by Bob Halloran
Now what? That was the question for which Micky, Dickie, and Sal really had no answer. Looking at it realistically, Micky was in jeopardy of being tossed aside and forgotten. His big wins over Louis Veader were three years ago. Since then, it could be argued that he looked bad squeaking past the Chavez replacement, looked dreadful against Sanchez before landing a lucky punch, lost to Phillips on a nasty cut, lost nearly every round to Judah, and had beaten a couple of nobodies named Mendez and Fernandez. Why would any promoter want to pay big money to Micky Ward? The subpar results made him look old and unimpressive. Maybe his time had come and gone. And to make matters worse, his right hand was hurting again.
“This was a different pain,” Dr. Margeles explains. “We took another X-ray, and you could see that one screw was too long. One of the bones that gets fused is called the capitate. The screw had gone through the capitate, and through the joint and into the next bone over called the hamate. You could see where it was irritating the bone there. That was easy enough to take care of. You just take the screw out.”
That problem appeared to be solved, but there was still concern over the direction of Micky’s career. Sal recognized this and decided that it was time to take a bold step. The cab company businessman who was asked to be an “advisor” and then morphed into a manager and part-time cornerman was going to become a promoter.
“When I was managing Micky Ward, there was a time when I hit the wall,” LoNano explained. “All these other promoters wanted Micky to fight for a thousand dollars or twenty-five hundred, three thousand dollars. And he was getting paid, and nobody on his team was getting paid. I didn’t get paid for nothing. I went a good solid five or six fights without taking a dime.”
So Sal went for a walk. He parked his car at Revere Beach, got out, and walked the shoreline. A mile in one direction and a mile back. Then he’d do it again. He wasn’t aware of the walking anyway. He felt the weight of responsibility. Micky, who worked so hard and had so much talent, had turned to him for help. Something had to be done to turn things around. But what?
“I didn’t want to waste his time,” Sal says. “And I’ve got a family. So, I said to myself, ‘What are you going to do, Sal? It’s time to step up.’ So I started thinking about promoting. I promoted my own business for thirty years. I knew I could promote, but I didn’t know the businesspeople in boxing. So I went after Al Valenti.”
Sal arrived at the Valenti Ticket Agency on Canal Street in Boston in April 1999. He was instantly intimidated as he looked around the outer office and saw a picture of Al’s grandfather, Rip Valenti, and several signed photographs of great fighters, including Muhammad Ali. This was clearly where people who really know the ins and outs of boxing worked. When Sal walked in, he addressed an elderly gentleman reading a newspaper.
“I want to talk to Al Valenti,” Sal said.
“He’s over there,” the man said. “What do you want, kid?”
“Kid?” Sal thought. “I’m over forty years old.”
Al came out and invited Sal into his office.
“What can I do for you?”
“Look, I’ve got Micky Ward,” Sal began.
“Micky Ward’s done!” the man shouted from the other room.
“I’m not really promoting anymore,” Al informed Sal. “I’m in retirement.”
“I really only need a few minutes of your time.”
“That would be a waste of my time. My dad out there is right. Micky Ward, he’s nothing. He’s the one who should retire.”
“He’s not ready to do that,” Sal said, defending Micky. “I’m his manager, and I can’t go nowhere. I need you to show me how to promote. I’m not looking for your money . . . and any promotions you help me with, you and I will split everything 50-50. You have the knowledge. I have the money. I just need to know how to put this all together.”
“Micky Ward’s all done!”
This time the proclamation by Al’s father from the other room was followed by a hearty laugh.
Al looked at Sal, shrugged, and said, “There’s really not much out there. And for me to get involved with Micky Ward would be like, it would take a catastrophic occurrence. I’m really not interested. I’m just not interested.”
Sal stormed back onto Canal Street. He was angry and not sure in which direction he should go. He walked quickly up the road and took a left on Causeway Street in front of the Old Garden. This was the same path Tony DeMarco had taken on his way from his home in the North End when he fought Carmen Basilio for the welterweight title in 1955. DeMarco lost that night, but he was a big star at a time when boxers were among the biggest stars. Sal still wanted that kind of fame and fortune for Micky, and he still believed it could happen.
“Fuck him,” he thought. And he turned around and walked back into the Valenti Ticket Agency.
“Listen, you got a half hour?” Sal said, speaking loudly this time. “I know you got thirty minutes for lunch. I’m gonna buy you lunch. Let’s go next door and get something to eat. But I want you to listen to me this time.”
Sal didn’t wait for a response. He bolted out of the office and stepped into the sandwich shop next door. And he waited. He sat down at a table and waited to see if Al Valenti would follow him. He hoped curiosity, or at the very least hunger and the promise of a free meal, would persuade Al to hear what he had to say. Five minutes passed before Al finally sauntered in.
“Are you gonna listen to me this time?” Sal asked as if it was a command.
“Yeah, I’ll listen,” Al said, but before he had a chance to sit down, Sal stood up and said, “I can’t do this here. Let’s go back to your office.”
Again, Al was forced to follow Sal, and he didn’t even get lunch out of it. “He was thinking he was better than me,” Sal explains. “And now I’ve got him jumping around. So I’ve got his attention now, and I tell him what I want to do.”
By the time Sal finished his sales pitch, Al and his father were both leaning back in their chairs smoking cigars. The smoke rings lingered in the air along with Sal’s final thought.
“Look, I’ve really got a feeling about Micky. He’s never really had a manager. You won’t have to deal with Alice. You won’t have to deal with Dickie. You just deal with me directly. So, what do you think?”
It was clear to Al that Sal really believed in Micky and that he was prepared to put his money where his mouth was. So he started at the beginning and tried to explain how boxing works.
“First of all,” he began. “You have to have a little synergy. You have to have a vision of where you want to go with this situation. You have to have a venue. You have to have a date. And at this stage of Micky’s career, it has to be a TV date, because if you don’t have the revenue from ESPN or FOX then you just can’t do it.”
Sal listened intently. Ideas were running through his mind, but he wasn’t sure any of them could work. How would he go about securing a venue like the FleetCenter or even the Roxy, and how would he get ESPN to broadcast a fight when he still didn’t know who Micky’s next opponent would be. The worry and confusion showed on his face.
“All right, look,” Al continued. “I’ve been toying around with this idea for a long time. Last summer, I did this amateur boxing show at the beach up in New Hampshire. It was a Tuesday night in June. It was drizzling. And we still drew. We had about twenty amateur fights. If that can work, and if I can convince ESPN to do the show, I’ll see if I can get a date. If all that happens, we’ll make a fight. Remember, if you can get some money together, you can get a good fighter. But Micky’s gonna have to win, or it’ll be over in a hurry.”
Sal was ecstatic. He had just watched Al Valenti go from “not interested” because “Micky Ward is done” to potentially making him the main event on a big fight card in New Hampshire. It didn’t matter to Sal that Al had chosen to investigate possibilities in New Hampshire because he was no longer permitted to promote fights in Massachusetts.
A year earlier, Valenti promoted a show at the Fleet
Center and had gotten into a beef with the Massachusetts State boxing commissioner, Mark DeLuca. By rule, there aren’t supposed to be any children under the age of sixteen ringside for a fight, but DeLuca brought his two children, ages eight and nine, up to the front row with him. Valenti might not have cared except that those seats were being saved for Marvin Hagler, who was being honored that night.
“I see those kids, and I tell DeLuca to get them out of those seats because that’s Hagler’s row,” Valenti recalls. “Hagler’s gonna come down to those seats and that’s it. When he gets there, I don’t want him to have to deal with little kids.”
DeLuca refused to leave, or to move his kids somewhere else. In his mind, he was the boxing commissioner, and he wasn’t going to be told what to do by some two-bit promoter. Valenti didn’t back down, and it turned out to be his undoing, because a week later, he had his license revoked.
Valenti, it so happened, owed the commission thirteen hundred dollars. The money added up because the Commonwealth of Massachusetts receives 4 percent of a fight, including sales tax and licenses. Valenti had bounced three checks attempting to pay what was owed. It wasn’t a lot of money and, generally, that sort of thing was taken care of with a letter reminding the promoter that he was in arrears. A good check would be written and no further action would be taken. But this time DeLuca pounced upon a valid, though generally insignificant reason to take out his vengeance on Valenti. One of the boxing commissioners, Skeeter McClure, recognized the injustice and pettiness of the punishment and resigned the next day.
“They suspended Al’s license over thirteen hundred bucks,” future commissioner Ben Doherty laments. “I’ve gone to Al and told him, ‘Just pay it. It’s chump change.’ But he won’t pay the thirteen hundred bucks. I’ve written him letters and told him there’d be no prejudice. He’d get his license back and start making money here, but he won’t do it, just to save face. DeLuca had a valid reason and he used it instead of looking the other way and waiting for the thirteen hundred bucks.”
So Al was expelled to the north. His first call after Sal left his office was to Russell Peltz, the new East Coast boxing coordinator for ESPN. Al explained that boxing at the beach had drawn a good crowd before, and he was sure it could do so again. Peltz had an open date on July 16, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to give it up for what Al was offering.
“This is my date,” Peltz said possessively. “I’m gonna have to put some of my guys on it. What are the finances gonna be? How are we gonna make any money?”
“Russell, all I can tell you is I saw the amateur show work there, and this will be better. This is a pro show with Micky Ward.”
“You didn’t say anything about Micky Ward. Why are we using him? I thought it was all over for him. ”
“That’s why I didn’t mention him right away. I knew what you’d think. But we’re gonna bring Micky Ward back.”
“I don’t know,” Peltz responded, still not convinced. “Who’s he gonna fight?”
“I don’t know,” Al had to admit. “We’ll work on that. Just tell me I’ve got the date and then I’ll sit down with Sal LoNano, and I’ll sit down with Micky, and I’ll explain how it’s gonna work, and I’ll make sure everybody’s happy.”
What at first seemed like a long shot all fell into place rather quickly. The Hampton Beach Casino was available. Peltz made a great match with Jermal Corbin, a twenty-five-year-old tough guy with only two losses in nineteen professional fights. And Sal put up the money.
“It was rough for my wife and my family,” Sal says. “I had to put up my house to get the money. I took money from my mother-in-law, and money from my house. That was about twenty-five thousand dollars. Then there was money I took from the cab business, maybe a hundred thousand. I put up a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money. My wife just looked at me.”
The night of July 16, 1999, was a hundred years and a day from the exact date that the Hampton Beach Casino had first opened. It was a two-and-a-half-story building that ran 190 feet along Ocean Boulevard. It featured open porches running the entire length of the building on both the first and second levels. It could accommodate about three thousand people for a boxing match, and Sal did his best to make sure every ticket sold. By his own account, he lost about a thousand dollars that night.
“But it was worth it,” he adds.
Micky wasn’t the main event that night. That distinction belonged to Bryant Brannon and Demetrius Davis who were scheduled to fight for the USBA super middleweight title. But Brannon withdrew for personal reasons on the afternoon of the fight. That meant Micky would be bumped up to the featured fight of the evening, and Dickie saw that as an opportunity.
“We were going to make two other guys, James Butler and Merqui Sosa the main event,” Peltz recalls. “But we decided to give it to Micky because he was the local guy.”
But Micky and Dickie didn’t find out until minutes before they were going to head to the ring. Micky was prepared to come out at nine o’clock, but that’s when Butler and Sosa were summoned to appear instead. That’s how Micky and Dickie found out they were the evening’s main event. Moments later, Peltz heard there was trouble in the dressing room.
“Micky ain’t coming out unless we get more money,” Dickie told Peltz and the promoters. “He’s the main event now, so he should get more money.”
Micky didn’t say a word. He just sat there with his gloves on, still sweating from the warm-up he’d done while still expecting to go on at nine. Micky appeared to be not listening while the people running his life decided what to do next.
“We were really on a serious time schedule,” Peltz said. “I mean Dickie really had us by the balls. We needed Micky to come out and fight. So Al decided to give them more money. Micky was supposed to get five grand, and he ended up with seventy-five hundred. How could we argue with them that close to fight time?”
Sal watched all this with great concern. It was his money on the line. He had crossed over from manager to promoter to investor. He sure as hell needed Micky to fight, and he needed him to win, too.
Micky’s mother, father, seven sisters, and daughter watched as Dickie encouraged Micky in the corner between rounds. They could all see that Micky’s nose was bleeding profusely and that his white trunks were covered in his own blood. That was of no concern to Micky. A referee wouldn’t stop a fight unless the cut was dangerous or the blood was affecting a fighter’s vision. Micky was fine. And he was dictating to Corbin how this bout would be fought. Corbin was taller and had a longer reach, yet the entire fight was being waged with only a few inches separating the combatants. That took Corbin’s height-and-reach advantage away, and gave an edge to Micky.
“You don’t want to stay inside too long,” ESPN fight analyst Teddy Atlas said about Corbin. “You’re letting Ward, who’s a stronger guy, the more experienced fighter, the better body puncher, you’re letting him have his way.”
The fight did not lack for excitement. Both fighters connected with several hard shots during the third round. They threw only power shots, overhand rights and lefts, hooks and uppercuts with both hands. They stood too close to jab. They were ear-to-ear and wailing on each other. More than once, when Micky landed a left to Corbin’s ribs, Corbin flinched noticeably. His body bent over at the waist for just a split second before he righted himself again. He was either reacting to real pain or real fear. Either way, he kept on fighting, but those body shots had to be taking their toll.
“Corbin shouldn’t be in there,” Atlas assessed. “He should be outside using his jab.”
Midway through the fourth round, Micky landed his patented vicious left hand to Corbin’s rib cage. The thud could be heard throughout the casino. It was the kind of thunderous blow that had crumpled many a fighter before, but Corbin stood tall. Thirty seconds later, he absorbed another one. Ten more seconds passed, and Micky delivered a right hand to the center of Corbin’s abdomen. Corbin spent the final twenty seconds of the fourth ro
und in his own corner ducking and blocking an endless flurry of power shots. When the bell sounded, Corbin stood with his shoulders slumped, exhausted. Micky walked away to the far corner supremely confident that this fight wouldn’t last much longer. Nobody could keep taking those punches to the body.
“The only punches Ward needs to throw now are to the body and the uppercut,” Atlas advised. “The body punch will make him lean forward, the uppercut will bring his head up. And then go up top. It looks like Corbin is falling apart here a little bit.”
As Atlas spoke, Micky pinned Corbin up against the ropes and began another ferocious assault.
“This is what Ward planned on for this fight,” Atlas continued. “Get in the kitchen. Bang to that body. Micky’s thinking this guy might have more talent than me on the outside, but inside he doesn’t have the talent, the physical makeup or maybe the resolve to hang with me.”
With twenty seconds to go in the fifth, Micky landed back-to-back shots to Corbin’s ribs. Corbin barely had the energy to wince. His legs were gone. The body shots had done their job. The round ended and there would not be another one.
The referee visited Corbin’s corner between rounds, and Corbin let him know he did not want to continue. Upon hearing the announcement that Micky was a winner with a fifth-round technical knockout, Sal jumped up from his seat in the front row, slipped through the ropes, and wrapped Micky up in his arms. This gamble had paid off.
“We took this fight hoping to show that Micky can fight, and now we’re hoping for someone in the top five,” Sal explained after the fight. “We think he can still fight for a title.”
Unless they considered themselves either friends or family of Micky, not many others agreed with Sal’s appraisal. Who was Corbin to raise Micky to the level of contender? He was a transit cop who fought a bad fight. Russell Peltz didn’t seem very impressed when he said, “I thought Corbin was a nothing fighter, and it was just a good win for the local guy.”
