STYLES MAKE FIGHTERS
as a sign of a fighter’s popularity and promotional prowess. Gervonta Davis boxes in Chrome Hearts, Conor Benn in Palm Angels. Ryan Garcia has Gucci robes, and Amanda Serrano boxes in Jordans. Women’s boxing in particular has taken weigh-in day and turned it into a fashion show of its own. In the second half of 1987, the boxing landscape, particularly in the middleweight division, was in a state of change. In April of that year, Sugar Ray Leonard had defeated Marvelous Marvin Hagler in an era-defining – and in many ways, era-ending – classic. By the fall of that year, Hagler had not yet decided upon retirement, but the industry consensus was that he, Leonard and Thomas Hearns had entered a stage in their respective careers when they would only be chasing the most profitable fights rather than singular divisional dominance. The spotlight in one of the sport’s glamour divisions was now moving to a cast of younger talent, including Michael Nunn, Frank Tate, Iran Barkley and Sumbu Kalambay. At that moment, however, no
young contender was garnering as much attention as Olajide. For a one- year period, Olajide was one of the sport’s main characters, a compelling personality with private school eloquence and a look and sense of style made for fame. These days, Olajide still looks like he just stepped off the scale at the weigh- in. In his New York City home, he sits in perfectly tailored slacks held up by suspenders looped over his still-muscular shoulders in a cuffed canary T-shirt. Even his eye-patch, owed to in-ring injuries, is ornate and coordinated with the color of his outfit. His word choice is just as impeccable. “Boxing is a form of expression physically, but also sartorially in the same way,” said Olajide. “I think when fighters dress, they’re freer in expressing their personalities. I think that that wasn’t necessarily the thing back in the
’60s and the ’70s and the ’80s. And then when [Muhammad] Ali kind of like let loose, it made that a lot easier to do,” said Olajide. “I loved that part of boxing. It all started with Ali’s tassels; they were magical to me. Then I saw Leonard with them. After my first fight, I saw a fighter from New York City who was fighting on the same card in Victoria, B.C., named Sanford Ricks with them. I asked him where he got them, and he said they’re all over the place in NYC. I was in NYC for the Hearns-Benitez press conference, and all I wanted to do was shop for the Ali tassels. I got them, came back to Vancouver, and that was my first foray into self-expression. I wanted to do some real ‘out there’ stuff.” The boxing media and fan base gobbled up the “out there” stuff Olajide was selling, but at the same time they didn’t know how to metabolize it. Writers across Canada and the United States fawned over his engaging personality and image but openly questioned why an intelligent Canadian kid with pop star good looks and a
A 21-0 Olajide halted Don Lee during his rise to a world title shot.
knack for modeling would even want to fight in the first place. The reality was that Olajide was able to compartmentalize his passions and express them in a time when doing so was still borderline taboo within boxing. Born in Liverpool, England, Olajide’s family moved to Vancouver and he spent the bulk of his formative years there. Though Canada was in a boom period of talent coming out of both Quebec and Ontario, the scene on the West Coast was still relatively barren. Olajide’s father, Michael Sr., a former pro who began his career in his homeland of Nigeria and fought mainly in the
Olajide alongside Dutch supermodel Doutzen Kroes in 2014.
United Kingdom, opened a gym in Vancouver in 1977, hoping to become a successful trainer. He initially didn’t see his son as being a part of that dream. Michael Jr. spent much of his early years with his mom and sisters listening to everything from Prince and Michael Jackson to Canadian rock like Chilliwack and Bachman- Turner Overdrive. But he eventually grew close with his father as well, as the two bonded over the sweet science. Despite the relative lack of amateur boxing participation in the region – affording young Olajide only 20 or so amateur bouts – the father/son duo created a world-class talent essentially on their own. Though Olajide had some good learning moments in the unpaid ranks, such as his fifth amateur fight against future world champ Greg Haugen, who lived just across the border in Seattle, useful opportunities began to
“That was an extremely aggressive, hateful, destructive thing they did,” said Olajide. “They didn’t say, ‘Listen, you better go get those things. Get it done right now.’ Nothing. Just a wash. ‘He’s not fighting. He can kick rocks.’ That really hurt us in a lot of ways. From that point, my dad said we got to get out of here, because it’s not helping.” Olajide would sign a contract with Madison Square Garden with the implication that many of his forthcoming fights would take place in the Felt Forum (the equivalent of today’s Garden theater inside the larger structure) and be aired on NBC. Though fighters since the dawn of broadcast were often signed based on perceived excitement and marketability, Olajide’s deal was reminiscent of contracts we see in modern boxing where church-and-state separation is no more, and contracts are often tied to both promoter and network.
dry up. He began his pro career in 1981 and had his first 13 fights in British Columbia, becoming a local attraction and garnering national attention, particularly after capturing the Canadian middleweight title in 1985 with a victory over Wayne Caplette. But just as with his amateur career, both lack of opportunity and heavy-handed bureaucracy stood in Olajide’s way. In the fall of 1987, Olajide was set to face former Ring/WBA junior middleweight champion Ayub Kalule at the Pacific Coliseum in Vancouver. Five days beforehand, the event was canceled by the B.C. commission, citing three undercard fighters who hadn’t yet signed their contracts and Kalule’s medicals not being received in time.
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