by Nigel Benn
He claimed that all 7,000 tickets to the fight had been sold although this was a little wide of the mark. Ambrose made sure my name was never out of the news. One day he leaked the story that my fists had been insured for £10 million at an annual cost of £35,000. Another day, my £60,000 white Carrera Turbo Cabriolet Porsche 911 had increased in value to £120,000. Mendy claimed someone had offered to buy it from me for that price.
Posters of me shaking my fist with the words ‘Michael, I’m Bad and You Know It’ were posted all round London. This backfired a little as police and local authorities were becoming concerned over security arrangements at the tent in case fans were whipped up into a fighting frenzy. The British Boxing Board of Control said they were watching the situation closely.
With all the non-stop hype, Ambrose was publicly criticised by Frank Maloney, my promoter. He said, ‘They try to outshine the boxers when they really only work for them.’
Ambrose would hold court at the Phoenix Apollo restaurant in Stratford which had become known as the local for the ‘black pack’, a group which included successful sportsmen. The name was a misnomer, however, as we were not all black. Members of this high-earning group included John Barnes, Vinny Jones, Linford Christie, Chris Waddle, Garth Crooks, Michael Thomas, Cyril Regis, Laurie Cunningham, David Rocastle, John Fashanu and Paul Davies. Mendy would inevitably arrive late for meetings and make a grand entrance so that all eyes would be on him. Our photographs, dominated by a large central one of Ambrose, gave us celebrity status on the restaurant walls.
Some of our group would also meet in the West End, usually at Brown’s nightclub, and be ushered to the VIP room upstairs which was frequented by pop superstars like George Michael and Elton John.
If we had it, we flashed it. I showed off my gold bracelets and my £21,000 watch which, to the surprise and initial consternation of the shop manager, I had paid for in cash. He thought he was going to be mugged when I reached into my pocket for a wad of notes. Pictures were taken of me in my designer clothes. Encouraged by Ambrose, I was now spending £5,000 a month on clothes for myself, Sharron and the kids.
Around this time, an offer of $3 million was made by Michael ‘Second To’ Nunn, the International Boxing Federation champion, to fight me but we rejected it out of hand. Nunn was my age and had just knocked out World Boxing Association champion Sumbu Kalambay in 88 seconds in Las Vegas. He was undefeated in 33 fights, 23 of them inside the distance. Ambrose told the press that the American could stick his offer. I would continue fighting for British and European titles before thinking about the World Championship, and by the time I got around to him, his offer would be $5 million.
Magazines were invited into my home and photographs taken of my £10,000 stereo, the Porsche, the jewellery and an Italian-designed oasis of plastic trees which would light up above our double bed. I was described as being a ‘real-life Rocky’.
Variations of the ‘Dark Destroyer’ tag were also applied to me: ‘Rambo’, ‘The Mean Machine’, ‘The People’s Champion’, ‘Mr Punch’. Ambrose’s philosophy was the more, the merrier. Another name could mean another bum on a seat, another ticket, a bigger purse. All news was good news. Yesterday’s news, like yesterday’s blues, would soon be forgotten. Ambrose hinted to the press that over the next few years I would earn £10 million and they loved quoting big figures.
The boxing writers were also having a field day. My style was described as being what the Americans wanted: ‘Vicious, clinical winner … Benn is their kind of fighter, but in embryo, a man with natural gifts who knows that he needs a bit more study before going for broke.’ They said I had been: ‘… brilliantly marketed and promoted — so much so, the Americans have suddenly woken up to the fact there’s a second Big Benn in Britain.’
Just ten days before the fight, I was being lined up for a £1 million showdown with middleweight Mike McCallum, the new WBA champion, after he got a split decision against Herol Graham at the Albert Hall that month. However, the offer hinged on me beating Michael Watson.
The boxing experts were hedging their bets (mostly in favour of me) over the outcome of the fight, although all payed homage to my punching capacity. One wrote, ‘The Benn punch is a phenomenon which happens maybe on six occasions in a lifetime. Backed up by other qualities it makes for an outstanding champion, a Mike Tyson for instance.’
But Michael Watson, who is a good friend, was not to be dismissed. Respected boxing writer Colin Hart, who matched us evenly, predicted a sixth-round win for Michael and told his Sun readers it might be worth a 7-1 punt on Michael. Watson had more experience than me but even so I was the 3-1 on favourite with the bookies while Michael’s odds were 9-4. To win inside the distance I was 2-1 on and Michael 7-1. Former champions Alan Minter, Tony Sibson, Terry Downes and Herol Graham selected me to retain the Commonwealth title.
My trainer Brian Lynch still wouldn’t let me do much sparring before the fight and, on hindsight, that may have been a mistake. He said, ‘Nigel would have liked to but I wouldn’t — and don’t — let him do much. He’s not getting in there having the life bashed out of him … you don’t need to be walloped all the time.’
Others were not sure that this was a good idea and said so. Colin Hart remarked, ‘There’s a tremendous contrast in the way these two have prepared for their £300,000 battle. Benn has sparred only 12 rounds in training, while Watson will have done nearly 60 when he winds up today.
‘Surely no fighter on earth can learn to avoid blows unless he gets the right sparring practice? It’s a method that has been used by boxers from great champions to novices — from Johnny L Sullivan’s time to the present day.
‘Lynch may well be right, but I have a feeling the trainers who look after the likes of Joe Louis, Robinson, Ali, and Leonard would violently disagree.’
Michael had also been training with Rod Douglas, whom I had beaten as an amateur to win the ABA championship.
My fight with Michael was the biggest of my life. There were 8,000 people in the tent at Finsbury Park and all the razzmatazz was beginning to affect me. I was over the moon at the £150,000 purse. It was the most I had ever been paid. However, in spite of all the hype, I always respected Michael’s ability. He was a good boxer with a superb boxing brain and he had more experience than me. I thought I would stop him but it turned out to be the other way.
I had been locked away from my family in preparation for the fight and the day before the bout I wanted to change my hairstyle. I had extensions put in and then had it all pulled back so tight it stretched my whole face. I became so slant-eyed that it would only need buck teeth for me to look like the first black Chinese in the ring.
I entered the arena with all the glitz and glamour of a movie star. I’d told Michael Watson I was bad, and I was looking badder than ever. Michael, though, looked twice my size, built like a brick shithouse. I thought, ‘It’s do or die here.’ Michael was looking cool and collected; I was giving it large, the Charley big potatoes.
We started eyeballing each other, and I became convinced that he couldn’t manage me. I didn’t think he was good enough to fight me — not in the same league. When the bell went for round one, I thought ‘This is it, let’s get started,’ and went for him hammer and tongs. I was throwing big bombs, trying to explode on his chin. I kept on blasting him, but he was covering up well and this went on for three rounds. All of a sudden I said to myself, ‘Fucking hell, nothing’s happening!’
Then, at the start of the fourth, he connected with a whole bunch of head shots that had me on the ropes. I was in real trouble. The guy was taking all my best shots and was still smiling at me, saying, ‘Come on, Nigel!’ I couldn’t understand it, I really couldn’t. I thought I’d had it in the bag, but the man had sussed me.
Then, in the fifth, I heard my trainer call out, ‘Go on, Nige! Steam him!’ Steam him?
How do you do that, I thought. That’s not in any of the boxing pamphlets.
‘Go in there, mate, get in there and steam
him!’
Well, I tried, but in the sixth, I realised I was all burned out. I had nothing left and he floored me with a sharp jab. I just lay there watching the ref count me out, and it was at that moment that I realised I wasn’t invincible. I’d lost my Commonwealth title, and I just thought, What am I going to do?
After losing to Michael Watson, I cried my eyes out. It was like having the whole world on my shoulders. A horrible, horrible experience. I was angry with those around me and my whole future, my world, crumbled before my eyes. With all the build up, the adoration, the adulation, defeat was even harder to take. There was an emptiness, a dark void. It was as if I had finished building the Canary Wharf skyscraper the previous day, only to see it crashing to the ground the next. I was utterly devastated.
Brian Lynch’s public criticism of me didn’t help either. He said, ‘Nigel is stark, ravin’ bonkers … We had the simplest plan, but Nigel threw it out of the window — I screamed and pleaded with him in the corner but he just did the opposite. He certainly daren’t go on taking the kind of head punches Watson caught him with. There’s no doubt we are going to have to do a lot of work on his defence. When it became obvious he wasn’t going to get Watson’s chin, he should have switched his attack to the body to bring Michael’s hands down.’
To this day, I don’t know what Lynch meant by ‘Steam him, Nige.’ As I said, I couldn’t find it in any of the manuals and I think he would have done better to keep his comments to himself. I was upset and humiliated, but Michael deserved praise for what he had done. I paid the price for making mistakes. Every time I threw a punch, Michael seemed to know it was coming and countered me.
My brother John said, ‘I knew Nigel would lose after round one. At that time, he had built such a reputation he was playing too much to the crowd. There was too much of the “I can knock out anybody” syndrome. A lot of that I put down to Ambrose. And his hairstyle didn’t help in the least. It contributed a lot to his face swelling up because his skin was pulled back so tightly. It was all done for image and was totally unnecessary. In addition to that, he’d spent four hours in a chair having his hair plaited.’ I suppose he was right. A lot of things contributed to my defeat that night — maybe my image was one of them.
Michael said he had respected me so much that he had trained like a maniac. ‘I expected Nigel to make an explosive start but never realised just how fast he is. I felt the power of his punches on my gloves and I knew I couldn’t take the risk of dropping my guard for a second. I knew I had to bide my time and, although I was dazed for a moment in the third round, I never let him land a clean shot on my chin. I did resent it that Nigel was getting all the publicity when I knew I was the better man. But I’ve got to hand it to him that, without Nigel and his image, I wouldn’t have got this fight or the fortune that goes with it.’
Mickey Duff offered me advice for a comeback. Out would go my flamboyant management led by Ambrose Mendy; out would go trainer Brian Lynch’s revolutionary approach to training based on a minimum of sparring; out would go the Hollywood-Rocky-style razzmatazz on big-fight nights. He also said he wouldn’t let me fight for six months.
For my part, there were only two things I could have done: pack in boxing or start again. I thought long and hard and decided that losing was not going to be the end of the world, despite how I felt at the time, and that other people had lost and bounced back to become world champions. This is what I would do. Furthermore, it had become apparent that my previous victories, because they had been so decisive, had given me a limited round experience in the ring. That would now change.
Ambrose was not to be thwarted. The day after my defeat, he announced that my next fight would be in America in September and that American TV were sufficiently impressed by my defeat to feature my comeback. He said they would put up the money for me to meet a top-ten-rated fighter.
The news didn’t lighten my burden. I knew it would be a long, hard slog back to the top. Yet, in a way, it was a blessing in disguise. It brought me firmly back to earth with one gigantic thud!
12
MIAMI
Defeat had weighed heavily on me and I was still licking my wounds after the Watson fight as I settled into my suite at the Doral Hotel at the end of July 1989. Miami smelled good. This was my first day and the palm trees, pools and tropical heat were uplifting. They softened the empty feeling in my stomach, brought on by this self-imposed exile away from my family and friends. I knew my destiny was here. This was going to be the springboard for my comeback.
My thoughts were thousands of miles away when the telephone rang. ‘Nobody knows I’m here,’ I thought, puzzled. Who could it be? The voice was husky and borrowed heavily from the casting couch technique. ‘Hello,’ it purred. ‘I saw you come in.’ There was a deep sigh, and the voice continued with a soft growl, ‘I like you. I want to make love to you. I want to do things to make you tremble…’
My face lit up. A cheerful grin spread slowly from ear to ear. My eyes sparkled. Hey, this sounds like fun. I’ve not even been here five minutes and somebody’s already got my number and is doing the chat. Must be the gear I’m wearing. Americans like style. This lady’s impressed. Things ain’t going to be so bad after all!
The voice got steamier and the suggestions more obscene. ‘What’s all this about?’ I asked, getting more interested by the second. I invited the caller to come up to my room.
The voice changed. ‘I can’t. You might not like what you see.’
The penny dropped. I suddenly realised the voice belonged to a bloke. My horny admirer was gay! I shouted out for a friend of mine: ‘Graham, Graham!’
I was panicking. Everything happens in America. Something was going on here and I didn’t like it. I wanted Graham to get me out of there. If this geezer came up I was going to throw him off the sixth-floor balcony.
The door to my suite opened and I was fuming. I was totally on edge. As far as men were concerned, I was a virgin and aimed to stay that way. The voice walked in. He was the hotel waiter. I’d never seen a black guy dolled up the way he was. His nails were more manicured than Princess Di’s, he had a gold tooth and bounced along with a dainty step. I was ready to give it to him but definitely not where he wanted. I was going to gouge out his eye and mash his head. But he was so friendly and cheerful that, once he saw the situation was hopeless, we got on really well. He then filled up the mini-bar and said, ‘I just put that in there for free,’ and began telling me about his conquests. I didn’t want to know that he found his black lovers too coarse and rough!
Ambrose had also come to Miami to settle me in and speak to promoters. He’d tried to cheer me up and help me to get over my post-Watson blues. Immediately after the fight, we had travelled to Jamaica for a week to attend the International Boxing Federation conference. Ambrose was his outrageous self and nearly got us involved in a fight with a taxi driver who looked like a tough Yardie. He’d asked for more than $20 for the fare, and Ambrose gave him less, and said, ‘Take it or leave it, you ain’t getting no more,’ and took his shirt off. He was ready to fight for his principles. However, when the cabby called his bluff by removing his own shirt, Ambrose began talking his way out of it. He tried scaring the guy by telling him that we were both top boxers with the IBF and, fortunately for him, it worked.
The taxi driver said he was not going to fight another black man and backed down. Had he wanted to do so, however, he could have torn Ambrose apart. And I would have loved nothing better than seeing Ambrose prance around like Sugar Ray Leonard. We had a good week out there and I remember going sunbathing on the beach and later wondering what the hell I was doing it for when I already had a good tan. After lying in the sun, I looked blacker than the ace of spades.
After the Watson fight, I’d spent a week in the West Indies, and coming back to London was painful. I had to live with the constant reminder of my defeat as I gathered together my belongings and packed for Miami. I would be starting a new life and saying goodbye to Sharron and my kids
so that I could concentrate on my comeback in the USA.
I told the press that I was going back to basics and turning away from all distractions to put myself on course for the world title. I told them I had been a real wally and fought like a berk against Michael Watson, but now I had learned a lot about myself and was so disgusted with watching my performance on television that I didn’t want to be seen outdoors. It was like a nightmare haunting me. I needed to learn to move differently, fight more rhythmically and work out how to handle clever boxers like Watson. Out would go the hangers-on around me and the jet-set lifestyle and other temptations to which I had always been so partial.
Brian Lynch could have taken part in my comeback but he chose not to come to America with me. To improve technichally, I wanted someone with more experience in the ring than him. He could join me as my trainer to condition me but I wanted Vic Andreeti, who lived in Miami, to train me in fighting techniques. Vic, who was also from the East End of London, was the undefeated British light welterweight champion in the Sixties and had emigrated to America. He could also provide top sparring partners for me at Fifth Street gym in Miami where boxing greats like Muhammad Ali, Joe Louis and Sonny Liston had trained.
A week before I left, Ambrose was charged with conspiring to defraud banks and financial institutions. This was one more nail in the coffin that would eventually drive us apart.
When we left, I was like a dog with its tail between its legs. I had to make a fresh start and I was determined to put everything I had into training. I was convinced I had more to offer. Nigel Benn, trained soldier, would kick ass again. I had more ambitions to fulfil and one defeat was not going to make me stop. As I said, my loss may well have been a blessing in disguise. Had I gone on to beat Michael I might have messed things up with a world title. Now I was at at a major crossroads in my career.
