Irish Thunder

by Bob Halloran

  Tomkins reported, “There is still a ways to go here in round number five for Clarence Coleman, and Micky Ward will try to get him out of there right now. An uppercut again!”

  Coleman’s head snapped back from the force of a right-hand uppercut. Coleman was wobbling as he backed up. Micky had finally found his distance. He was landing the uppercut repeatedly and forcefully. Micky got Coleman with a good body shot and another uppercut, leaving him slumped against the ropes. That was it. Perez waved off Micky and stopped the fight.

  Ron Katz, who eventually took over the East Coast promotions for Top Rank when Teddy Brenner grew ill, said, “The objective with Micky was to put him in solid fights, show him different styles, and then maneuver him into a world championship, and then go from there.”

  But when all the maneuvering was done, Micky wasn’t ready. His hands consistently held him back, either because he couldn’t train sufficiently or because he couldn’t fight effectively. There remained plenty of faith in a healthy Micky Ward, but an injured Micky Ward was attracting some doubters.

  In one way, however, the injuries to his hands turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Four weeks after his victory over Coleman, Micky became a father. Kasie, a beautiful baby girl, was born on June 20, 1989. Micky put his boxing career on hold and became a stay-at-home dad, although he continued paving to bring in some much-needed cash. After the Coleman fight, Micky wouldn’t fight again for nine months. It was a long, unwanted, and unplanned vacation made a little easier by the birth of his daughter. Micky needed to provide for his growing family. He needed to get out of the house and into a six-thousand-seat arena and make some money punching someone in the ribs.

  That was the plan for August 8, 1989, when Micky was scheduled to fight Harold Brazier for the NABF super lightweight title, but Micky hurt his knuckles just a few days before that fight and had to withdraw. The knuckles couldn’t have hurt as much as watching Livingstone Bramble knock out Brazier in the second round. It was Micky’s replacement winning the title that night, not Micky. Fragile hands are the bane of many fighters’ existences, but each time Micky’s hands let him down, he had to wonder if they would have betrayed him so early and so often in his career if he had stayed out of the fray at the Cosmo that night. How much was that night going to cost him?

  When Micky finally stepped back into the ring in February 1990, he was still celebrating his daughter’s birth, but he was also mourning his good friend’s death. John D. Donarumo (Johnny Dunn’s real name) died of heart failure at his home in Chelsea on December 8, 1989. He was eighty-three years old. A month before his death, he was at the gym training local fighters.

  “This fight is for Johnny,” Ward was quoted at the time. “He always told me to do the right thing. He said to always be in shape. And when you make money, don’t be stupid with it.”

  Dunn had worked with world champions Terry Downes and Bob Foster, and he had worked with Dickie Eklund and Micky Ward. He had promised to make Dickie a champion, but he had no way of knowing the directions that Dickie would travel. So, over time, he transferred that promise to Micky. He told Micky, “Before I die, Mick, I’m gonna help you get that championship belt.” Indeed, Micky had fought for a championship against Frankie Warren, but he didn’t win. He still had the promise. But the man in the big glasses, with the thick cigar and shoe-polished hair who walked with Dickie up the aisle and between the ropes the night he fought Sugar Ray Leonard was gone.

  The Leonard-Eklund fight was held at the Hynes Convention Center in Boston back in 1978. Now, almost twelve years later, Dickie was back at the Convention Center, watching Micky saunter out to the middle of the ring to trade blows. Standing across from Micky on a frigid February night was another Bay State banger from Attleboro, David Rivello. Four years earlier, Rivello had won a majority decision over Freddie Roach at the Lowell Auditorium, a result that had convinced Roach that it was time to retire.

  The Rivello fight would be Micky’s first without Johnny Dunn in his corner, but Dunn’s spirit was somewhere in that smoke-filled room. And Micky made good on his dedication to his longtime mentor. He completely dominated the fight. Micky hadn’t sparred in more than six weeks because of a fractured thumb, and he had a little trouble getting down to the 138-pound weight limit, so he wasn’t as strong as he would have liked, which is probably why the fight ended up going the distance.

  By the time it was over, Rivello was badly cut over his right eye. He was bleeding from his nose and from a cut on his mouth, and he had a badly swollen left eye.

  “I learned that it’s a different world from regional fights to world-class fights,” Rivello said. “Those guys play for keeps. I fought my heart out. I did the best I could, but the things you can do to the guys around here you can’t do with a world-class fighter like Micky.”

  Soon after, Micky was back in Atlantic City with a chance to win the IBF InterContinental junior welterweight title. It was another one of the underwhelming titles offered primarily to give a fight a little extra cache.

  The importance of the fight must have been lost on Dickie, because he prepared to enter the ring with his brother by throwing a huge party in his hotel room the night before.

  Micky didn’t go to the party, but his room was right next to Dickie’s, so it was impossible for him to get a good night’s sleep.

  The next day, Micky entered the ring with a black robe with a green shamrock on the back. Dozens of loyal fans held up signs reading WE LOVE MICKY! Harold Brazier came down the aisle a few minutes later wearing a red robe with black trim. He was three pounds heavier than Micky and three times more experienced. Brazier’s record was 67-10-1, a total of seventy-eight professional fights. Micky had fought only twenty-four pro fights, losing only three, so far. Brazier had twice as many knockouts, fifty, than Micky had fights. He was ten years older, that much wiser, and had a reputation for being a harder puncher.

  Micky took his robe off and revealed black trunks with white lettering and a lean, muscular frame. Dickie gave him a gentle shoulder rub during the pre-fight instructions from referee Rudy Battle, and then the battle was on.

  Brazier, recognizing that Micky had come in a little light, went immediately to the body. In each of the first two rounds, Micky bounced around the ring, content to stay on the outside in the early going. Brazier worked to cut off the ring, but Micky easily slid along the ropes, switching seamlessly from his traditional stance to southpaw. Late in the second round, Micky threw his head-tap-and-body-blow combination, and Brazier responded with an effective flurry to close out the round.

  “Listen,” Dickie said to Micky in the corner. “When you’re throwing those punches, hook, jab, hook, move around again. Don’t let him get off four or five straight punches. That’s how he wants to beat you. Hook to the head, hook to the body. Move around, side to side. Feint him. All right? When you’re just standing there in the corner, he’s adding up points, and that’s what he wants.”

  Late in the fourth round, Brazier accidentally delivered a shot right to Micky’s cup. Protected and relatively unfazed, Micky relaxed momentarily, anticipating that Battle would step in and call the low blow. Battle wasn’t as quick as Brazier. When Micky relaxed, he let his hands drop, and Brazier stung him with a hard right hand. That was the best punch of the night. Battle did step in, belatedly, sending Brazier to a neutral corner, and that gave Micky time to recover from both the low blow and the head shot. But there was no point deduction for the low blow, and the fight continued.

  “Fight back, man!” Dickie screamed in the corner, barely noticing the egglike swelling that had formed under Micky’s right eye. “Fight back!”

  Micky tried, but something wasn’t right. He was tiring quickly. Twice in the fifth round, he stepped away from an even exchange of punches and took a deep breath. He was winded and needed a moment to inhale deeply.

  By now the fight was slipping away from Micky. It didn’t appear that he had won even one of the first seven rounds. Brazier had landed 2
18 punches to Micky’s 76. His attack was relentless.

  “Harold Brazier has a look in his eye that is different than what I’ve ever seen from him before,” ESPN analyst Al Bernstein said during the broadcast. “He is so intent on winning this fight. It just looks in his eye that nothing is going to stop him.”

  Play-by-play announcer Barry Tomkins added after the eighth round, “Brazier, who has spent some time as an auto-body mechanic, is putting a dent in Micky Ward tonight. Another workman-like round by a workman-like fighter, by Harold Brazier who is piling up the points.”

  Micky only landed four punches in the eighth. He was bleeding from cuts on the bridge of his nose, on the outside of his left nostril, and under his right eye. He looked beaten and worn out as he returned to his corner before the final round.

  “You have to knock him out, Micky!” Dickie shouted and repeated what was obvious to everyone. “You have to knock him out!”

  The knockout never came. Micky never responded with the necessary desperation. The last round looked a lot like the first, except that Micky’s face showed the ill effects of being beaten for an additional half hour.

  “I may be rhapsodizing over Harold Brazier tonight, but this is a special performance,” Bernstein summarized. “For Harold to be doing this a year after a rotator cuff injury, this man willed his way back. A virtuoso performance.”

  The body blows and the sleepless night conspired against Micky in his attempt for the twelfth-round knockout. He fired wildly in the final minute of the round, but took as good as he gave until the final bell sounded.

  All three judges scored the fight 118-110 for Brazier. It was the right decision, just as the party the night before had been the wrong decision.

  Micky hung his head in disappointment. He had just lost the third of his last six fights. He had failed in his attempt to win the USBA light welterweight title against Frankie Warren, and he had failed to win the IBF InterContinental light welterweight title from Harold Brazier. His hands hurt, and his future looked bleak. He turned and looked at Dickie, who wrapped his arm around Micky’s shoulder and led him away from the ring. Back in the locker room, the mood was sullen. Few words were spoken. Micky stepped into the shower and let the warm water run over him. He thought about the twelve rounds he had just fought and the things he wished he’d done differently. He thought about the pain in his hands and the number of days it would take for the swelling to go down enough for him to lift his ten-month-old daughter without grimacing. And he thought about Dickie.

  Dickie had always tried to look out for his little brother. He had been bringing him to the gym since he was old enough to lug around an equipment bag. He was the reason Micky became a boxer in the first place. He was a big part of the reason why Micky was there that night at the Resorts International in Atlantic City fighting for a title. Dickie was an excellent trainer—when he was around. He was a terrific sparring partner—when he showed up. He was a trusted ally—when there weren’t doubts about how he prioritized boxing, parties, and drugs. Micky knew that Dickie was doing the best he could for him, but he had to wonder if Dickie’s best was good enough.

  Micky stayed under the showerhead long enough for the water to run cold, but still he didn’t move. His mind was filled with more pressing concerns.

  “I’m alone in the ring anyway,” he thought. “So, what should it matter if Dickie’s partying all night? I wasn’t tired in there. Yes, it’s a pain in the ass to have to waste time tracking him down and dragging him out of crack houses, but if I’m distracted, that’s on me. That’s my fault. I’ve got no one to blame but myself. I need a champion’s focus. I have to throw more punches. I have to forget about my hands hurting. If I ever get another chance at a title, I’m going to win it or lose it on my own.”

  He was right, and he knew it, but he also knew that a fighter is at his best when the conditions around him are at their optimum. No disagreements with the manager. No tension with the trainer. The less stress the better. Micky didn’t have that. He had Dickie.

  “He’s your brother, Micky,” his mom would say. “And you’re good for him. Who knows what would happen to him if he didn’t have you and the boxing to keep him busy?”

  Working as a trainer was the only thing Dickie was qualified to do, so training his brother, who just happened to be a world-class boxer, made sense. Furthermore, the better Micky performed, the more money there would be to go around, the more fame and recognition there would be for everyone involved.

  For Dickie, it had to be difficult. His love for Micky seemed genuine and deep, but every step Micky took toward the top of the mountain was a reminder to Dickie of what he himself could have been.

  By now, the water in the shower was freezing, and Micky suddenly became aware of it. He jumped back, and with a skilled boxer’s lateral movement, sidestepped the water streams, and threw a straight left toward the faucet to turn the water off. Micky dressed slowly, still thinking about his future. He was determined to keep fighting, to work toward another title shot, and to get to the top with his brother, Dickie, by his side.

  When he was ready to go, Micky left with Mickey O’Keefe, who had always been in his corner, either literally or figuratively, the man who had never been a distraction, who had never been anything but kind. Three months later, Dickie was arrested again for disorderly conduct. It was his fourteenth arrest, and he had served only a matter of days in prison.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It didn’t take long for Micky to get yet another chance at the now-vacant USBA light welterweight title. At one time, Micky was the hot prospect who was put in the ring against fighters with better reputations than punches. Now, after losing a couple of big fights, Micky was the veteran who could serve as the launching pad for a young up-and-comer. That was Charles “The Natural” Murray, undefeated at 17-0, but with no experience against a guy with Micky’s pedigree, talent, or experience. This could be a fight that could make Murray or break Micky.

  It took place at the War Memorial in Rochester, New York, Murray’s hometown. Murray had an abundance of supporters, and so did Micky. In his corner were Dickie, his father, George Ward, and perhaps the man he trusted most, Mickey O’Keefe.

  But Micky didn’t seem to have the fire on this night. He looked like a fighter without confidence and no apparent plan.

  As Micky approached the corner following the fifth round, Dickie jumped between the ropes, put both hands on Micky’s shoulders, and pushed him toward the stool imploring him, “Micky, you gotta punch! You’ve gotta fight! They know they’ve got to stop you in the next couple of rounds, because you’re gonna tear him apart, but don’t get hit in the process. Just fight. Don’t let it go that long!”

  Micky didn’t seem especially hurt, nor did he seem especially inspired. Through six rounds, Murray had landed ninety more punches, 163-73. ESPN’s Al Bernstein was starting to wonder if this fight might not go the distance.

  “It would be an unbelievable feather in Charles Murray’s cap if he could knock Micky Ward out,” Bernstein said.

  Round seven may have been the worst of Micky’s career. Murray picked his spots and landed his shots with power and precision. Micky whiffed on each of his counters. Micky was being outclassed by a twenty-two-year-old kid.

  “Micky is just not the same fighter he once was,” Bernstein said. “He might be much closer to the end of his career than to the beginning or the middle.”

  It was an observation that was both sad and accurate. Micky was going down without a fight, but his corner wasn’t.

  “Now you look like Micky Ward,” O’Keefe exaggerated after Micky’s moderately effective flurry ended the tenth round. “Now you’re doing it!”

  “Are you gonna do it?” Dickie asked.

  O’Keefe continued, “If you want this fight, you gotta go get it! You’re fighting nobody over there! Two rounds. Give it every fucking thing you’ve got!”

  “Don’t go out there and give it away,” Dickie ordered. “You’re giving
away the entire round. Don’t just come alive in the last thirty seconds. You’re losing! You’ve got to knock him out! You’ve got to knock him out! And you can do it!”

  And finally, from O’Keefe, “He’s setting you up. He’s waiting for that big right hand. Now beat him to it, Micky!”

  Spurred on by his corner and acknowledging some sense of urgency, Micky’s best rounds were the eleventh and twelfth, but it was too little and too late. At the end of the night Murray had landed 398 punches to Micky’s 171.

  Micky walked back to his corner. Dickie patted Micky’s shoulder, and O’Keefe rubbed him down with a towel, and they all waited for the decision to be announced. It was unanimous. All three judges gave Micky the first round and awarded Murray the next eleven.

  “I went twelve,” Murray said. “He looked like he was there to survive. He wasn’t opening up, so I went out and did what I was supposed to.”

  Micky was surviving, but no longer thriving inside the ring or outside of it. His job paving streets barely managed to cover the bills. He added various construction jobs to his workload to earn extra money, and he knew he had to be ready whenever another fight came his way, so he kept training as much as he could. As a result, he was seldom home, and when he was, he was moody. A rift began to form between him and Laurie. She had signed on to be with Micky Ward, the local celebrity, the boxer with the promise to make serious cash. She liked the limelight, even if it was only concentrated in a small community. She wasn’t sure she wanted to spend her life with a road paver. Micky took another seven months off before getting back into the ring. It would have been a good idea for him to grab a couple of easy tune-up fights in order to build his confidence back up, but his handlers at Top Rank kept matching him with tough opponents. And Micky’s mom, Alice, approved the matches because she believed that Micky could win, and that would position him for title shots and paydays.