Irish Thunder

by Bob Halloran

  In his first Atlantic City fight, he knocked out Chris Bajor in the third round. That was in January 1986. Fourteen days later, he beat Michael Peoples in a lopsided four-rounder that went the distance. That was the first time Richie Bryan made the long trip to Jersey. He and Mike Thyne arrived late and discovered that the fight was sold out. They had made the trip for nothing, or so they thought. They were then surprised by the generosity of a stranger.

  “We’re standing outside, and some cowboy from Texas says ‘How you doing, boys? You want a ticket? You want to see the fight?’ We said, ‘Yeah, you got extra tickets? How much?’ He says, ‘They’re on the house. Take ’em. Have a good time.’”

  Richie and Mike got inside the Resorts International Hotel’s ballroom just in time to see Micky walking down the aisle on his way to the ring. Richie had an even better seat for his next trip to Atlantic City, but he also had added responsibilities.

  Working the corner with Dickie was supposed to be one of Micky’s friends, Lance Taylor. When Lance didn’t show up, Micky grabbed Richie and said, “C’mon, you can do it.” And that was the first of some twenty-five fights during which Richie worked the corner for Micky. Richie had no experience, but the primary tasks for the second man in the corner are mostly just making sure that the water bottle is full and that the spit bucket is nearby. Richie could handle those tasks.

  Richie and Micky met for the first time when they were ten years old, but they traveled in different childhood circles until they started hanging out in high school. Richie had to ignore the advice of many who told him, “The Wards are crazy! What the hell are you hanging around with one of them for?”

  By the time Micky turned pro, Richie started going to the Bullseye Boxing Gym with him every day. Since he had never boxed before, Micky, Dickie, and old-timer Ouchie McManus started teaching Richie a few things. Richie gained enough confidence and got in good enough shape that he started talking trash. He’d pound the heavy bag for eight to ten rounds, appraising his performance and announcing a fictional fight much the same way every day, “Oh, he’s got Ward on the ropes! Oh, and Ward’s down again!”

  Micky listened to this good-naturedly for about two weeks before he invited Richie into the ring with him for a sparring session.

  “He kicked the shit out me for two rounds,” says Richie, who at that time outweighed Micky by about forty pounds. “I was so tired. I couldn’t believe it. It was a whole different level.”

  Micky took his fighting, his training, his profession very seriously. The rest of the time was spent searching for fun. After winning his sixth fight in a row at the start of his career, Micky was back in Atlantic City getting ready to fight Luis Pizzarro. Richie, Tony, and Micky drove down together the day before the fight, but another close friend, Dave Mendoza, had to work. He finished his shift, left at midnight, and arrived at Micky’s hotel room at eight o’clock in the morning, just as the guys were heading down to breakfast. Dave decided he’d crash in the room for a while and meet up with the group later. That was Micky’s opportunity.

  When the three friends got down to the lobby of the Trump Casino Hotel, Micky stopped to talk to a security guard and complained that there was a strange man in his room.

  “I don’t know who he is or how he got there,” Micky told the guard, “But I want him out.”

  Micky turned to his other friends and said, “Now, let’s go get something to eat.” A few minutes later, hotel security had awakened Dave Mendoza and was forcibly escorting him from the room. Fortunately for him, Boss Bergeron, still Micky’s manager, was staying in a nearby room. He heard the commotion and came out to see what it was all about. He was able to vouch for Dave, and the whole matter was quickly dropped.

  Twelve hours later, Micky was in the ring with Pizzarro. Mendoza was there cheering wildly for his good friend who had pulled the prank that nearly got him arrested.

  This was a wonderful time in Micky’s life. He was enjoying success as a boxer, hanging out in Atlantic City with his friends, and gaining national acclaim. His first fight on ESPN was just his third pro fight, against Chris Bajor. This bout with Pizzarro would also be telecast on ESPN in front of a national audience. Here was a chance to increase his fan base outside of Lowell and also a chance to impress promoters, matchmakers, and potential opponents. Every win came with the promise of bigger paychecks down the road.

  Micky entered the ring wearing blue trunks. He was sweating only slightly from his pre-fight warm-up. He looked confident and loose. Dickie climbed between the ropes right after him wearing tight white slacks with a red T-shirt that read BULLSEYE BOXING on the back. Pizzarro, a young fighter from Rio Grande, Puerto Rico, was fighting for the first time in the United States, and for the first time in three years. He came in with a professional record of 9-1 with seven knockouts.

  By the third round, Micky forced Pizzarro against the ropes but was unable to seize the advantage. Pizzarro counterpunched effectively. Micky assumed a southpaw stance, and while Pizzarro bobbed his head and threw with both hands, he stood stone still, absorbed the punishment, and waited.

  “Since he turned lefty, this has been a disaster for Micky Ward,” ESPN announcer Al Bernstein said.

  Finally, a left hook hurt Pizzarro. From the same motionless, almost lethargic position in which he was taking Pizzarro’s best shots, Micky’s shoulder rotated smoothly and efficiently, and with a short, circular, chopping motion, he snapped a left hook, and the punch landed cleanly on Pizzarro’s jaw. Micky followed that with an explosive straight right hand. Pizzarro was in trouble.

  There was about a minute to go in the round, and both fighters starting wailing away in the corner. Pizzarro threw wildly and continually out of desperation. Micky threw measured, accurate punches, sensing that he could put his opponent away with one more clean shot.

  “He nails Pizzarro and sends him down,” Bernstein announced. “A big uppercut and a straight right. Luis Pizzarro wobbles to his feet. That’s it. Ted Pick has seen enough, and Luis Pizzarro is a knockout victim here in the third round.”

  Seven pro fights, seven wins, six knockouts. This was an impressive start to any boxing career. Regardless of the quality of his opponents, Micky was dominating, and he was entertaining. ESPN, Top Rank promotions, and others were taking notice. They would not only pay close attention to the young star on the rise, they would also try to cultivate his career and his confidence.

  Micky fought a staggering nine times in 1986, improving his record to 11-0 with eight knockouts. But Micky knew the journey to a title fight would take years. He would have to be patient, trust his handlers, and continue to be successful. He took any fight that was offered, showed up in shape, and gave everyone reason to believe that finally a kid from Lowell might one day be wearing a championship belt. Life had been hard for Micky Ward. But right now, life was good.

  The last of his string of Atlantic City fights was against the lightly regarded Rafael Terrero on the Fourth of July 1986. Micky had had a chance to see him when they both fought on the same card three weeks earlier. On June 15, Micky had outpointed Ken Willis in a six-rounder, while Terrero lost the fourth of his five pro fights to then undefeated Henry Hughes.

  Although Terrero was from Jersey—Union City—out-of-state Micky was the crowd favorite. Cleo Surprenant did his part, as always, selling tickets out of the Highland Tap. Bus trips were organized, and about 450 people made the trip down from Lowell to see if Micky could knock out another one. He had already won six of his first eight pro fights by knockout.

  The referee for the bout was Steve Smoger. He came out in a bow tie, blue shirt, tight pants, slicked-back hair, and a mustache. “I expect you both to obey my instructions,” he told the fighters at the center of the ring. Both men nodded and returned to their corners.

  Dickie was there in tight white slacks and a black T-shirt, this time bearing the words MICKEY WARD BULLSEYE BOXING, LOWELL, MASS. on the back. Micky had been training for the past year at Bullseye Boxing and “Mick
ey” was the way his name was mistakenly spelled for the first several years of his career. Once the error was made, posters were printed, newspaper articles were written, and even Dickie’s clothing confirmed it. Micky’s name was unofficially and unintentionally changed. He didn’t mind, at least not enough to speak up at the time. That would come later.

  Micky was wearing blue shorts with white trim, looking every bit of his youthful twenty years. Dickie inserted Micky’s mouthpiece. The bell sounded. And the warrior went back to work.

  Micky began with a few jabs and some active footwork. He had a light bounce in his step, but he was only throwing one jab at a time, no combinations. This was the feeling-out process. Finally, two minutes into the round, Terrero, who hadn’t landed a punch yet, learned that he was in a fight. Micky connected on a straight right and then snapped off a stirring combination of left and right hooks to the head and body.

  “Doing good, doing good,” Dickie said to him between rounds. “When you go in there, throw the jab, keep your hands up. Throw the left hook, double left hook.”

  Dickie pantomimed what he wanted and concluded by asking Micky how he was feeling. “Good,” was all Micky said.

  The second round was sloppy and concluded prematurely. Without any noticeably hard punches thrown or landed, midway through the round, Terrero was done.

  “Something’s wrong,” ESPN boxing broadcaster Al Bernstein said. “He’s quitting. He may have been hurt.”

  Micky and Terrero had gone into a clinch along the ropes, and Smoger separated them. At that time, Terrero pointed to his right cheek, waved his right hand, indicating he could not or would not continue, and walked slowly toward his corner. Smoger hadn’t called the fight, and Micky would have been well within his rights to clock Terrero, but in a show of good sportsmanship and confusion, Micky just dropped his hands and watched Terrero go by.

  Smoger jumped in, pointed Micky to a neutral corner, and got right up in Terrero’s face.

  “Do you want to keep fighting or not?”

  Terrero shook his head “No.” And the fight was over.

  Micky recognized what had just happened and walked calmly over to his corner where Johnny Dunn and Boss Bergeron each took a hand and began cutting the tape off Micky’s gloves. Micky’s mother was quickly up on the apron of the ring, taking pictures.

  Ring announcer Michael Buffer grabbed the microphone and announced: “Here’s the official end of this bout. It ended at 1:12 of the second round. Referee Steve Smoger stops the bout. What happened is there’s a possible fractured jaw on Rafael Terrero. The winner and still undefeated, Micky Ward!”

  Terrero was unable to close his mouth and was taken to the hospital. Micky tried to explain what happened.

  “I threw two left hooks in the first round. The first one caught him, and the second one caught him. Then I went downstairs to the body, and we clinched up and blood started dripping from his nose. I came in leading with the right hand. When I caught him the first time, he dropped his hands and I caught him again. I didn’t want to go too quickly because he didn’t look all that hurt. So, I just took my time.”

  Apparently, one of those two left hooks in the first round fractured Terrero’s jaw. He tried to continue, but it would have been futile to go any further. He couldn’t win the fight, and his face hurt.

  Dickie offered this assessment of his brother’s performance, and of his own past performance, “He’s calming down. He ain’t doing no showboating. He does everything that I didn’t do. He trains hard. He does all the right things. He’s gonna go all the way.”

  Five weeks later, Dickie was arrested for assault and battery on a police officer and disorderly conduct. It was his tenth arrest and the third that year, for when he wasn’t helping Micky train, even sparring with him regularly, Dickie was still finding trouble on a regular basis. He was also arrested for assault on January 16, 1986, six days after Micky knocked out Chris Bajor in Atlantic City, and eight days before Micky won a four-round decision against Michael Peoples, also in Atlantic City. In March 1986, Dickie was arrested for larceny and given a suspended sentence. In April, Micky knocked out Darrell Curtis at the Trump Casino Hotel in Atlantic City. Dickie was always in Micky’s corner on fight night. In between, he had his own life to live, or rather, his own life to destroy.

  “I was fine,” Micky says. “But that was the drugs. When you’re doing that, nothing else matters. Dickie thinks he helped me early in my career, but he didn’t. He held me back.”

  Micky explains, “I didn’t know if he was coming or not. It’s weird. You want to have everything working for you as a boxer, best training conditions, best diet, best people, no distractions, and I never really had that. I would have fired Dickie if he wasn’t my brother. I kept him with me, because my mom kept telling me, ‘Oh c’mon, he’s your brother.’ But I never knew if he was going to show up for a fight, or worse if he was going to show up drunk or high or something.”

  Dickie never did show up stoned for a fight, but he arrived a few times after having been up for three-straight nights, and Micky couldn’t understand what he was saying in the corner between rounds. Those nights, Micky might have been better served to send Dickie home, but he never did.

  “He’d come into the gym after getting wrecked for a week, and he’d be like new,” Micky says. “Once he stepped in the ring, he still had it. He was tough. We’d go at it 100 percent when he sparred with me. I knew he was trying to hit me hard, so I had to go right after him. I even knocked him down a few times later on. Sure I was pissed at him for a lot of stuff, but that didn’t really matter in the ring. There, we were just fighting. Somebody hits you, you want to hit them back harder. Dickie knew that.”

  Dickie also knew firsthand the dangers of excessive drinking and drug use. It had ruined his career and killed his dreams. He truly believes he could have been a champion if he had stayed clean. There was no denying his work ethic. He could out-train just about anybody, but when he wasn’t training, he was jumping off track. Still, he never lectured Micky or told him to stay away from the drug scene.

  “He couldn’t tell me anything,” Micky says. “I stayed away from that scene growing up because I saw what it was doing to people around me. I mean I tried a little pot, and I would have a few beers, but that other stuff was real bad. No, Dickie never told me to stay away from it.”

  Micky stayed straight. He was on an upward path. It was impossible, however, to tell how far Micky could go based on his abridged battle with Terrero or any of the other fighters that he had dominated in the first fourteen months of his career. Once the tomato cans were out of the way, Micky was presented with his first significant test. He fought Johnny Rafuse at the Lowell Auditorium on August 29, 1986. Even though Dickie had been arrested for assault and battery on a police officer and disorderly conduct only eighteen days earlier, he would accompany Micky into the ring that night; however, Richie Bryan would not.

  Gerry Callahan, writing for the Lowell Sun, told the story under the headline MICKY DELIVERS ON HIS PROMISE:

  It was concentration time. Micky Ward was sitting in his dressing room, trunks on, gloves on, robe on, jabbing at himself in the mirror, rolling his head around, his neck muscles were loose. His manager and trainer, brother Dick Eklund was going over some last minute instructions. Richie Bryan, one of Eklund’s helpers, and Ward’s buddy, asked him if he needed anything. Ward wasn’t really listening to anyone. It was concentration time. There was a knock on the door. It wasn’t time to go just yet. Someone wanted to talk to Richie. It was bad news. The most important thing to this trio in the past month didn’t seem important anymore. Richie’s father was dead.

  “I was really down,” Ward said. “I had trouble getting up again. But I told Richie before he left, ‘This one’s for your father.’ I was dedicating this fight to his father.”

  Richie was the youngest of seven children. His mother was a Lowell rarity. She didn’t drink, smoke, or swear. His father was different. Richie fondly r
efers to his dad as a “screwball,” but is quick to point out that his dad stopped drinking right before he was born and stayed sober for about sixteen years before starting back up again. He’d been sick for quite some time, and his death at the age of sixty-seven didn’t come as a big surprise. Still, the locker room turned somber. A close friend was hurting, but the fight had to go on.

  The Rafuse encounter would be Micky’s eighth fight that year, but this time he’d be coming home to face a kid he knew well, a kid from Malden, a few towns over, a kid who was 12-2. Finally, after nine pro fights, Micky would be challenged by a fighter who shared the same dream of one day getting a shot at the light welterweight title. Johnny Rafuse was a good fighter and a capable threat to Micky’s unblemished record.

  The fight was on Labor Day weekend, and it was the first boxing show ever promoted by Al Valenti, who was determined to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps. Anthony “Rip” Valenti fell into the sport of boxing, literally. Back in 1920, Rip was nineteen years old when he tripped over a boy sleeping outside his home in the North End of Boston. The boy, Sammy Fuller, had been thrown out of his own house by his stepfather. Rip unofficially adopted him, gave him a home for the next nine years, and then helped manage his boxing career. Fuller, already a fairly polished fighter when he was thirteen and homeless, went on to claim the world junior welterweight title in 1932, beating Jackie “Kid” Berg in a split decision at Madison Square Garden.

  Rip Valenti lost money on most of the fights he promoted, especially through the Great Depression, but he finally struck it big in 1985 when he was given twenty-two closed-circuit locations throughout New England for the Marvin Hagler-Thomas Hearns fight in Las Vegas. Rip grossed 1.8 million dollars that night. He was eighty-four years old and died eight months later.

  Eight months after his grandfather’s death, Al Valenti was ready to pick up the torch. It made him feel good to walk around the corner from the Boston Garden, turn down Canal Street, and look up to see Valenti Way. The street was named in memory of his grandfather, a man who left a legacy in Boston and in boxing. Canal Street is where the Valenti Ticket Agency stood for decades. It’s where Rip had once promoted the only heavyweight championship fight ever held in Boston, when Joe Louis knocked out Al McCoy of Waterville, Maine, in 1940. Nearly five decades later, Al Valenti was determined to keep the family legacy alive. He knew he’d never regret getting involved with Micky Ward. After all, Rip had always told him to find a white Irish kid who could fight.