Tribute to one of the greatest things I have ever seen in boxing...

February 21, 1993 Blue Horizon, Philadelphia, Pa. By John Scully The high majority of my time in this sport has been good. Boxing has been a positive aspect of my life, definitely. Boxing is good for the most part. The bad of the sport, the ugly, the totally irritating and ridiculous are moments and instances that really seem to stand out because of the extreme negativity they hold. There is more good than bad in boxing, though, and sometimes I just think that the real goodness of it all is sometimes something more subtle than anything. Maybe the beauty is in the eye of the beholder but my eyes see it every day. Sometimes it's very subtle, like I say. Like the expression on the face of a young kid who wins his first fight as a Junior Olympian. Or the kid who never excelled at any other sport in his life but he comes to the boxing game and finds a home for himself. He's not fast enough for wide receiver, not big enough for defensive end, too small for basketball and he can't hit the fastball. But he's got some heart and moxie and some drive that kids his own age and his own size find hard to deal with in a 20x20 ring. It's in walking into a new gym for the first time, experiencing that feeling of wonder as you head up or down the steps and into the main ring. What fighters will be in there? What types of photos and article will be posted on the walls? I tell you, one time a few years back I visited the first gym I ever trained at as a boxer, I hadn't been there in several years (it was abandoned), and as I ascended the steps up into the main area the old but very familiar smell of sweat and liniment hit my nose and for a few seconds it was like being transported back in time to when I was fourteen years old. When I am eighty years old I will still recognize anywhere the smell of the Windsor Locks Boxing Club. I love the fact that we as fighters get hit and hurt and cut and we still want to keep going. We find ourselves with blood running in our eyes, knots growing on our foreheads and cheek bones, we feel sick to our stomachs, we feel as though our shoulder muscles are burning. We are hurt to the point where we feel inside our heads almost as if we are under water. We get hit and instantly see what appears to be hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny little specs. Like a thousand extremely tiny stars flashing against a black backdrop that is actually inside of our heads. These things happen to us on a regular basis, much more than they happen to anyone else in the world, and yet the first reaction of probably ninety-nine percent of the boxers in the world is to hide it. Keep going, regardless. We innately withstand and repel pain, misery, and mental anguish in the hopes that we can land just one big shot that will pull out a miracle victory. Whether it's in a gym or under real fight circumstances, the fighters and their ability and willingness to hide misery and fight on through it is amazing and beautiful to me. It's definitely one of the good things, maybe the very best of them, that I love about boxing. Beauty for me is also in seeing a man reach deep inside himself and find something that no one on earth, not even the man himself, can tell you for sure is there until he actually reaches for it when his body and mind call for him to do so. Leonard reached for it against Hearns the first time and pulled up tons of it. I reached for something similar late in the fight against Tim Littles and there just wasn't enough there that night to make a significant different on the scorecards. Two years later, though, James Toney reached down for it against the same Tim Littles when his title was in real jeopardy, the ringside doctor had just given him a very dramatic "one more round, champ" and he saved his belt moments later in spectacular, story book fashion. How about when Arturo Gatti got up from that paralyzing left hook to the body from Mickey Ward early in the ninth round of their first fight to not only survive it (ringside announcers thought the fight would be over seconds later) but to come back and inflict big damage on Mickey within a minute. I remember when I saw something on the night of February 21, 1993 at North Philadelphia's Blue Horizon that I remember as clearly as if it happened last night. Something so beautiful that the true fans of the game unfortunately never get to see. Calvin Grove went head to head in a nationally televised ten rounder with fellow former world champion Troy Dorsey in a fight that night that featured a perfect contrast in styles. Dorsey was a non-stop punching machine who never stopped coming forward while Grove had the legs of a thoroughbred and elusiveness similar to that of a Michael Nunn or a Herol Graham. I remember watching the fight from the audience and while I was impressed at the halfway point with the smooth movement of Calvin, it was a thing where I didn't think he would be able to keep constantly evading, slipping and countering such an aggressive guy like Dorsey for ten full rounds. Sooner or later Troy would wear him down and force him out of there before the final bell. I knew from experience that ten rounds is a long time to be on your bicycle while avoided the rushes and punches of a well conditioned athlete. Ten rounds were completed, though, and despite appearing to be extremely fatigued as early as the sixth, Calvin came through with a very impressive decision over the former IBF Champion in a fight that saw him obviously having to dig down and fire back on numerous occasions. I distinctly remember thinking how inspiring it was that he was able to keep moving and punching as he did for ten full rounds. I loved the style he used and wished I had used it more in my career, too, as I had countless times with success in the gym. The "beautiful" aspect of the fight for me, though, came about ten minutes or so after each boxer had left the ring for their respective dressing rooms. I happened to be with a prelim boxer who was using the same room as Calvin and when I walked in there Grove was laying flat on his back on a giant rubbing table wearing nothing but his protective cup. His eyes were closed. Not like he was sleeping, though. He was just exhausted. And one of his handlers was pouring cups of cold water all over his body to refresh him, to "bring him back to life." Now when most people think of a fighter "leaving it all in the ring" on fight night it usually brings to mind someone who has went through an all out war. Like Ali falling to the ring floor in exhaustion immediately after the third Frazier fight in Manila. Calvin, though, had literally exhausted himself while boxing. While moving, slipping, ducking, dodging and countering. The discipline and focus it took for him to carry out that plan for ten full rounds under the bright lights of television is something I am not only well aware of but also an accomplishment that makes me respect him as much as I respect a Micky Ward after the first Gatti fight, Ali after Manila and Aaron Pryor for finishing so strongly and ending the first war with Arguello down in Miami back in 1982. Sometimes you see something similar but in a way that even people who witness don't truly realize or appreciate it. To the person going through times like that it is all the same, though. Pain is pain. Misery is misery. Heart and drive is heart and drive. Millions of dollars, multiple world titles and a viewership of millions -not to mention black eyes and broken ribs- do not always have to be present in the equation for a boxer to show heart and will on the same scale as the previously mentioned warriors. Whether it's Madison Square Garden, an outdoor parking lot arena in Las Vegas or some small local show in a three hundred seat club in downtown Milwaukee, Wisconsin, or whether it's an all out war like Corrales-Castillo or a boxing exhibition like Grove-Dorsey, the ability to dig deep into yourself for that something extra to win will definitely be needed at some point in the program. I have seen it unfold many times on TV in person but one time, one time, I had one of the best seats in the house for what I will always consider a spectacular display of heart, discipline and will on the part of Calvin "Silky Smooth" Grove. And seeing him laid out on the dressing room table, completely exhausted from the work he just put in, is a site I will never forget as long as I live. Inspiring, definitely. Much respect, Silky. Iceman John Scully