FUNDAMENTALS By Ruth Raper
LOST FIGHT Rocky Graziano TKO 6 Tony Zale » July 16, 1947, Chicago
intervened, and Rocky Graziano, bloodied and exhausted, was middleweight champion of the world. “Hey, Ma, your boy done good,” he rasped into the microphone, his battered face already swelling into the iconic image newspapers would splash across the country. Then came the line that would become the title of his autobiography and Paul Newman’s film: “Somebody up there likes me.” This wasn’t boxing as sport. This was boxing as survival, as redemption, as working-class theater played out in blood and sweat under the Chicago lights. The film may be lost, but the fight remains eternal, not preserved in high definition, but in the darker corners of boxing’s
instinct, he unleashed his signature combination: left hook to the head, left hook to the body. Augustus crumpled with a grimace. “What a battle!” exclaimed Teddy Atlas, who had Augustus up by a point before the knockdown tilted everything. The final round was pure carnage. Both men touched gloves and emptied their tanks, throwing punches with the knowledge that every second mattered. When the bell rang, referee Steve Smoger embraced both warriors, having witnessed something special up close. The final punch stats told
Shaky, dark and sinister – these words describe not just the ghostly fragments of film that survive from Tony Zale vs. Rocky Graziano II, but the fever dreams that haunted Graziano long after. The popular slugger confessed the trilogy would wake him deep in the night, soaked in sweat, reliving his wars with The Man of Steel.
Those degraded reels feel almost intentional, as if nothing about Zale vs. Graziano was ever meant to be sanitized or preserved in pristine condition. This was the quintessential blue-collar trilogy: the Brooklyn street kid against the Indiana steelworker turned war veteran turned champion, a collision of working-class fury that mirrored postwar America itself. No style over substance, no glamour, no pretense, just flesh-and- bone violence that makes today’s carefully sculpted superfights feel almost quaint. Their second meeting – 10 months after Zale retained the middleweight championship with a sixth-round KO at Yankee Stadium – remains the savage heart of the rivalry. Chicago Stadium overflowed with nearly 19,000 fans, many streaming in from nearby Gary, Indiana, to witness their hero defend his title. What they saw from the opening bell was controlled demolition. Zale’s body attack was relentless. Graziano’s left eye swelled into a grotesque bulge. By the third round, Rocky’s face had become a crimson wreck, and the referee draining enough fluid to restore The Rock’s vision. That desperate medical trick brought Rocky something more valuable than sight; it gave him hope. What followed was inspired desperation transformed into pure violence. Graziano exploded from his corner, throwing right hands with suicidal abandon. By the sixth, the shift was unmistakable. Zale, 34 years old and carrying the accumulated damage of a brutal 81-bout career, was fading. Graziano was not. Three vicious right hands found their home, and suddenly the indestructible champion was human, vulnerable, defenseless. At 2:10 of Round 6, the referee issued a grim warning: the end was coming. Then came the moment that altered boxing history and later inspired an iconic scene from Sylvester Stallone’s Rocky movie. Between the fourth and fifth rounds, Graziano’s cornermen pressed a coin against that monstrous swelling,
soul, where the realest battles are always fought.
MUST READ Fighter » By Andy Lee and Niall Kelly (Publisher: Gill Books) Reading Andy Lee’s Fighter is like sitting down with one of boxing’s finest minds for an intimate conversation. Lee’s memoir weaves together some of the sport’s most compelling characters while perfectly capturing boxing’s dizzying highs and crushing lows. Lee’s journey reads like a boxing fairy tale, from a young Irish Traveller learning his trade at London’s iconic Repton Boxing Club to his return home, through the heartbreak of Olympic disappointment, to being scouted by the legendary Emanuel Steward.
the tale: 421 landed for Augustus, 320 for Ward.
FORGOTTEN CLASSIC Micky Ward UD 10 Emanuel Augustus » July 13, 2001, Hampshire Beach Casino, New Hampshire U nder the ESPN Friday Night Fights banner, two junior welterweights stepped into the ring and delivered what would become The Ring’s Fight of the Year for 2001. This was boxing in its purest form – no frills, just two fighters leaving everything in the ring. Ward came in having stopped five of his last six opponents. His corner man and brother, Dicky Eklund, had it right: “Micky deserves the biggest payday out of any fighter today. He doesn’t quit; he gives everyone their money’s worth.” Across the ring
stood Emanuel Augustus (Burton at the time), the slick defensive wizard who had given Floyd Mayweather his toughest professional test to date. Augustus took the fight on just two weeks’ notice. From the opening bell, Ward came forward throwing everything but jabs, pinning Augustus to the ropes with looping hooks and relentless pressure. But Augustus’ cross-guard defense and slick counters told a different story – CompuBox showed he was actually outlanding Ward. Round after round, Augustus displayed masterful skill, rolling with shots, creating angles and firing back with precision. The performance was so brilliant that by Round 7, even commentator Joe Tessitore wondered aloud if Augustus’ work was going unnoticed. Then came the ninth. As the momentum seemed to shift in Augustus’ direction and the crowd chanted “MICKY! MICKY!” Ward reached into the deepest part of himself. Running on fumes and
Yet the judges saw it differently: 96-94, 96-91 and an absurd 98-90, all for Ward. The scorecards didn’t come close to reflecting what really happened in that ring, but both men raised each other’s arms aloft as a sign of respect. Ward would go on to wage an epic trilogy with Arturo Gatti. Augustus finished his career at 38-34-6, a record that is journeyman-like at first glance. But look deeper and you’ll find that the “Drunken Master” was an extremely skilled fighter with a brilliant boxing brain, proof that records rarely tell the full story. One wonders what might have been with better luck or different management. What made this fight truly special was its context. Before Ward and Augustus, Fight of the Year honors were typically reserved for the sport’s elite clashing under the bright lights of Las Vegas mega-casinos. This was two blue-collar fighters in New Hampshire proving that greatness doesn’t need a grand stage.
Lee’s path to world title glory wasn’t linear. Professional setbacks and a partnership with Adam Booth would ultimately reshape his career, each chapter revealing another layer of the fighter’s evolution. What sets this memoir apart is Lee’s ability to illuminate the rich tapestry of Romani boxing culture, a world often misunderstood or overlooked. His time at Detroit’s famous Kronk Gym with Steward provides readers an all-access pass to one of boxing’s most storied institutions, capturing the wisdom and warrior spirit that defined that legendary stable.
Lee is a philosopher in boxing gloves, drifting seamlessly between the brutal realities of the ring and the introspective musings of a man navigating both sport and life. His words never flinch from boxing’s harsh truths, yet they maintain a deeply human perspective that transcends the violence of Lee’s profession. Fighter isn’t just a boxing memoir – it’s a textbook on ambition, identity and the price of greatness.
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