Irish Thunder

by Bob Halloran

  Of course, when a fighter knows he’s retiring, the reasonable belief is that the fight has already left him. So there were plenty of doubters who thought Micky was only fighting Gatti for one last sizeable paycheck.

  “If they say that, then they don’t know me,” was Micky’s response to such conjecture. “Until Sunday morning, I’m a fighter. I wanted this fight to redeem myself and then walk away from boxing. For me, it’s to get revenge on Gatti for the last fight. Maybe he got more of the money, but I want to get the upper hand on him in the fight. The way we fight, we both know what’s coming. I can’t take the heart out of the guy and he can’t take the heart out of me. . . . But I can beat him.”

  Micky had already proven that he could beat Gatti, but the second fight put Gatti’s superior boxing skills on display, and most boxing observers assumed that Gatti would be able to repeat the strategy in the third bout. Micky vowed to move his head more to avoid taking as many punches. He promised not to fall into Gatti’s traps by following him around the ring. And he pledged to let Gatti be the aggressor, so that he could win the fight by counterpunching.

  Micky repeated his assertions several times before Buddy McGirt finally scoffed, “Micky Ward isn’t going to come out and box like Sugar Ray Robinson.”

  Micky’s best chance of winning was to land his paralyzing body shot to the liver, and his best chance of doing that was to work his way to the inside. It’s the style that brought Micky to the big stage, and it was very likely the style that he would go out with. The only thing Gatti’s team had to worry about was their own fighter’s predisposition to do the same.

  “Micky says this is his last fight, so I expect him to fight his best,” Gatti said. “I have to stay smart and stick to my plan. But, you know me. I want to box, but if I have to fight, I’m not afraid to fight.”

  “This is it,” Micky explained, “and I want it more than anything else. It’s okay that nobody thinks I can win. They didn’t think I could win the first fight either. I’ll go out giving my best because that is what I love to do.”

  The knowledge that both fighters would give their all twice inspired the expansion of Boardwalk Hall’s seating capacity. By the time Micky and Arturo were ready to step into the ring, the arena accommodated fifteen thousand people, an astronomical number of fans to see a non-title fight between non-heavyweights. All of those people were anxious to see a repeat of Ward-Gatti I, which was recognized as the 2002 Fight of the Year from the Boxing Writers’ Association.

  Micky drove down to Atlantic City in the first week of June 2003, prepared to finish what he had started, an epic trilogy with Arturo Gatti and a successful career. His first boardwalk fight had been against Chris Bajor in January 1986. Bajor’s career ended eight months later. Seventeen years later, Micky was still going strong.

  The opportunities were there, but Micky was vehement in his resolve not to be lured by money into another fight. There were reports that IBF lightweight champion Paul Spadafora wanted to move up to junior welterweight, and since Spadafora was considered a light puncher, there were also growing whispers among boxing people that Micky could earn a big but low-risk HBO payday. And there was also the possibility that an impressive win by Micky over Gatti could put him in line to fight Kostya Tszyu. A fight such as that would be worth millions and a title that Micky had always coveted. But Micky professed to have no interest in additional fights.

  “Nope,” he said. “Not for two and a half million. Not for five million. This is it. I don’t want to hear about another fight. I did all I could do in boxing, and I did it the way you should. I’ve gone farther than anyone thought I would. I have enough money to set myself up, and I’m still healthy. How many fighters can say that? I’m satisfied with everything I did, and how I did it.”

  Micky remembered how he felt in the days leading up to and during his first retirement. He felt like a loser, a quitter. He felt empty inside, like there was something left undone. He didn’t anticipate feeling like that this time. Everything was different now, from his bank account to his overall mindset. This time his decision to walk away was final, and it was comforting.

  “I’m kind of relieved it’s almost over,” Micky said. “I’m glad to be done with ‘Drink this. Don’t drink that. Eat this. Don’t eat that. Sleep now, not later.’ I won’t miss the limelight or the headaches. It’s time to stop. Sure, it’s kind of sad, but I’m glad it’s almost over. A lot of people thought I was done a long time ago. I even thought I was done, but I decided I ain’t done until I’m done.”

  Win or lose to Gatti, Micky was going out a winner. He’d won the respect of millions. The boxing public loved him. He was a champion of the people. Ron Borges was able to explain why in a story written the day before Micky’s last stand.

  A fighter faces the question often asked by revolutionaries and warriors in moments of crisis. “Would you rather die on your feet or live on your knees?”

  In a boxing ring, that question has a literal side because men die there with far too much frequency and great warriors like Ward and Gatti are mindful of that, yet keep that sad reality at arm’s length like an opponent who’s too strong on the inside.

  They parry the thought. They jab at it, slip under it, always respecting it but refusing to give in to it. At times, they ignore the stark possibilities and fight on through bleary eyes or a bloodied face. That is why the public has fallen in love with Ward. It is why it will cheer him madly as he walks down the aisle for the last time tomorrow night in an odd venue for boxing.

  On June 7, 2003, ring announcer Michael Buffer got the evening started, “Ladies and Gentlemen, by way of Bally’s Atlantic City, Main Events is proud to present the third and final chapter of the Gatti-Ward boxing trilogy. Ten rounds of boxing for the unofficial but undisputed blood and guts championship of the world! Let’s get ready to r-r-r-r-umble!”

  The last word rolled off his tongue as Micky shuffled his feet from side to side. He was flanked by Dickie, Sal, and his nephew Sean Eklund. Micky was wearing a Lowell Spinners jersey with the number 39 on it, representing what he hoped would be his thirty-ninth career victory.

  Buffer went on, “Tonight, he enters the ring for his final fight. Tonight he vows to end his eighteen years in the ring with a victory. Ladies and gentlemen, the fighting pride of Lowell, Massachusetts, the former super lightweight world champion, Irish Micky Ward!”

  The crowd erupted dutifully. Fans there knew that they were part of something special.

  Gatti stood in the red corner as the crowd noise died down enough for Buffer to continue.

  “Gatti is a former 130-pound champion. Over his career he has become recognized as a fighter of unchallenged valor and courage with his never-surrender, never-quit style. Ladies and gentlemen, from Jersey City, New Jersey, the former junior lightweight world champion, the ultimate blood-and-guts warrior, Arturo ‘Thunder’ Gatti!”

  On cue, Gatti began bouncing on his toes as Buffer dramatically announced his name. The crowd was equally enthusiastic in their reception of Gatti, and he responded by kissing his right glove and waving it high in the air. History was about to happen.

  True to his word, Micky was more aggressive, especially with his jab. He landed the first punches of any real consequence, and he moved well to his left and right. He was quicker with his counters and more willing to finish with flurries of his own than he had been in the second fight. It was a good first round for Micky, but he returned to his corner with a cut in the middle of his left eyebrow. It was not yet of any great concern.

  “Be active,” urged Dickie. “It’s the last fight of your career, Mick. Fight hard, baby! Hands up!”

  Dickie encouraged Micky to throw more right hands because that was the punch that knocked him on his ass during a recent sparring session with his little brother.

  Gatti began landing an inordinate number of body shots in round two. He bounced well around the ring, moving with rhythm and grace. He was able to make Micky swing and miss a lot and
then land a few quick shots before backing up again.

  “Micky Ward doesn’t look too good at this point in time,” Emmanuel Steward observed.

  “No. Arturo’s beating him up,” Jim Lampley added. “He’s beating him in every way, power punches, boxing, ring generalship, seems to have more spirit.”

  Gatti landed twenty-three of thirty-four power punches in the third round. By the end of the round, Micky’s nose was bleeding. He had a cut over his eye, and he was taking a beating to the body. The round could have been scored 10-8 it was so dominating.

  “Listen, very beautiful,” McGirt praised. “Just go back downstairs again. Just go back downstairs to the body. . . . It’s your show.”

  It was much quieter on the other side of the ring. Micky was getting two Q-tips shoved up his nose to stop the bleeding, and Dickie was less vocal than usual. Gatti was fighting a brilliant fight again. Micky needed something to change the momentum and direction of this fight, or he could wind up getting hurt on his way out of the fight game.

  “If Micky Ward wants to get back into this fight, he’s going to have to return to his shock-and-awe style of fighting,” Merchant said flatly.

  Twenty-six seconds into the fourth round, Micky caught a break. Gatti fired a hard right hand that landed on Micky’s left hip. Gatti immediately backed away writhing in pain. Micky knew what that meant, because he’d been in the same position. He immediately went after Gatti with a left hook to the head. Gatti was either unable or unwilling to block it with his painful right hand. Micky landed a few more shots, and now it was Gatti who wasn’t firing back.

  “It appears almost certain at this point that Arturo Gatti feels as though he’s broken his right hand,” Lampley said. “And Micky Ward is taking advantage to pound him!”

  Gatti didn’t throw his first right hand for a full minute after he felt the pain shoot up his arm. When he finally tested his right hand again, the punch was not thrown with its usual violence, but it was a minor victory that he threw it at all. He winced again.

  “No question Gatti has hurt his right hand,” Lampley observed. “That’s gonna change the fight.”

  Gatti’s pain energized Micky. He closed in on Gatti in the center of the ring and delivered five-straight left hooks and uppercuts. Gatti had no answer. He merely stepped around Micky and backed away.

  “Ward’s back in it now. Back in it in a big way!” Lampley said excitedly.

  Gatti was almost defenseless. For the better part of the fourth round, his right was useless and his left was lifeless. Finally, he started throwing more forceful lefts, but he only tapped Micky with his right. Meanwhile, Micky favored the uppercuts. He threw several, landed some, but it was a big overhand right that wobbled Gatti in the final thirty seconds of the round.

  “No question the hand is hurt,” Steward said. “They may end up having to stop the fight. That’s what makes boxing so different from all other sports. In any other sport, you could call a time-out, substitute another athlete. You can’t do it in boxing. The whole team is Gatti.”

  “Arturo wants to throw his right hand, but just can’t!” Lampley interrupted. “Micky Ward landed a haymaker shot!”

  Fighting with sudden desperation, Gatti disregarded his pain and began fighting back, not wildly, but with precision. After hurting his hand, then being hurt by Micky’s blows, Gatti was in danger of being stopped. Now fans were witnessing an incredible turnaround. Gatti was retaking control of the fight. He threw seven straight left hooks, mixing in just one straight right, thrown instinctively. That’s what a fighter does. After thousands of combinations in the gym and in the arenas, a fighter follows up a series of lefts with a right. Gatti did it despite the pain. And he fought back valiantly in the final seconds of round four.

  “Gatti showing great courage as he tries to get Ward off of him with one hand,” Lampley announced. “High drama in Atlantic City. Crowd on its feet.”

  “This is what they came for,” Larry Merchant added.

  Gatti survived the round and returned to his corner with the crowd still on its feet. Gatti slumped on to his stool and laid his head on McGirt’s shoulder.

  “My hand,” was how Gatti began the conversation.

  “Huh?”

  “My hand.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “My right hand.”

  “What do you want me to do?” McGirt repeated.

  “I’m gonna keep going.”

  Of course, he was going to keep going. That’s what Micky did when he lost his equilibrium in the third round of the second fight. “Okay, listen,” McGirt said confidently. “Here’s what you’ve gotta do. Use that jab. Keep that jab working. Don’t stay inside and take no body shots. Okay? . . .”

  Micky and Dickie knew Gatti’s hand was hurt. His hand may have been broken, but he wouldn’t know that until the fight was over. Since he had made the decision to keep fighting, Gatti continued with reckless regard for his body. He began the fifth round throwing with both hands. It was intended to demonstrate to Micky that he wasn’t hurt. Micky stalked him anyway, but Gatti kept him at a distance.

  Midway through the round, Gatti landed a hard right to Micky’s chin. It was a good thing for Micky that Gatti pulled it just a bit. Soon, the cut opened above Micky’s left eye. He ignored the blood rolling down his face and landed a hard left hook, but Gatti shrugged it off as if it were nothing. Gatti began using his right hand more and more as the round progressed. It had gone numb. No pain. No problem. With fifteen seconds to go in the fifth, both fighters went after each other with haymakers. Two solid straight rights from Micky. Two huge left hooks from Gatti. And the bell sounded. It was becoming a brawl not unlike their first encounter. Micky was prepared to go out in style, and Gatti was willing to accommodate.

  The ring doctor, Dominic Coletta, paid a visit to Micky’s corner to inspect his cuts. There was one on the bridge of his nose, another one on his cheek, and a third above his left eye. Occasionally, his nose bled as well. He was a mess. His face looked worse than in any of his previous fifty fights. The cut on his eyebrow was as wide as a coin slot, but Gavin seemed to have the bleeding under control.

  “It’s all right,” Gavin assured Coletta. “It’s above the eye.”

  “Yeah, it shouldn’t trickle down. All right, I’ll let it go.”

  Then after the doctor had left, Gavin leaned in toward Micky and told him, “He’s fighting with one hand.”

  Dickie heard it and added, “Don’t let a one-handed fighter beat you.” But Arturo was becoming less and less of a one-handed puncher. Whatever the extent of his injury, whatever the extent of his pain, Gatti was dealing with it. Micky had to remain cautious and not forget about Arturo’s right.

  Round six was a relatively inactive round for Micky. But he was certainly throwing more punches in this fight.

  “Down goes Arturo on a wide swinging right hand!” Lampley said attempting to hide his astonishment. “The bell sounded and round six has come to a close. Micky Ward who was behind on points, now has a leg up to get back into the fight.”

  The knockdown came suddenly and unexpectedly, when Micky landed a big right hand, and Gatti simply stepped away. He wasn’t hurt, so he reengaged. This time he was met with a short left and a hard overhand right to the top of his head. And that’s what put him down. Gatti rose immediately as the bell sounded to end the round. He was still given a standing eight-count before he was sent along to his corner.

  “He’s trying to come over the top with that right hand, Arturo,” McGirt said, maintaining the calmness and control in his voice. “You’ve got to move to your right a little more, because he’s not using that left hand. Keep the left out in front of you.”

  Dr. Coletta made his way over to Gatti’s corner this time, and asked, “Arturo, how are you feeling?”

  “Fine.”

  “You fine?”

  “Yeah.”

  That was all, and that was enough. The bell sounded for the start of round
seven, but Micky wasn’t ready to come out of his corner. Dickie couldn’t get the mouthpiece in for Micky, and Micky couldn’t get a handle on it while wearing the gloves, so the referee, Earl Morton, had to call time-out. Dickie dropped the mouthpiece, but picked it up off the canvas and shoved it into Micky’s mouth. Micky stood there unperturbed, and then playfully punched Dickie in the belly.

  Micky and Gatti jumped to the center of the ring and resumed trading big shots. Gatti landed a hard left to the body that forced Micky to take a step back. Micky hiked up his shorts and took a deep breath. Gatti, either admiring his handiwork or taking a breather of his own, never saw the short left and the hard right combination.

  “He hurt Gatti with the right hand, hurt him badly!” Lampley reported. “And here comes Gatti trying to fight his way off the ropes.”

  Gatti’s left eye had opened up and was bleeding as badly as Micky’s. “Look at Arturo firing that broken right hand,” Lampley said. “Ward waits for him to finish and then stages his own assault.”

  It was another incredibly punishing round for both fighters. They seemed to take turns hitting each other. Micky took more time and punishment, but each time Gatti stopped punching, Micky started.

  “I knocked him down at the end of the sixth,” Micky explained. “Usually I’d come out in the seventh and get right on top of him. But when I came out for the seventh, I knew right then and there, I had nothing. I was a shell of myself. My legs felt like they were in quicksand. My body was dead tired. That’s when I knew I was done. That confirmed my retirement.”

  Halfway through the seventh round, Micky’s exhaustion caused him to make a mistake. He fought his way inside, but when he got there, he had nothing left. He took a moment to rest when he was at close range, and Gatti made him pay for it. He wobbled Micky with a stinging left hook.

  “Can Gatti follow up?” Lampley wondered aloud.