By Matthew Hurley

At his zenith, Donald Curry was a wonderful boxing tactician. He boxed with an amateurs’ zeal for defense and precision punching – hands held high, elbows tucked in, eyes wide, always searching for an opening. He coupled that with the speed and slashing fists of a professional and a heart that carried him to the welterweight title. As he staked his claim on the boxing scene he was being groomed for a potential super fight with Marvin Hagler. So well thought of was Curry by the boxing establishment that he garnered co-fighter of the year honors by Ring Magazine in 1985 with Hagler, his potential steppingstone to greatness. That year Hagler had engaged in a fight for the ages with Thomas Hearns. Curry had knocked out Hearns’ Kronk Gym stable mate Milton McCrory in the second round to unify the welterweight championship. The young, shy kid from Fort Worth Texas had the boxing world at his feet.

He was the new Sugar Ray Leonard. Then, just as quickly as it had happened, it all fell apart.

Boxing is such a brutally taxing sport both mentally and physically that only a few survive to enjoy long, sustained careers. Donald Curry was one of those who blazed brightly in the sky like a shooting star and then fizzled out before anyone really had a chance to ask, "What happened?" There was something about the "Lone Star Cobra" that made you want him to achieve every possible goal. He was humble, well spoken and aesthetically pleasing as a fighter. He could turn fights into clinics as he did against tough opponents like Marlon Starling and Milton McCrory.

Still, there was always something vulnerable about Curry – both physically and mentally. When potential match-ups with Hagler or Hearns were put forth Curry, despite his technical grace, always seemed a bit too small, even frail in comparison. His straight up style, often leaning forward with his head held high, seemed perfect for a knockout artist like Hearns or the much bigger and stronger Hagler. Yet, when he decimated McCrory with a beautiful left hook to the chin Donald Curry seemed almost perfect. And with that devastating knockout a fight with Hagler loomed as the biggest fight in boxing. Then, in September of 1986, a brash young Englishman named Lloyd Honeyghan battered Curry in front of a strangely sedate crowd in Las Vegas and everything changed.

That vulnerability became more pronounced. A fighter’s ability to come back from defeat is one of the hallmarks of potential greatness, or, at the very least, his ability to survive in the sport. When Thomas Hearns suffered his first loss to Sugar Ray Leonard in 1981, he regrouped and went on to beat Wilfred Benitez for the junior middleweight title. He then knocked out Roberto Duran in two brutal rounds to set up a mega-fight with Marvin Hagler for the middleweight title in 1985. That fight ended with Hearns flat on his back after three hellacious rounds. Hearns, battered but unbowed, returned the next year and knocked out number one middleweight contender James Shuler in 93 seconds. He went on to win two light heavyweight titles and a middleweight belt. His mental toughness, along with his physical gifts, made him a great fighter. He refused to allow a loss to defeat him. Curry, after his first loss, was never the same fighter. Much like a Mike Tyson, once that cloak of invincibility was stripped from him he seemed to lose his nerve. Rather than persevere his technical deficiencies became more apparent. They were knocked on the chin against Mike McCallum in 1987.

In a tightly contested fight for the WBA junior middleweight championship Curry, boxing smartly, kept his chin up and then left a right hand out too long and McCallum, one of the most underrated fighters of his time, snapped out a vicious left hook and knocked Curry out in the fifth round. Curry tried to get to his feet but couldn’t. All the fight had been beaten out of him. He would fight on, even winning a junior middleweight belt against non-descript Gianfranco Rosi but he would never again be that quick, lethal fighter that ruled the welterweight division. And there’s something sad about that because Donald always seemed special. He seemed special because of his flaws and because he was so easy to root for. You wanted him to succeed because despite his achievements he always seemed a bit unsure of himself.

I recently met Donald Curry at the International Boxing Hall Of Fame and that same feeling of uncertainty struck me when he bashfully shook my hand. That gentle quality, his shoulders a bit hunched forward, his eyes cast downward, was even more apparent. Even as fans gathered around him he seemed a bit uncomfortable, but he smiled, that handsome smile, when people asked for a picture. Almost sadly unsure of himself and perhaps feeling a bit out of place at the Hall of Fame, Donald Curry managed to cut out a little piece of deserved recognition amongst all the big stars with his quiet, gentlemanly presence.

 And then, as he seemed to do in his boxing career, he simply faded into the crowd.