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WINKY
WRIGHT
"Believe me, when he miss, he gonna get a hard one
back"
By
Joe Rein
Fightworld.us Exec.
Editor
Photos by
Armando Cabrera
While more
buildings were coming down than a special FX movie,
and there were sinkholes the size of Niagara Falls
in the worst deluge to drown L.A. in over 100 years,
Don King brought his medicine show to the
Century Plaza Hotel on February 10 to beat the drum
for the May 14 HBO Pay-Per-View
middleweight 12-rounder between Felix “Tito”
Trinidad and Winky Wright at the MGM Grand Gardens
Arena in Las Vegas.
The Century Plaza
is glass and marble, and it costs as much to park as
a ringside seat at the old Garden.
With the aid of
GPS, I navigated the subterranean maze to the
meeting room -- half expecting to run into Hitler
and Eva Braun. DKP roadies had dressed the space
for the occasion: a large black cloth with white
letters shouted Trinidad vs. Wright at the back
wall, extending the length of the table in front for
the fighters and their teams on a raised dais. A
lectern in the middle was the DMZ for the opposing
camps.
There was a
smattering of press that braved the weather,
nibbling at the buffet table and schmoosing for an
hour. It was interrupted by the rustle of chairs
and bodies that usually signaled a bar fight, but in
this case, a media frenzy around Winky Wright.
Wright was
answering the same questions he’d been asked every
day on this press tour from Puerto Rico, to New York
to L.A, and onto Vegas, the next stop. He was as
enthusiastic as being at an in-laws wedding.
Tito was in a
knot of media on the other side of the room, and
questions were being interpreted for him. It was
curious seeing his face round to a smile in
recognition of someone’s attempt at a joke. The
reporters took their cue and laughed along the way
middle management does when the boss lights up.
Trinidad fielded
one hardball query after another: Did he like
baseball? … Did he eat a lot of ice cream while he
was away for two years?
He looked a
little puffy in the face, and admitted to 170. His
hair was styled in short spikes -- very different
from the Grace Jones look he had cutting a
swath through the welterweights.
Than, like
paparazzi scattering at a Madonna sighting,
the swarm headed for a rumbling laugh. The electric
locks of Don King were unmistakable above the
reporters looking like street people asking for
handouts with out-stretched mics. Flashbulbs lit
King up from every angle. His smile was as permanent
as the Joker’s. His Jessie Jackson rhyme
scheme had no breaths, and he pressed the flesh and
made eye contact with everybody in the huddle.
It was
reminiscent of Santa greeting children in a
department store. He did everything but boom, “HO!
HO! HO!”
“Hey, Jimmy, what’s happenin?’ King greeted Jim
Grey, former NFL defensive back and now sports
anchor on CBS-TV, announcing proudly, “He gives
distinguishment
to this promotion.”
Every one of
King’s Trinidad answers was preceded by a flourish
of the Puerto Rican flag as broad as bringing in a
jet on a carrier, and the clarion call, VIVA PUERTO
RICO! VIVA PUERTO RICO! With as much emphasis on
correct inflection to satisfy the most demanding
Latino.
He leaned in
benignly for a photo-op with a slight Asian man, who
was giddy at the encounter, nodding endlessly,
“Thank you”, “Thank you”, as he backed away. It was
as if he’d had an audience with the President.
 King,
with his ubiquitous, hand-painted denim jacket with
more reflective surfaces than a disco ball, and two
Super Bowl-sized rings on his left hand with more
ice than a champagne bucket, one doesn’t expect
anything weightier than, “50 Beautiful Girl! 50!”
Big mistake.
In the middle of
his scatter-gun non sequesters and references to
Bob Arum as “Lonesome Bob,” his genius for
figures, PPV, distribution, grosses, nets, house
records, and generating future events, makes it
clear why he’s so formidable. “They don’t give a
black man credit for having any common sense… only
perverted sense,” he remarks.
Dismiss him as a
clown; he’ll have you for lunch. If there’s
anything fake about him it’s that he’s 25
masquerading as a septuagenarian.
Wright, after the
two highest-profile victories of his career against
Shane Mosley, must relate to Rodney
Dangerfield’s: “I get no respect!” He sat
impassively at the dais when all the press raced to
Trinidad on the other side. Had it been a ferry, it
would have tipped over.
This was the
third leg of the promotional tour in three days and
thousands of miles, and all involved were having
difficulty keeping the act fresh. Like political
candidates mouthing the same speech at every stump.
Winky and Tito are friends, and they said everything
to convince all of the mayhem they would visit on
each other – show “no mercy!”
But these are
elite prizefighters, not hucksters. Their degrees
are in pain, not marketing. They do their best work
in the ring. There was nothing visceral. No ears
bitten…babies threatened.
 “People
always tell me, Wright said, “How you gonna come an
fight when you don’t dislike nobody. You don’t talk
trash. I dislike Vargas some the way he
runs his mouth. It ain’t about talkin’ trash. If it
was about talkin’ trash, whoever talked the best
trash would be the champion. It’s about throwing
punches…knowing how to fight. I won’t let my mouth
do the talkin’; I let my hands do the talkin’.
“Tito’s a great
fighter. He got a good punch, but I’ll be movin’ up
so I’ll get some strength, too. I’m not standing
there to test how hard he hits. I ain’t out here to
show people if I can take a punch…Be stupid to be
knocked out for nothing. I’m gonna dip and dart.
Believe me, when he miss, he gonna get a hard one
back. I’m not no big puncher, but I’m gonna
throw a lot of punches to hurt you.”
King and Gary
Shaw, Wright’s manager/promoter, did their
lounge act of deriding each other and saying what
their fighter is going to do to the other. Shaw,
grey-haired, with a passing resemblance for
Shecky Green, is direct, spare with his words,
and impresses as an efficient CEO, with a solid
board of directors at his elbow on the dais.
King’s opening Salvo was: “He (Shaw) set fire to the
press conference in New York. We take no prisoners
in the City of Angeles. My side is prepared for
war. After we get through knocking out Winky, there
will be a coming together – and he’s the
adversarial promoter. The camaraderie
and conviviality
will be second to none.”
“I’ll let Gary
Shaw have his speech before I go into the
soliloquy of victory.”
Shaw, still
seated, shot back: “Your guy is going down! On the
15th, they’ll know Wright was wrong –
wrong choice to pick. King cut in, “If fighting
you is wrong, then we don’t want to be
Wright.
Shaw pushed on,
“Winky’s not a golf ball and Tito’s not going to be
teeing off on him.”
“If it was about
knockouts, they’d call it knockouts.
This is called boxing.” Shaw paused. He
asked King why he wasn’t heckling.
“I’m pouring
gasoline on you right now, baby!” King beamed,
waving his Puerto Rican flag.
 Shaw
reached into a paper bag in front of him, turning to
Trinidad, “Tito, I want to present this to you to
practice catching. “ It was a catcher’s mitt.
Tito accepted
with a big grin, saying to Wright while they posed
for pictures, “You’re going to have to teach me how
to catch punches.”
Shaw concluded,
“Don gets a lot of bad press. In all my years of
dealing with him when I was COO at Main Events, Don
has always kept his word with me…and he’s my
adversary. Thanks for the opportunity. We’ll
give you the opportunity back.”
The difference
between Shaw and King is light years.
Shaw’s solid and
buttoned-up, a perfect style match-up with Wright.
King’s the scene-stealer. He wasn’t a barker; he
was P.T Barnum. He managed to trumpet the fight,
fitting Cyrano de Bergerac, Judy Garland and
General Santa Ana in the same sentence. He made
hyperbole an art form. You couldn’t make him up; no
one would buy it.
Both of these
fighters, with 94 bouts and 60 knockouts between
them -- are to be applauded for taking on such a
dangerous opponent. Trinidad can knock your brains
out, and Wright can school you and make you look
foolish.
Hopkins was able
to nullify Trinidad’s power; and brave as he was,
Tito didn’t adapt and was pounded down.
Wright, though not as hard a hitter, is equally
frustrating and an opportunist. One lapse and
he rains punches. He’s an offensive counter
puncher, forcing errors with double and triple jabs.
“Make’em fight;
stay on their guard at all times. It’s draining
for’em,” is how Wright puts it.
Wright’s
technically sound – old school -- as well, always
keeps his hands high and tight, and blessed with a
solid chin.
So, can Trinidad
cut off and batter down the southpaw’s defense, or
can Wright outmaneuver and outland Tito?
“It’s gonna be a
chess game … a helluva fight, “ Wright adds. If
people think Tito’s just gonna run in there and
knock me out, they got another think coming.”
Winky’s Mr.
Cellophane. Even when he’s fighting and two stories
high on the Jumbotron, nobody will know who’s in
there with Trinidad. He’s fated to be a trivia
question in 20 years, like President Polk or Jimmy
McLarnin.
The only recognition he’ll get is from the boxers
and trainers who’ll nudge each other, “Did you see
that?
He’s a “fighter’s fighter.” Taking somebody out of
his game doesn’t make a highlight reel or earn
clothing contracts; it wins fights.
If you like the
Sweet Science, you’ll get your money’s worth on May
14. It may not be for a title, but this is
championship boxing. Shaw is right: Wright is
wrong for Tito. He wins a hotly contested
unanimous decision.
****
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