NEVER SO SWEET
Robinson hurt his ankle, which made him seem that much feebler. Then there was Olson. After Robinson’s retirement in December of 1952, Olson won a tournament to become the new champion and proved to be a
marital troubles and that he’d lost too much weight and came into the ring feeling weak. At the time, though, the bewildered Olson could only mumble about Robinson’s quickness. “So fast, so fast,” he said in his dressing room. “It was his fast combinations, and I
perfect, a piece of Hollywood scripting: a champion reclaiming his throne in the very same stadium where he had once been left for dead. The other player in that drama, Jones, was a fading photograph; since beating Robinson, he’d lost three times and disappeared
competent titleholder. He’d been The Ring’s Fighter of the Year for 1953 and feathered his cap further by beating two fighters that Robinson couldn’t: Tiger Jones and Joey Maxim. Because of Robinson’s recent performances and Olson’s seven-year age advantage, only a handful of reporters gave Robinson a chance. Against a man he’d defeated twice before, Robinson was now a 3-to-1 underdog. And then, with many things preying on his mind in a poorly attended fight that few expected him to win, Robinson demolished Olson at 2:51 of the second round. Perhaps it was having a familiar opponent in front of him that did it, but Robinson seemed as sharp as he’d been before his retirement. Bobo forced
from the title conversation. Robinson eventually pulled himself together and commented on the stunning nature of the knockout: “I’m not sure what punch did the damage. I hit him once and he was wobbly, and I kept hitting him – and down he went.”
In recovering his old title, Robinson became the first boxer to win the middleweight crown a third time. The press, who had been so critical, wasted no time celebrating his victory. The United Press called him the “miracle man,” the Detroit Tribune hailed him as “a legend in sports annals,” and The Herald Statesman dubbed him “the 35-year-old living legend.” The entire boxing world, it seemed, was happy to have been proven wrong. But one thing hadn’t changed for Robinson. He was still in debt to the government. Because of the disappointing attendance, his take for the bout was approximately $46,000, which was nowhere near covering what he owed in back taxes. But as Robinson wrote in his autobiography, the deep debts were far from his mind that night. “My tax troubles had begun,” he wrote, “but I didn’t care. I was the champ again.” Robinson would lose and regain the title twice more, but it’s likely that none of his championship wins were as sweet as the night he stunned his critics, the night he wept what he called “tears of revenge.” It was a night he wouldn’t forget, and a night Bobo couldn’t remember.
Robinson lost big to Tiger Jones, who was on a five-fight losing streak.
meant the 35-year-old former champion would be fighting for literally nothing – along with a modest purse, he’d negotiated for 25% of the gross gate, which would be wiped out by the tax suit. Knowing he would keep no money from the bout, Robinson may have been motivated by higher stakes, since a win meant he’d be champion again and in a greater bargaining position for future paydays. Another unwelcome distraction came when Alexander “Lou” Greenberg, an old business associate of Robinson, was murdered in Chicago the night before the fight. Greenberg’s resume included a stint as financial adviser for Al Capone’s gang, while later he served as a government witness during an extortion case that put several of Capone’s men in prison. Years passed, and Capone’s thugs were now free, making their own comeback. Two gunmen shot Greenberg outside a South Side restaurant, about a 20-minute drive from the stadium.
Robinson and Louis had “unwittingly allowed their names to be used by persons of evil design.” Robinson’s wife, Edna Mae, said she was “sad” about Greenberg’s murder, but despite the media’s attempt to connect him to the dead mob figure, Robinson offered no comments. Besides, Robinson had a fight to think about, a contest that many dismissed as a foregone conclusion. Ticket sales were slow – on fight night there was a disappointing 12,447 in attendance. It was Chicago Stadium’s largest boxing crowd of the year, but still far short of what had been forecast. Just four years earlier, there’d been 61,370 at the New York Polo Grounds to see Robinson regain the title from Randy Turpin. Robinson was seen as a fallen idol making one last run at the championship in the same city and venue where Tiger Jones had embarrassed him. The fight had even been postponed a month because
Hours before the hit, Greenberg had purchased 12 tickets for the fight. Greenberg’s connection to Robinson was murky. He had owned the Canadian Ace Brewing Company (originally the Manhattan Brewing Company, managed by Greenberg for Capone), and formed an organization called World Champions Inc. in 1949. Among his collaborators in this venture was Truman Gibson of the highly corrupt International Boxing Club. Hoping to invade the New York beer market, Greenberg gave shares of the company to Robinson and Joe Louis, who were to act as celebrity fronts. However, the New York State Liquor Authority noted Greenberg’s shady past and denied his application to sell beer in the state. The board declared that
Sugar Ray and his wife gleefully check the morning papers.
the fighting by coming forward, but Robinson responded with short hooks, bolo punches, long right leads and by dancing out of range, his feet as nimble as ever. The unexpected climax was vintage Robinson: a blinding left hook, then several more with a flush right mixed in, and suddenly Olson was falling backward. The downed champion remained still for a moment, like a statue knocked from its pedestal. As referee Frank Sikora counted down the final seconds of his title reign, Olson rolled over and attempted to rise. Later, Olson remembered no details, only asking his handlers, “Did I try to get up?” There would be talk from Olson’s camp that he’d been preoccupied with
got careless. It was too fast. I just don’t know what happened.” In the haze of the flashing camera bulbs, Robinson was a mess. Sobs wracked his body for five solid minutes. He had just beaten Olson, but the real enemy was a ghost – the phantom of his loss to Jones that had shadowed him for months. “I call it a ghost,” he said after composing himself, “because the thought of trying a comeback after that beating haunted me.” The victory was a long-overdue funeral for that memory. The final scene was almost too
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