Irish Thunder

by Bob Halloran

  Valenti received his indoctrination into boxing when he chased the footsteps of his grandfather to the Garden Gym to see Tony DeMarco, Joe DeNucci, and “Irish” Tommy Collins. He loved being around the boxers, and he loved the adrenaline rush that surrounded the sport.

  He got into it, first when he helped his grandfather with the closed-circuit portion of the Hagler-Hearns fight, and then when Bob Arum handed him five thousand dollars to promote the Ward-Rafuse fight in Lowell. Arum owned and operated Top Rank, Inc., and he needed someone with local connections to fill up the auditorium. It was the first time in two years that ESPN broadcast a fight in Massachusetts, and what the network wanted was a sold-out show. They didn’t quite get it. Although having Micky involved certainly helped, Valenti was only able to sell about two thousand of the three thousand available tickets. Still, it was an exciting night.

  “That was the first televised event out of the Lowell Auditorium,” Valenti says. “And the Lowell Auditorium, in boxing circles, is probably the Caesars Palace of New England. It’s a great old building. It’s a circular building with no obstructions, no bad seats. And everyone in the building is literally on top of the ring. Plus, because it’s Lowell, you’ve got that history. The Golden Gloves started there in the thirties.”

  And there were three local guys in the ring that night. Ward, Rafuse, and the referee, Tommy Collins, another fighter that Rip Valenti had taken in off the streets. He started out as a popular street kid and club fighter and went on to win the New England featherweight title in 1951. Collins retired after seventy-two professional fights in 1954 and became a court officer at the Middlesex County Courthouse in Lowell.

  Collins appeared to revert to his club-fighting days during the third round when he failed to separate the fighters during a clinch. In apparent frustration, he bear-hugged Rafuse from behind and threw him forcefully back against the ropes.

  “What was that all about?” ESPN announcer Al Bernstein wondered during the broadcast. “I have never seen a referee manhandle a fighter like that before, and I’ll tell you what, I hope I never see it again. That was bizarre!”

  Rafuse barely noticed. He bounced off the ropes and started after Micky again, but Collins stopped him mid-stride, poked him in the chest, and scolded him for holding too much. In truth, the first three rounds involved a lot of clutching and grabbing, but it was hard to tell which of the fighters was the guiltier party.

  As the third round ended, Bernstein said, “This fight’s getting out of control, and I’m not sure if the referee isn’t out of control right now.”

  But it was just getting good. Rafuse, who looked like a nervous street fighter in the first three rounds began fighting like the warrior he had always been. And Micky moved forward as if defense were a dirty word. The punches he took to get inside weren’t even distractions. This battle with Rafuse was the first of Micky’s best fights.

  In the fourth, Rafuse went to the body well, and Micky landed several straight rights and good lefts to the body. His seamless switches from an orthodox to a southpaw stance bothered Rafuse, so naturally, Micky kept doing it.

  In the fifth round, Micky’s jab came out of hibernation. He slid from side to side with his back along the ropes and repeatedly threw his left hand into Rafuse’s face. Rafuse did a good job of cutting off the ring, and he was at his most aggressive in this round, but Micky responded in the final minute with a hard right hand and several pinpoint-accurate lefts.

  “Rafuse is in some trouble,” Bernstein bellowed. “He’s being worked over by Micky Ward.”

  The bell sounded. Rafuse recovered. And there was more of the same in the sixth. Fans were getting a glimpse of the exciting fighter Micky could be and would be later in his career. He was an excellent boxer who moved well, possessed a solid jab, and threw a variety of hard punches with both hands, but much more than that, he was a boxer who was ready and able to brawl. He was willing to put his will up against anybody’s. “You take my best, and I’ll take your best, and we’ll see who’s still standing when it’s over.” That was the bold philosophy Micky would employ many times over many years, and it was on display for the first time against Johnny Rafuse, a willing participant in this exercise of brutality.

  “They are waging a brutal war on the inside,” Bernstein observed. “Rafuse just took a hard right hook without blinking.”

  The fighters rested their heads on each other’s shoulders and threw punches from hunched-over positions. Uppercuts would land, and heads would pop up from the force of the blow and then return to the opponent’s shoulder. Their hands stayed in front of their faces, except for the momentary flash when a left or a right would snap to the outside and land a hard hook to an ear or a cheek or a chin. Once separated in the seventh round, Micky landed three consecutive straight left hands out of the southpaw position. Rafuse nailed him right back with a big right hand of his own. Ward was landing more power punches, but Rafuse landed enough damaging blows of his own to make Micky’s corner anxious.

  “This is the eighth round now. Last round, Micky,” Johnny Dunn told him after the seventh. Dickie squeezed Micky’s rib cage and added, “You’re looking good. Deep breath. C’mon, Mick. Don’t get careless now. When you’re doing that banging, you’re looking good. Keep your hands up. Don’t give him this shit no more.” (This “shit” referred to the occasions when Micky was dropping his hands and taking unnecessary punishment.)

  Micky had never been eight rounds before, but he still looked fresh coming out. Rafuse did, too. At twenty-five, Rafuse had said before the fight that his encounter with Micky would let him know if he should keep fighting.

  “If I win, I’ll know I should continue,” he said. “Otherwise, you know, I’m a Teamster, and maybe I’ll have to find other ways to make a living.”

  Well, Rafuse had done himself proud. He continued to throw and land hard punches right up until the final bell. He must have realized that he was behind on points, and he went after Micky with reckless abandon. Micky, who must have known that he was ahead in the fight, refused to play it safe. The result was a thoroughly entertaining and violent final round.

  “They are both going for the home-run ball,” Bernstein remarked. “They say Micky Ward is quite a prospect in the junior welterweight division, and if he is, he will look back on this one.”

  The crowd rose to its feet and offered a resounding ovation. The majority of the fans didn’t go to the auditorium that night to root for Rafuse, but by the time they left, Rafuse had earned their respect.

  Dickie ran up to Micky after the final bell, toweled him off, and said, “You won, Mick. You won!”

  A few moments later, ring announcer Michael Buffer pulled the microphone down from the ceiling, “Here’s the official scoring. Judge John Costello scores the bout 80-76. Judge Don O’Neill has it 80-76. And Judge Tommy Collins has it 79-75 for the winner by unanimous decision, Irish Micky Ward!”

  Micky made good on his promise to Richie Bryan and earned the unofficial title of best young junior welterweight in the Boston area by winning the eight-round slugfest with Rafuse on points.

  Meanwhile Valenti was learning quickly just how messy the financial part of a fight can get. Starting with only four thousand dollars, he made checks out to Micky, Micky’s mom, and a lawyer from Lowell who showed up that night with a writ. The writ was intended to keep Micky from fighting unless his original managers were paid. Even though Alice was managing Micky’s career, the original managers were hanging around to make either a little trouble or a lot of money.

  “When we first started off, it worked out all right,” Micky says. “But they don’t know the game. When I got suspended in New Jersey, they said they got it dropped, but they didn’t get it dropped.”

  He added further complaints about Bergeron and DiRocco.

  “They would never ask who I was fighting. What’s his record? Is he righty or lefty? I’ve got Dickie training me, and if it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t know anything about who I wa
s fighting.”

  And when it came to money, Micky says, Bergeron and DiRocco wanted more than their fair share.

  “One day, they say it’s over. Next day, the old man’s there saying they want to bring me to court for five hundred thousand dollars, and they want to sue my mother for two hundred thousand dollars. They said they had me when I was nobody. Now, that I’m someone, I want to go with Top Rank. That’s not true, though.”

  What was true, however, is that Top Rank wanted Micky, and that was very good for his career. Just ten fights, all wins, into his new profession, and Micky was already fighting on ESPN for a second time. Two months after fighting Rafuse, Micky was back in the ring in the Lowell Auditorium. Teddy Brenner, Arum’s main matchmaker on the East Coast, made the Ward-Carlos Brandi fight. He loved Micky for the same reason any matchmaker or promoter would love Micky, he was white, Irish, and could fight. That sells tickets, even if the fight is a mismatch.

  Brandi was an Argentinean fighting out of Miami, Florida, and making his United States debut. It didn’t matter. Top Rank wasn’t looking for a great fight. This was just supposed to be an easy fight for Micky, something to put another three thousand dollars or so into his pocket, something to build his name recognition and create a fan following, and something to further strengthen his relationship with Top Rank and ESPN. It worked on every count.

  Ring announcer Michael Buffer, who hadn’t yet adopted the catch phrase, “Let’s get ready to r-r-r-r-r-umble!” began the evening with: “Man your battle stations. This is the first of our featured ten-round bouts. This is in the junior welterweight division.”

  Brandi shifted his weight from one foot to another as Buffer announced his name. He didn’t appear surprised by the resounding chorus of boos emanating from the crowd or the raucous applause when Micky was introduced. Brandi was about to go toe-to-toe with a hometown hero. Micky hadn’t done much to deserve hero status at this point in his life, other than to give the citizens of Lowell something to hope for, to brag about, and to feel good about. Micky kept his head down during the pre-fight instructions, not looking at Brandi. He wasn’t interested in having any kind of macho stare-down. Brandi stared at Micky’s scalp instead. Dickie stood right behind Micky, giving him a shoulder and neck rub, and then the fighters touched gloves and returned for a moment to their corners. Johnny Dunn was in Micky’s corner that night as well.

  Midway through the first round, Brandi launched a wild assault. He landed a solid right before Micky slipped the next one and moved quickly around him. In a flash, Micky was standing behind Brandi. No damage was done, but what Brandi’s flurry seemed to do was give him confidence. He had swung wildly and paid no price. Micky never countered. He simply avoided. So, with ten seconds to go in the round, Brandi began another attack. This time, Micky countered.

  “Left hook sends Brandi to the canvas,” ESPN announcer Al Bernstein exclaimed. “From nowhere the left hook by Micky Ward. Wow! That’s a surprise. Brandi having a very good first round, but the left hand puts him down.”

  The bell rang seconds later, and Brandi rose to his feet and made his way back to his corner. Micky didn’t have a noticeable reaction to what had just happened. He merely slumped his shoulders, put his head down, and waited a moment as Dickie readied the stool for him to sit down on. Dickie slid gracefully through the ropes and patted down Micky’s chest, sides, and stomach. He spoke hurriedly. Micky listened attentively. Finally Micky nodded and rose for the second round.

  Brandi, who didn’t appear to have been hurt by the left hook that ended round one, stood momentarily in his corner with blood running down from his nose. He came out flailing wildly. Micky stood right up to the aggression, and when Brandi charged, Micky nailed him with a stinging right hand.

  To his credit, Brandi walked through it and kept coming forward, but it was clear that this fight wouldn’t last long. Brandi wasn’t in the same class as Micky.

  As the fighters moved toward the corner, Brandi was hit with another hard right hand and began to fall on one knee. He rose quickly, only to be hit again by another punishing right. Brandi dropped into a catcher’s position this time, and the referee, Nick Previti, stepped in and separated the fighters. Previti ruled it a knockdown because Brandi had grabbed onto the rope to maintain his balance. While Brandi was given a standing eight-count, he tried to remove the cobwebs by shaking his head repeatedly. He indicated that he could continue. Moments later Micky fired a left hook that landed flush on Brandi’s right cheek. Brandi crumpled to the canvas as Micky walked to a neutral corner with his hands raised. He knew no one could get up from a power shot that clean. Micky had jumped into that left hook. He delivered it with bad intentions and had a great result.

  Bernstein observed, “Micky Ward has sent this crowd into a frenzy with as powerful a performance as we’ve seen from him. Anything he does here, they’re going to like, and I’ll tell you, they’ve got to like what they saw here tonight.”

  In just under six minutes of work, Micky’s night was done. He was still undefeated, still the pride of Lowell, Irish Micky Ward.

  He told ESPN after the fight, “I didn’t know his style or nothing. . . . He hasn’t fought in the United States. So, in the first round I was just taking my time, keeping my hands up because I didn’t want to get caught with that style he’s got. He was wailing at me, and I knew he was pretty strong. He was just missing and I thought, ‘Wow, he’s got a pretty good punch.’ So, I waited and caught him in the first round. Once I put him down, I knew I could do it again. I didn’t have any plan coming in. . . . I knew he was a righty and that’s it. So, I had to watch what he did and counterpunch off of that.”

  While Micky returned to the basement of the auditorium to change into his street clothes in a bathroom stall, Freddie Roach went on for the night’s co-main event and fought David Rivello. Roach lost a ten-round majority decision. It would be the last fight of his career, closing with a record of 39-13. Roach was once the local kid with promise and potential. Now that distinction belonged to Micky.

  After another quick trip to Atlantic City to beat unheralded Hilario Mercedes, Micky was heading out west, still undefeated. For the first time in his short career, he’d be fighting in Las Vegas at the famed Caesars Palace. As Dickie had done many times, Micky would be fighting on the undercard of a Marvin Hagler fight. This time, though, Micky would be receiving incredible exposure, because he was fighting on the same card as Hagler and Sugar Ray Leonard, and the fight would be part of the international closed-circuit Super Fight broadcast. This would be Micky’s first taste of the big time, and it would serve as a reminder that Dickie once had had that taste as well.

  This was Micky’s first trip to Las Vegas, and he arrived four days early along with Dickie, his good friend Richie Bryan, and his eighty-year-old trainer, Johnny Dunn. Micky duly noted the expansive Vegas strip and spent just enough time inside the casinos to play a few slot machines. Then it was time to get to work. The work always made boxing much less of a gamble.

  Micky had been scheduled to battle a Venezuelan southpaw by the name of Alfredo “Scarface” Rojas. Micky trained for the fight in Florida where he could spar with as many left-handers as possible. For some reason, lefties were easier to round up in Florida than they were in Lowell. And Micky even studied film of Rojas. Usually, Dickie looked at the tapes and then provided Micky with a fight plan.

  But Micky’s time spent sparring southpaws was wasted. Rojas withdrew shortly before the fight. Micky would fight Kelly Koble, a right-hander who had just been destroyed a month earlier in the California light welterweight title fight against Andrew Nance.

  It was a historic night for boxing. Thousands of people were there to witness Hagler and Leonard. Millions more would watch in their homes or local bars. But only a handful arrived early enough to witness the up-and-coming twenty-one-year-old from Lowell take on a twenty-seven-year-old from San Jose, California. Micky’s fight was nearly four hours before Hagler and Leonard slipped through the rope
s. He and Koble went at it outdoors in the desert heat around five o’clock in the afternoon.

  Dickie helped Micky peel out of his white robe, revealing his white trunks and white boxing shoes. Oddly, Micky’s robe spelled his name correctly, “Micky Ward,” while Dickie’s blue T-shirt spelled his brother’s name “Mickey Ward.” No one noticed, or no one cared.

  Koble, though three pounds heavier at 142 pounds, looked skinnier than Micky. He was wearing blue trunks, and perhaps because he was the more experienced fighter, he came out more aggressively.

  “You talk about young kids getting nervous . . .” said longtime trainer Gil Clancy working in the broadcast booth for the fight, “I’ve seen Ward fight before. He’s normally a walk-in puncher, very, very active. Tonight, he seems very tentative and very stiff.”

  He was right. Micky usually moved in only one direction, forward. On this night, he was bouncing around the ring, going side to side, and throwing an occasional solitary jab. It lost him each of the first three rounds.

  “Micky Ward’s . . . the young Irish kid on the way up,” Clancy, the proud Irishman, said. “He’s got a lot of snap on his punches when he lets them go, which he’s not doing enough of so far this evening.”

  This was the biggest night of Micky’s career. He was on the biggest stage of his life, and he was blowing it. Micky was struggling through the first three rounds. The fight was only scheduled to go eight, so Micky had to turn things around in a hurry.