Both Goody and Pat Petronelli were told by Hagler that his father was in a New Jersey state prison. Oblique reference was made to a murder conviction. But they never were provided details, or corroboration, and they never were sure if it was so.
In 1982 an 18-year-old man showed up in Brockton claiming to be Hagler's half-brother. The man claimed Hagler's father had had an affair with his mother. Hagler put the man up in a hotel and checked out his story. It proved to be bogus, and Hagler put the would-be scam artist back out on the street. But the incident suggested that Hagler's father, wherever he was, had not been imprisoned eighteen years prior, if ever.
Hagler's lineage provided him magnificent boxing genes - that much was certain. He was graced with long arms and shoulders as wide as his ambition. More remarkable was his temporalis - a muscle that runs across the skull at both temples. Most temporalis muscles are a quarter-inch thick, but both of Hagler's were one inch, a phenomenon that astounded his physician when it was discovered during a routine exam in 1983. Hagler's temporalis acted as a natural helmet and almost certainly helped him absorb blows. But he was sensitive to the notion of freakish physicality, perhaps from a racial perspective, and bridled at questions about his temporalis.
Before he was Marvelous Marvin he was Marvin Nathaniel Hagler, born on May 23, 1954, in Newark. Early in his career his age was a matter of uncertainty, some believing he was born in 1953 or 1952. Most of the articles about Hagler in the 1970s made him a year or two older than he later claimed to be. Hagler was complicit in the continuing inaccuracy because, he believed, it generated talk and publicity. When he legally changed his name to "Marvelous Marvin" in 1982, he produced a birth certificate that settled the matter.
Hagler's mother, Ida Mae, was one of two daughters born to Bessie and Luther Hagler in Logan, West Virginia. The Haglers moved to Newark in 1941. There, Bessie and Luther divorced and Bessie married James Monroe. Ida Mae's half-brothers, James and Eugene Monroe, were born before Bessie took her children to Fayetteville, N.C., where Bessie worked in a US Army kitchen at Fort Bragg.
In 1947 Bessie and James Monroe moved their brood back to Newark and opened a small restaurant on Boyd Street. They served up soul food and made a modest living. Ida Mae, who called herself "Mae," and her sister, Amy, known as "Tiny," rushed back from school to wait on customers at lunch hour, and after school they helped clean up. Years later Mae recalled polishing stools and "hating" it.
At 15, Mae met Robert Sims, a classmate who was a singer in a local "doo-wop" band. Sims, tall and wiry, had grown up in Newark, the son of a foundry worker. After Mae met Sims she gave birth to Marvin, just short of her 17th birthday. Mae never identified Sims as Marvin's father, and later, when Marvin's younger brother Robbie Sims fought as a pro, he was identified as Hagler's half-brother. Mae's second child, Veronica (Ronnie), was born a year after Marvin.
Mae and Robert Sims married in April 1956. He took a job as a warehouseman at a pickle factory. When Bessie's restaurant fell victim to urban renewal, Mae found work as a housekeeper. Over the next eight years Mae gave birth to Sherry, Robert Jr. (Robbie), Gennara, and Noreen. Sims also fathered another daughter, Sharon, who was raised by Mae.
After the birth of Noreen, in 1964, Sims left Mae. She and the children lived in a tenement apartment in the crumbling central ward and barely scraped by. One evening, her landlord pounded on the door and harangued her for the rent. Ten-year-old Marvin witnessed the scene with humiliation and anger, and vowed to buy her a house. Despite working as a housekeeper for a South Orange, N.J., family, and doing in-home catering on Jewish holidays, Mae never had enough money at the end of the month. She went on welfare for more than a year.
While Mae worked two jobs, Marvin and Veronica tended the household. He kept the apartment clean, and she scrubbed and dressed the younger children. The family was warm and loving, and Mae often told her children, "As long as I've got you I'm a rich woman."
"A lot of days I only had time to change from one uniform to another," Mae recalled. "I was tired, but the kids could be so funny and make me laugh. It made me feel so good."
Marvin made his way on the streets and playgrounds as a better-than-average baseball, football, and basketball player. He was nicknamed "Short Stuff" and occasionally was required to defend himself against an assortment of toughs. Mae insisted. "I hit you with a stick, brick and bottle - anything I could get my hands on," Hagler recalled. "And kicked you when you were down. It was known as survival. My mother taught me, 'You better not come back crying.'"
If Hagler needed inspiration, a poster of former heavyweight champion Floyd Patterson hung on a nearby telephone pole. Hagler removed the poster, tacked it to his bedroom wall, and told his mother that he meant to have his face on a poster. He was given a pair of beat-up boxing gloves, which he used mostly for fun.
But there was another side to the young Hagler, withdrawn, brooding, artistic. He spent hours drawing finely detailed cartoons that delighted his siblings and garnered encouragement from his mother. When he craved solitude, which was often, Hagler climbed to the rooftop of his tenement. There, in a few crates, he tended to wounded pigeons, in whose potential for flight he seemed to draw comfort, just as would future heavyweight champion Mike Tyson on the rooftops of Bedford-Stuyvesant. On the stairwell at the rear of his apartment young Marvin kept a pet turtle. One day Mae came home horrified to find the turtle in the bathtub. When she ordered Marvin to remove it, he protested, "Ma, that's the only place he's got to swim."
In July 1967, when Hagler was 13, Newark's ghetto rioted. Newark's ghetto was not the first to riot in the 1960s, or the last. But it was typical, in that its black residents were fed up with racist police and city officials, crumbling schools and services, and menial low-paying jobs. Whites, though now a minority in Newark, were the cops, firefighters, teachers, store managers, bank tellers, clerks, and landlords. Hagler brushed up against them on a daily basis, but for all intents and purposes they lived across a profound divide. His childhood mistrust of whites was formed in this toxic climate of de facto segregation.
Initially Hagler watched the riot from the window of his tenement. He watched the looting of stores, torching of vehicles, and the rage of people long exploited and victimized. From above, the looters looked like ants toting crumbs on a picnic table, he thought, struggling under couches and appliances.
He watched the virtually all-white Newark Police and State Police and National Guard try to subdue the rioters, who were almost all black. Inevitably a bullet caromed off the side of the tenement, at which time Mae ordered everybody to get below window level. Mae grabbed 3-year-old Noreen and dropped to the floor. One by one, all of Mae's children huddled on the floor.
"Until I say so, nobody stands up," Mae said.
For three days nobody stood up. They crawled on their bellies, like soldiers in combat. They slid on pillows. They slept underneath their beds. Sirens wailed as they watched television news detailing the carnage - Newark was in flames. When the riot stopped 23 people lay dead, 725 people were injured and close to 1500 people had been arrested.
Finally, it was okay to stand up.
"This is no place to live," said Mae.
Two years later, in May 1969, Newark's ghetto erupted again, after the shooting death of a black 17-year-old boy by a black cop. The shooting unnerved Mae - Marvin was now 15 and prime fodder for the streets. Urged by relatives, Mae moved her family to Brockton, Massachusetts, in 1970. The fact that Brockton was the hometown of former heavyweight champion Rocky Marciano meant nothing to Mae. She just wanted to live where it was peaceful.
Brockton had one-sixth the population of Newark, and little of the racial volatility, but in its own way was just as gritty. A crusty old mill town, and once a shoe-manufacturing center, Brockton was frayed at the edges, the shoe and leather industry largely departed. The high school was one of the largest on the east coast, with a strong athletic tradition, especially in football. Its teams were nicknamed the Boxers - just on
e reminder that Marciano's spirit hovered over the city.
Mae rented an apartment on the less affluent east side. Soon she found catering and housekeeping work, while Marvin, who had quit high school in Newark, found a $2-an-hour job in a tannery.
Two pivotal events ensued. First came Hagler's 98-pound weakling moment, not in the classic manner of sand kicked in his face, but from the fists of a Brockton tough, Donnell Wigfall, an amateur boxer. The slightly chubby 16-year-old took a beating in a fight, supposedly after a party, over a girl.
In 1971 Hagler climbed the stairs to the Petronelli School of Boxing, above a hardware store, in downtown Brockton. He came in quietly, found a seat, watched the boxers train, and left just as quietly. The next day he was back, and the next. After a few days, co-owner Guerino Petronelli, known as Goody, noticed the intent and curious youth.
"You want to learn how to box?" Petronelli asked.
"Yeah."
"Why is that?"
"I want to be a champion."
So began the boxing career of Hagler, in a manner not unlike thousands of other boxers before and after.
Goody and Pat Petronelli (49 and 51 years old, respectively) were in their third year of operation, hoping to strike gold but realistic enough to continue to run their construction company. In 1969 their childhood buddy, Marciano, the retired former heavyweight champion, was ready to partner in the gym. Then a small aircraft carrying Marciano went down in Iowa. Brockton lost its most famous citizen, and the Petronellis lost a friend and backer. The Petronelli brothers, sons of Italian immigrants, tacked up photos of Marciano and opened the gym anyway. Goody, a pro boxer prior to a 25-year-plus Navy hitch during which he coached boxing, became head trainer. Pat, who boxed as an amateur and managed Goody's pro career, ran the gym and helped out with the boxers.
Goody and Pat represented the yin and yang of boxing. Goody was literal and unemotional, while Pat was intuitive and sensitive. Goody talked to a fighter about the angle and leverage of a jab. Pat talked to the same fighter about his girlfriend or family problems. Their styles were complementary, built to nurture a moody virtuoso, but Hagler had no way of knowing this when he arrived in 1971. Newark's de facto segregation had made him leery of whites.
In those first weeks the Petronellis found out how much Hagler wanted to be a boxer. Goody worked with him in the ring, watched him get punched by more advanced kids, and worked with him some more. After awhile Goody noticed that Hagler was learning faster than the others.
One evening Goody said, "Marvin, you're picking it up pretty good."
"I been practicin', man."
"How have you been practicing?"
"I been practicin' in the mirror at home."
On most evenings, Hagler was first to arrive and last to leave. One evening as he sparred he was gashed above an eye. The brothers knew young fighters were spooked by blood and half-expected Hagler to quit. But the next evening he returned to pound the bags and jump rope.
"This kid is different," Goody told his brother.
Hagler's determination was fueled by the birth of his first child in Newark. Hagler never publicly acknowledged the mother of the boy, Gentry, who sometimes was called "Monk." This was also the period he resumed a friendship with 18-year-old Bertha Washington, a small, pretty, saucer-eyed girl whom he had known since childhood. Bertha, one of ten children raised in an east Brockton public housing project, had given birth to her first child, Jimmy, in 1970. She would have a daughter, Celeste, in 1972, before taking up with Hagler.
When Hagler fought his first amateur bout, in South Boston, the Petronellis introduced him to photographer Angie Carlino as "Short Stuff Hagler," not convinced that "Marvin" was a proper ring name. By 1973 Hagler was the top amateur in their stable, and "Short Stuff" had been dropped.
Now he was 156 pounds of lean, chiseled muscle, a byproduct of working for Petronelli Construction, which specialized in masonry. Each morning he pulled on a work shirt and steel-toed boots and went off to haul brick and push wheelbarrows of cement for $4 an hour. The money never stretched far enough, with a son in Newark and his mother and siblings needing help.
The Petronellis noticed that Hagler occasionally skipped lunch. Other times he pulled out a dollar and bought a sandwich. Most of his paycheck, they realized, was going to his mother. They worried, because a construction worker who boxes must eat, as must a boxer who works construction. One day the Petronellis invited Hagler out to lunch. He ordered his usual sandwich, and when the bill came he pulled out his dollar.
"Put it away," said Pat Petronelli.
Hagler assumed the lunch money would be subtracted from his paycheck. At the end of the week he opened his pay envelope to a pleasant surprise. Lunch was free, although Hagler was sure no such thing existed.
Weeks and months passed and the Petronellis picked up more lunches, repaid only in Hagler's gratitude. His suspicion of white people, rooted in the racial acrimony of Newark, no longer applied to Goody and Pat Petronelli. They did not pry into his personal life, but as his trust increased he opened up to them. Later, when his career stalled, Hagler would be pressured to leave the Petronellis, but he never did. They were his surrogate fathers.
Their relationship was such that, by the time Hagler fought Leonard, they worked without a contract. When the Petronellis asked for one to formalize their one-third share, which figured to be no less than $4 million (and turned out to be more than $6 million), Hagler was offended.
"Marv looked at us and said, 'After all these years you want me to sign another contract? Don't you trust me?'" Pat Petronelli recalled. "So we didn't. And he paid us."
Hagler moved quickly to the top of New England amateur boxing. Along the way he acquired his signature shaved head, which he explained was partly "for luck" and partly in tribute to two shaved-head legends, Jack Johnson and Rubin "Hurricane" Carter. Unspoken but understood was Hagler's appreciation of a shaved head as a blunt instrument in the ring.
He cultivated both a menacing look and personality. "He was a pain - not the most pleasant person in those days," remembered Bill Hoar, a Massachusetts amateur boxing official.
This was the Hagler who captured the 165-pound title at the AAU nationals in May 1973, while Leonard was upset in the 139-pound final by Randy Shields, son of a Hollywood stuntman.
In victory Hagler ran around the ring and waved a small American flag as the crowd applauded. He was voted the Outstanding Fighter Award and met his childhood idol, Floyd Patterson, who had worked the CBS telecast.
Leonard did not watch Hagler's bout or his celebration. His thoughts had raced ahead to Montreal and 1976. Their paths diverged, and when they next crossed, a few years later, their alchemy began to give off heat.
Chapter 5
1979: Champion and "Victim"
Two world title bouts were fought at Caesars Palace Hotel and Casino on November 30, 1979, but only one was a main event: welterweight champion Wilfredo Benitez and challenger Sugar Ray Leonard.
The other title bout at the Las Vegas boxing mecca was a preliminary: middleweight champion Vito Antuofermo and challenger Marvin Hagler.
Both Leonard and Hagler made their first bid for a world title on the same night, in the same ring. Leonard was paid a purse that finally matched his smile - $ 1 million. Hagler got $40,000. Hagler believed his value to the card was going into Leonard's pocket, and was livid.
"What about me?" he complained to his managers and attorney. "Who is he to get a million bucks?"
Hagler had seen this before. The Hartford Civic Center had featured Leonard as the main event, in his third pro bout, in June 1977. Hagler had fought the prelim, in his 36th pro bout. Leonard was paid $40,000 while Hagler got $2,000.
"I've watched Hagler - we've fought on the same card," Leonard joked years later. "He just happened to fight on the undercard."
Leonard arrived at his first title fight a little more than 21/2 years and 26 bouts into his pro career. Hagler arrived after 61/2 years and 49 bouts.
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br /> Hagler now saw his career as cruelly Sisyphean, an endless tease of hard work, neglect and deprivation. He saw himself as a victim of boxing politics and life's general unfairness. A sense of injustice, reinforced by purse disparities and his prolonged slog to the top, overtook his public persona. Rooted in the psychology of his childhood, it was aggravated by the cartel-like conditions of the boxing industry. The cartel consisted of two promoters, Don King and Bob Arum, and two sanctioning bodies, the World Boxing Council, based in Mexico, and the World Boxing Association, based in Panama and Venezuela.
After the 1976 Olympics American TV networks gradually rediscovered boxing. King and Arum, who had mastered the largely corrupt politics of the sanctioning bodies, controlled the world championships. Attempts by ABC and CBS to establish their own champions ended badly. As a result the networks dealt almost exclusively with King - despite his role in ABC's tainted championship tournament - and Arum.
Fighters such as Hagler, who refused, or were not offered, promotional deals with King or Arum, were ignored by the sanctioning bodies and left out of the lush stream of TV money. It wasn't until the early 1980s that other promoters, such as Dan Duva, Murad Muhammad, and Russell Peltz, started to grab some of the TV money.
After Hagler turned pro in 1973 - and earned $50 for his first pro bout - he fought primarily in New England for three years. Though he built a 25-0-1 record, he was largely unknown. By 1976, now the father of his second son, Marvin, Jr., and renting an apartment in Brockton, Hagler wanted to move beyond paydays of $1500 to $2000. Desperate to elevate his profile, Hagler went to Philadelphia in 1976 and fought two talented local middleweights, Bobby "Boogaloo" Watts and Willie "The Worm" Monroe. Watts took a controversial decision, while Monroe won by a wide margin. The two losses were the first of six bouts known as the "Philly Wars" on Hagler's resume. He subsequently beat Monroe in two rematches, as well as two other Philadelphia middleweights, Eugene Hart and Bennie Briscoe. But the initial losses to Watts and Monroe gave the cartel an excuse to ignore him, and delayed his advance to a title bout by at least a year. When a Don King-sponsored "championship" tournament launched on ABC early in 1977, and excluded Hagler from the field of eight middleweights, his sense of victimization verged toward paranoia.
Sorcery at Caesars: Sugar Ray's Marvelous Fight Page 4