Atlas

by Teddy Atlas

  “We’re giving you a check,” Kathy said.

  He started crying all over again. “I don’t understand. How are you doing this?”

  “We already have your name on a list. We did all the work. And we’re giving you a check.”

  At that point, he turned toward the front of the room, where all the politicians were, and he started yelling, “How come they can do this? Why can they do this and you can’t?”

  Other families started coming over to us. I think we wrote out thirty thousand dollars in checks that night. I wish we could have done more, but the point is, we’ve been able to do things that a lot of foundations have trouble doing. Part of the reason we’ve been able to do that is because we’re small. As my father used to say, “Bigger hospital, bigger problems.”

  People can face huge problems way beyond their control, but certain things aren’t impossible to solve. There was a five-year-old boy with lymphoma cancer. His parents ran out of money and couldn’t pay their health insurance. They started paying with their credit cards but soon maxed them out. They’d heard about the foundation and gave us a call. We picked up the cost of the insurance, and a few weeks later, to lift the kid’s spirits, we took him to a Yankee game and made arrangements for him to meet Derek Jeter, A-Rod, and other players down on the field before the game.

  Another example: A house burned down. Mother and father with four children. They were renters, but they didn’t have any renters’ insurance. Thank God they got out. But they lost everything. They got out with the clothes on their backs, didn’t even have time to put on their shoes. We got a check for three thousand dollars in their hands the next day. Drove to where they were in the motel and handed it to them. The person who delivered the check from the committee—I can’t remember if it was Kathy or Tom—spent an hour with them while they cried together. What did it give them? It gave them a little stability. The kids could get shoes and not miss another day of school. It’s not a long-term solution, but it makes a difference. It serves as a bridge, and a bridge is important.

  When I look at some of these big foundations—the United Way, the March of Dimes, and others—I don’t see much of the money they raise actually finding its way to the people or causes they’re supposed to be helping. Does that mean I would turn down corporate sponsorship if we could get it? Absolutely not. If we got corporate sponsorship and then had to hire somebody to bring it to the next level—where we were raising a million a year—I would do it. I would still keep a couple of my guys and keep that grassroots, human part of it. But I realize that we need to keep growing each year. That’s just the nature of these things. No matter what, though, I’ll never let this foundation lose sight of its purpose, which is to help people.

  George Foreman came to the dinner one time, and he said to me, “I go to these thousand-dollar-a-plate dinners where we all wear tuxes and pat each other on the back and we don’t know what the hell we did there that night. Here, we know what we did. We hear about it, and we actually see the people we’ve helped.”

  There was one dinner where some of the money we raised almost had to go toward paying the funeral expenses for our emcee, the comedian Jeff Pirrami. I’m not kidding, the guy nearly got himself killed. What happened was that Pirrami, who’s from the Don Rickles school of comedy and calls everyone “a fat rat bastard,” insulted the wrong guy. This was one of our last years at the Statten, and we were filled to the rafters. Now our crowd is as diverse as you can possibly imagine. We’ve got lawyers and bar owners and cops and construction guys and Wall Street guys. The whole world comes. At one table in the back was a gangster we’ll call “Benny” and his crew. A lot of guys are thought of as gangsters, but this guy was the real thing. He’d killed people. Even though he wasn’t a big guy, he was a rough customer. Most of them are just rough with a gun, but this guy would kill you with his bare hands. He never went to these charity events normally, but he knew me and he knew it was for a good cause and he wanted to help me out. “I want to support Teddy.” So he bought a table.

  He was sitting there with his wiseguys and wannabe wiseguys, and of all of them, he was the one to win a raffle prize of a couple of Knicks tickets. Benny got up and said, “This is great. I’m gonna take my grandson to the game.”

  The rest of his crew, they were all trying to kiss his ass, so they said, “Hey, Benny, siddown, we’ll go up and get it for you.”

  “Nah,” he said. “I’ll get it.” He’d had a little wine, he was having a good time, why not take a little stroll up to the front? What a fucking mistake. He started walking up, and it was chaotic, stuff was being auctioned off to raise money. I was focused on that and not really paying attention.

  Pirrami was doing his thing, running the auction and keeping people entertained. Suddenly, as Benny crossed the room in front of him, he said, “Hey, get a load of this little no-neck wannabe gangster with the two-dollar rug.” And here was the thing: Benny really did wear a hairpiece!

  “Hey, pal,” Pirrami continued, “what’s that thing on your head? A Chia pet?”

  Now the audience was laughing. Benny stopped dead in his tracks. Like I said, I was distracted and didn’t notice, but my son told me right afterward—and even though he was only eleven or twelve years old, he noticed everything—“Dad, there’s a man who just got really mad.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. It was the guy who won the Knicks tickets. He was walking up to the stage and Jeff made fun of him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He stopped right in front of the stage and he cursed. He said something in—I think it was Italian. ‘Morte.’”

  Death.

  “And then he ripped the tickets to pieces. They were good tickets, Dad! He ripped ’em to pieces, threw them on the floor, and spit on them. And yelled ‘Morte!’”

  I was listening to this, trying to make sense of it, but also distracted by a million different things. Somebody always needed me for something.

  The dinner ended, and everybody was gathering up their coats and saying their good-byes. The place was a madhouse. People were coming up to me, slapping me on the back, shaking my hand. I became aware that there was somebody standing near me, waiting to talk to me. It was Jeff Pirrami. As soon as I took a look at him, I thought, Boy, he looks pale. I don’t remember him looking that pale at the beginning of the night. I also noticed that he seemed quiet. This was a guy who you usually couldn’t shut up. He was always loud and funny.

  “Jeff, are you all right?” I said. The first thing that came to my mind was that the car we had to pick him up and take him home—and that’s the only thing we did for him—hadn’t shown up. “Whatsa matter?” I said. “The car’s not here?”

  “No, the car’s here…. But so is the gangster.”

  “What?”

  “How was I supposed to know he was a real gangster?”

  I was looking at him, trying to take in what he was saying, but there were all these people hovering around, tapping me and trying to get my attention.

  “He’s got about twelve guys with him outside,” Jeff said, looking like he was about to throw up, “and he just told me that I’m a lowlife piece of shit that doesn’t deserve to live, and he’s gonna put two in my fuckin’ head and leave me in the Dumpster.”

  Despite all the commotion I was focused only on him now. “Who said this?”

  “Benny X.”

  “Oh, shit. Benny X said that? He is a real gangster. He will put two in your head!”

  “Jesus, Teddy!”

  “No, no, I’m just saying—look, he’s not gonna—nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

  “You sure? He didn’t look like he was joking.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I mean, anything happens to you is happening to both of us.”

  “This is how you try to make me feel better?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jeff. Nothing’s gonna happen.”

  “I don’t want to die, Teddy.”

  “You ain’t dying. C�
�mon. Just shut up and come with me.” I grabbed him, and as I grabbed him I noticed that his whole body was shaking. I tried to ignore it. I took him outside and, sure enough, there was Benny and his crew of guys. As soon as we walked out, he said, “Teddy, this fuckin’ lowlife scum has got no respect for women or children or nothin’. He’s a fuckin’ piece of shit—”

  “Benny, hold on a minute…Benny, why’d you come tonight?”

  “For you!”

  “Right. And I appreciate it, Benny. I do. I appreciate very much that respect. But you didn’t come for me. You came to help me—to help these kids out, for the charity.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Because it’s a charity you run, and I know what you do. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, that’s why he’s here, too, Benny. He came for the same reason. He does it different than you, Benny. The way you do it is, you do a great thing—you buy a table. He comes and freakin’ entertains people. People come to see him make fun of people. But he does it so I can raise money for the same people that you’re helping me raise money for, Benny.” I knew the key with him. I knew you had to play the game a little. I said, “He don’t know who you are, Benny. He’s got no idea who you are. By the time he’s done with you, he’s on to the next guy.”

  “But he—”

  “Benny, he didn’t mean nothing by it. He never woulda said nothing if he knew who you were.”

  Benny held up a finger and looked at Jeff. “If it weren’t for this man…” He had found his way out. “If it weren’t for this man, I’d leave you in the fuckin’ Dumpster. I’m giving you a pass because of this guy. You understand that, you fuckin’ piece of shit?”

  “So we’re okay, Benny?” I said.

  “Yeah. We’re all right. You know I respect you.”

  “And I respect you.”

  He came over, looked at Jeff like ice, then hugged me. I walked Jeff to his limo. When we got there, I opened the door and watched him get in. I stuck my head in, just to make sure he was okay. There was a bar along one side. I opened a bottle of scotch and poured him a glass. “Here,” I said, handing it to him. “Drink this.”

  He drank it.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  He was still shaking. He looked up at me. Now he knew he was going to live, and it was like I’ve always said, you are who you are. He was a comedian. “You know,” he said, “if he wanted to fuckin’ kill somebody, why didn’t he whack the lousy rat bastard who sold him that cheap toupee?”

  I laughed out loud. I couldn’t believe it. Now he was being cocky. “Listen,” I said, “Benny’s got a better sense of humor than he displayed tonight. He’s still in the parking lot. Let me fuckin’ tell him what you just said—he’ll get a kick out of it.”

  “Get the fuck out of here! Are you crazy? Shut the door, Teddy. Jesus!”

  I was laughing as I shut the door. I heard him yell at the driver, “Go! Go!” And they peeled out.

  I didn’t talk to Jeff again until close to the next dinner. I had to call him up and make sure he was coming. Almost the first thing out of his mouth was: “Is he gonna be there?”

  “Who?”

  “You fuckin’ know who!”

  “No, he’s not gonna be here.”

  “You’re lying. He is gonna be there.”

  “Jeff, don’t worry about it. It’s all done. It’s in the past.”

  “It’s easy for you to say. You aren’t the one he was gonna kill.”

  He required a bit more reassurance, but I finally wound up persuading him it was going to be all right. Then, on the night of the dinner, just before he arrived, I went over to talk to the guys that did the security. They were all court officers and good guys, but that hadn’t stopped Jeff from making fun of them like he made fun of everybody. They were itching to get him back. I walked in and heard one of them saying, “You better okay it with Teddy,” and another one saying, “No, we want to do it.”

  I said, “Do what?”

  They looked at one another, then one of them showed me a bulletproof vest. Everybody knew the story of Jeff and Benny by now.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “A flak jacket.”

  “Yeah, I know what it is. What’s it for?”

  “We want to—When Pirrami comes in, he’s gonna be here in about an hour, he always gets here early, we want to go up to him and say, ‘Listen, we can’t guarantee your security this year. We want you to wear this. And we’re gonna be around you all night.’”

  “Get the fuck outta here,” I said. “He’s overweight to begin with. He’s three hundred and fifty fuckin’ pounds. He’ll drop dead of a heart attack. Do you understand?”

  “Teddy, please.”

  “Are you guys gonna replace him when he drops dead?”

  “Pleeease…” They were begging.

  “No. I ain’t fuckin’ letting you do it. I’m sorry. I wish you could, but you can’t.”

  “Aww, shit. I told you we shouldn’t have said anything. It’s off, guys. Fuckin’ Teddy said no.”

  They were just dying to get a piece of him—just a little bit.

  But you know Jeff was more affected than I imagined. The first year back, he wasn’t as funny as usual. Before he went onstage, I gave him a little pep talk, the same way I did with fighters. “Listen,” I told him, “you’re gonna be fine.”

  “Yeah. You fuckin’—No one was gonna put two in your fuckin’ head.”

  “Seriously,” I said.

  “Where is he?” he asked. The place was starting to fill up, and Jeff was looking around nervously.

  “Look, I’m telling you. He ain’t here.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Just, you know, keep the strong jokes to the right side of the room.”

  “Oh, fuck! I knew it.”

  “No, I’m only kidding with you.”

  It took Jeff a couple of years to get back to his old self. It did. The thing with Benny screwed him up badly. But he wasn’t a quitter. He knew we were doing good work, and even if it meant putting his life on the line, he wasn’t going to let that stop him.

  STICKIN’ AND

  MOVIN’

  EACH YEAR AS THE ANNUAL “TEDDY” DINNER APproaches, my life grows even more hectic than usual. Elaine has said to me on more than one occasion, “Now I know how you must have felt trying to get your father’s attention when you were a kid.”

  During most of the year, I fly out of town every Thursday to wherever that week’s location is for Friday Night Fights. It might be in Las Vegas, Florida, New Jersey, Sacramento, Connecticut—all over the country. Two years ago they asked me to do Tuesday Night Fights as well, which meant I was either on the air or in the air practically from Monday till Saturday. Luckily, for the most part, I like what I’m doing.

  It was over twenty years ago that I did my first few television broadcasts with Spencer Ross on Sports Channel New York. Later, I did one fight on ABC’s Wide World of Sports. I also did some radio work for Westwood One with Larry Michaels, and three years of calling HBO fights on the radio. But my career as a broadcaster didn’t really take flight until I landed the TV gig on ESPN seven years ago. In the beginning there, I put in marathon hours preparing for each show. When I got behind that microphone, or in front of that camera, I wanted to know that I was prepared. Cus always told me that the first sign of a pro was preparation, and I took that to heart. In fact, sometimes I overprepared.

  I was lucky, the first five years, to have a great partner in Bob Papa. (My new partner, Joe Tessitore, is also terrific.) Bob shared his wisdom and knowledge with me whenever he thought I needed it, but he was also incredibly respectful of the work I put in. He knew the kind of hours I spent—watching videotape, making notes and phone calls, reading background materials—and he said, “You know, Teddy, you don’t have to do so much, you could just wing it. I mean, I’ve never seen anyone who from the moment the first punch is thrown knows how the fight will turn out.” Then he looked at
me, and said, “But you wouldn’t dare not do all the work, would you?”

  “I would be too scared,” I said.

  I wanted my audience to feel that when they were watching one of our broadcasts they were getting a light shined in places that might have otherwise been dark. I wanted them to not only hear about what was happening, but find out why it was happening. That was the challenge I set out for myself: to let the viewer in on what fighters were thinking, what pressure was causing them to do, and how they were dealing with it.

  At the same time, I didn’t want them to rely just on my opinion. That was why I needed to watch film and talk to people. I wanted to be armed with as many facts about each fighter as I could gather so that when I explained tendencies, strengths, weaknesses, it had a foundation. The other thing I tried to do was get ahead of the fight—to explain what was going to happen before it happened. If I could help a viewer understand why, the next time he might be able to see it on his own without me. The best compliments I’ve gotten are when people come up to me at a fight or on the street and say, “You’ve taught me. You’ve made it more interesting for me. I never realized these things were going on.”

  This past summer when I did the Olympics for NBC for the second time, I worked harder than I’ve ever worked. People ask me what the Olympic experience was like, what Athens was like, and it’s hard for me to tell them much because most of the time I was in my hotel room preparing for the next day, although I did manage to at least see the Acropolis, the Parthenon, and the statue of Athena while I was there.

  The Olympics were something I wanted to do very badly, in the same way that I wanted to train a world champion. It meant I’d reached a certain level in my profession. The next pinnacle. Beyond the Olympics, I suppose the next peak would be calling the really big fights on pay-per-view and HBO. (In April 2005 I did actually call my first and ESPN’s first-ever pay-per-view fight broadcast from Las Vegas.) Beyond that I’d like to do a show about the psychological dimensions of sports—maybe even taking it into the broader realm of social and moral issues. I realize that it’s not likely that I’d get an opportunity to do something like that on television at this point, but a sports talk show on radio might work. I could see that happening.