BOS KNOWS BOXING
by
Zachary Levin
FightBeat.com Assistant Editor
Since 1977, when Johnny Bos (pronounced Boz) made
his first match, thousands of young men have called
on him to find them a perfect partner. Bos is a
matchmaker of the highest order, but partner
is not the proper word, exactly. Opponent is
more apt, since Bos matches boxers, not lovers.
In theory, a matchmaker pairs boxers whose talents
balance each other, making for a crowd-pleasing
contest. For instance, one may be a slick
counter-puncher with old legs, the other a crude
slugger who can wing ‘em all night. Put them
together and you may have an entertaining fight.
Matchmakers, however, have also been known to
engineer lopsided mismatches, as once typified by
Joe Louis’ “bum-of-the-month” tour.
In prizefighting, the matchmaker is an unsung
operator who works behind the scenes. Even when he
does a masterful job moving a fighter up the ranks,
he receives scant credit in terms of public
acknowledgement or money. Bos usually takes 10% as
opposed to a manager’s customary 33 1/3% cut.
Seated at a table in the rear of his favorite haunt,
the midtown boxing bar Jimmy’s Corner, Bos flags
down a buxom waitress and orders a Coke. It is a
cold night and he’s suited up in his winter uniform:
White fur coat, wraparound shades, Rocawear scully
and bright red sneakers. He’s draped in more chains
than Mr. T. At a brawny 6’3’’, he is imposing, but
is more teddy bear than bouncer. A blond handlebar
moustache pulls down the sides of his mouth, but is
balanced by a steady smile. A long mane of light
hair touches the back of his shoulders. Like an old
routine, he tries to pull the passing waitress onto
his lap. She rebuffs him by grabbing his cheeks and
pinching them together, handling him like a
51-year-old baby. As she slips away he takes a
playful whack at her backside, which she sidesteps
with the nimbleness of Willie Pep.
Bos
prefers the title “fight agent” to matchmaker. The
boxing media will refer to him as an “advisor.”
Perhaps “consigliere Johnny Bos” fits best, as his
services go well-beyond picking fights. Bos
discusses fight strategy with a boxer, when the
trainer allows it. He is media-savvy and will
aggressively push a prospect’s name. Not above
sneaky tactics, Bos has planted moles in opponents’
training camps to gain intelligence—maybe a guy’s
having marital problems, hurt his shoulder, or loses
composure when you talk about his momma. “I do what
the managers used to do—and I don’t take no 33
1/3%,” Bos says. “But there are no real managers
anymore. Nowadays they’re just money-men.”
Teddy Brenner, who made fights for St. Nicholas
Arena and Madison Square Garden, was the
prototypical matchmaker. His sole concern was the
public’s satisfaction, rarely the welfare or the
future of the boxers. “Brenner’s idea was to knock
fighters off,” says Michael Katz of MaxBoxing.com.
Unlike Brenner and others in his trade, Bos has
never worked exclusively for a venue or promotional
company. He is hired by a fighter, or a manager, to
pick logical opponents: Opponents who present risk,
but not so much risk that his fighter might lose, or
worse, come out psychologically damaged. Boxing
people talk of savage bouts that age a boxer or
“take the fight out of him.” Though Bos looks to
avoid these bouts at all costs, sometimes they are
unavoidable. Take Bos’ light heavyweight George
Khalid Jones, who killed Beethavean Scottland during
a match two years ago. Jones’ first bout after the
tragedy was against a tough opponent, Eric Harding.
Bos observed a new passivity in Jones that suggested
fear not only for his opponent’s life but for his
own. He retired Jones immediately. (Jones has
since come back, but only after proving to Bos that
he is now mentally and physically fit to box.)
Understanding the X’s and O’s of the squared ring is
one thing, grasping the psychology of fighters is
another.
Known for his skepticism, Michael Katz is not one to
gush over most people or things in boxing. Yet on
the subject of Johnny Bos, he comes close: “If I had
a choice of a czar in boxing, I would go with
Johnny, because not only is he knowledgeable, he’s
honorable. He really loves these guys. He
understands there’s a lot of danger in the game.
He’s been railing about the gloves. Recently,
they’ve been changed and are not protecting kids’
hands, and that’s why you’re having injuries. He
sees all the warts and pimples and would like to
change it.”
Yet Katz would not be discussing Bos if not for the
matchmaker’s ability to coldly analyze boxers’
styles, skills, and experience, and project who
would beat the pulp out of whom and why—what is
called in boxing parlance “building a fighter.” “I
don’t think there’s anybody in the game who is
better than Johnny at matching guys, especially in
terms of making fights they learn from,” Katz says.
“He’s probably the most knowledgeable guy in the
game.” Katz, who has covered the fights for a
quarter-century and is dubbed by his peers “The Dean
of Boxing Writers,” bows to Bos, calling him “his
guru.”
Crunching ice between his teeth, Bos considers Katz’
praise, then parries it. “In order to be a good
matchmaker,” he says, “first off you gotta be a good
conman. You gotta convince both sides they’re gonna
win.” He offers an example from 1978, a 6-round
fight he made between John Davis and Dwight
Braxton—later known as Dwight Muhammad Qawi—for the
reward of $175 a piece. (In this instance, Bos
wasn’t consulting either fighter, just making a
match on behalf of the promoter.) Club fighters
then, says Bos, would do a six-rounder for $150.
For the $50 difference, which he put up, fans got to
see Davis beat Braxton in a war. Davis eventually
fought for the title. Braxton/Qawi didn’t lose
again for years and “went on to become one of the
greatest world champions in the last 30 years,” says
Bos.
Most people, even in boxing, don’t appreciate what
goes into choosing the correct opponent, or as Bos
says, “matching a fighter right.” He cites Tommy
Morrison vs. “Merciless” Ray Mercer (1991).
Morrison was a bankable white heavyweight with blond
locks, a mean left hook, and a 28-win undefeated
record. Mercer was 17-0, possessed an unwavering
style, and had won a gold medal at heavyweight in
the 1988 Olympics in Korea. Some of Mercer’s recent
wins had come by decision, whereas Morrison had 7
KO’s in a row—to Morrison’s management, Mercer
seemed like a good move.
“That was probably the worst opponent Bill Cayton
could’ve picked out for Morrison at that time,” says
Bos. “Mercer’s got a great chin, he was a puncher
himself, and a young guy. Cayton was always around
boxing, he just didn’t know anything about it.”
Cayton, Morrison’s manager, didn’t know the score
because he was just a “money-man,” having made his
fortune amassing the greatest sports film collection
in the world. In the 5th round, Mercer
caught Morrison on the ropes—his arms literally got
tangled—and administered the kind of drubbing that
could leave a boxer eating through a straw for the
rest of his days. After that defeat, Morrison’s
career fizzled, except for a unanimous decision over
George Foreman. So who would have been a better
match for Morrison? “He would’ve been a lot better
off with Larry Holmes,” declares Bos. “And I think
Morrison would’ve knocked Holmes out at that time.
Timing is key.” Holmes had been the heavyweight
champion from ’78 to ‘85, making 20 title defenses
during his reign. He was still a dangerous fighter
in 1991, but not the puncher Mercer was, and a
victory over him would’ve conferred considerable
status on Morrison. A win by KO would’ve likely
set-up a blockbuster fight with either Evander
Holyfield or Riddick Bowe, the two biggest draws at
the time.
As a street kid in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, Bos
learned to con from an early age. An asthmatic, he
feigned sickness when he wanted to, barely ever
seeing the inside of his grammar school (don’t even
ask about high school). On the rare occasion that
he did attend, he was teased mercilessly for a
severe acne condition. He’d get into fights, and
quickly realized he was better suited as an
enthusiast of, than a participant in, the manly
art. But the boxing bug bit him as a child.
His father was a diehard fight fan and watched TV’s
Gillette Friday Night Fights religiously; Bos can’t
recall a time before he watched fights with his
father. By the time he was 11, he was combing the
city for boxing gyms. When asked about the first
professional fight he attended, he replies “February
12, 1965. Hurricane Carter vs. Luis Rodriquez.” To
hear him say it, you’d think he was recalling his
first time with a girl.
By the time he hit his teens, he was hopping the F
train every morning. He’d get off at the Time &
Life building, where he would scour every newspaper
that covered boxing, duly recording salient facts in
his burgeoning boxing file. He consumed boxing
information in this manner for decades, his study
encompassing both current champions and past
greats. One might compare talking boxing with Bos
to talking Orson Welles with Peter Bagdanovich. Bos
possesses not just the dry facts, but the juicy
back-stories, anecdotes and unusual insights that
appear to come so naturally to him. Michael Katz
relates that among Bos’ attributes are his “very
good ears.” Bos agrees, but puts it thus: “Let’s
just say I know where the bodies are buried.”
Once Bos was done with the papers, he’d head uptown
to the boxing gyms that used to populate Harlem and
the Bronx—Jimmy Glenn’s Third Meridian on 125th,
Harry Wiley’s on 135th, and Gleason’s,
then on 149th. (Midtown mecca Stillman’s
Gym was closed by then.) He met other boxing
addicts and gleaned from the likes of Bruce Trampler,
who became the VP for Top Rank and orchestrated
Oscar de la Hoya’s brilliantly mapped out career.
The guy who had the greatest influence on Bos,
however, was the fabled Mickey Duff. Bos credits
Duff as being the closest thing he’s known to a
mentor, and defers to him as “probably the smartest
man that ever was in the business.”
The
son of a rabbi who moved his family from Krakow,
Poland to England in the late 1930s, Duff’s real
name was Monek Prager—his new name was borrowed from
a character in a James Cagney movie. He
learned to box during the war and won most of his
amateur bouts, which numbered over 100. He went pro
at 15, won 61 of 69 fights, and retired at the ripe
age of 19. He turned to matchmaking in England and,
over the course of a storied career, worked with 16
world champions and virtually every world-class
British fighter.
“Mickey would sit down and talk to you, which a lot
of other guys wouldn’t take the time to do,” Bos
says. Duff would entertain him with stories
of his hardscrabble days as a pro. “He used to get
paid in eggs. There was a ration on eggs in London
at that time. It was easier to get eggs in small
towns than it was in the cities. He could bring
them back with him and sell them for a lot more.
That’s how he started makin’ his money.”
Bos narrows his eyes at a monitor across the bar,
which plays an endless flow of classic fights.
Light heavyweights Charlie “Devil” Green and Floyd
Patterson (1970) are going at it. Bos nods his head
at the pugilists and clucks approvingly. “I was the
president of the Charlie “Devil” Green Fan Club when
I was 14!” he exclaims. Like Duff, Green took an
avuncular interest in the young Bos. The boxer, who
had also been a successful club owner, used to
generously slip him money. “Charlie always took
care of me.” While his classmates treated him as a
pariah, these elders welcomed Bos into their
brotherhood.
Accompanying the action on the screen, Ray Charles’
rendition of “America the Beautiful” comes on the
jukebox. It conjures up a memory Bos has from 1969,
a night of “drinking booze and smoking reefer” with
Green in front of Madison Square Garden. They’d
planned to see a fight with former light heavyweight
champion Jose Torres. At the last minute, Torres’
opponent pulled out of the match, and one of the
organizers of the fight spotted Green and asked him
to fill-in. Green obliged unhesitatingly. In round
1, Green splattered Torres—they had to scrape him
off the canvas and carry him back to his corner.
Illegally, Torres was allowed to continue (the ref
never even began a count). Somehow Torres recovered
and knocked Green out in the following round.
Still, no small achievement by Green considering his
pre-fight elixir. Torres never fought again.
“Green is doin’ life upstate for killin’ five
people,” says Bos. “He was a real good
puncher.”
Bos signals the waitress for another Coke, his sixth
in about an hour. Back in the day, when he was
known as “Boppin’ Bos,” he would’ve kept a similar
pace, except the Coke would be complemented by rum.
He took his last drink on November 17, 1986, and
hasn’t fallen off the wagon since.
“Johnny was one of those who drank,” says boxing
historian and Bos-fan Bert Sugar. “And he was
wonderful! He still is, but he ain’t fun
anymore the way he was. And I think he knows that.
But his doctor said ‘don’t drink,’ so he doesn’t.”
Sugar, who once remarked, “I believe being a good
liver is better than having one,” doesn’t just feel
deserted by his former drinking buddy. He believes
that sobriety has worked against Bos’ career. “He’s
no longer the Voice he used to be, because he can’t
corral the ears of the writers who will make him the
folk hero that he should be.” Sugar explains it’s
not only that Bos’ personality has tempered (he’s
still anything but bland), the personality of the
boxing writers has changed, too.
“I sit at bars and talk boxing,” says Sugar—he of
the wide-brimmed hat and cigar variety—“and the
old-time guys do, by the by. The new guys go up to
their hotel room to figure out on their computer how
many flier miles they just got.” More lamentable,
feels Sugar, is that today’s young writers, having
been conditioned in a corporate world, look beyond a
small operator like Bos. “It’s greened to
the point where they don’t remember the
anti-establishment figures anymore. You’re talking
about 30-year-old writers who now speak of [Don]
King and [Bob] Arum as if they are Sprint and AT&T.
These are the monolithic groups. But boxing has
been made of the small guy.”
In spite of the obstacles, Sugar believes boxing
will always accommodate Bos and his ilk, seeing the
sport as uniquely entrepreneurial and lacking the
homogenization of sports that have a major
league—such as MLB or the NFL—where everybody has to
conform to the league’s rules. “Boxing makes it up
as it goes along,” Sugar says, “and it not only
allows, it welcomes a Johnny.”
In
the late 60s, when he wasn’t conducting his research
or hanging out with his boxing cronies, Bos was
hustling for nickels and dimes as a shoeshine boy
(“One time I shined George Chuvalo’s shoes,” he
says, sounding like the rugged Canadian heavyweight
had Laid Hands on him), or delivering the
World-Telegram and The Sun. Ever
resourceful, Bos managed to score writing
assignments for magazines such as Boxing
International. He admits to having been a poor
writer, though, what with all the missed English
classes. Nevertheless, the acknowledgement made him
feel special: “I’m 15, 16 years old and got people
comin’ up to me, all wantin’ me to write somethin’.”
Before long, he hooked up with legendary underground
boxing writer, Malcolm “Flash” Gordon. With help
from his cadre of boxing junkies, “Flash” published
an alternative, mimeographed report called Flash
Gordon’s Tonight’s Boxing Program & Weekly
Newsletter—a pre-cursor to the scrappy boxing
websites so prevalent today. Launched in 1968, Bos
and “Flash” sold it in front of Madison Square
Garden before fights for $.35. It quickly became
the hottest boxing rag around. The newsletter’s
in-your-face, caustic prose took on corruption in
boxing and broke some major stories: In 1977, The
Ring magazine editor John Ort provided
fraudulent boxing records for a Don King-promoted
tournament to be shown on ABC’s “Wide World of
Sports.” Boxing commentator Alex Wallau learned of
this through “Flash,” informed his bosses at
ABC, and the event was summarily cancelled. It is,
to date, one of the biggest scandals in a business
rife with scandals. (Malcolm “Flash” Gordon—“The
greatest anti-hero boxing ever had,” says Bert
Sugar—vanished in the mid-80s; Bos’ last sighting
was in April 1986, at the Mark Breland-Daryl Anthony
fight in New Jersey.)
As his forays into writing didn’t make the rent, Bos
took a job with the post office in 1971 and worked
there for years. Harold Lederman of HBO Boxing fame
recommended him for his first assignment as a
matchmaker in 1977. He landed his first bright
prospect, light welterweight Billy Costello, in
1979. They clawed their way up the division for
over 4 years, gaining 27 wins without a loss, until
they reached boxing’s Promised Land, a world title
belt. From that time on, Bos turned out world
champions like gangbusters.
He was the matchmaker for Main Events from 1983 to
1990 (getting paid by the fight and allowed to make
matches for whomever else he pleased). While at
Main Events, he guided the careers of boxing
immortals Evander “The Real Deal” Holyfield, Pernell
“Sweet Pea” Whitaker and Mark Breland; he gave
second wind to super featherweight Rocky Lockridge’s
career, arranging epic fights when others considered
Lockridge washed up. Meanwhile, Bos matched fights
for Mickey Duff’s champions in Europe, names like
John “The Beast” Mugabi, James Boza Edwards and
Barry McGuigan. He picked fights for popular
English heavyweight Frank Bruno. He’s earned titles
for Germany’s Sven Ottke and Henry Maske. For years
he was the principal American matchmaker in Italy,
exporting American fighters for their champs;
Francesco Damiani and the Stecca brothers, Loris and
Mauizio, can thank Bos for their belts—their
country, for what was perhaps its golden age in the
sport, 1982-1990, can do likewise. Bos moved Gerry
Cooney into his fight with Larry Holmes—it was one
of the hugest, most-hyped heavyweight title fights
in the histroy of the sport. (Actually, Cooney is a
sore subject for Bos, as the common perception of
the reluctant Great White Hope is that his record
was built on tomato cans. Not so says Bos, who
reminds the uninformed that within Cooney’s first 16
bouts he fought a future world champion (at
cruiserweight) in S.T. Gordon, and Eddie “The
Animal” Lopez, who became a top 5 heavyweight.) The
man was doing 26 shows a year—from 1984-1988—at
Harrah’s alone!
The litany continues, and just when you think he’s
run out of names, he slips in, “Yeah, I picked
Tyson’s early opponents.” Offhand, he guesses he’s
had a part in the careers of roughly 50 world
champions. In an uncharacteristic moment of
braggadocio, he downs his Coke, wipes his sleeve
across his mouth and says: “If you look at it, I
worked in developin’ more world champions than
anybody else in the history of boxing. If you wanna
call it braggin’, fuck it! I’m just bein’ honest.
There’s nobody can touch me when it comes to buildin’
a fighter. There’s nobody close.”
Bos made a bundle in communist Europe where,
surprisingly, the TV money for mid-level fighters
was better than in the States—“Guys could be makin’
$2,500 over there for an 8-rounder, compared to $750
here,” he says. When the Berlin Wall crumbled it
nearly put him out of business. “It destroyed the
money value in Europe,” he says. He could’ve sought
security then by working exclusively for one
promotional company and making a steady salary. But
then “you gotta live by their rules,” he growls. “I
don’t wanna go to no office in the morning.” More to
the point, Bos asks, Why should he make a company
millions off his expertise, and never get paid what
he knows he’s worth? He’d rather be independent,
even if that means tougher times.
Some of these tougher times are due to the rotten
deals Bos has repeatedly made for himself. For 8
years, he picked Canadian heavyweight Kirk Johnson’s
opponents. Bos never drew up a contract with the
boxer’s management, settling instead for a
handshake—and the gullible belief that they would
honor his work when the big money came. They
didn’t, and he never got paid a cent. They
dismissed Bos soon before Johnson fought John Ruiz
for his WBA belt last year (a fight in which Johnson
was disqualified for low blows, but still made 7
figures). This past June, Johnson was scheduled to
fight Lennox Lewis at LA’s Staples Center for
another 7-figure purse, but had to pull out due to
injury. Should he have won, his purses would have
increased exponentially.
“Johnny’s just so generous with his knowledge,”
explains Michael Katz. “People call him up and ask,
‘What should I do?’ And he can’t help himself.”
Katz recommends that Bos hire a secretary to screen
his calls, and charge people for his time like a
lawyer.
But Bos hasn’t really learned from his missteps.
“Whoever got screwed worse than I did with Floyd
Patterson?” Bos asks. Former heavyweight champion
Floyd Patterson’s son, Tracey, was a New York Golden
Gloves champion, but few believed he would do
anything as a pro. Bos matched him from his first
pro bout until he won a world championship 8 years
later. It took 46 fights to get Patterson the
title, with only two losses coming along the way.
“Once we won the title, Floyd tells me, ‘What do we
need you for now? Now they can call me. Why do I
need to pay you 10% to get me fights?’” This time
Bos sued. But the politically connected Floyd
Patterson, who had been the New York boxing
commissioner and was backed by the NAACP as a
fighter, was a hard man to beat. On the advice of
his lawyer, who told him he would never win, Bos
dropped his case.
These betrayals sting for more than the money.
Moving a boxer from his first pro fight to the
title—especially one considered a long shot—is like
nurturing a kid “from kindergarten and bringin’ him
through college,” says Bos. And the lower the
expectations, the more gratifying the success.
Taking a blue chip amateur and making him a blue
chip pro isn’t hard, he claims. Much rougher is
taking a no-name kid who seems a potential
“opponent” and molding him into a “contender.”
Recently, Bos has done this with heavyweight Jameel
McCline, who had no amateur experience and became a
boxer in his mid-20s after doing time. McCline was
4-2 when Bos got him, now he’s 30-3-3. (McCline
blew his title shot last year against the mechanical
Ukrainian Wladimir Klitschko; but being a
heavyweight, which, in terms of talent, is the
sparsest of divisions, he will doubtless get a
chance—or two—at redemption.) Bos is used to tall
orders—fortunately, they are his favorite kind.
Tyrone Booze is a case in point. Booze was a
cruiserweight with a 14-10 record when Bos and he
got involved around 1990. Booze had retired from
fighting, but Bos urged him to get in shape and
immediately got him a title shot that had eluded him
for years. He lost a disputed decision, but it got
him a high rating. Then the pair began to make some
serious coin. “Hell, I made as much money with him
as anybody,” Bos smiles. Boozer retired in 1998
with a record of 22-12-2.
Other partnerships were not so fruitful, at least if
judged by wins and losses. Bos picked fights for
Bruce “The Mouse” Strauss, who is distinguished for
getting knocked out in every continent except
Antarctica; he also got stopped in nearly every
state in the Union. “I think I put him in all those
fights,” Bos says somewhat sheepishly. A
charismatic huckster, Strauss drew crowds that came
to see him get starched, in the spirit of audiences
who used to gawk at circus geeks. They even made a
movie about him (“The Mouse”, 1997), starring John
Savage and Rip Torn. Lest you think Bos was
exploiting Strauss, a casualty in a brutal business,
the matchmaker puts a different spin on it.
Strauss, he suggests, was not a victim but a cagey
practitioner of the “sweet science.”
“He was the type of guy you put in there and it
didn’t matter who he was in there with,” Bos says.
“The crowd would never go home disappointed.
Remember, sports is entertainment. And he knew how
to make it work. He actually promoted his own
fights, had his own fighters. He was beloved in his
hometown, Omaha, Nebraska.” Bos continues,
“[Strauss] had what he called ‘the 3-round theory.’
For 3 rounds he tried to take your head off. And if
he saw there was no hope after that, he would get
out without gettin’ killed. Just cause a guy is
losin’ fights doesn’t mean he’s gettin’ hurt. I’ve
seen guys winnin’ fights and get more hurt.”
Bos seldom saw Strauss box in person—the journeyman
had over 300 matches as a pro, often fighting under
aliases like Ruben Bardot to avoid
suspensions—because he’s never been on an airplane.
From an early age, Bos’ mother instilled in him a
fear of flying that he never shook. He appreciates
this great irony, saying, “God, I’ve put so many
people on airplanes . . . I coulda seen the world a
thousand times over.” And being an inveterate city
kid, he never learned how to drive. So he only
makes it out to Las Vegas for historic fights with
special meaning to him, like Gerry Cooney-Larry
Holmes, at Caesars Palace, in June 1982. “This
good-lookin’ broad chauffeured me roundtrip,” he
winks. Another road trip-pilgrimage was made for
Joey Gamache-Julio Cesar Chavez, in Anaheim,
California, 1996. (This would not be characterized
as a “mega-fight,” but it was momentous for Gamache,
and the two have been remarkably close friends as
well as partners throughout the boxer’s career.)
Needless to say, Bos catches every bout shown on TV,
and gets tapes of whatever else he can.
Even though his acumen and experience is widely
recognized in the boxing community, Bos must either
tap into the pool of overlooked local talent or
forage far-flung places for young blood. He’ll
never scoop up that dazzling talent fresh off the
Olympics; those kids sign (sometimes for a million
plus) with powerful promoters like Bob Arum (Top
Rank), Cedric Kushner (CKP) and, of course, Don
King. In lieu of mainstream status he must
insinuate himself in the mix. “Bos operates between
people, floating loosely somewhere in there,” says
Bert Sugar. “He has a fighter, he’ll go to a
promoter; he has a promoter, he’ll go to a fighter.”
Last April, Bos was scouting talent at the New York
Daily News Golden Gloves finals, held at The Theater
at Madison Square Garden. He took notes of the
better amateurs on a fight program. Even at a
fight, with all the gaudy characters and their
bling-bling, he is hard to ignore—“I stay in the
background mostly,” he says coyly. On the other
hand, his look—one part hippie, one part homeboy,
with some pimpitude thrown in—does not scream
“legitimate businessman.” Surely his sense of style
hasn’t helped him when dealing with the suits. Even
Don King throws on a tie sometimes.
“Boxing is fucked,” Bos says, implying that any
struggles he’s had have nothing to do with his
wardrobe. “Crooks don’t run boxing now,
white-collar crooks do. They don’t know nothin’
about it, and they have made it worse for fighters.
Used to be the money was better, more spread out.
Now only a certain few make it.” Illustrating
boxers’ economic depreciation, he explains that in
the 1950s they earned $3,500 to $7,500 on fights of
the week (the “Pabst Blue Ribbon Bouts” on
Wednesday’s or the “Gillette Friday Night Fights,”
for instance). Now, main events on ESPN2’s Friday
Night Fights get only $10,000 to $15,000. “$3,500
then would be like $35,000 today, right? A fighter
could make a livin’ in those days. Nowadays a
fighter can’t.” He speculates that only about 15
current boxers make a “good living.” Evander
Holyfield and Roy Jones, Jr. will make money
forever, but they in no way reflect most fighters’
financial prospects—nothing trickles down. In fact,
the majority of pros live in poverty, holding down
full-time jobs to support themselves and their
families. Another reality that Bos resents is that
he knows of 2 boxing announcers on ESPN2 making over
$200,000 a year. “So a fighter can do 12 main
events a year on ESPN2”—an impossibility, as even 4
showings in a year is extreme—“and make less than
the announcer.”
Of the sundry problems afflicting boxing and, hence,
Bos, there are too many to list here. The corrupt,
“alphabet soup” sanctioning bodies—WBA, WBC, WBO,
IBF, NABF, etc.—and their phony ratings systems
discredit the sport. So do the state commissions,
which are headed by governor-appointed politicians
with no business in the game. Maybe most damaging
to the sport and a freelancer like Bos are
promotional rights. The big promotional companies
have an interest in virtually all the quality
fighters from the time they turn pro, and are free
to structure any type of agreement, for any length
of time. As the promoters’ primary investment,
fighters are often protected; they are “matched
soft,” and infrequently at that. “You can’t make
fights anymore,” Bos complains. “Everybody is tied
up with somebody. The fans suffer for that.”
Bos believes the title “promoter” no longer applies:
“You don’t have promoters anymore, you have [people
putting together] TV packages. A guy will bring a
fight to TV, TV will give him this much. The guy’ll
go to the casino and say ‘I got HBO, I need this
much from you.’ So why’s he gotta promote the
show? He knows what he’s makin’ before the fight
starts.” Bos allows that Don King is more of a
promoter than Bob Arum because he takes greater
chances with “live gates.” He respects King as a
superb publicist, but wonders, “Would he be doing
this without television?” His idea of a promoter is
Tex Rickard, who put on Jack Dempsey’s grandest
fights. Rickard would sometimes build an arena for
the event, as when Dempsey fought Jess Willard
(1919) in Toledo, Ohio. Or for Dempsey-Carpentier
(1921) held at Boyle’s 30 Acres in Jersey City, New
Jersey—boxing’s first million-dollar gate. “You had
to be a promoter then, you had to put asses in
seats”—say, 120, 757 for the Rickard-promoted
Dempsey-Tunney I (1926)—“and you had to get out and
work to do it. Today they don’t.”
While Bos kvetches tirelessly about what ails
boxing, he also has thoughtful ideas on how to
restore it to health. Some of his reforms are
admittedly unrealistic, but they are invariably in
support of boxers’ physical and financial well
being. As others have petitioned, he proposes a
national commission, granting boxers one license
that permits them to fight anywhere in the U.S.
(Today fighters must apply for individual state
licenses.) This would reduce the number of crooked
or inept commissioners, and their minions, in the
game, standardize requirements to obtain a license,
and prevent suspended boxers from fighting under
aliases. He wants 1% of all U.S. TV revenue coming
from boxing—pay-per-view, cable and network—put
towards fighters’ medicals. “Tyson-Lewis grossed
over a $100 million,” he says. “That would cover a
lot of medicals.” Right now, fighters must pay for
them. This, in addition to 33 1/3% for the manager,
10% for the trainer and/or cutman, licensing and
sometimes sanctioning fees, and Uncle Sam’s take,
leaves boxers with a fraction of their hard-earned
purses. He thinks a fledgling pro, with less than a
year’s experience or under 5 fights, who is clearly
not ready for the step-up in competition, should be
allowed to go back to the amateurs for a minimum of
one year. “Baseball has the minors, the NBA has the
CBA,” he says. “Sure, it’s professional sports, but
at a lower level.” Bear in mind, when a
basketball player gets schooled, he’s humiliated; a
fighter’s lesson may result in death.
If Bos were boxing czar, his masterstroke would be
to abolish promotional rights as they exist today.
He’d rule that a promotional company be allowed to
sign a fighter for 5 years at the beginning of his
career. After that, a fighter becomes a free agent
and is able to sign with whomever he pleases—but for
only up to 3 fights at a time or 1 year. This way
“the boxer may have a chance of making some money,”
he says. “If the promoter could only sign a guy for
1 year, he’d know he’d have to treat him fair—if he
expected the kid to sign back with him. A fighter
could go out and make the best deal for himself.
And, hey, if the promoter’s done a good job with
him, he’ll more than likely stay there.” The way
things currently stand, “Promoters want more money
than the fighter, just to let you use them.”
Consequently, we’re not seeing the bounty of
competitive fights we used to. And when they do
occur, fighters aren’t pocketing an equitable share
of the money. Roy Jones Jr. is an anomaly, in that
he’s as shrewd out of the ring as he is in it, and
has bargaining power not enjoyed by other boxers.
There’s an irony in all of this that Bos finds
farcical. He submits Frankie Carbo, Blinky Parlemo
and James Norris—the triumvirate who controlled
boxing in the ‘50s through graft—offered
prizefighters a better life.
During an intermission at the Golden Gloves, L.L.
Cool J’s “Mamma Said Knock You Out” quakes over the
Garden’s speakers. Bos nods his head to the beat
while jotting down a few notes on his fight program,
and places it on the seat next to him. He’s
suddenly swarmed by a posse of diminutive toughs
with flattened noses. One stands on his tiptoes and
has the bearish Bos in a headlock. On closer
inspection, it’s just an unrestrained hug from his
client, Paulie Malignaggi, a Brooklyn-bred
lightweight who’s 15-0. The boxer, keeping his arms
wrapped around him, looks like a cub yet to be
weaned. Bos couldn’t look happier. Close by,
another rugged-looking short guy looks on warmly.
It’s Joey Gamache, who has made the transition from
boxer to trainer and has a promising welterweight
(Chris “The Mechanic” Smith) that Bos is advising.
Various movers and shakers circulate the arena,
talking business and shooting their cuffs; legions
of leather sniffers try to get close to the towering
Klitschko brothers, who have come to receive an
award. Disregarding them all, Bos prefers to hang
with his crew of scar-tissued bruisers.
He leaves the Garden shortly before the last fight—a
pair of 106-pound Lilliputians he’d never make money
on. His studio/office is a close walk from the
venue. It looks as if burglars have ransacked it;
clothes and dishes and tchotchkes strewn
everywhere. Beyond the mess, what you notice is the
endless boxing memorabilia: Autographed pictures,
record books, fight tapes, posters; every scrap of
paper in the modest space—and there are thousands
lying around—relates to boxing. Bos walks over to
his entertainment center and reaches for a pair of
boxing gloves, encased in glass, stored on top of
it. The gloves look old, brown, weary, like a worn
pair of boots. Turns out they were Sugar Ray
Robinson’s. Half-century-old mitts worn by the
greatest pound-for-pound fighter that ever was. He
handles them with the same care as he would The
Golden Fleece. He peers down at them, presumably
reflecting on the genius of the man who wore them.
Or maybe he’s thinking about his own wild life, and
his unlikely encounters with greatness.
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