by Bob Halloran
“Here we go, Micky,” Dickie shouted above the raucous crowd before the tenth and final round. “You hurt him there. He don’t want to get hit by you no more. Go to the body. Deep breath. Keep your gloves up and go to the body. This is your fight. Three more minutes! Go!”
Entering the final round, Teddy Atlas had scored the fight 86-85 in Micky’s favor. By the time the fight was over, Atlas had it even. Burton won the tenth because he had more energy and more power in his punches. Micky threw more than a hundred punches again, but they were slow and heavy. It hurt him to throw punches. His muscles were aching from overuse. Meanwhile, Burton was still landing shots that mattered. Whatever strength he had left was reserved to try to hurt Micky. But he couldn’t.
“If you’ve never been to a fight before, if you’ve never seen what fighters look like, you’re seeing it now,” Atlas said respectfully. “Real fighters. A real fight. Nobody has to tell these two men how to act.”
Even in the heat of battle, Micky and Burton knew what they were doing. They were staging a fight for the ages. They were in the midst of what would later be voted by Ring magazine as the “Fight of the Year.” Neither took anything back to the corner with them.
“All you promoters out there, you don’t always have the best funds in the world. Take all your money and give it to these guys. Give it to them,” Atlas demanded.
With thirty seconds to go, Micky received a soft right hand to the face. It was not enough to knock over a chair, but Micky was so tired, the swat knocked him off balance, and he needed to take two steps back to right himself. Burton jumped out of the corner at him, but Micky was not hurt. The final fifteen seconds was all guts. The tanks were empty; they were fighting on the fumes. More leather to the face, more pain in the ribs, more aching arms and legs, more difficulty breathing, lungs gasping for air. Neither man expected anything less from himself or from his opponent.
“Oh my! Oh my!” Atlas exclaims. “Fight of the Year. Somebody give these guys a big payday. They’ve earned it.”
As the final bell sounded, Smoger jumped in and grabbed both fighters around the neck. He pulled them close together and told them what a privilege it was to witness that fight.
“You both have a lot to be proud of,” he said. “Good luck.”
The final punch stats tell the story of human endurance. Micky threw 1,182 punches, landing 320 of them. Only a handful were jabs. Burton threw 918 punches, but landed 421. Between them they absorbed 741 punches, and instead of collapsing on the canvas when it was over, they paced around the ring waiting for the three men with the scorecards to decide their fate.
The ring announcer, M. Mark Beiro, got everyone’s attention by saying, “Ladies and gentlemen we have a unanimous decision.”
Even that was a bit of a surprise. It could have gone as a split or majority decision or even a draw. The fight seemed that close to most observers.
“Judge John Stevens scores it 96-94,” Beiro continued. “Judge Jim Fagan sees it 96-91, and Judge Mike Nolan has it 98-90.”
A five-and eight-point difference? It was shocking. And it was alarming to both fighters. Those judges had seen something very different than everyone else. What was it? What had they seen, and who were they giving the decision to?
“All to the winner by unanimous decision,” Beiro said, then pausing for some dramatic effect. “Irish . . . Micky . . . Ward!”
Certainly, a strong case could be made that Micky won the fight. Burton never protested. But to score it that unevenly was a surprise even to Micky’s camp.
“The scoring was a little lopsided,” Sal admits. “But Micky won the fight. Did he win by that much? I don’t know, but he won. That fight was talked about for a long time.”
Micky retired to his dressing room and collapsed onto a metal chair, announcing to those around him in a thick Massachusetts accent, “I feel like I’m hung ovah!” Later, after he was given a chance to reflect on what he had just been a part of, Micky said, “It’s great to be involved in something like this. You look back at your career, and to have something like this, a classic fight, it makes you proud.”
The Burton fight was “the” fight in Micky’s career to that point. More than Neary and more than Reggie Green, the Burton fight put Micky in the national spotlight. Teddy Atlas was screaming for someone to give Micky a big payday, and people were listening—important people. Micky was getting toward the end of his career, and looking to cash in. The wheels were set in motion even before the Burton fight, and Micky did his part. He was supposed to beat Burton, which would put him back on a collision course with his friend from New Bedford, Massachusetts, Ray Oliveira. All Oliveira had to do was beat a guy named Ben Tackie for the NABF light welterweight title at Foxwoods in August. That was just three weeks after Ward-Burton. If Oliveira won, Ward-Oliveira was a likely undercard bout on a Zab Judah-Kostya Tszyu unification fight in November. The winner of that fight would then fight the winner of Ward-Oliveira.
“I only want two or three more fights,” Ward was quoted as saying at the time. “I’ve been doing this since I was seven. I want to make some money and then go to work like a regular guy. I don’t want to end up punch-drunk or looking like some guy who’s had a thousand fights. It doesn’t matter how much money you have if you’re messed up. Ray is like myself. We’ve fought all the guys we had to fight. We fight our hearts out and don’t say Jack. If we fight, it will be a business decision for both of us because we both know where the loser goes—back to work.”
All the pieces were put in place, and Micky would probably earn close to a million dollars in the two fights. It was an exciting proposition for the two Massachusetts kids, but it never happened. Oliveira lost a majority decision to Tackie. It was a fight similar to Ward-Burton in that 2,729 punches were thrown, the third most in boxing history according to Compubox statistics. It was a stunning defeat that not only derailed Oliveira’s career, but it put Micky in no-man’s-land. He could have gone after Tackie, but Team Ward received a far more intriguing offer.
“I saw the Burton fight. I know you’re not with Cedric Kushner anymore. So, I’d love it if we could get together and talk about Micky’s future.” It was Lou DiBella. So, in October 2001, Sal and Micky jumped on a train and headed for New York.
DiBella’s office was in downtown Manhattan. His office window framed the New York skyline, featuring the Empire State Building. It was an impressive introduction to the really big time. In the past few years, Sal and Micky had had a few opportunities to dine at the big boys’ table, but they only nibbled. DiBella was in a position to offer them a seven-course meal. And they were hungry.
“I know how hard you work with Micky,” DiBella said to Sal. “It must be a real privilege. He’s such a warrior. I don’t mind telling you, Micky, I’m a big fan, and I’d really like to work with the two of you.”
Sal recalls thinking that he was in Oz. “Wow! Wake me. Pinch me,” he thought. Micky piped up first.
“Lou, I’ll fight anyone. But I only want to fight two or three more times. So, I’m looking for some big fights. Big-money fights. I’m ready.”
“I think so, too,” DiBella agreed. “And I can get them for you.”
“It’s always been important to me,” Sal said, “that we have a three-step plan. I like to have a couple of fights lined up after the next one, because it’s important to have a game plan. We need to be flexible, depending on results, but we still need plan A, B, and C.”
“Plan A is Jesse James Leija,” DiBella said abruptly. “How’s that sound?” DiBella quickly explained that he was involved in putting together a fight in San Antonio in which Leonard Dorin would be fighting Raul Horacio Balbi for the WBA lightweight title. Leija was from San Antonio, and DiBella wanted to put him on the card. Micky was a perfect opponent.
“And as far as Plan B goes, Sal, that would be Arturo Gatti. Beyond that, who knows?”
It was everything Micky and Sal wanted to hear. With DiBella serving as advisor, Sal brokered a
deal to fight Leija on January 5, 2002. Micky’s take-home would be 250,000 dollars, the same money Leija would be making. Micky was ecstatic. Leija, who had been hoping for a rematch with Hector Camacho, didn’t really want the fight.
“I’m getting about half the money I was getting for Camacho,” Leija told boxing columnist Steve Kim. “I’m fighting a guy that is twice or three times as tough as Camacho. I have a bigger fight on my hands for less money. It doesn’t make sense.”
Leija’s manager, Lestor Bedford, was equally upset about getting Micky as an opponent, but it remained the best money fight Leija could get.
“I’m very disappointed,” Bedford said. “Micky Ward is a tougher fighter. I don’t think there’s any question that everybody perceives it as a tougher fight for James. Camacho’s probably a little quicker, a little bigger puncher, but the thing is he can be hurt, and he is also subject to quitting. Micky Ward is neither one of those. He’s got a lot more heart, which makes it a tougher fight.”
Leija’s camp was concerned. Team Ward saw Leija as a means to an end.
“When Lou DiBella talked about Jesse James Leija, that excited me,” Sal recalls. “I felt as though if Micky beats Leija, we get Arturo Gatti. There wasn’t any question in my mind. I knew about Gatti and his people. He was already on the radar screen. I always dreamt about Micky fighting Gatti, an Irish kid with an Italian kid. I couldn’t see into a crystal ball, but it was my hoping and thinking that someday it could happen.”
But the personalities and politics of boxing made it unlikely to happen, at least any time soon. DiBella and the chief operating officer of Main Events, Gary Shaw, hated one another, and there was no way they were going to sit down at the same table and negotiate a fight, no matter how much money was involved.
Russell Peltz, still with ESPN and Top Rank and formerly a promoter for Gatti, ran into Shaw at a Vinny Pazienza fight at Foxwoods, and Shaw told him, “Listen, I’ll make the fight with you, but I won’t make it with DiBella.”
But Peltz couldn’t help him at the time because he was no longer working with Gatti, and he was still on bad terms with Al Valenti and Sal LoNano. Peltz remained bitter that the men directing Micky’s career had pushed him away in favor of Cedric Kushner, and then when Kushner abandoned them, they solicited the help of DiBella instead of coming back to him.
“When they made a deal with Lou to promote Micky,” Peltz recalls. “I said, ‘Al, why? You’ve got a fighter who’s been on ESPN and HBO. Why would you go outside the family of me, Sal, and you? It’s Kushner all over again. It’s not necessary.’”
Then Peltz added, “Al should have known better. Al’s a good guy, but his lack of the inner workings of the business really surprised me. Sal was complaining, but he would let Al handle things.”
But Al could hardly be criticized for hooking up with DiBella, who brought Micky to San Antonio to fight Leija. It was a solid career move and a guaranteed moneymaker.
Team Ward was wildly optimistic. They believed that Leija was a perfect opponent for Micky. Leija was quick but not as quick as Judah. He could punch but not as hard as Burton or Diaz. He was a more natural lightweight, so Micky would be stronger, and if he could convince Leija to brawl with him, he would win. Then he would get Gatti. Plan A. Plan B. It was perfect.
“But you’re fighting Leija in Texas, which is never a good idea,” Valenti cautioned.
Valenti had a home in Hollywood, Florida, and he checked with the local realtor to see if there was another place in the same neighborhood that would be available to rent for a few weeks. So, a few days after Thanksgiving, Team Ward set up camp in a beautiful house right on the beach.
A long time friend of Valenti, Pat Burns, had a gym just on the north side of Miami where he trained professional fighters, including future middleweight champion Jermain Taylor and a Miami lightweight named Lamar Murphy. Burns was brought on board as a nutritionist, and Micky regularly sparred with Murphy. Dickie, not surprisingly, immediately felt threatened by Burns, but Pat’s involvement was primarily out of convenience. He was there. He was friends with Al. He had something to offer. That was it. Still, he and Dickie never got along.
Micky got up every morning at 4:30 to jog along the beach. He ate what Burns told him to eat and did what Dickie told him to do. This was serious business.
“Micky was in the right place for this fight,” Al says. “No alcohol during training camp. Training camp can be like going to prison. Very strict. Work hard, and when it’s over, you have a beer. We didn’t bring alcohol into the house, because if you see it, you want it. Out of sight, out of mind. Besides, one thing about Micky, you don’t have to tell him what to do. Micky knows what he has to do. He’d get up on his own and go running every morning. You get up at six o’clock, and he’s already on his way back from a run.”
Team Ward returned home for Christmas before heading down to Texas a week before the fight, but before they left Hollywood, there was time for one big barbecue. Sal, the cook, went out and bought several pounds of prime beef.
“What’s for dinner, Sal?” Micky asked.
“Barbecued steak,” Sal said with pride. “I got some beauties. You’re gonna love it.”
“That’s great, Sal, but we don’t have a barbecue.”
Sal was crestfallen but undeterred. He began walking through the neighborhood looking for a barbecue. He found one a few houses away, and following a quick inspection, determined that nobody was living there.
“So, I sent Al over there,” Sal begins the story. “I told him I was gonna cook some steaks, and I tell everybody the owner of the home said I could use his grill. I got hamburgers, steaks, hot dogs, everything. Al says, ‘I’ll cook tonight.’ I took the cover off the barbecue, and Micky says to me real quiet, ‘Did you really get permission?’ I says, ‘No,’ and we just started laughing. Al doesn’t know any of this. Al’s cooking and singing at the same time. He’s having a great time when, wouldn’t you know, the family shows up. Frankie, my son, comes running around the corner and says the guy next door is really mad. So, I go over there and Al’s like, ‘Didn’t you tell me we got permission to use the grill?’ And I said, ‘Oh we’ve got the wrong house!’ Long story short, we all sat down to dinner. He became our friend for the rest of the time down there.”
After a short trip back home for the holidays, Team Ward was scheduled to meet down in San Antonio, but Al had business in Las Vegas. He was part of the marketing team for the Andrea Bocelli concert at Mandalay Bay. After the show, he returned to his hotel room and felt like he was having a heart attack.
He called the front desk and got the number for Barbara Roach, the mother of Freddie, Joey, and Pepper, who was working out in Vegas as a boxing judge. Barbara gave Al the number of a doctor who told Al to meet him at the hospital. The problem? Kidney stones.
“I end up in the hospital for Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday,” Al says. “Now everybody’s in San Antonio; they don’t know where I am. I’m on morphine the whole time. I told Barbara to call a couple of people. But word doesn’t get to Sal and the rest. They didn’t know where the hell I was. I finally pass the stone, and the doctor tells me I can go home tomorrow. I don’t tell him I’m going to San Antonio, but that’s where I went. You feel pretty good as soon as the stone passes.”
Al was also given a full bottle of the pain reliever Vicadin, which Dickie begged him for more than once, claiming it was for his bad back. Al had a tough time keeping the narcotic away from the drug addict, and only managed to hold Dickie off by finally giving him a handful.
While Al and Dickie found relief from their pain, Micky felt as good as he’d ever felt. He was in a good place. His future was there for the taking. Beat Leija, get Gatti. Beat Gatti, get Tszyu. Beat Tszyu, get out of boxing a wealthy man and a champion. It wasn’t just a dream. It was the plan.
“We’d like to match the winner of Ward-Leija with the winner of the January 26 Arturo Gatti-Terron Millett fight,” HBO vice president Kery Davis told George Kimba
ll of the Boston Herald. “Ward against Gatti is a fight I would pay to watch myself.”
And if Micky could beat Gatti, he would certainly be in line for a title shot against Kostya Tszyu. Micky would be thirty-seven years old by then, and he could step out of the limelight as very few other boxers had ever done—with finality and with a championship belt. First things first, however. Everything hinged on getting past Leija.
“If I lose, I’m done,” Ward told Borges a week before the fight. “That’s why I got to win. I don’t want that to come. If it does, I’ll thank everyone who helped me and leave knowing I trained hard and never quit. Then people can judge me as they like. I know I never gave up in there.”
Leija had a similar reputation. He was Micky’s equal in many ways. Micky was thirty-six, Leija thirty-five. Micky had forty-seven professional fights, Leija, forty-nine. Leija was described in HBO’s press release for the fight as “resourceful and relentless.” Certainly, those were words that defined Micky as well. That’s why the fight was considered a perfect match. It seemed destined to be a fight full of punches and counterpunches. Money would be at stake, but so would survival.
“The loser goes home, and he don’t come back,” Micky said. “I know he’ll be tough. I know he’s pretty quick and likes to counterpunch. It’s in his hometown, so I know I have to make him respect me right from the first round. It’s good to fight a guy like this. He’s a pro. He’s coming to win and I’m coming to win. I respect him, and I’m not afraid to admit it. That doesn’t mean I’m afraid of him.”
Micky wasn’t afraid of anybody, and his respect for Leija was justified. Of Leija’s five career losses, four of them came in championship fights, and Leija had stood up to the likes of Shane Mosely, Oscar De La Hoya, Gabriel Ruelas, Ivan Robinson, and Azumah Nelson three times. Leija’s resume was sprinkled with some of the best names in boxing, just like Micky’s. They’d both proven over the years that they were willing to do what it takes both before and during a fight. Now, they would have to prove it again.
