd certainly take damage in order to try and hand some out myself.


Round three started out the same, he worked me back with his longer jab and straight punches every time I tried to come in and attack, I had no answer for them and was dropped again. Something clicked after I got up though, I stopped going after him altogether and instead let him come to me. I started using feints, I kept my shoulder pinned to my chin, and I started using my speed to be a little more evasive rather than aggressive. I found his length didn't bother me as much at all once he was the aggressor, and I found that I'm actually a pretty decent defensive fighter when I actually defend myself. He started getting frustrated that he couldn't land anything like he had been before, and he started getting a little more wild and careless with his stuff. He abandoned his jabs and straight right hands, opting to instead try and finish me before either he tired out or I rallied. That allowed me to get inside finally, and I was able to finally hit him with some flush left hands at the end of the 3rd. He wasn't happy about it because he thought after the first 2.5 rounds he would have had an easy day's work.


He came out in the 4th looking to finish me again, and about a minute in he threw a jab-right hook combo at me that I must have had some type of vision for, because I ended up connecting with the prettiest counter left I still to this day have ever been able to pull off. I felt like I slipped the 1-2 before he even thought of throwing it. Seated him right on his ass. Most gratifying thing ever to watch, flooring a bigger guy who was kicking my ass until I learned how to make an in-ring adjustment.

 

Never wear contact lenses, I don't care who says it cool. If they flip over your'e toast. The burn is worse than anything Ive felt, worse than broken ribs.

You go from up 2-0 with 2 KDs to being TKOd without even taking a flush shot.

 

Cut 6th grade 'n took a train to Stillman's Gym. It was sensory overload, with all the ATGs. Watched a cigarette-smoking Rocky Graziano hit the speed bag.

Finally, he looked down: "Why ain't you in school?

"Why ain't you," I said.

He roared with laughter 'n introduced me to everybody.

 

Nice:good

 

I wear contact lenses when I spar, I never had that problem, hopefully I never have to encounter that

 

The first time I took a clean body shot, I remained on a knee for nearly 2 minutes.

After that, I learned keeping your guard (elbows) tucked in tight, and over your body is just as important, if not more important than keeping your gloves up.

 

That's a good trainer you got there.:deal

RIP MR Wilson

 

In the early '50s, there was a stylish, stand-up boxer who trained at Stillmans, Bobby Bartles. He was starting to get noticed, piling up a bunch of wins in clubs all over New York.

Bartles was movie-star handsome -- a Cary Grant . He looked like he'd be more at home at a yacht club than Stillman's...'til he spoke. No mistaking the mean streets of Queens.

One day after winning a main-go, Bartles raged into the gym: "Read this!" he shouted, shaking the sports page. When he was asked why he was so angry, Bartles read aloud: "Last night, anglo-saxon looking welterweight Bobby Bartles scored his biggest victory...." Pausing, Bartles shouted: "Who the **** is Angelo Saxon? I'll break his ass!"

 

The first time I really hurt my sparring buddy with a body shot and had him hunched over hardcore continuing to tee off, I backed off and literally said, "You OK?" He quickly responded, "Keep going" and walked forward despite in a hunched shell to continue the action.

 

I was 17, living in Palmdale California. Had an amatuer fight in the Greater L.A. area. i was a young punk, sporting a 25-2 record.

I remember vividly stepping in the ring, and the 1st round. The 2nd round changed my life forever.

About 20 to 30 seconds into the 2nd round, I was hit with a right hand. I woke up that night in the hospital; I had my Orbital Bone broke, , and a bone chip punctured my left eye.

I had a 57 hour surgery to remove the bone chip from my eye, ending my boxing career. From there, I got into the business / training side of boxing.

Since they day in 1993, til present day I have had 31 different surgeries to correct the vision in my left eye.

 

In the early 70's in New York, I watched a stocky, young welter in the Novice finals of the New York Golden Gloves in the Felt Forum at Madison Square Garden. His name was John Nittolo. With his thick spiky hair and a head that promised a much bigger body, he put me in mind of a lion cub that hadn't quite grown into his paws.

All Nittolo wanted to do was crack the other kid with his overhand right that he threw from the floor.

Nittolo had no style; he just wanted to get the guy in front of him and kill him, like a kid in a street fight that wanted to follow his punches with kicks.

He fought with fire. He excited the fans...the way Graziano used to, with that same fury, but he was in no condition and running out of steam.

Nittolo's opponent was a trained boxer, in good shape, and he landed enough punches to earn a decision, even though Nittolo shook him every time he landed that right.

After the fight, Nittolo leaped into the middle of his boys, and they carried him on their shoulders to the dressing room. He was a ringleader.

As the Forum was emptying, I spotted him smoking in an old sweatshirt and jeans on the main floor and went over. I told him he was a natural. He could be a helluva pro and I wanted to train him. If he was interested, to look me up any afternoon at the Gramercy Gym.

As we spoke, I could see he was 16 going on 40, with a voice that sounded like the grinding of a cement truck. His words came like shoves before the right hand. I could almost hear Luca Brasi saying, "Don Corleone...may your first child be a masculine child." He looked at me sideways, trying to figure my angle.

A couple days later, he showed up at the gym in the same sweatshirt and jeans, but he was still leery and ready to lash out. All he got from our talk was: "helluva pro" = money.

After seeing me work with some other fighters and checking me out, Nittolo agreed to give it a try, with little enthusiasm.

For several months, I worked him very hard in the gym, and I was sure, from the look in his eye, there were more than a few moments, he wanted to whack me with that right. The only thing that kept him in the gym...and me from being drilled was: He started to learn moves... and he liked it.

But, he was a pain in the ass. Everybody wanted him out of the gym. They were convinced I was wasting my time: he was a thug and had no future but jail.

Nittolo couldn't control his temper. He wouldn't listen to anybody but me...barely, and he only wanted to do things his way. And most of the time, he didn't want to do anything, if I didn't push him. He was more interested in crap games, the over-and-under, the horses, and selling sweaters out of the trunk of his car.

I took him to a bunch of smokers all over the city, and he was still greener than most of the competition, but when he landed that right, he hurt people, stopped them or knocked them out. The refs had a tough time tearing him away from anybody he hurt.

Once, I took him to a smoker at a church in Brooklyn, and he was matched with a kid named Duffy from the parish, who'd already won the Gloves, had a big reputation all over the city, and brought the whole neighborhood to cheer for him.

Nittolo couldn't wait to knock him out so he could party. His attention span was shorter than his temper.

Duffy was a classic standup boxer, with all the practiced moves of hours and hours in the gym. So he landed jab after jab, and Nittolo would walk through them and hunt him down and wing that right. And whenever he landed, Duffy did a Zab Judah dance. The priest awarded the decision to Duffy, who was out on his feet at the final bell.

In the locker room, while I was taking the tape off Nittolo's hands, a Duffy supporter came over talking trash to Nittolo. BOOM! Nittolo flashed the right, leaving him in a heap on the floor.

We grabbed our stuff up as quickly as we could and tried to get to our car. Outside, we were greeted by hundreds of Duffy fans--barely held in check by the police-- who were screaming for Nittolo's blood. Nittolo challenged the mob and gave them the finger. How we got out of there... I'll never know.

Nittolo sparred with some top pros, and was beginning to lose some of the rough edges, and use angles. But his mind was always into hustling: how to turn a buck.

He didn't have patience to learn how to fight. He just wanted to knock people out and make money now...and it wasn't happening fast enough. Nothing did.

So, he drifted away from the gym. When I would speak to him, I encouraged him to go to a gambling school to become a dealer in a casino. He did...and took to it like a duck to water.

When he graduated, he went to Vegas and got a job as a dealer. Eventually, became a pit boss.

But Nittolo lived on "Action"... he loved the "Juice." The bigger the gamble the better. So, he started promoting fights and rock concerts in Vegas and Atlantic City. He added touring shows, like WEST SIDE STORY.

Numbers were Nittolo's thing, so nobody short-changed him, and unions didn't pad their crews...and if they tried, he spoke to them in a language they understood. He needed no lawyers.

In the last 15 years, Nittolo's become one of the leading concert promoters in the country. (http://www.jnpconcerts.com/) And he still wants more.

He's now 50... still has the same swagger he had as a kid, but now he's dressed in Hugo Boss, and weighs over 200.

He still has the killer instinct and no patience, but he does his fighting in boardrooms.

He's a lion that's grown into his paws.