No Middle Ground

by Sanjeev Shetty

  It would be the last world title fight that Eubank would win. In March 1995, Eubank fought the tough Irishman Steve Collins in Ireland. The hometown man ignored the Eubank mystique by listening to his own music through some headphones while the champion walked in to the strains of Tina Turner. The sight of Collins, in his corner, eyes shut, as Eubank strutted, was as memorable as anything else about the fight. Eubank was already concerned at Collins using a hypnotist and had even suggested that promoter Barry Hearn should call the fight off. In the ring, the challenger pressed the champion throughout, making sure he always had the last word in their exchanges and even flooring Eubank in the eighth round with a body punch – not for the first time, the Brighton man exclaimed that he’d slipped, but his fall had been down to poor balance and footwork. Eubank’s only glimmer of hope came in the tenth round, when he floored Collins with a heavy right hand. But the years of neglecting his roadwork and devoting himself to creating a persona to amuse the public seemed to catch up with him that night; the energy required to chase Collins down and hurt him just wasn’t there. The bout would go the full twelve rounds but for the first time since he’d turned professional ten years earlier, Eubank would hear the other man’s name read out as victor.

  Eubank would have a couple of easy knockout wins before the obvious rematch with Collins, later that year. This time there were no knockdowns and, although the bout was undeniably closer, another defeat followed. Eubank immediately announced his retirement from the sport, but within thirteen months he was back. During a memorable phone-in programme on Channel 5, he admitted he needed ‘a platform’ and that he knew nothing else and also missed the limelight. There would be three more defeats for Eubank before he retired again, this time permanently. He’d take a bout with Joe Calzaghe for the vacant WBO super middleweight belt – his old title – and would lose a unanimous points decision, having been floored twice. The Welshman’s speed and superior work rate were too much that day, added to the fact that Eubank had accepted the bout on a fortnight’s notice, having prepared for a fight at the light heavyweight limit. That was in 1997; the following year he’d twice take on British cruiserweight Carl Thompson for the WBO title – both were brutal contests, which he’d lose firstly on points and then in the rematch, the ringside doctor would decide that Eubank’s left eye was so badly swollen, he was not in condition to continue after the ninth round. In both contests, he’d enjoyed vociferous backing from the crowd – the irony being that only now, as a man clearly past his best, resembling the pug he had always professed he didn’t want to be, was Eubank truly loved and cherished by the majority. Because people felt sorry for him.

  The stoppage against Thompson on 18 July 1998 would represent the last outing of Chris Eubank’s professional career. Just as bizarre was the hollow feeling among all those who had waited for so long to see him take a beating and now realised the emotion they felt wasn’t triumph but admiration. Because despite all the strutting and pontificating and all the slurs about the sport from which he drew his income, Eubank displayed one thing in every one of his fifty-two contests – the heart of a warrior. Those who had waited for years to see him walk away from battle were denied so frequently that, in the end, they had to re-evaluate and then admire that man they had so despised.

  In 2001, he was a contestant on Celebrity Big Brother and suffered the indignity of being the first contestant to be evicted, even before Vanessa Feltz. The following year, he was the focus of a documentary in which he was followed by the television presenter Louis Theroux. Among the many highlights were Eubank refusing to admit to drinking alcohol, even though the programme had paid one of his bar bills, and the sight of the former champion driving through Brighton in a Peterbilt truck. When pressed on how he earned money, now that his primary source of income had disappeared, Eubank declined to answer. Whatever those business interests were that he mentioned to Theroux without being specific, they failed to yield fruit. In 2005, he was declared bankrupt, having run up a tax bill of £1.3 million, which he was unable to pay. Out went the mansion in Brighton, as did his wife of fifteen years, Karron. In 2010, Eubank returned to public life as a designer of suits for a company named Cad & The Dandy. Apart from the money, which was as welcome as it had ever been in his life, Eubank now had a piece of the limelight again. In an interview with Alan Hubbard of the Independent, he alluded to how the estimated ten million that he had earned had disappeared.

  ‘How did a man like me end up in a position like that? If you trust people, you will lose your money. Period. I learned the hard way. I’ve always had something much more than money, which is respect. When I was champion, people looked into my heart and some said, “We may not like Mr Eubank, but we respect him. He fights beyond the call of duty and he never quits”.’

  It represented some of the most honest offerings from boxing’s most prolific mouth. In another interview three years later, Eubank also admitted that the love of the life and a lack of financial prudence were the root of his problems. He could never see value in the phrase ‘less is more’. What was also apparent was his desire to be a player again. Amazingly, despite all the derision he had heaped on boxing, his son, Christopher, had set his sights on emulating his father’s career. Eubank senior resisted his son’s ambitions until it became apparent that he could no longer keep the young tyro at bay. At his insistence, the teenager was sent to Las Vegas to learn the sport the hard way, just as his father had done nearly thirty years earlier. At the time of writing, Eubank junior is an unbeaten super middleweight boxer with a bright future. Faster and fitter than his dad, he lacks only the concussive punch that helped his father get out of many perilous situations. His skills are not in question – gym gossip became frenzied in 2012 when Eubank junior apparently handled 2008 Olympic gold medallist James DeGale in a sparring session in east London and wasn’t asked to come back. Eubank junior comes as a package – if you want to interview him, you speak to Dad as well. Just like his father before him, he is being trained by Ronnie Davies. And just like his dad, he walks the streets handing out signed pictures of himself to unsuspecting passers-by.

  I first spoke to Chris Eubank in 1994, when I was a work experience ‘kid’ at Boxing News. He had rung the office to berate the editor, Harry Mullan, for his reporting of the Graciano Rocchigiani contest. Mullan took the call and spent nearly an hour discussing why he had written that he believed Eubank had been fortunate to win the decision. Mullan, a gently spoken Irishman who inspired many within boxing because of his genuine love for the sport and its participants, later told me that it wasn’t unusual for Eubank to call in but he also added that it was hard not to like him. I spent the next two years chasing an interview with him, to be told on each occasion by his public relations representative, Shaa Wasmund, that he did not do ‘boxing’ interviews, because he did not want to publicise the sport. By the time I became a boxing writer, Eubank’s career was over and I had no need to speak to him, aside from occasionally calling him to ask his opinion on a forthcoming super middleweight contest. Anytime I did speak to him, he would ask how I got his number and then put the phone down, reminding me not to call him again.

  When agreeing to write this book, I called him once again, and he politely asked me to contact his agents and make a proposal. That was summarily rejected, without explanation, despite a reasonable financial offer. I called him directly one more time, enthused by how helpful virtually everyone else had been with their time. Once again, I was left holding a phone with an empty line. Sadly, his trainer Ronnie Davies, out of respect for his former employer, also refused to cooperate. However, a great many other people have spoken to me about him and it is their insights, along with my own opinions, which have helped shape the view of Eubank that you’ve read.

  What is beyond debate is the courage, defiance and charisma that together were the guaranteed currency of his ring career. He won forty-five of his fifty-two bouts, relying on his durability as much as he did skill. Although he ended with three consecuti
ve defeats, all to British fighters, it remains pertinent that he was never beaten by Benn or Watson. What Eubank will never truly admit to is how much he enjoyed himself at his peak. He may have believed sincerely that boxing was a ‘mug’s game’ but it was his mug that was on the receiving end of a staggering amount of punishment. And even now, as he prepares for his fifties, he still seeks a return to combat. In 2012, he met Benn to discuss a potential third contest, albeit outside of the auspices of the British Boxing Board of Control. The offer to his former foe was within the region of £2 million, but was rejected. All the evidence presented either on television or radio is that Eubank has retained his faculties and has exhibited no signs of the ring wars. It is to be hoped that living vicariously through his eldest son is enough to satisfy that craving for the spotlight. Perhaps the most appropriate words I heard about him came from trainer Jimmy Tibbs, who in five attempts, could never help a fighter sufficiently enough to beat Eubank. ‘He was good for the game.’ In whatever guise he appeared, whether it was as challenger or champion, there would be either entertainment or something different. You never knew.

  Despite the inevitable linking of his name to Eubank and Watson and those glory days, Nigel Benn’s career had heights still to reach. He would give Eubank the blueprint to defeat Henry Wharton in February 1994, displaying a skill and poise rarely associated with him before or even after. It was a victory that trainer Tibbs still raves about, the night the brawler turned boxer. After a comprehensive points victory over the Yorkshireman and another points win, this time over the Paraguayan Juan Carlos Giménez, Benn faced the ultimate challenge. With an unpaid tax bill hanging over his head and his private life as traumatic as always (his marriage to Sharron was coming to a bitter end), he agreed to fight the dangerous Gerald McClellan for three-quarters of a million pounds, rather than the less threatening Michael Nunn for half a million pounds less. The American was regarded as the most ferocious puncher in the sport, having stopped his last fourteen opponents, usually in the first two or three rounds. No one had anything complimentary to say about McClellan outside the ring – in his spare time he ‘nurtured’ pit bulls – and everyone agreed that he was a wrecking machine. It was impossible to find anyone who gave Benn, now thirty-one, a chance. He had split from Jimmy Tibbs – ‘I never once had a disagreement with Nigel, but it was other people putting things in his head,’ were Tibbs’s words – and was now trained by Kevin Saunders, who tolerated Benn’s distaste for sparring by honing his skills on the pads.

  On a night of tension and excitement in London’s Docklands, Benn was knocked out of the ring within the opening minute, hurt by a fuselage of punches from McClellan. Pushed back into the squared circle by Gary Newbon, Benn managed to survive the round and then stage a remarkable fight back, repeatedly rocking his opponent with hooks and right hands. Down again in the eighth, Benn once again got up and hit back harder. In the tenth, McClellan, who appeared to have struggled with his breathing from the early stages, twice, voluntarily it seemed, sought the canvas to escape Benn’s fury. The second time, he didn’t get up. Moments after the referee awarded victory to the Englishman, McClellan slipped into unconsciousness, having suffered a serious brain injury. Both he and Benn spent that night in hospital. The winner had paid a heavy price, urinating blood and suffering from severe exhaustion. At one point that evening, Benn visited McClellan’s room and kissed him on the forehead; such humanity was generally overlooked in favour of his response to a question put to him at the same hospital about the plight of McClellan: ‘Rather him than me.’

  As a consequence of the regulations put in place at British rings following Michael Watson’s injuries, McClellan received the best possible medical care available. Even so, his recovery has been slow. He remains without sight, memory recollection and is wheelchair-bound, cared for by his sisters, Lisa and Sandra, in his native city of Freeport, Illinois. Ten years ago I spoke to Lisa, whose love of boxing had not diminished despite her brother’s plight; what was clear was her disdain for many involved in the sport, who she claimed had turned their backs on someone who had paid the ultimate price for his ring endeavours.

  Naturally, McClellan’s injuries overshadowed the performance of Benn that night. In time it has become recognised as one of the best by a British fighter, especially given the start and the level of opposition. Every fighter, trainer or promoter I spoke to went to great pains to point out that what Benn did that night was probably beyond most of his compatriots. It also took an immense toll on him, physically and emotionally. He’d defend his WBC title successfully two more times, but the end was nearing. In February 1996, he lost a points decision to the one man he always struggled with, ‘Sugar Boy’ Malinga. There were two more fights that year, both stoppage losses to Steve Collins. He was booed out of the ring after the second fight, having retired in his corner after six rounds. The fire that separated Benn from his contemporaries had gone out. After a career of just less than ten years, which included forty-eight fights, it was time to call it a day.

  Most fighters struggle to cope with life after it ends because the addiction to fame, the spotlight and love of performing are hard to replace. That wasn’t the case with Nigel Benn. Retirement forced him to evaluate his life and the path of destruction he’d chosen, in and out of the ring. The affairs continued, as did the drug use, until it became obvious to him that his life was beyond his control. He attempted suicide in south London in 2001, attaching a hose to the exhaust of his car, and says the reason he failed was that the hose slipped from the exhaust three times. It would take him a long time to come to terms with the life he’d been leading. Sanctuary came in the form of Christianity, touring Britain and spreading the word, with the help of his wife, Carolyne. Having based himself in Mallorca for much of his post-boxing life, he immigrated to Australia in 2013.

  Before that, he’d face demons in the form of a meeting with Gerald McClellan. Benn hadn’t seen him since the immediate aftermath of their battle. He’d be the target of accusations from the McClellan camp, notably that he had used anabolic steroids in preparation for that fight, a charge without truth. In 2007, Benn and an array of figures from boxing helped raise a sizeable amount of money to aid McClellan, who has no income to fund the care he requires on a daily basis. In doing so, Benn came face to face with the man he had injured. For someone who had always worn his heart on his sleeve, keeping calm or stoic for Benn was impossible. Tears flowed at the sight of the once proud warrior now wheelchair-bound, asking for Benn to identify himself.

  There were other moments captured on camera which would surprise those who’d followed his career. He participated in I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! in 2002 and became the second person to be eliminated; in 2008, in a series of televised segments in conversation with a psychiatrist there was more soul-bearing, particularly about the night he tried to take his life and also about his feelings concerning the loss of his brother at such a young age. There was also a gladiator-type contest with Eubank, which saw the pair theatrically threaten each other for five days during training, before engaging in combat using plastic swords and shields. For the record, Benn won, but no one’s pride was hurt. At the end of it, Eubank was left to wonder whether his rival would ever stop loathing him. Benn says of Eubank and Watson that he has ‘love for both of them’ because they made him what he is today, an ordained minister in Sydney, Australia. There is no bling about Benn now and while the intimidating stare remains, as much because of the darkness of his eyes, there is now an unmistakable warmth and generosity of spirit. ‘He’ll always be the dark destroyer,’ says longtime friend and agent Kevin Lueshing, who thinks that Benn is now as close to peace as he’s ever known. That much became obvious when he met up with Eubank shortly before immigrating to Australia. The pair embraced before admitting they had needed each other to become who they were. Some say the rivalry is still there and maybe it always will lurk beneath the surface. But the better part of their relationship is formed by respect. They brou
ght out the best and worst of each other.

  It would be wrong to suggest that Michael Watson’s recovery from life-threatening injuries continued without moments of self-doubt. He was feet away when Gerald McClellan slumped into a state of darkness. Incredibly, it wasn’t that which prompted him to reconsider what he was trying to achieve, but the stark reminder that what Benn – to whom he had grown closer since their encounter – achieved that night was beyond him. Nevertheless, Watson had plans for the future. In 2002, when a testimonial in his honour raised around £180,000, his doctor, Peter Hamlyn suggested he try completing the London Marathon. At that stage of his life, Watson could walk just 400 yards and that was an ask. Now, he was intent on walking more than 110 times that distance and he only had about four months to get his battered body into condition to do so. No one who knew anything about him should have doubted his ability to finish the race, which he started on a Sunday and finished the following Saturday. In all £200,000 was raised, not for Watson, but for the Brain and Spine Foundation. A man who would be considered disabled in any form of life, had put his body on the line to raise money for charity. Of Watson’s achievement over those six days Hamlyn would say: ‘He was an inspiration to me throughout it, as he has been to all those who have met him. He is a noble man, who, unbowed by a burden which even now would extinguish most of us, took his long walk not for himself but for others less fortunate.’ His former promoter Barry Hearn, whose eyes light up at the mention of Watson’s name, told me: ‘He does all this charity work ’cos he says he wants to help people less fortunate than himself! I say to him, “Michael have you fucking seen yourself!”’ To this day, Watson continues to talk to people in an effort to help them turn their lives around or to help them find faith as they recover from similar traumas. The effort used to debilitate him, but now he can overcome a lot of the fatigue that is a natural consequence of what he has been through. He sleeps from ten in the evening to ten in the morning and still makes the occasional trip to the gym, hitting the light bag and hanging out with some younger boxers just starting out.