Not a lot of people know this but...

This is the most entertaining thread by some distance...I definitely reccommend you get your stories printed, John.

 

Much appreciated, fof. Would it be excessive if I had this tattooed on my chest?

 

A tad.

 

Is he that old ?

 

In the early ‘70s in New York, I watched a stocky young welterweight in the Novice finals of the 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 grown into his paws.

All Nittolo wanted to do was crack with his overhand right that he threw from the floor. He had no style -- street fighter that wanted to follow punches with kicks.

He fought with fire. He excited the fans the way Graziano did, but was in no condition and running out of steam.

His opponent was a trained boxer, in good shape, and landed enough to earn a decision, even though John shook him every time he got home with that right.

After the decision was announced, Nittolo leaped into the middle of his boys who rushed the ring. They carried him on their shoulders to the dressing room.

As the Forum emptied, I spotted Nittolo smoking in an old sweatshirt and jeans on the main floor and approached. I told him he could be a helluva pro and I wanted to train him, and 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 Jake LaMotta. He looked at me sideways, trying to figure my angle. His words came like shoves before the right hand.

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 fighters and checking me out, he 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 times he wanted to clock me with that right. The only thing that kept him in the gym...and me from being drilled was: He started learning moves... and he liked it.

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

He couldn't control his temper. Wouldn't listen to anybody but me...barely. Only wanted to do things his way. And most of the time, he didn't want to do anything, if I didn't push. 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. He was 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 anyone he hurt.

Once, I took him to a smoker at a church in Brooklyn. He was matched with a kid from the parish named Duffy who'd already won the Gloves and had a big reputation citywide. The entire neighborhood came to cheer 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. Nittolo walked through them, stalking and winging that right. 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 removing Nittolo’s wraps, a Duffy supporter, gloating, came over talking trash to him. BOOM! John flashed the right, leaving him in a heap.

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

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

In the last 20 years, John's become one of the leading concert promoters in the country. And he still wants more.

He's now in his early 50s... still has the 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.

 

Wow that's a great story. It seems I gotta tune in at least once a day to dig your next post on this thread. This one has all the ambience and drama, twists and turns of a Hollywood movie; not how I thought it would turn out but glad it did.

 

It's not only great stories, you write great as well John. I write for a living and I'm really impressed.

 

Coming from you, it's especially appreciated, B.

 

In the early '70s, I had an amateur team training in a gym with top pros. It was frequented by alotta wiseguys, who watched sparring and made a big show of how tough they were.

One guy in particular, a loud-mouth bookie/leg-breaker -- a pig in a loose-flowing sport shirt -- 6'2"-6'3" -- well over 300 pounds, shouted non-stop wisecracks at a 118-pound pro contender (no more than 5'4"), who was sparring. He'd been a multi-year Golden Gloves champion.

"This midget's no fighter; he's a joke, blustered super-size Polly Walnuts. "I'd kick'm in the ass – squash’m like a bug." And blah blah blah, he didn't let up.

It didn't rankle the fighter but steamed his manager and trainer, who came over and told him to put-a-sock-in-it, but he dissed'em -- kept right on, louder. They were livid, and challenged him to put his money were his mouth is: "How about $20,000?"

"Make it $50,000!" he snarled back.

They snapped at the money, with the fighter enthusiastically nodding.

Because it was for cash, it was arranged under wraps on a Saturday, after the gym closed, with the owner holding stakes. It was for four two-minute rounds, with 10-ounce gloves -- no headgear. Only the bookie's goombas, the bantam’s corner and some regulars were allowed.

The bookie, smoking a cigar, looking like it was money in the bank, came dressed in a jogging suit that barely zipped over his belly.

At the bell, he rushed out throwing from the floor. The bantam slipped a haymaker and sunk a left hook into his gut.

Whoof! went the gasbag. His mouth flew open; he was frozen, then flopped face first into the canvas, making a cloud of dust...and didn't move.

After seeing him motionless for a few seconds, those with rap sheets, fearing him dead, scattered.

The beached whale eventually struggled to his feet – looking no one in the eye, or saying word one -- and slunk away -- never to be seen again -- with his tail between his legs.

 

Great stuff! I find myself reading this at work and at night, being thoroughly entertained. I cant wait for the next post!

 

all the Andy Lee threads have virtually disappeared with the amount of nut gobbling that was going on I find this astonishing.

 

Australian Champ Young Griffo is buried in the Bronx NY
Griffo fought in the 1900's or early 20's Im not sure?

 

Here's part one of an interview I did with Justin Fortune, former OZ fireplug heavy, and now a trainer and full-time hardcase.

What it was like training with Jeff Fenech and Johnny Lewis in Sydney?

“They were great practical jokers. Their gym was a card. You'd be getting ready to spar, and they'd lace one glove up to the ropes. One would keep you distracted and you didn't realize the other one was lac'n your gloves to the ropes. You look like a ****'n imbecile when you try to take off to fight. With Fenech, it could be bloody anything to get a laugh.”

How do you handle the head cases that come into the gym all muscles and roid rage thinkin’ they're gonna wipe the floor with everybody and be the heavyweight champ tomorrow?

“In Australia, and here, as well. For some reason, these guys grow big balls and come to a boxing gym looking for a fight. I mean, obviously, somebody in a ****'n boxing gym is gonna be able to fight.

It's territorial. It's our gym. If you want to work, then we'll work with you. If you don't, then we'll **** you up. Then we'll throw anyone in there that can **** you up. But, if you want to come in and be a good boy and work well, I'll help you till the cows come home. Want to be an *******; you get knocked out. It's simple. Not hard. Not rocket science”

Did you lose your composure when you were hit low on purpose?

“ That's why they hit you in the nuts, so it throws you off your game plan. Yeah, it hurts. That's the whole reason you do it. Someone's beat'n the crap outta me, and I can't get past his game plan, or can't find a way in, sure, I'll hit him fair square in the balls, and throw him right off his game plan, and frustrate the **** outta him, because then he gets mad and wants to take my head off. A mad fighter is a bad fighter. Cause they don't think. So, yeah, that's why it's done. So, CRACK! It ****'n hurts, too. The family jewels. It's a poor family, but it's the only one I got.”

Ever been with some guys in the street and one troublemaker starts a fight, sure that you're gonna to back him up?

“ Plenty of those-plenty! I pull them aside. I say, 'Listen, dickhead, you picked the fight; you finish the fight. Cause, if you're a smart mouth, then you gotta finish it. We ain't back'n your ass up. Here's my point: You want to be a tough guy because you got backup; then you better get out of the ****'n fight. If you can't, you'll get beat up...and we'll get a show.

What do you think of trash talking?

“To a certain extent, it's part of the game. You can trash talk someone, but it gets low when they start involving, like, relatives, their wives, and their mum's. Jesus, all mum did is give birth to the *****. Don't make it too personal; the muther****er may take it out on you in the ring.”

 

what happened?

 

My mom met Sonny Liston when she was a little kid. Not many people know that, so it counts.