by Nigel Benn
I came in strong from the start, jabbing him in the face, giving it to him in the body. He was underweight so I knew he had prepared for the fight but I had reserves of power to call on if needed. Sims was stronger than anyone I’ve ever met, including Watson and Eubank, and I had to watch out for his body punching.
At first, I was a little worried that I’d chosen to fight him but then that helped my mental resolve to beat him. In the past, I’ve tended to be overconfident as well as immature against certain opponents.
My left hook exploded on his chin in the seventh round and knocked him spark out. The ref stopped the fight a couple of minutes into the round and I thought, Yes, I’m back!
After the fight, Marvin Hagler (meeting him was like meeting God) came to me and praised my style. ‘You gave him a fucking good hiding. You was good. You was good,’ he told me. Then he pulled Sims aside and told him, ‘Handle defeat gracefully. Respect the guy, he beat you and that’s it.’
The following week, Mendy was due to appear in court on the £65,000 fraud conspiracy for which he was sent to prison. I gave character evidence on his behalf and later visited him inside and paid about £15,000 for his court case. I had also lent him my Porsche which he smashed up. It cost me £6,000 in repairs. I then paid further lawyers’ fees but no money was paid back. I would have stuck by Ambrose 100 per cent but, after a while, I thought this was no longer a wise thing to do. I’d lost a lot of money and I had lent him another £2,000 in prison. It was time to say ta-ta. But it was difficult severing a loyalty that had been so absolute for several years.
My next fight, against Kid Milo (his real name is Winston Walters), who was then reigning WBC International super-middle king, at Brentwood on 3 July, proved to be another turning point for me. Following the fight, Vic Andreeti and I called it a day and, after our amicable parting, I trained with Graham Moughton at Barry Hearn’s Matchroom gym in Romford. Milo had lost to Eubank a year earlier, but only after the eighth round, with a stoppage on cuts. I dispatched him in the fourth. I hit him so hard he could hardly get back on his feet.
I was back on course to challenge Eubank until the tragic fight on Saturday, 21 September 1991 when Watson suffered brain damage in his title contest against Eubank. Watson was winning the fight until the eleventh round, when Eubank put him on the ropes with a crushing uppercut. Nobody was to know at the time how seriously he’d been injured. I was ringside and thought it was right that the referee, Roy Francis, allowed the fight to go on. Michael would have beaten Eubank. I visited him in hospital a few days later and tried to talk to him and comfort his girlfriend. It hurt to see him in that condition.
In October, I announced that Mendy and I no longer had anything to do with each other and that I would not be taking part in over-the-top activities which had been the Ambrose trademark of the past. It had been good while it lasted and at least it was another learning experience.
For my next fight, against Lenzie Morgan at Brentwood on 26 October, I moved up in weight from middle to super-middle. Eubank had also moved up and I still had him very much in my sights. I knew that Morgan would be a tough cookie and that it wasn’t going to be an easy fight because I’d seen him in the States. But I knew I had the power and was determined to beat him. It was a good test for me. It put me under a lot of pressure which I liked and I was pleased with the result, winning on points against a difficult opponent.
A few days after the fight, I spent a little time with Geoffrey Dickens, the Tory MP, filming a campaigning pop video for the anti-child abuse rap record ‘It’s OK to say No’. It warned youngsters to stay away from strangers and featured Mr Dickens and me chanting the lyrics. I was to become involved in music in a much bigger way later on, but for the moment I had to go straight back into my training routine for the next bout, against Hector Lescano at the G-Mex Centre in Manchester on 7 December.
Hector’s nickname was ‘The Dog’ but, as one journalist said, ‘He didn’t come to lie down …’ He hit the floor in the third, though.
After the fight, I was challenged by his manager Mickey Duff to a £150,000 showdown with Henry Wharton who offered to share the purse on a 50-50 split. Duff said his man was the most exciting puncher in Britain. ‘We will put big money to Benn if he thinks he can handle Wharton’s fierce punching.’
I waited a couple of years before proving them wrong. In the meantime, Barry Hearn began talks for a re-match with Eubank, saying we could gross £2 million. First, however, he wanted me to fight Canadian Dan Sherry at Muswell Hill on 19 February.
Sherry, a Canadian, came close to beating Eubank in Brighton in 1991 but lost the WBO challenge after he was head-butted in the tenth round. Hearn said, ‘Sherry has given me aggro since he lost to Chris Eubank and I want Nigel to cork him once and for all.’
Both Sherry and his cornerman Pepe Correa tried to give me aggro at a pre-fight press conference. Both said I would end the fight lying on the canvas. ‘We’re here to whip you.’ When they began haranguing me, I walked off. I wasn’t going to get involved with the loser. The ref stopped the fight in the third.
Chris Eubank, with whom I had been itching for a re-match, kept avoiding my challenge. The WBO recognised me as the number one contender and I felt that Eubank was just a piece of chicken shit to put off the fight. How could he call himself a world champion and be scared to come in the ring with me? I had never turned down other fighters. I was quite prepared to face Iran Barkley again even though he swore he’d kill me in revenge for my earlier victory. But Eubank wouldn’t face me. When he was warned that he would forfeit his title if he did not go through with the mandatory defence, all Eubank would say was that people couldn’t tell him what to do. ‘The only thing I have to do is stay black and die,’ was his smart-ass comment. He called himself ‘Simply the Best’, but I reckoned he was ‘Simply a Pest’.
Dad says my fight with Sugarboy Malinga was one of my worst performances so I can’t argue about that. He told me afterwards, ‘You won it and just thank your lucky stars you had the decision. If it had been my decision, the best you would have got was a draw. But it was one of your off-days and any fighter can have an off-day so don’t worry about it.’ Point taken, Dad! But the judges gave it to me on points, anyway.
Although negotiations seemed to have reached a stalemate with Eubank, he suddenly relented and agreed to a re-match in September. In the meantime, my challenge to Italian Mauro Galvano had finally paid dividends and he agreed to defend his WBC super-middleweight title against me in Marino, Italy on 3 October. As a result, the WBO were forced to drop me from their ratings. My long-term plan was postponed. I would meet Eubank the following year, 1993. With the Mauro fight scheduled, my chance had finally come for a shot at a second world title championship.
16
WBC SUPER-MIDDLEWEIGHT CHAMPION
I wanted to change trainers for my WBC super-middleweight title fight against Mauro Galvano and Jimmy Tibbs fitted the bill perfectly. He had trained world champions Lloyd Honeyghan, Jim Watt and Charlie Magri. Michael Watson had also trained with him and Jimmy was in his corner during his tragic last fight against Eubank.
Jimmy is one of the best trainers around. He had a promising professional boxing career himself until he got into a bit of bother in the early Seventies. Things got a little wild with enemies of his family who were very well known and lived in the East End. Jimmy tried to take the law into his own hands and, unfortunately, by doing so, cut short his career.
Just before he was sent to prison, he’d been hailed as the ‘golden boy’ of British boxing. He had wanted to avenge wrongs done to his family. Someone had tried to blow up a car containing Jimmy and his young son, and there had been other attacks as well. Since that time, Jimmy has reformed. Now he is a born-again Christian, just like my dad, and the pair of them get on very well.
I began training for my fights in Tenerife. Going there removed the distractions of London and the domestic conflicts which arise in most relationships and which can lead to debil
itating emotional upsets. Training is such an intense activity that it is almost impossible to do with a family around you. The Canary Islands also offered a more temperate climate in winter and the opportunity for high-altitude running on Mount Teide.
There is nothing more beautiful and fulfilling than running at an altitude of about 8,000 feet among snow-capped peaks in bright sunshine, well above the clouds. I can retreat into a world of my own, my own galaxy. Just me and my music and, later, the satisfaction that comes from physically punishing yourself. You can clear your mind of all anxieties and problems in that surrealistic ‘moonscape’ where they shot Planet of the Apes, and be at peace with the world. That’s where I get my ‘high’. When I was training for the Wharton fight, Sean, my cook, used to accompany me, driving behind me as I ran past each milepost. I’d run six to eight miles and then increase it to ten and even more. That’s equivalent to running up to 15 miles at sea level. At other times, my father would come with me and drive the car, as would Peter De Freitas.
Back at my beach-front apartment in Torviscas, there was a gym and boxing ring where Jimmy trained me. He was particularly good with the pads and took a hell of a slamming from me every day, brainwashing me with his technique while I hammered away at him. Both Jim and Peter then joined me in the gym, often working out themselves. I listened to their advice, but at the end of the day, they knew that I am the boss. It’s not what they said that matters, it’s what I said. I know what my body can do and how much I should train. If I wanted time off I’d take it without any feelings of guilt afterwards. If I wanted to go to a nightclub and stay out most of the night during my six-week training period, I’d do so. That was my prerogative.
Jimmy Tibbs set up a training schedule — this is it straight from the horse’s mouth: ‘We’re going to start with loosening up and stretching exercises, then do three or four rounds’ shadow boxing with weights on the hands and one round with them off, then four or five more with pads. After that, we’ll do some more shadow boxing, skipping and ground work and have a good loosening up.
‘Weight training will take place every other day and then, for two weeks before the fight, we’ll have a sparring partner for nine to ten rounds per day. We may take it down to six some days. The art of the game is to peak on the night. I don’t worry about an off-day here or there. Just relax and come back again. Nigel’s a mature professional now who can go the distance. He’s a very solid puncher and is physically strong.
‘But it doesn’t matter how strong you are, everyone gets tired, even if you’ve been training for months. A good fighter has got to get through that. He’s matured and grown up and knows how to pace himself and when to let go. He’s a mature professional now. His main strength is his punch but he’s also got smarter. Rather than bang, bang, bang, he ducks and dives and makes a man miss. He can’t keep on taking whacks all the time.
‘He’s intelligent enough to listen as well. Some people won’t be shown things but Nigel asks and, even more importantly, listens when you give him advice. Nigel is a very determined person. If he can get that tunnel vision, that is how I want him. I also like him as a person. He’s got a good heart and he is a very gentle soul really. I know his family and his dad and I can see where they come from and I like what I see. They’re a very honest family. When we train in Tenerife, Nigel is very popular with the public. He takes time out for everyone, old grannies and young kids, and sits down with them after training to sign autographs and chat to them. His dad, Dickson, is also very popular. Everyone keeps asking after him. I know Nigel was very kind to one of his disabled fans, Timmy Matheson, who is a paraplegic. Timmy met Nigel at a charity do and Nigel spotted him and invited him to sit with his mates at a ringside table. He now makes sure he always gets a ringside seat at his British venues.’
Timmy Matheson is a great kid. He’s got cerebral palsy, and I first came across him at a boxing dinner ten or eleven years ago. I saw him with his mum at the back in a corner, and no one was really paying much attention to them. Some people were even walking away from them, and it really got to me badly because nobody seemed to care about them.
I told the organisers that unless he sat next to me on the top table, I was walking out there and then. They brought him over and we have been great friends ever since. He can’t speak, but his eyes say everything. I look into them and know he understands every word I say. When I ran the London Marathon, I did it for cerebral palsy and for Timmy.
A lot of people make arbitrary judgements about what you should or shouldn’t do. That’s not me. I don’t want to die a boring man. I live for every minute. I had several friends who owned clubs and discos in Las Americas and they let me use them during the day to mix music and then invited me to dee-jay in the evening. Apart from being on top of Mount Teide, nothing gives me more pleasure, or is more relaxing, than dee-jaying or working on my own mixes. Sean, my cook and friend, was also a DJ and we did quite a bit of clubbing before the Henry Wharton fight. I had to smile when the press tried to make a feature out of the fact that I had brought my children down to Tenerife for a weekend shortly before defending my title. They said such a distraction could lose me the fight. Win it, more likely! It made me play happy families and kept me inside the flat.
To ensure that I had no other distractions, my girlfriend at the time gave me a present before I left London — a full-size, blow-up rubber doll! She has a good sense of humour and I can reveal that the doll remained folded up in my bottom drawer throughout my stay, although I did offer her to a friend who turned her down, saying he preferred blondes.
I trained very hard for the Galvano fight. The WBC belt was superior to the WBO super-middleweight title and was recognised by all boxing authorities worldwide. I aimed to bring it back from Italy. I was confident of success although I distrusted the Italians and feared they would get up to dirty tricks in trying to retain it. When Jimmy was in Italy with Lloyd Honeyghan, he knocked out Gianfranco Rosi for a European title but the story on the street was that the referee took nearly half a minute to count to ten and only signalled the fight as over when he realised Rosi wouldn’t get up for a week. They also seemed to mess Pat Clinton around when he beat Salvatore Fanni by giving him weight scales which showed he was 2lb over and he took the weight off only to find he was 2lb under at the offical weigh-in.
Winning the title would put me back on course for large purses and bring me closer to retirement. A boxer can only go on for a limited time when he puts his body through a punishing regime as often as I had. Beating Galvano would also create a record in that I would be the only boxer this century to win two world titles outside Britain. Up until that time I had had 35 fights, 33 wins (29 inside the distance) and two defeats.
I would have travelled to Timbuctu if it meant winning a belt, so Italy was quite convenient, even though I hated fighting there. Galvano was an OK bloke, but the crowd was really hostile — they couldn’t take the fact that a black guy was trying for the title, and they started spitting at me, and pelting me with coins. It was just a racist thing. In England, you don’t get that — nobody really cares if you’re black or white, as long as you give them a good show. In Italy, it was totally different.
But it took more than a few jeers to put me off what I had come there to do. I was ready for Galvano big time, and really gave it to him. He got battered left, right and centre. But even after I’d clearly beaten him, the Italians tried to take my victory away from me.
In the second round, I connected with a good, powerful right-hander which split Galvano’s eye. It was obvious he wasn’t going to be able to last much longer. Now, the WBC rules state that if a fight ends inside three rounds because of a foul, the match is declared a technical draw. Galvano’s camp saw the mess he was in and tried to pull him out before the fourth, claiming that I had head-butted him to cause the eye injury. It was just a load of bullshit, of course — I’d punched him fairly and squarely — and the Italians had no leg to stand on, but it pissed me off because it could ha
ve cost me the title.
Fortunately, the ref saw sense, and Galvano’s third-round retirement gave me the match. I was almost ready to cry. I thrust my arms in the air and shouted, ‘YES! YES! BENN IS BACK!’ The Italians didn’t like that much, but hey, I was now the WBC Super-Middleweight Champion, two-time champion of the world. I had plenty to celebrate. Chris Eubank had been ringside, and at one stage I remember leaning over to him through the ropes and saying, ‘Now we can do business.’ He nodded and said he was ready …
I returned to Britain as champion, but for some reason it didn’t really seem as if I’d won a world title. I suppose it was because of the way they treated me, and I really took it out on Nicky Piper in London for my next fight.
Nicky was said to be a near-genius. When we fought at Muswell Hill on 12 December, he entered the ring with an IQ of 153. Let me tell you, when he left it was more like an IQ of 1. He was a big guy — 6ft 3in — and when he stripped down, I had to admire the shape he was in. His muscles were showing much better than mine, and he really looked like he’d been doing his training.
Nicky came from Frank Warren’s stable, so I now had my first dealings with Frank since we’d had those problems a few years back. But we were polite enough to each other, and showed each other the proper respect.
As I said, Piper was a tall guy, and I wondered how I was going to get hold of his jaw. I’ve also got to say he was a strong fucker, and seemed to be able to absorb some heavy punches in that big old head of his. And he managed to hurt me, too, until I got the measure of him. In the eleventh round I delivered a blistering succession of punches to Piper’s head which sent him reeling. Jimmy Tibbs said to me afterwards that he had said a silent prayer when I laid into Piper’s head. He didn’t want a repetition of what had happened to Michael Watson and couldn’t wait for the ref to stop the fight. He’d had a terrible flashback.
