Atlas

by Teddy Atlas

  We looked down through the curtain and we could see them go into the main office. Then they brought out the manager. He had a ring of keys in his hand. We had rented four rooms, and we saw them heading toward the stairs leading to our rooms. The cops had their guns out. Troy was losing it, saying, “We better go out. Let’s get out, Teddy.”

  “No, we can’t. We can’t go out.” I looked out past the curtain. Down below was one of the guys I had beaten up at the restaurant. It was the one who’d cracked his head on the stairs. “Shit, they’re friends with the cops,” I said. “You go out now, who knows what they’re gonna do.”

  A couple of the cops started up the stairs toward us. I heard them go in the room next door, their voices raised, things banging. A moment later, I saw them bring Shannon and Mark down the stairs.

  “Oh my God,” Troy said.

  When I peeked out again, a few of the cops were standing down below with Shannon and Mark. Another group headed back upstairs toward our room. Troy was practically crying now. “Listen,” I said, “lay down in the tub behind the shower curtain and don’t make a sound. If they come in here, chances are that I’m the one they’re lookin’ for. I’m the one who did all the damage. I’ll just let them take me. Then you can come out later.”

  He agreed and got into the tub. I could hear the cops approaching our room. Just before the footsteps reached our door, they stopped. Someone was yelling something. A minute went by and nothing happened. I peeked out through the curtains again. Now I saw an amazing thing: Les Bonano, the former police chief of New Orleans, who was one of the fight promoters, was down in the courtyard, talking to the head police officer.

  It was like the cavalry had arrived. Les and the head cop kept talking, Les gesturing toward Shannon and Mark while the other cops stood next to them, holding shotguns. Finally, the talking was finished. All the cops started leaving, heading toward their cars. Only after they drove off did I go out. Mark and Shannon couldn’t believe it when they saw me.

  “We thought they’d got you for sure,” Shannon said. “We didn’t know what to think. Where’s Troy?”

  At that moment Troy came out of the room. It was almost comical the way he slunk out. The four of us were nearly giddy with relief. “We fucked those crackers up,” Shannon said. We all congratulated each other and compared stories. Apparently, the guys we’d beat up had told the police that we had guns, and the cops would have gotten us for sure if Les hadn’t shown up and explained the situation, that we were boxers, there for a prizefight. They hadn’t believed that we could beat all those guys up with just our fists, but when he explained everything and how we didn’t have guns, they left.

  Overnight, the story turned into legend. When we went to the weigh-in the next day, the building was packed. Everyone knew about what had happened, all these old Southern guys who were the commissioners, they’d all heard. We were treated like celebrities. This one guy, Billy Lyons, a real character, about seventy years old and from a family of Confederates and slave owners, said to me, “We heard you tussled with some of our boys. Jes’ wanted to let you know we’re with you. We’re behind you. If there are any problems, you let me know.”

  The details of the incident got exaggerated. We’d beaten up eight guys, ten guys. Tommy Morrison, who was fighting on the same card, came over to us and said, “Ten guys had you cornered? Man!” Shannon Briggs told everyone, all his friends, and the story made it all the way to Michael Moorer in Detroit. By then it was, “Hey, Teddy kicked the shit out of, like, twenty rednecks. He knocked out ten of them. Two of them died.”

  The day of Shannon’s fight, I got a call from Michael. “Hey, Teddy, I heard about the crazy shit that happened. You say the word, I’ll come down with the boys. We’ll get on a plane.”

  You have to understand how Michael’s mind worked. He heard what I’d done and he wished he’d been there. It was like all the stuff I’d been saying to him wasn’t just talking. It meant something. He called me up and I could hear it in his voice. He wanted to be a part of it. “I’m coming down with my boys.”

  “For what?” I said.

  “You got a problem, we’ll be right there.”

  “The only problem,” I said, “is if you come down and I have to see your face.”

  He didn’t get it. He thought he could just call me up like everything was okay and nothing had ever happened between us. “You really kicked some ass,” he said. “Oooh, if I were there, ooh boy! We would have been doing some business. Oh yeah!”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever.” I wanted to get off the phone. “I gotta go.”

  “I talked to Emanuel Steward.”

  “Good.”

  “I told him you wouldn’t train me no more.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So I start training with Emanuel in two weeks.”

  “Good. I gotta go now.”

  He wouldn’t let the call end. “So, how’s your son?”

  “Good.”

  “How’s your family? How’s your wife? Everyone okay?”

  “Michael, I don’t want to talk. I have to go now. I don’t want to talk no more.”

  “Teddy, I need you to train me.”

  “Michael, you already made your choice.”

  “Please,” he said. “I need you. There’s no one else who can do the job. You’re the only one, Teddy.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not going to do it.”

  When I got back to Staten Island, he called me again, and we had, basically, the same conversation. It’s hard to say exactly why I wound up changing my mind. Part of it was his vulnerability. His neediness. But it was more complicated than that. I had walked away from a big payday with him because I felt my authority as a trainer would have been compromised if I had stayed. Now he was trying to entice me back, and I wanted to be sure that the temptation to say yes was based on my belief that I would be able to accomplish as a trainer all the things I wanted to accomplish, not because of what the fight could do for my bank account. Did I really believe that Michael was capable of giving himself over to me—which was the only way we could be successful? Or was I simply letting his desperation and my own desires influence my better judgment?

  There was really only one way to find out.

  ONE SMART

  BASTARD

  JOHN DAVIMOS MET ME AND MICHAEL AT THE AIRport in Los Angeles and drove us all the way to Palm Springs. I remember this terrible, empty hole in my stomach during the drive, the same kind of feeling I’d had on that bus going to Rikers Island all those years ago. I can’t say that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Or that I thought dealing with Michael was going to be any easier than before. It wasn’t as if he’d experienced an awakening, or any of the psychological barriers that he faced had been stripped away. He was still afraid, and though he desperately wanted my help to get past his fear, it continued to control his actions. Barreling down the dark highway, I kept thinking about my kids, how young they were, and how much I was going to miss them. The prospect of two months of isolation filled me with a powerful loneliness, especially because Michael was already acting morose and surly, not answering me when I talked to him, withdrawing into his shell.

  The trick for me was to stay focused, to think about why I was there, which was to win the heavyweight championship. I had told my father before he died that I was going to win it, and then, after the crazy stuff in Mississippi and the way that affected Michael, it began to seem as if fate were taking a hand in things. Still, if we didn’t win the fight, if there was no heavyweight title, then all the years my father paid for me to be in Catskill would feel like they had meant nothing.

  The long drive in the darkness gave room to all these thoughts, so I was glad when we saw the exit for Palm Springs. Even then, it seemed like it took hours, driving around the little winding roads on the grounds of the Riviera Hotel in the moonless night, before we found the hotel’s main office.

  At the front desk, the manager greeted us with a big s
mile, telling us how proud they were to have the future heavyweight champion staying with them. He went over the room assignments with us, handing out keys. The hotel was set up like a compound, a series of stand-alone buildings surrounding a swimming pool and tennis courts. “I’ve put Mr. Atlas in the room next to Mr. Moorer,” the manager said, because he thought I would want to be near my fighter.

  Davimos, who understood the difficult nature of my relationship with Michael, immediately chimed in, and said, “No, Mr. Atlas wants to be in the building farthest away from Mr. Moorer’s.” Which was the beginning of the manager’s realization that we might not be the most unified, harmonious group ever to challenge for the heavyweight title.

  In turbulent seas it’s particularly important to run a tight ship, so I meticulously planned every detail of the camp. One of the reasons we didn’t train back east the way we had for the previous fight was that I wanted Michael to be in the same time zone as Las Vegas. I didn’t want him to have to adjust later on. Also, I didn’t want to worry about him getting sick. I wanted him to be able to sweat and not get chilled afterward. In that respect, the weather in Palm Springs at that time of the year was ideal; it wasn’t that hundred-and-twenty-degree weather they sometimes get. The Riviera itself was like a safe, secluded island, free of distractions and temptations. About the only element I hadn’t foreseen was the hotel booking a huge lesbian convention for one of the weekends we were there. I tried to get them to cancel it, but it was too late, they were committed. In fact, the lesbians tried to get them to kick us out—which of course they wouldn’t do either.

  Michael was thrilled. “A bunch of women? Coming here? Goddamn! You really screwed this one up, huh, Teddy?”

  Training camp involves a huge amount of hard work and discipline. Anything that relieves the drudgery—even if it’s just reading a book by the pool or playing basketball in the afternoon—is welcome. The day the lesbians began arriving, we’d finished training, and we were walking and looking out at the pool. Some of them were already lying in the chaises, soaking up sun. Michael could barely contain himself. He said, “Flem, think about it. This time tomorrow there’s gonna be a thousand naked women out there!” As he said that, this big bull dyke with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in her sleeve came up behind us and growled, “Yeah, and not one of ’em will want a fucking thing to do with you!”

  Michael went crazy. “What? What are you—” He was so angry he couldn’t even get the words out.

  “You got a problem with that, pal?” she said.

  “Oh, shit,” Davimos said. We looked at one another and started laughing so hard we had to hold on to each other.

  “Get her name,” I said. “We can use her when we run out of sparring partners.”

  “Maybe we better wait until Michael gets into better shape,” Davimos said.

  “Yeah, he may not be ready for her yet.”

  By that point in the camp, Michael was running a couple of miles a day. I had him on a strict schedule, beginning with a five a.m. daily run and ending with a nightly curfew of ten o’clock. In between, his real day would begin at one o’clock, when we would start our training sessions. The hotel put up a tent on two of the tennis courts, with a ring and seats for spectators, as well as heavy bags, double-end bags, speed bags, and other boxing equipment.

  We had good, tough sparring partners, Adolpho Washington and Bigfoot Martin among them, and we videotaped the sessions so that later on we could look at them and analyze what we needed to do, recognize certain tendencies, and refine technique. We also had videos of Holyfield’s fights, although Michael resisted watching them. We banged heads over it. I knew that if he didn’t want to watch a videotape of Evander Holyfield, it was because he didn’t want to think about what he had to do on April 22. It was a real battle, but in the end I prevailed. It was the same way on days when he didn’t want to spar. I’d make him spar. I didn’t want to smother him, but I had to stay on top of him.

  Michael’s entourage came to the camp: Flem, another ex-cop named Wick, and a bunch of other guys from Detroit who protected him and kept him pumped up. Whenever he came to a training session without them, I knew it was going to be a good day. When he would arrive with them, I knew it was going to be rough. Cus had been right when he said a drowning man always wants company.

  One day, Michael showed up with his guys, and he was wearing these dark glasses that he had never worn before, these wraparound Oakleys that had become very fashionable. I knew right away that I was going to have a real problem with him that day. Sure enough, he said, “I ain’t training today.” His guys had all come into the tent with him, and they were standing around, flanking him.

  “I didn’t hear you,” I said.

  “I said, I’m not training.”

  I turned to his guys and looked right at them. “Get out!” I said.

  They hesitated, looking at Michael.

  “Get out!”

  They left.

  I got right up in Michael’s face and said, “You’re trainin’ today, do you understand?”

  He was staring me down through his impenetrable mirrored sunglasses.

  “Take those friggin’ sunglasses off,” I said. “You want to stare at me, take the glasses off.”

  He wouldn’t take them off.

  “What’s the matter, you afraid to look at my eyes?”

  “I ain’t afraid.” He took off the glasses, but he couldn’t hold my gaze. He stared at me for a second then looked away.

  “Listen,” I said, “I told you from the beginning, when you called me up in Mississippi, begging me to train you for this fight, I’m only doing this for one reason—to win. I’m not here to get in the ring that night and say, ‘We fought for the heavyweight title.’ Do you understand me? I’m here to win. If you have any other ideas, then let’s stop right now and go home. Because if you don’t train today, it’s not that this one day is gonna make you out of shape physically, it’s gonna make you soft mentally. You duck what you’re supposed to do today, the night of the fight you’ll think it’s okay not to face what you gotta face there. On the other hand, if you do what I tell you to, what you’re supposed to do, on that night you’ll know that you faced what you had to face every day—and you’ll draw strength from that.”

  John Davimos heard about the encounter, and asked me about it over dinner that night.

  “It’s okay. I took care of it,” I told him. “But you better tell him to get new fuckin’ bodyguards because these guys are useless. When I told them to leave, they left. The whole idea of bodyguards is they’re supposed to stay with the guy in case somebody’s gonna do something to him. I told ’em to get out and they all left.”

  We had a good laugh about that. But each day, it seemed, Michael and I had to climb the same hill we’d climbed the day before. I knew there were limits. That you needed to give your guy a little leeway in certain areas. Some trainers demanded total abstinence. I told Michael he could have girls up until three weeks before the fight—but on the condition that he didn’t bring them around during training sessions. Cus had always said that it wasn’t the act of sex that was hurtful to a fighter, it was the chasing around and late-night socializing that was damaging. I agreed with that. I never believed all that crap about sex sapping your energy. Mentally, however, it could become an excuse in a tough fight.

  Along those lines, Cus had two fighters back in the 1950s and 1960s, Mike Bulich and Jimmy Arness, who were both deaf mutes (they were the reason they instituted the red lights on the ring posts to signal the last ten seconds of a round). Bulich and Arness were tough bastards who broke all the rules about going out. They’d have sex all through training camp even up to the night before a fight, but they never got tired during a fight, and Cus said it was because they never heard all the bullshit from people about how it was supposed to hurt them.

  The point is, I wasn’t unreasonable, and I didn’t believe in a bunch of fairy tales or superstitions, but I did want my fighter to be focus
ed. One morning, I saw Michael walk out of his building with a girl. I could see them through these hedges outside the tent. It was before noon, but she was wearing evening wear, a shiny blue dress and high heels. They stopped walking for a minute. He turned and said something to her, then she began walking toward where I was standing while Michael stayed back. I kept out of sight and watched her enter the tent. About five minutes later, Michael approached. I stepped out of the shadows.

  “Tell her to leave, and then let’s get ready,” I said.

  He didn’t even try to act innocent. He knew I had him. When we entered the tent, he walked right over to her and whispered something in her ear. She got up and left. We were there to work; it wasn’t about showing off for a girl. It was about the business at hand and being prepared.

  One night, I was in my room, lying in bed after a long day, and the phone on the nightstand rang. I used to look at that phone each night and pray for it not to ring. I knew if it rang, nine times out of ten it was going to make my life difficult. Sure enough, it was Michael. “I ain’t runnin’ tomorrow,” he said, and hung up.

  I got up, put my sneakers on, and hiked over to his building. I climbed the stairs to his floor and knocked on his door. He didn’t answer. I kept knocking. Finally, I heard footsteps.

  “What?”

  “Open the door!”

  He opened the door a crack, but the chain was on.

  “You better let me in before I kick this fuckin’ door open.”

  “You threatenin’ me?”

  “Open the freakin’ door, Michael.”

  He took off the chain but kept his foot there. I tried to open it, but his foot was there, so I put my shoulder against the door and bulled my way in.

  “I don’t care what you say, I’m not runnin’,” he said.

  “You’re getting up in the morning and you’re freakin’ runnin’.”

  “No, I’m not. Now get out!”