No Win Race. Derek A. Bardowell

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      The Moscow Olympics followed, my abiding memories being Seb Coe’s sulky face after surprisingly losing the 800 metres final to Steve Ovett, Scottish sprinter Allan Wells running as if breaking down a door in a police raid to win the 100 metres gold and Ethiopian Miruts Yifter ‘The Shifter’, who looked about 50, winning the 5,000 and 10,000 metres double with finishing bursts that Mo Farah would have been proud of.

      By the time I returned to school that September, sport had taken on greater meaning. I would re-live sporting contests in my mind in the classroom, while walking down the street, while eating dinner, and pretty much at most points during the day. My love of sport required no dependency on other people, except of course my father, who controlled the television. There were no restrictions on my imagination. And television was never boring because there was always another major sporting event around the corner.

      In the lead up to the Minter–Hagler fight, Minter had reportedly said: ‘It has taken me 17 years to become champion of the world. I’m not going to let a black man take it away from me.’ Minter later claimed that he ‘didn’t mean it the way it might sound’.³ If it had been a ploy to sell more tickets or gain more support, it was ill advised.

      The rivalry between the two fighters allegedly began in Las Vegas when Hagler refused to shake Minter’s hand. Minter’s stablemate Kevin Finnegan, a former Hagler victim, added fuel to the fire by claiming that Hagler once told him, ‘I don’t touch white flesh.’⁴ These were unsubstantiated claims from a man who had admitted to hating Hagler. Hagler had previously said, ‘I make a point of never shaking hands with future opponents.’⁵ He preferred to shake hands with his rivals after they had fought.

      Minter’s reported racial comment set the tone for the contest. By also wearing Union Jack underpants at the weigh-in for the fight and then entering the ring with an oversized Union Jack and St George banner, Minter did little to subdue the jingoistic atmosphere that had built up at a time when England had been bursting with racial tension.

      England’s economic depression made race relations sink to one of its lowest points. By 1980, England had entered recession and unemployment topped two million. The blame for the country’s lack of jobs quickly turned to immigrant populations, fuelled further by Thatcher’s Tory government and the mainstream press. Demonising blacks and immigrants of colour sold papers, won votes. How perverse. The National Front and their supporters needed no excuse to instigate random acts of violence against blacks and Asians; the people they blamed for just about every problem in society.

      Minter’s words and actions came across as anti-black, not patriotic. By fight night, the contest was not just the United States versus the United Kingdom. It was black versus white.

      With the anthems out of the way, the MC took centre stage. He announced that the fight would be for the ‘undisputed middleweight title of the world’ as if presenting the next act at a circus. The MC then introduced Minter, who wore dark red shorts with a thick white trim. Before the announcer could finish his name, the crowd let out a lusty cheer as Minter, hands held aloft, drifted to the centre of the ring to acknowledge them.

      ‘And from Brockton in the United States, the challenger …’ The crowd dampened the atmosphere with boos before the MC could announce Hagler’s name. Hagler, bobbing up and down and with his head bowed, half-heartedly pumped his left fist in the air, but it was unclear whom he was acknowledging.

      Minter towered over Hagler as they met face to face in the middle of the ring for the referee’s instructions. Some fighters look away, shaking their nerves loose by moving from side to side. Others will stare at their opponent and try to intimidate them. Minter and Hagler barely moved as they gazed at each other in the misty arena. They looked as if they were each about to avenge a friend’s murder.

      Once the bell rang, Minter came out aggressively, hoping to impose his will, but Hagler kept catching him with leaping right hooks. Every time Hagler caught him with a punch, Minter looked distressed. It was like he couldn’t see the punches coming. Within a minute, Hagler opened a cut under the champion’s left eye. This had been common for Minter. Most of his six previous losses had been due to severe facial cuts. Undeterred, the Brit pressed forward, although Hagler’s jerky movements and compact stance appeared to confuse him. Minter offered little movement. His head stuck out like a pelican’s. Every time they exchanged, Minter appeared to throw more punches but Hagler landed the more damaging blows. Minter was bigger and quicker, but his punches were more like slaps than real decisive hits.

      The two traded blows as if in a street fight. There was no rhythm to it, just malice and anger. They’d throw scrappy punches in close, take a breather, and then go tearing into each other again. By round two, Hagler’s slashing overhand lefts and uppercuts were hurting Minter. The American’s shot selection was mesmerising. Hagler could slug or box. He could fight on the back foot or come forward, or from an orthodox (leading with his left hand) or southpaw (leading with his right hand) stance. Hagler’s ability to adapt in a fight was also legendary, so it was unsurprising that he became the aggressor to neutralise Minter’s attacks. The challenger had been winning the brawl, making the champion look amateurish, when Minter caught Hagler with a clubbing right hook. The punch stopped the American from advancing forward and momentarily buckled his knees. Minter had finally derailed Hagler’s charge and he moved in for the kill.

      This appeared to be the turning point of the fight, the defining moment when the contest would be won or lost. Would Minter finish the job? How would Hagler react? I thought Minter was about to knock Hagler out. But Marvellous Marvin was a bitter and determined man. He’d waited years to get a world title. If the hostility of the crowd could not deter him, nothing Minter could throw at him would push him back. As that right hook landed, Hagler probably had flashbacks to his early days fighting in grimy Philadelphian gyms, picking up little or no money. I’m sure he didn’t want to go back to those days. So Hagler came right back at Minter. The American stole the initiative away from the Brit, who was now bleeding from the nose and had a mark under his right eye.

      According to Harry Carpenter, commentating for the BBC, Hagler had said before the contest that the title was rightfully his. In round three, he became the stalker, throwing double jabs with his snaking arms, moving around, always changing angles, never allowing Minter to relax or ease his way into the fight. Minter could not set his feet, which would allow him to generate enough power into his punches to push Hagler back. Every time Minter planted himself, Hagler would either hit him or move out of punching range. Minter’s hands were quick, but his feet and reactions were slow.

      The crowd, undeterred, chanted ‘Miiiin-tuh, Miiiin-tuh, Miiiin-tuh!’ But Minter’s face was a bloody mess. He now had a cut over his left eye. I wondered how he could see Hagler through all the blood. Midway through the round, Hagler bludgeoned Minter with a right hook; the Brit grabbed his face with his gloves as if his nose, lips, eyes and cheekbones were about to collapse. I didn’t know whether he was trying to stop his gum shield from flying out or his face from crumbling onto the canvas.

      When you see fighters in pain or hurt while watching a contest on television, you’re detached. You cannot smell the metallic fragrance of blood. You cannot hear the abused squeals of grown men in pain. You cannot see the saliva flying from the mouths of the fighters after absorbing a punch. You cannot hear the trainers shouting instructions or the audience urging their man to win. You cannot see the fighters’ distorted expressions or the way their eyes roll aimlessly like a metal ball in a pinball machine. But after that shot, I could feel Minter’s pain.

      Soon after, the referee called timeout. He tugged a reluctant Minter to his corner for the ringside doctor to inspect the facial damage. Minter’s face looked like someone had slashed him above and below each eye with a knife. The crowd’s mood changed. Chants turned to grunts. Minter’s father-in-law and trainer Doug Bidwell had seen enough. Bidwell stopped the fight. Minter lodged СКАЧАТЬ