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Showing posts with label rocky marciano. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rocky marciano. Show all posts
Rocky Marciano was retired at the time - this must have been '64 or '65 so he'd been retired seven or eight years - and Rocky and I had been friends for a while and we were in a favourite hotel of ours in Miami. Rocky said to me, 'I want to get back in shape. I want to fight this guy Cassius Clay.' Well, Rocky was nearly 40 years old, but he didn't like Clay, I think he really didn't understand where he was coming from. Rocky was this very patriotic and humble guy in many ways, and Clay at that time was the opposite.
So he's saying, 'I'm going to get back in shape. I'm going to take him on.' And I said, 'Rocky, don't do that. You retired the undefeated champion of the world. You never lost a fight. You're going to have a beautiful life now, you never have to fight again.' Rocky said, 'Well, I don't like this guy. He breaks all the rules and he is just unethical.' I talked to Rocky for an hour. I said, 'Don't you dare try to get back in shape for this guy. Can you imagine losing after winning all those fights and retiring with an unbeaten record? You'd have to whip yourself into some shape to beat this kid. This kid is great.' And I meant that, because I thought and still think Ali was wonderful, both in and out of the ring.
'Get the hell outta here,' Rocky said, 'I can beat this kid.' And he told me how strong he still was, because Rocky was an immensely strong fighter - he didn't have a lot of finesse, but my goodness this guy was strong and could punch. So again I said, 'You're doing the wrong thing. You have a great life. You have free time to spend with your family and lots of endorsements. Forget the whole thing.' So I leave the room and I go out for a while, and when I get back Rocky isn't there. So I go up to the exercise solarium which they had on the roof to look for him, and they had this sandbag which was fastened to the wall, which was kinda like a heavy punch bag. Anyway it wasn't there anymore, the bolts had come loose and the sandbag was about ten feet away on the floor, and there was dust on the floor and everything.
Two of Rocky's friends were up there and I said, "What the hell happened? Where is Rocky?' They both shrugged and said, 'I don't know. He came up here real mad about an hour ago and punched that thing and broke the wall.' I guess Rocky was mad because he knew he could never fight Clay. Which was perhaps as well, at that time, because I loved 'The Rock' but I think he didn't need it and I'm not sure he would have won that fight.
(by Tony Bennett - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tony_Bennett )
(via Matt Hamilton)
So he's saying, 'I'm going to get back in shape. I'm going to take him on.' And I said, 'Rocky, don't do that. You retired the undefeated champion of the world. You never lost a fight. You're going to have a beautiful life now, you never have to fight again.' Rocky said, 'Well, I don't like this guy. He breaks all the rules and he is just unethical.' I talked to Rocky for an hour. I said, 'Don't you dare try to get back in shape for this guy. Can you imagine losing after winning all those fights and retiring with an unbeaten record? You'd have to whip yourself into some shape to beat this kid. This kid is great.' And I meant that, because I thought and still think Ali was wonderful, both in and out of the ring.
'Get the hell outta here,' Rocky said, 'I can beat this kid.' And he told me how strong he still was, because Rocky was an immensely strong fighter - he didn't have a lot of finesse, but my goodness this guy was strong and could punch. So again I said, 'You're doing the wrong thing. You have a great life. You have free time to spend with your family and lots of endorsements. Forget the whole thing.' So I leave the room and I go out for a while, and when I get back Rocky isn't there. So I go up to the exercise solarium which they had on the roof to look for him, and they had this sandbag which was fastened to the wall, which was kinda like a heavy punch bag. Anyway it wasn't there anymore, the bolts had come loose and the sandbag was about ten feet away on the floor, and there was dust on the floor and everything.
Two of Rocky's friends were up there and I said, "What the hell happened? Where is Rocky?' They both shrugged and said, 'I don't know. He came up here real mad about an hour ago and punched that thing and broke the wall.' I guess Rocky was mad because he knew he could never fight Clay. Which was perhaps as well, at that time, because I loved 'The Rock' but I think he didn't need it and I'm not sure he would have won that fight.
(by Tony Bennett - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tony_Bennett )
(via Matt Hamilton)
Only a minute into the fight, Walcott rocked Marciano with a straight right hand that forced Rocky to clinch. As soon as the two were separated, Jersey Joe gifted Marciano with his first knockdown at the end of a short left hook. Rocky got up at the count of four, ignoring the roars of his corner to stay down for an eight-count, and tried to redeem himself...
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Sept 24, 1952.
Rocky Marciano, new world heavyweight champion, looks over his battle wounds that he received from Jersey Joe Walcott before Walcott was knocked out in the 13th round.
Marciano surveyed his head and nose cuts today after a refreshing sleep following last night's fight in Municipal Stadium before more than 40,000 persons who paid $504,645.
(Associated Press)
Rocky Marciano, new world heavyweight champion, looks over his battle wounds that he received from Jersey Joe Walcott before Walcott was knocked out in the 13th round.
Marciano surveyed his head and nose cuts today after a refreshing sleep following last night's fight in Municipal Stadium before more than 40,000 persons who paid $504,645.
(Associated Press)
"I knocked on the bedroom door and a voice you associate with misty New York dockside rasped: ‘Friend or foe?’
‘Friend, I think.’
Inside there were blue whorls of cigar and cigarette smoke, a small crown of American lounge suits and a plump man in ragged trousers and short padding barefoot and swinging an arm as thick as your thigh.
‘… So I keep coming forward like this, left foot first, and I hit him a shot with the right, and I see his eyes roll up in his head and I give him the left to finish him…’
‘Rocky, you remind me of a skunk…!’ Somebody interrupting. I backed quickly for the door.
The Rock’s eyes widened below the stitch mark – one eye took thirteen stitches, seeing him through just one million dollar world title defence: ‘A skunk?’
‘The way you fought, Rocky, like a skunk with a farm dog and the dog keeps backing away because he knows what a punch that skunk packs in his tail!’
‘Right! Joe Louis couldn’t take my shot to the head – not even high on the head. I got to him with one high on the head and I see his eyes go “Great to meet ya!”’ The Rock comes for me. ‘Have a cup of coffee! You’re welcome!’ The Rock opens his fist and there’s a cup and saucer hidden in it.
The honesty in the round, hearty face is humiliating. I told the Rock we’re talking of banning boxing in Britain.
‘Right! Well, it’s got to come! It’s got to – in fifty, twenty-five years’ time – no, less than that – it’s got to come; as people get more civilized, they’re going to ban boxing.’
‘Rocco, my baby!’ A man lying full-length on a divan barks: ‘Whaddya sayin’…!’
‘I tell you it’s got to. They will outlaw boxing. A hundred years from now we’ll be like the gladiators, something out of history.’ The sad, gentle eyes. ‘There won’t be any boxers any more – aw, boxing’s just got to go. Less than twenty-five years, ten years or less than that maybe. In America they let fighters go on till one of them’s half-dead – Joe Louis couldn’t take a shot to the head any more.’
‘He couldn’t take one on the button, Rocky!’
‘He couldn’t take a punch anywhere on the head any more. Even high on the head. People say to me, “Rocky, you made me scream watching you fight, you looked like you’re going to get killed the way you keep coming forward taking all those punches on the chin…”’ The Rock shakes his head amusedly. ‘But I never did.’
He tucks the bristling chin into the protective shoulders. ‘I always had my chin down here. I never used to take any punches on the chin. Nobody can take punches on the chin.
‘Rocky, baby…’
‘Only time I left myself wide open was when they put wintergreen in my water bucket to try and stop me winning the world championship and my eyes stung so I had to lift my chin just to see and Walcott nailed me on the chin and nearly knocked me out.’
‘Crooks! Wintergreen they put in his water bucket!’
‘Talk about divine justice. The officials handling me in that fight, awhile after they all dropped dead.’ The Rock massaged his chin quickly.
Are there punch-drunk boxers in America? ‘Not many. Ezzard Charles. Oh, he’s banged up, oh God yes he is. After he met me.
‘Rocco, baby! He is not! Charles is not.’
‘Aw, yes. Aw, terrible, yes. He is.’ The Rock demonstrates with a press picture showing his victim’s face like a chocolate marshmallow crushed between the Rock’s fists.
‘Think! What kind of money Cassius Clay versus Rocky would take now! Rocky could take Clay right now!’
There is a famous story of the Rock’s pugilistic encounter in a wartime brawl in a British pub. ‘Right! That’s true. But if I get in trouble like that now I have to back away. Talk my way out of it. I have to … I never like to see people hurt. I was an old man when I won the world title – I was twenty-eight. That’s why Patterson can’t beat Clay! He’s an old man. He’s twenty-seven.’
The Rock’s finger’s play constantly with the poke of his English ratting cap on his head. Going bald has hurt the Rock more than anything could do in the ring. He wears the cap even indoors and, for public appearances, a well-made American hair-piece.
‘Over here in Britain boxing is so civilized anyway. They’d never let me become heavyweight champion of England – I bleed too easy. Sure there are fights that not quite right. But not the world heavy championship. There’s too many people like Norman Mailer – like you – watching us all the time.’
The eyes soften. ‘I don’t even go to the fights any more. Don’t like to see people getting hurt. I’m a bad fight referee even.’ The Rock admits it sadly. ‘I spoil the fights. Soon as one of the fellers starts bleeding a little even, I stop the fight. The crowd don’t like it. You hear the crowd yelling. Screaming. Go on! Let ‘em fight! Beat him to death, go on! That’s the really brutal part of the boxing. The crowd.
Outside I met a sports writer. ‘You saw Marciano – what’s he like? More animal than man, I suppose?’ "
(John Summers - 1965)
‘Friend, I think.’
Inside there were blue whorls of cigar and cigarette smoke, a small crown of American lounge suits and a plump man in ragged trousers and short padding barefoot and swinging an arm as thick as your thigh.
‘… So I keep coming forward like this, left foot first, and I hit him a shot with the right, and I see his eyes roll up in his head and I give him the left to finish him…’
‘Rocky, you remind me of a skunk…!’ Somebody interrupting. I backed quickly for the door.
The Rock’s eyes widened below the stitch mark – one eye took thirteen stitches, seeing him through just one million dollar world title defence: ‘A skunk?’
‘The way you fought, Rocky, like a skunk with a farm dog and the dog keeps backing away because he knows what a punch that skunk packs in his tail!’
‘Right! Joe Louis couldn’t take my shot to the head – not even high on the head. I got to him with one high on the head and I see his eyes go “Great to meet ya!”’ The Rock comes for me. ‘Have a cup of coffee! You’re welcome!’ The Rock opens his fist and there’s a cup and saucer hidden in it.
The honesty in the round, hearty face is humiliating. I told the Rock we’re talking of banning boxing in Britain.
‘Right! Well, it’s got to come! It’s got to – in fifty, twenty-five years’ time – no, less than that – it’s got to come; as people get more civilized, they’re going to ban boxing.’
‘Rocco, my baby!’ A man lying full-length on a divan barks: ‘Whaddya sayin’…!’
‘I tell you it’s got to. They will outlaw boxing. A hundred years from now we’ll be like the gladiators, something out of history.’ The sad, gentle eyes. ‘There won’t be any boxers any more – aw, boxing’s just got to go. Less than twenty-five years, ten years or less than that maybe. In America they let fighters go on till one of them’s half-dead – Joe Louis couldn’t take a shot to the head any more.’
‘He couldn’t take one on the button, Rocky!’
‘He couldn’t take a punch anywhere on the head any more. Even high on the head. People say to me, “Rocky, you made me scream watching you fight, you looked like you’re going to get killed the way you keep coming forward taking all those punches on the chin…”’ The Rock shakes his head amusedly. ‘But I never did.’
He tucks the bristling chin into the protective shoulders. ‘I always had my chin down here. I never used to take any punches on the chin. Nobody can take punches on the chin.
‘Rocky, baby…’
‘Only time I left myself wide open was when they put wintergreen in my water bucket to try and stop me winning the world championship and my eyes stung so I had to lift my chin just to see and Walcott nailed me on the chin and nearly knocked me out.’
‘Crooks! Wintergreen they put in his water bucket!’
‘Talk about divine justice. The officials handling me in that fight, awhile after they all dropped dead.’ The Rock massaged his chin quickly.
Are there punch-drunk boxers in America? ‘Not many. Ezzard Charles. Oh, he’s banged up, oh God yes he is. After he met me.
‘Rocco, baby! He is not! Charles is not.’
‘Aw, yes. Aw, terrible, yes. He is.’ The Rock demonstrates with a press picture showing his victim’s face like a chocolate marshmallow crushed between the Rock’s fists.
‘Think! What kind of money Cassius Clay versus Rocky would take now! Rocky could take Clay right now!’
There is a famous story of the Rock’s pugilistic encounter in a wartime brawl in a British pub. ‘Right! That’s true. But if I get in trouble like that now I have to back away. Talk my way out of it. I have to … I never like to see people hurt. I was an old man when I won the world title – I was twenty-eight. That’s why Patterson can’t beat Clay! He’s an old man. He’s twenty-seven.’
The Rock’s finger’s play constantly with the poke of his English ratting cap on his head. Going bald has hurt the Rock more than anything could do in the ring. He wears the cap even indoors and, for public appearances, a well-made American hair-piece.
‘Over here in Britain boxing is so civilized anyway. They’d never let me become heavyweight champion of England – I bleed too easy. Sure there are fights that not quite right. But not the world heavy championship. There’s too many people like Norman Mailer – like you – watching us all the time.’
The eyes soften. ‘I don’t even go to the fights any more. Don’t like to see people getting hurt. I’m a bad fight referee even.’ The Rock admits it sadly. ‘I spoil the fights. Soon as one of the fellers starts bleeding a little even, I stop the fight. The crowd don’t like it. You hear the crowd yelling. Screaming. Go on! Let ‘em fight! Beat him to death, go on! That’s the really brutal part of the boxing. The crowd.
Outside I met a sports writer. ‘You saw Marciano – what’s he like? More animal than man, I suppose?’ "
(John Summers - 1965)
The history of boxing turned a page in June 1948 when Rocco Marchegiano appeared in Al Weill’s office. Weill telephoned Charley Goldman and told him to set up a sparring session so they could gauge Rocco’s potential. Later that day, Marchegiano stepped into the ring at a CYO gym on 17th Street in Manhattan with a heavyweight from Florida named Wade Chancey.
Marchegiano didn’t look like a professional fighter. He was short for a heavyweight; five feet ten inches tall. His hands were huge, but he had stubby arms that would make it difficult for him to develop an effective jab.
A. J. Liebling later likened what Weill and Goldman saw to “the understander in the nine-man pyramid of a troupe of Arab acrobats. He has big calves,” Liebling wrote. “Forearms, wrists, and a neck so thick that it minimizes the span of his shoulders. He is neither tall nor heavy for a heavyweight, but gives the impression of bigness when you are close to him. His face, like his body, is craggy. Big jaw, big nose askew from punching, high cheekbones; and almost always when he is outside the ring, a pleasant asymetrical grin.”
Marchegiano was also two months shy of his twenty-fifth birthday; old for a novice fighter.
“Al and I often looked over green kids who thought they could become fighters,” Goldman reminisced years later. “I’ll eat my derby hat if I ever saw anyone cruder than Rocky. He was so awkward that we stood there and laughed. He didn’t stand right. He didn’t throw a punch right. He didn’t block right. He didn’t do anything right. Then he hit Chancey with a roundhouse right which nearly put a hole in the guy’s head, and I told Weill that maybe I could do something with him.”
“Charley Goldman,” Michael Silver later wrote, “found a block of marble and sculpted it into The Pieta.”
Marchegiano entered the ring as a professional for the second time on July 12, 1948. The site was Providence, Rhode Island; twenty-five miles from Brockton. The opponent was Harry Belzarian. Marciano won on a first-round knockout. His purse was forty dollars.
Years later, Belzarian recalled, “The first time he knocked me down, he broke my tooth. Then he knocked me down again. Then I don’t remember anything.”
Soon after, at Weill’s suggestion, Marchegiano changed his name to Rocky Marciano. But Weill wasn’t sold yet on his new fighter. He was using him to test other prospects.
On August 23, 1948, in his fifth professional fight, Marciano fought a 15-0-1 heavyweight named Eddie Ross. Rocky was the “opponent” that night. Prior to fighting Ross, Marciano had traveled from Brockton to New York to train occasionally with Goldman, but the trainer hadn’t attended his fights.
Marciano knocked Ross out at 1:03 of the first round. Seven days later, when Marciano fought Jimmy Weeks in Providence, Goldman was in his corner.
Marciano fought eleven times during the last six months of 1948, scoring eight first-round knockouts and two in the second stanza. One opponent made it into the third round.
Rather than work with the fighter at Stillman’s Gym (which was a hub of boxing commerce in New York), Goldman continued to sculpt his creation at the CYO gym on 17th Street.
Marciano had poor balance, minimal defense, and little understanding of how to throw a jab or hook. Goldman taught him how to stand properly for balance and maximum leverage on his punches.
Turning Marciano’s lack of height into an advantage, he taught him to fight from a crouch, which made him harder to hit and forced opponents to lower their hands to hit him. He taught him the rudiments of defense and schooled him to go to the body.
“You got to realize,” Goldman said later, “when I took him over, he didn’t know what a body punch was. In the first ten fights I handled him, he didn’t throw a single one. Some of those early fights when he didn’t know how to fight; he won them all, but I was afraid he’d get killed.”
But Marciano had a great equalizer; his right hand. Goldman gave him just enough moves and enough of a jab to get inside and use it.
“I got a guy who’s short, stoop-shouldered, and balding with two left feet,” the trainer said. “They all look better than he does as far as the moves are concerned. But they don’t look so good on the canvas. God, how he can punch.”
(By Thomas Hauser)
Marchegiano didn’t look like a professional fighter. He was short for a heavyweight; five feet ten inches tall. His hands were huge, but he had stubby arms that would make it difficult for him to develop an effective jab.
A. J. Liebling later likened what Weill and Goldman saw to “the understander in the nine-man pyramid of a troupe of Arab acrobats. He has big calves,” Liebling wrote. “Forearms, wrists, and a neck so thick that it minimizes the span of his shoulders. He is neither tall nor heavy for a heavyweight, but gives the impression of bigness when you are close to him. His face, like his body, is craggy. Big jaw, big nose askew from punching, high cheekbones; and almost always when he is outside the ring, a pleasant asymetrical grin.”
Marchegiano was also two months shy of his twenty-fifth birthday; old for a novice fighter.
“Al and I often looked over green kids who thought they could become fighters,” Goldman reminisced years later. “I’ll eat my derby hat if I ever saw anyone cruder than Rocky. He was so awkward that we stood there and laughed. He didn’t stand right. He didn’t throw a punch right. He didn’t block right. He didn’t do anything right. Then he hit Chancey with a roundhouse right which nearly put a hole in the guy’s head, and I told Weill that maybe I could do something with him.”
“Charley Goldman,” Michael Silver later wrote, “found a block of marble and sculpted it into The Pieta.”
Marchegiano entered the ring as a professional for the second time on July 12, 1948. The site was Providence, Rhode Island; twenty-five miles from Brockton. The opponent was Harry Belzarian. Marciano won on a first-round knockout. His purse was forty dollars.
Years later, Belzarian recalled, “The first time he knocked me down, he broke my tooth. Then he knocked me down again. Then I don’t remember anything.”
Soon after, at Weill’s suggestion, Marchegiano changed his name to Rocky Marciano. But Weill wasn’t sold yet on his new fighter. He was using him to test other prospects.
On August 23, 1948, in his fifth professional fight, Marciano fought a 15-0-1 heavyweight named Eddie Ross. Rocky was the “opponent” that night. Prior to fighting Ross, Marciano had traveled from Brockton to New York to train occasionally with Goldman, but the trainer hadn’t attended his fights.
Marciano knocked Ross out at 1:03 of the first round. Seven days later, when Marciano fought Jimmy Weeks in Providence, Goldman was in his corner.
Marciano fought eleven times during the last six months of 1948, scoring eight first-round knockouts and two in the second stanza. One opponent made it into the third round.
Rather than work with the fighter at Stillman’s Gym (which was a hub of boxing commerce in New York), Goldman continued to sculpt his creation at the CYO gym on 17th Street.
Marciano had poor balance, minimal defense, and little understanding of how to throw a jab or hook. Goldman taught him how to stand properly for balance and maximum leverage on his punches.
Turning Marciano’s lack of height into an advantage, he taught him to fight from a crouch, which made him harder to hit and forced opponents to lower their hands to hit him. He taught him the rudiments of defense and schooled him to go to the body.
“You got to realize,” Goldman said later, “when I took him over, he didn’t know what a body punch was. In the first ten fights I handled him, he didn’t throw a single one. Some of those early fights when he didn’t know how to fight; he won them all, but I was afraid he’d get killed.”
But Marciano had a great equalizer; his right hand. Goldman gave him just enough moves and enough of a jab to get inside and use it.
“I got a guy who’s short, stoop-shouldered, and balding with two left feet,” the trainer said. “They all look better than he does as far as the moves are concerned. But they don’t look so good on the canvas. God, how he can punch.”
(By Thomas Hauser)
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