Nigel Benn

by Nigel Benn

  We were both so happy. I stayed with Sharron at her mum’s house for a while and later we lived in a hostel while waiting for a council flat. In those days my ambitions were more down to earth. I thought if I could afford to buy us a terraced house, I would be fulfilled.

  More people had begun to take notice of me as an amateur and my training was going well. I was putting in a lot of effort to face up to Rod Douglas and this time there would be no doubt about the outcome. Brian Lynch had taken over as my trainer and I thought he was the bee’s knees. He was a jeweller who had been a Thames boatman and PE teacher and his approach to training was unorthodox, which attracted me to him in the first place.

  My chance to even the score with Douglas came nearly a year after our first fight. We met for the ABA London division, part of the ABA national championship in 1986. This time it was a barn burner. Everyone came to watch. York Hall in Bethnal Green, where the fight was staged, was packed. Nobody who was on the amateur boxing circuit wanted to miss this fight. Around this time, I had told my brother John that the direction I wanted to take was now quite clear. I had regained my confidence and set my eyes on a fresh target. I would become the ABA champion and, from there, turn professional and become world champion.

  John was amazed at how much I had progressed through the amateur ranks. In spite of that, he still thought my ambitious predictions were a little too optimistic. Even so, he was impressed by the enormous increase in my strength and power. As I progressed up the scale, boxing commentators who were conversant with top professional fighters around the world, began commenting on my power, speed and accuracy. They said it was as impressive as anything they had seen from Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard, Marvin Hagler and George Foreman. When you’re coming up the ranks, that’s what you want to hear!

  My mental attitude had also changed. I had set my sights on turning professional as soon as I had won the ABA nationals. I saw no future in getting hit for nothing. It would be madness to continue putting your body at risk for the sake of a hobby. Why get your head punched in for a trophy?

  Brian Lynch trained me for the Douglas fight and put me through a hard routine, just like I had been used to in the Army.

  I’ve said in the past that if you have a talent, exploit it to the full, and I was well aware that God had blessed me with the ability to fight. Steve Davis, the snooker player, was born to pot balls, Maradona to score goals and Nigel Benn to kick ass.

  When I stepped into the ring with Douglas I instinctively knew I would beat him. I was as nervous as hell — after all, here I was fighting the same person in the same place where he had defeated me last time. But nervous adrenalin helped and it fed on the fact that the place was packed out. I’d put a lot in to win this fight and I was more hungry and more determined than before. Apart from that, I had done some growing up. We eye-balled each other and this time I had the eye of the tiger.

  The last time we had been in the ring together, his greater experience in amateur boxing was a decisive factor. Not this time. I exploded, Boom! Boom! Boom! I had him down in the first round and again in the second or third. By the end of the fight I had clearly beaten him on points, in spite of the fact that he had been favourite. I then went on to beat Johnny Melfah in a further elimination round before going on to win the 1986 ABA national boxing championship cup.

  My victory win put me in line to represent Britain in the Commonwealth Games in Edinburgh the same year but I was kicked out of the England squad by the ABA for allegedly missing the first training session. It seems the ABA favoured Rod Douglas in spite of my win and he was chosen to box for Britain and won the gold medal. I will never forgive the ABA for what it did to me. I felt cheated and humiliated by their decision. That gold should have been mine

  Since becoming world champion, the ABA asked me to participate in various events and activities but I always refused. I won’t help them now or in the future. The ABA acted like a judge and jury in a tragic case which had not come to court and in which they had no jurisdiction. They prejudged a personal issue when they had no right to do so and I shall hold that against them for as long as I live.

  Sharron had given birth to our first child, Dominic, on 3 March 1986. The games were to be held in July. We were still living in one cramped room in a hostel with our young baby. We were young and inexperienced parents, having to survive in difficult conditions. In spite of this, we made the best of things and we both loved Dominic. We now have three children and our love for them has been the greatest thing in our lives.

  After beating Douglas and winning the ABA national championships, I turned professional. Douglas stayed amateur and became the ABA title holder for the fourth time, while I went on to a win a series of fights which attracted the attention of the press and public. When he saw how successful I was as a professional boxer, Rod thought he’d follow suit and turned professional under Mickey Duff. He was hoping to fight me again, this time as a professional, before his career tragically ended on 25 October 1989 after 14 undefeated fights. The referee had to stop his British middleweight title contest against Herol Graham at Wembley in the ninth round after he’d been twice battered to the canvas. Rod went home feeling OK after the fight but collapsed three hours later and was lucky his brother drove him to hospital in time for neurosurgeons to remove a blood clot from his brain. It was his twenty-fifth birthday and he spent it first on the operating table and then on a life-support machine in intensive care.

  That is one of the risks in boxing. In fact, his experience was very similar to the tragic events surrounding Michael Watson. Rod had to learn how to talk and walk all over again.

  As a boxer, I have never allowed the thought of injury to interfere with my career. If I felt that way I wouldn’t go on fighting. Tragically, I’ve seen it happen to people I like. I am very friendly with Michael Watson and although they tried to write him off, he is still a man, still a person. He has his wits about him, he knows what is going on, it’s just that he hasn’t recovered enough yet to be able to express it as effectively as he would like.

  If you are going to be a successful fighter, you’ve got to turn away from the danger of physical hurt and protect yourself as best as you can while you fight. And once you’re past it, you’ve got to know when to quit. I never wanted to be one of those fighters who keeps getting into the ring after his sell-by date. That’s when you really can get hurt.

  I have always tried to be level-headed about boxing. It’s a question of sorting out your priorities, finding the right direction and attacking your target. As I keep saying, my army training really paid off. But long ago, when I had just started my professional career, I had already plotted my path. I said at the time that Britain had three world middleweight champions over the past 30 years. They were Randolph Turpin, Terry Downes and Alan Minter. Turpin was fighting before I was born and, having watched films of him in action, I rate him the best of the three. He could punch and he was a good boxer. Downes came second on my list because of his guts and courage and Alan Minter was third. My ambition was to top all three of them.

  Brian Lynch had seen the potential in me as an amateur and I continued training with him for my professional fights, although we eventually parted company. Unfortunately, anybody who seems to have been involved with me always wants to take full credit for my fight victories. Brian and I were very close at first but, like others, he thinks, perhaps understandably, he taught me everything, how to punch and how to fight. That is a mistake which nobody should make. I taught myself how to fight. Others helped in sharpening up my skills. No trainer ‘made’ Nigel Benn.

  If anyone made me it was Mum and Dad. If trainers or managers were that good, then why haven’t they ‘made’ more Nigel Benns? That’s the question they should be addressing. Furthermore, I twice became world champion after I left Brian. I learned a lot about controlling my aggression and channelling my strength in the Army. It was the Army that taught me the principle that force without judgement crashes by its own weight.


  Having said that, I would not take away from the fact that Brian was a solid and good trainer. When I first began training with him, the ABA would not give him a coaching badge and West Ham club also turned him down so I trained in secret. Because of that, Brian had to function as my corner man in the crowd and he devised special signals which he would relay to me like a tick-tack man on a racecourse.

  After I turned professional, however, he took out a trainer’s licence and hired his own gym. We restricted sparring because there was little point in getting battered before a fight, and we also got rid of the old-style punch bag which used to injure quite a few fighters, even breaking their hands. For punching exercises, we used a floor-to-ceiling speedball and a swinging, lightweight sandbag. I would also shadow-box holding a 15lb barbell in each hand and run five to six miles a day, as well as play squash and do vigorous body-stretching exercises.

  Brian was, in my opinion, a little too exacting in the beginning. Sometimes I thought he was hurting me excessively. He used to work me hard but, apart from some misgivings, I still think he was a good trainer, and I had been used to a tough routine in the Army. Difficult though it was, his training was right up my street. I knew I was in good shape and he would try to stretch me as far as he could. He was a big part of my life in those early professional days. He tried to be a father figure and, at the time, I thought that everything he was doing was for my benefit.

  However, a certain amount of disillusionment set in. He put his son Sean in my corner at fights to ‘keep it in the family’, but how could a 17-year-old boy be in my corner? Only mature men should have been there. My dad thought it was wrong but didn’t say anything. Afterwards, I thought that my brother John should have been my corner man. If we were going to keep it in the family, I would rather it was my family. After all, John had been a boxer. He was the one who introduced me to boxing and had encouraged me all along.

  However, at the time I didn’t want to upset Brian because we were so close. He would invite me to his lovely big house in Upminster and we would go to boxing matches together. One of the problems with him was that he thought he was right about everything. He had a jewellery shop in Hatton Garden, London, and another shop in Upminster and thought he was quite a powerful man and, like many successful men, that his influence could be applied to anything he was involved in. That didn’t take into account the fact that I, too, had a strong personality and ideas of my own.

  He used to train me three times a day but there is only so much a body will take. When I left him, I cut down my training to twice a day. He was working me to the bone and I found I couldn’t take it any more. My body would say, ‘Don’t you think you are taking this too far?’ I wanted to listen to my instincts but Brian kept impressing on me the need for hard training. I now think that is not proven. I’ve proved through my own success that you don’t need to push things so far, that you should listen to what your body tells you and call it a day when you’ve had enough. No matter what any trainer might tell you, you can’t argue the case against solid facts and results. My argument is backed up by two world titles.

  7

  THE BIGGER THEY COME …

  Burt McCarthy was stinking rich. He was a multi-millionaire and cousin of former British Featherweight Champion Sammy McCarthy. Burt had a nose for talented prospects and could smell success where this Ilford boy was concerned. A lot of people were beating a path in my direction after the ABA victory. Burt got there first and became my manager. News of my fighting style spread rapidly — Nigel Benn had come to town. Or, to be more accurate, the boxing fraternity had at last recognised him and were bringing out their welcome mats. I was about to throw away my learner plates and cross over into the fast lane from where I would never look back. What a metamorphosis it was!

  I’d already seen some trappings of wealth with Brian Lynch but now Burt was displaying his like a peacock showing off his feathers: the flash mansion in Danbury, Essex, a penthouse in the Barbican and limousines which would need a wide-angle lens to fit them in the picture. Forget the fact that his money had not come from boxing but from other businesses. That didn’t matter. It smelled good and I was hungry. ‘You carry on doing the business,’ he told me, ‘and you’ll get everything.’

  Burt was a straight shooter and I respected his advice. He inspired me to pursue the material gains which were there for the taking in professional boxing, providing, of course, that you were tops. He arranged my first fight against Graeme Ahmed on 28 January 1987 at Croydon, for which I was promised a purse of £1,000. That was a fortune to me then.

  My professional début was on a Wednesday evening. Man, that’s a night I won’t forget. I weighed in at 11st 7¾lb, Ahmed at 11st 6½lb. I was raring to go, straining at the leash. But I was nervous, man, really, really nervous — before this fight I was even training in my sleep.

  I got out there and the crowd was going wild, with me just thinking, ‘I’m going to bash you, mate, I’m going to put you down.’ I went for him in the first round, hitting him with some heavy-duty punches, but he stayed in close, and I couldn’t quite nail him. I knew I had him in the second, though. As soon as the bell went, I put him down with a big left hook. He got up at nine, but went down twice more before the ref ended it.

  I couldn’t believe it was so easy, like counting 1-2-3. Respect to Ahmed, but it was a demolition job, and I felt great — £1,000 in my pocket, and he hadn’t done me any damage. It was my first pro fight and it had gone the same way as all my army fights. But it was also my first lesson in professional fighting, which was a completely different kettle of fish to amateur boxing. I’d become a lot calmer and more focused in my training, so, after a couple of days off for some serious partying with Sharron (£1,000 could buy you a good time, and in those days the money always went as fast as I could earn it), I was back slogging away, training for my second match against Kevin Roper at Basildon, which was scheduled for 4 March.

  The Welshman was heavier than me but the referee stopped the fight after 40 seconds in the first round. I was really cheesed off that night because they had almost started taking down the ring when it was our turn to fight. We’d got there at about 8.00pm and it wasn’t until after midnight that we fought. The crowds didn’t know who I was yet and I just wanted to get it over and done with. I gave Roper a right uppercut to his face and he retreated into a corner clutching his left eye. He was hurt badly and referee Davis called it off.

  My next fight was against Bob Nieuwenhuizen of the Netherlands at the Albert Hall. I think he was the tallest guy I ever fought. He was about 6ft 5in. I needed a step-ladder to smack him in the mouth, he was so big. I thought someone was taking the mickey pitching us together. Why hadn’t they brought in someone who was only 5ft 2in? I threw a left hook and hit him. I assaulted his body, Boom, Boom, Boom! I was really rushing about in the first few fights. I was always in first gear, never had time to get into second. Eventually, Nieuwenhuizen threw a jab at me and I returned with a left hook and thought, good night, hello Las Vegas! The referee rang the bell. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. The ref, Nick White, had stopped the fight after two minutes three seconds, even though the Dutchman beat the count and got up at eight.

  Fight number four on Saturday, 9 May was against a good old pro, Winston Burnett, who was from Cardiff. This Welshman was a good campaigner and I reckon he wanted to survive to one hundred. However, I figured I’d put an end to that and, while he gave a good defence, I got him 45 seconds into the fourth round. I didn’t think he came to fight. It seemed more like he was there to survive. He took a lot of punishment without reply but when he tried to smother me I landed a blow to the side of his head followed by a lot of punches to his body. I kept at him hammer and tongs in the fourth when referee Nathan stopped the fight.

  The next month I fought American Reginald Marks at the Albert Hall, Kensington, and he was out in the first round. I remember him clearly. He wore blue shorts and he was smaller than me. I just gave it to him. I knocked
him about like he was a dead body. I had him on the ropes and was whacking him in the body before sending him down with a right to the top of his head. He jumped up and bang! I walloped him again with a left hook. Although he got up at about nine, referee Sower reckoned he’d had enough and called time after two minutes ten seconds.

  I was back at the Albert Hall two weeks later on 1 July, fighting another American, Leon Morris, who, like Marks, was from Louisiana. He was a big guy who charged at me like a wounded buffalo. He punched me in the back of the head and on the side and then caught me behind the ear. I threw a left at him, which was more devastating, followed it through with another left hook and he went down like a lead weight. Somehow he wobbled up again after the count but couldn’t stay there. He was like a baby learning to walk. They had to carry him out and he didn’t know what time of day it was. The fight lasted 25 seconds of the scheduled eight rounds.

  Eddie Smith had a good record and was a force to be reckoned with. He’d beaten Tony Sibson, Frank Wissenbach and Roy Gumbs in the past but went down to me after 68 seconds. A Manchester veteran, Eddie connected two left hooks to my head but I retaliated with a right uppercut and a damaging left hook followed by a series of left hooks. It was my seventh straight stoppage win and the fifth in one round.

  Next, I stopped Winston Burnett for a second time in the third of six two-minute rounds at the Albert Hall on 16 September. Just before the bell went in the second, I hurt Burnett with a big right uppercut and then hammered him on the ropes. The ref, Sid Nathan, stopped the bout.

  I’ll never forget the punch I gave Russell Barker, a Scotsman from Nottingham. People thought I’d killed him. He was a same-day substitute for Frank Warren’s Seconds Out series.

  Fight after fight, victory after victory, the money began rolling in and mounting up. People began to recognise me in the street, the boxing groupies couldn’t get to the powder room fast enough. Did someone say fight groupies liked boxers because they were thick and strong?