We all have skeletons in our closets, at least most everyone I know does. I am not ashamed to admit I am a member of said club. Stand back ladies and gentlemen, I am about to allow one of my skeletons out; stand far, far back, just in case others manage to escape, and by others I really mean lots and lots of others, if those others get out someone could get seriously hurt.
This skeleton has been buried now for over thirty years; 1974 to be precise. As I have mentioned previously in my column, 1974 found me fresh out of boot camp and serving in the Navy, yes, the United States Navy. Unlike today, I was, to take a line from the movie Stripes, “a lean, mean, fighting machine.” At 6’0”, 200 pounds of mostly muscle (certainly my head was), we passed our time fighting Airmen, Soldiers and Marines. It was not uncommon to get into a large scuffle at the local Air Force base, have the Shore Patrol pick us up, hand cuff us, throw us in the back of the paddy wagon, drive off the base, and immediately pull to the side of the road and let us go. Now please, I am not suggesting such behavior is still tolerated. 1974 was a different time. Some enlisted in the Navy to avoid being drafted into the Army, some were give an option by the judge. Me, I fit into the latter category. As long as no one was seriously injured fighting was accepted – at least that’s the way it seemed to me. My unit, Naval Mobile Construction Battalion 133 (The fighting Seabees) was especially known as brawlers. We looked forward to the arrival of an aircraft carrier just so we would have someone new to tangle with.
Now, for those of you with any knowledge of the Navy and Marines, you know it is not unusual to set up a Friday night fight card; Sailors versus Marines, as many weight classes as possible. These fight cards were (and maybe are) called Smokers. Well, it seems they were putting together a fight card for a Friday night Smokers, and I was approached. The way it was put to me was: “There is this hot shot Marine, black guy from St. Louis, who pretty much thinks he is indestructible; wanna fight him?” “No problem,” I responded, “I grew up fighting tough black guys from St. Louis.” The best part of taking part in a Smokers was the fighters were relieved of all other duties in order to “train.” Yeah sure, I “trained,” all right; my idea of training was staying out later than usual because I knew I had no responsibilities in the morning. I trained for two, maybe three weeks – the physical change I experienced was gaining about 10 pounds. Most thought it was because of my “training,” I knew better.
Well Friday night finally came around, and I truly thought I was ready. I do not recall what weight class I was assigned, but I do remember a larger number of fights prior to mine. The had a pretty nice spread of sandwiches and such in the dressing room, along with a cooler of St. Louis’ finest adult beverage. Naturally, while waiting I became a little edgy, so I figured one or two Budweisers couldn’t hurt (Bud Light was yet to be invented). By four I was relaxed and ready.
I remember my opponent being very large, not tall – large! He had a large head, large legs, very large arms, he even had large hands. He was a large man. No problem, what’s the old saying? “The larger they are, the harder they fall.”
The “fight,” and I use the work very, very loosely, last all of 23 seconds; ten of which I was laying flat on my back hearing the official counting down…”7, 8, 9, 10.”
My shipmates suggested I was hit with a lucky punch; a lot of words went through my mind describing the punch, lucky was nowhere near the top of the list. My shipmates persuaded me if I fought him again I probably could last longer. Well I hope so, 23 seconds; I could avoid him for at least twice that long. My shipmates persuaded me to fight him again, the very next Friday. I was young, I was foolish, I agreed.
It was only days after the second fight I learned the bet was not on who would win, the bet was on whether or not I could last longer than 23 seconds. I was the overwhelming favorite!
Seventeen seconds is all the second fight lasted; 10 of which the official repeated “7, 8, 9, 10.” At least that is what they told me; I have absolutely no recollection of what happened. What I do know is that I never again stepped into a boxing-ring. Never!
ANother thing I know is that same Marine some two years later won a Gold Medal in the Olympics for boxing. Then in 1978 he defeated Mohammed Ali for the World’s Heavyweight Title. Yes, I am not too proud to admit I was knocked out not only once, but twice, by Leon Spinks.
I am not certain, but I suspect Leon will be ring side Saturday Night when his nephew Cory Spinks defends his Undisputed Welterweight title against Zab Judah. I am not certain if Leon remembers me, I suspect not; but I AM certain I remember him, and will never forget the two times we met.
