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Rocky Lockridge sits high on a stoop, giving himself a lofty view of the intersection of 7th Street and Chestnut in Camden.
There's a convenience store on the corner, but it's not drawing as much interest as the woman openly dealing drugs, shouting, "Five dollars, five dollars," to anyone who passes.
In the midst of it all, a brown sedan stops, the car idling in the middle of the street. A middle-age man gets out and quick-steps to the top of the stoop to greet Lockridge with a fist bump and a quick man-hug. After a few quiet words, he gets back into the car and drives off.
Others take turns approaching Lockridge to exchange pleasantries. One is a 20-something girl named Laquicha Smith, who seems excited to tell an outsider about the special man sitting on the cement steps.
"That's Rocky. He's the champ," she says. "He's still got it."
The Champ looks out across the familiar street corner, his head held high. But his face is swollen by scar tissue around the eyes and more than one tooth is missing. A silver metal four-prong walking cane he now needs to walk is balanced across his knees.
His fingers tremble as he lifts a cigarette to his lips and his voice is raspy and hard to make out.
"Everybody kisses me, calls out, 'Champ, Champ, Champ,' " Lockridge says. "I get joy being around them because they're going through the struggle, same as me."
The struggle is living on the streets of Camden, where Lockridge has been for more than 10 years. It has been a long way to fall for a two-time world boxing champion.
Lockridge, who climbed the rankings while fighting out of Ice World in Totowa from 1978-81, has no money. His body tilts to one side when he walks, the result of a stroke he says he suffered three years ago. His scraggly, graying beard makes him seem far older than 50, the age he reached on Jan. 30.
He admits he has a more than two-decades-old drug problem -- "I do quite a bit of drinkin' and druggin'," he says -- and that he's been estranged from his ex-wife and kids for nearly that long.
John O'Boyle/The Star-Ledger
Rocky Lockridge stands on a street corner in Camden.But he won't take all the blame for his predicament. He blames the boxing industry for much of it.
"I'm bitter. I'm very bitter," he says, the words coming out slowly and unsteadily. "I made some mistakes, a whole lot of mistakes, but they were beyond my imagination. The blow that was put upon me was harder to take than the blows, or any blow, for that matter, that I received in the fight game."
It didn't have to be like this for Lockridge.
A former world champion suffering financial difficulties is hardly shocking, considering the history of boxing, lack of formal education of most fighters and the absence of a pension or retirement plan from any of the sport's governing bodies.
Lockridge was different.
Particularly bright, articulate and good looking, Lockridge was a natural in front of the cameras and seemed to enjoy his time in the spotlight. After relocating from Tacoma, Wash., at the age of 19 in 1978, Lockridge lived in Paterson as he came up through the ranks, fighting for Main Events, an enterprise of the Duva family, with his early fights at Ice World, a cavernous converted skating rink in Totowa.
Lockridge was the rare fighter who considered a post-boxing career. He looked studious, wearing wide, horn-rimmed glasses, and took classes in business at William Paterson University in Wayne for two years.
Kathy Duva, now the CEO and then the publicist for Main Events, remembers Lockridge being different.
"Rocky was always a low-key person with an easygoing personality," she says. "He was quiet, articulate, a wonderful guy."
After two unsuccessful attempts to win a featherweight title in the early '80s, Lockridge moved up to super featherweight and the extra five pounds suited him. He won a couple of big fights and then knocked out Roger Mayweather -- the uncle and trainer of current superstar Floyd Mayweather Jr. -- in the first round to win the WBA title on Feb. 26, 1984.
John O'Boyle/The Star-Ledger
A Fight Game magazine featuring Rocky Lockridge.
The Mayweather fight, a one-punch knockout, lasted only 91 seconds and launched him to a new level in boxing circles. Lockridge was 25 with a record of 32-3.
He and his wife, Carolyn, took his winnings and moved from Paterson to Mount Laurel, a tony suburb of Philadelphia in South Jersey. Carolyn gave birth to twins Ricky and Lamar on August 23, 1984.
The future was bright.
Boxing careers usually are short. So when Lockridge lost his title to Wilfredo Gomez in 1985, then lost a year later to Julio Cesar Chavez, no one would have been surprised if Lockridge had reached the end.
He hadn't.
He won his next two fights and earned another title shot, stopping Barry Michael after eight rounds in England in 1987 to win the IBF super featherweight title.
A year later he lost his title in a unanimous decision to Tony Lopez in a brutal 12-round bout that was named 1988 Fight of the Year by Ring Magazine. He would lose the equally bloody rematch a year later, then retire after one last victory in 1989.
As bad as his beatings were in the ring, the abuse he put his body through when he was out of it may have been worse.
After each fight, Lockridge says he would party "two weekends." He snorted ******* and abused alcohol, drinking "whatever was around," he says.
When he needed money, he says he would ask the Duvas for it and they would always give it to him. Now, he says they shouldn't have been so forthcoming.
"Not only was I not in control financially, but it really didn't matter to me at the time," he said. "I wanted the best for myself and my loved ones. There was never any resistance in terms of saying, 'Champ, you're out of order with the financial thing.' It is what it is. It is what it is now."
Lockridge says he was "****d financially," but there's no evidence of that. Kathy Duva said Lockridge made money, but not the kind one could expect to live on forever. Even Lockridge admits his biggest payday came from the fight with Chavez, and that was only $200,000, he estimates.
"He had a family, children, divorce, he bought a house," Kathy Duva says. "The money goes away. People who abuse drugs end up in desperate straits frequently. That's a shame, but it's a choice they make."
After 2 1/2 years out of the ring, Lockridge attempted an ill-fated comeback at age 33 under new management based in Washington.
The comeback lasted just two fights -- both losses.
There's a convenience store on the corner, but it's not drawing as much interest as the woman openly dealing drugs, shouting, "Five dollars, five dollars," to anyone who passes.
In the midst of it all, a brown sedan stops, the car idling in the middle of the street. A middle-age man gets out and quick-steps to the top of the stoop to greet Lockridge with a fist bump and a quick man-hug. After a few quiet words, he gets back into the car and drives off.
Others take turns approaching Lockridge to exchange pleasantries. One is a 20-something girl named Laquicha Smith, who seems excited to tell an outsider about the special man sitting on the cement steps.
"That's Rocky. He's the champ," she says. "He's still got it."
The Champ looks out across the familiar street corner, his head held high. But his face is swollen by scar tissue around the eyes and more than one tooth is missing. A silver metal four-prong walking cane he now needs to walk is balanced across his knees.
His fingers tremble as he lifts a cigarette to his lips and his voice is raspy and hard to make out.
"Everybody kisses me, calls out, 'Champ, Champ, Champ,' " Lockridge says. "I get joy being around them because they're going through the struggle, same as me."
The struggle is living on the streets of Camden, where Lockridge has been for more than 10 years. It has been a long way to fall for a two-time world boxing champion.
Lockridge, who climbed the rankings while fighting out of Ice World in Totowa from 1978-81, has no money. His body tilts to one side when he walks, the result of a stroke he says he suffered three years ago. His scraggly, graying beard makes him seem far older than 50, the age he reached on Jan. 30.
He admits he has a more than two-decades-old drug problem -- "I do quite a bit of drinkin' and druggin'," he says -- and that he's been estranged from his ex-wife and kids for nearly that long.
John O'Boyle/The Star-Ledger
Rocky Lockridge stands on a street corner in Camden.But he won't take all the blame for his predicament. He blames the boxing industry for much of it.
"I'm bitter. I'm very bitter," he says, the words coming out slowly and unsteadily. "I made some mistakes, a whole lot of mistakes, but they were beyond my imagination. The blow that was put upon me was harder to take than the blows, or any blow, for that matter, that I received in the fight game."
It didn't have to be like this for Lockridge.
A former world champion suffering financial difficulties is hardly shocking, considering the history of boxing, lack of formal education of most fighters and the absence of a pension or retirement plan from any of the sport's governing bodies.
Lockridge was different.
Particularly bright, articulate and good looking, Lockridge was a natural in front of the cameras and seemed to enjoy his time in the spotlight. After relocating from Tacoma, Wash., at the age of 19 in 1978, Lockridge lived in Paterson as he came up through the ranks, fighting for Main Events, an enterprise of the Duva family, with his early fights at Ice World, a cavernous converted skating rink in Totowa.
Lockridge was the rare fighter who considered a post-boxing career. He looked studious, wearing wide, horn-rimmed glasses, and took classes in business at William Paterson University in Wayne for two years.
Kathy Duva, now the CEO and then the publicist for Main Events, remembers Lockridge being different.
"Rocky was always a low-key person with an easygoing personality," she says. "He was quiet, articulate, a wonderful guy."
After two unsuccessful attempts to win a featherweight title in the early '80s, Lockridge moved up to super featherweight and the extra five pounds suited him. He won a couple of big fights and then knocked out Roger Mayweather -- the uncle and trainer of current superstar Floyd Mayweather Jr. -- in the first round to win the WBA title on Feb. 26, 1984.
John O'Boyle/The Star-Ledger
A Fight Game magazine featuring Rocky Lockridge.
The Mayweather fight, a one-punch knockout, lasted only 91 seconds and launched him to a new level in boxing circles. Lockridge was 25 with a record of 32-3.
He and his wife, Carolyn, took his winnings and moved from Paterson to Mount Laurel, a tony suburb of Philadelphia in South Jersey. Carolyn gave birth to twins Ricky and Lamar on August 23, 1984.
The future was bright.
Boxing careers usually are short. So when Lockridge lost his title to Wilfredo Gomez in 1985, then lost a year later to Julio Cesar Chavez, no one would have been surprised if Lockridge had reached the end.
He hadn't.
He won his next two fights and earned another title shot, stopping Barry Michael after eight rounds in England in 1987 to win the IBF super featherweight title.
A year later he lost his title in a unanimous decision to Tony Lopez in a brutal 12-round bout that was named 1988 Fight of the Year by Ring Magazine. He would lose the equally bloody rematch a year later, then retire after one last victory in 1989.
As bad as his beatings were in the ring, the abuse he put his body through when he was out of it may have been worse.
After each fight, Lockridge says he would party "two weekends." He snorted ******* and abused alcohol, drinking "whatever was around," he says.
When he needed money, he says he would ask the Duvas for it and they would always give it to him. Now, he says they shouldn't have been so forthcoming.
"Not only was I not in control financially, but it really didn't matter to me at the time," he said. "I wanted the best for myself and my loved ones. There was never any resistance in terms of saying, 'Champ, you're out of order with the financial thing.' It is what it is. It is what it is now."
Lockridge says he was "****d financially," but there's no evidence of that. Kathy Duva said Lockridge made money, but not the kind one could expect to live on forever. Even Lockridge admits his biggest payday came from the fight with Chavez, and that was only $200,000, he estimates.
"He had a family, children, divorce, he bought a house," Kathy Duva says. "The money goes away. People who abuse drugs end up in desperate straits frequently. That's a shame, but it's a choice they make."
After 2 1/2 years out of the ring, Lockridge attempted an ill-fated comeback at age 33 under new management based in Washington.
The comeback lasted just two fights -- both losses.
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