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In the last fifty fights of his career, many of them against ordinary opposition, Robinson lost thirteen times and had four draws. “Ray had problems at the end with guys who could jab,” Emanuel Steward recounts. “And they kept him away from punchers. But he never complained about losing a fight. When he lost, no matter how close the decision, he’d go across the ring and congratulate the other guy. That’s just the way he was.”
Don Chargin journeyed to a bullring in Tijuana in 1965, the last year of Robinson’s career, to watch him fight Memo Ayon.
“It was pathetic,” Chargin remembers. “Ray was in this terrible-looking dressing room before the fight, all alone, wrapping his own hands. Not another soul was there except for myself. He lost the fight. But for a few seconds, as shot as he was, I thought I saw flashes of what he’d once been. Since then, I’ve often wondered if that was something I really saw or just something I wanted to see.”
The day after losing to Ayon, Robinson flew with Millie to Las Vegas, where they were married by a justice of the peace. The cab driver who picked them up at the airport was their witness at the ceremony.
“I knew Millie loved me because there wasn’t anything else for her to love,” Robinson said several years later. “My flamingo Continental [that Ed Sullivan had given him at the behest of a sponsor to replace the fuchsia Cadillac] had been sold. My café had closed. The symbols of my success had disappeared. Only me was left.”
The Robinsons “honeymooned” in Honolulu, where (six days after they were married) Ray lost a ten-round decision to Stan Harrington.
On September 23, 1965, he was taken the ten-round distance in a victory over Harvey McCullough (who’d won three of thirty-one fights in the preceding eight years).
Eight days later, Robinson won again but was extended the full ten rounds by Peter Schmidt (who retired soon after, having won just one of his final eleven fights).
On October 20th, Ray knocked out Rudolf Bent (who was in the midst of a thirteen-fight losing streak). His purse for the Bent fight was five hundred dollars.
On November 10, 1965, Sugar Ray Robinson entered the ring as an active fighter for the last time. The opponent was Joey Archer, a stylish boxer with a 44-and-1 record and a powder-puff punch. Ray had been told that, if he beat Archer, he might get another title shot. And he needed the money. Besides, as Robinson noted in his autobiography, “Archer hadn’t knocked down anybody in five years.”
In round four, Archer put Robinson on the canvas. When Ray was young, on those rare occasions when he was decked, he’d spring to his feet immediately. When Archer knocked him down, he took an eight-count. The need for a few more seconds outweighed his shame at finding himself on the canvas.
Archer won a unanimous decision. By most accounts, he won every round.
One month later, Robinson formally retired from boxing at an elaborate farewell ceremony just prior to Emile Griffith’s welterweight title defense against Emanuel Gonzalez at Madison Square Garden. A sell-out crowd of 12,146 jammed the arena to pay tribute. The ceremony started at 9:30 PM, a half-hour before television coverage of the night’s main event began. Robinson had refused to be on camera because he wasn’t being paid for his presence.
In retirement, Robinson was revered by the boxing public. When he was introduced at fights, he had a way of tilting his head a little to the side and reaching out with both hands as he moved across the ring, as if he were embracing the crowd.
Money remained an issue. To make ends meet, Millie took a job as a receptionist. Frank Sinatra got Robinson a part in a 1968 film (starring Sinatra) called The Detective. In 1969, Viking paid a $50,000 advance for Ray’s autobiography. A national tour highlighted by an appearance on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson was planned to promote the book. But Robinson refused to participate unless he was paid for the appearances. The tour was cancelled.
Bob Arum recalls that, when the Las Vegas casinos started hosting big fights, Robinson was invited to sit ringside for a mega-event at Caesars. He asked for a five-thousand-dollar appearance fee on the theory that his presence on television would be a marketing plus for the casino. Caesars refused, so Ray asked Arum for a hundred-dollar ticket and sat in the nosebleed seats.
Robinson’s final years were spent in Los Angeles, where he and Millie lived on the top floor of a two-story lime-green duplex. His once-stylish wardrobe had been replaced by Hawaiian shirts that hung loosely over his expanding middle-age frame. Asked by a reporter if he still owned a Cadillac convertible, Ray answered, “No more. The car I drive now is a little red Pinto. But I’ve been there.”
In 1984, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. That year, when a writer inquired about his status as the greatest fighter of all time, Robinson fumbled for words before saying, “It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. I can’t say any more. I loved boxing, and every time I hear someone say ‘pound for pound’ . . .” His voice trailed off, then picked up again. “It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.”
Arteriosclerosis, diabetes, and hypertension left him further debilitated. Don Chargin recalls, “A year or two before Ray died, Lorraine [Chargin’s wife] and I were with him and Millie at the Forum Shops in Caesars. Lorraine and Millie went into a dress shop. I was standing outside with Ray, talking. And he panicked. ‘Where’s Millie? Where’s Millie?’ He got very upset that she wasn’t there. By then, he needed her around to protect him all the time.”
On April 12, 1989, Walker Smith Jr (known to the world as Sugar Ray Robinson) died. At his funeral, Jesse Jackson eulogized him as “an original art form.” The United States Postal Service would print one hundred million postage stamps bearing his likeness. The only other boxer so honored was Joe Louis.
Most of us tend to be loyal to the sports heroes we worshipped and the music we listened to when we were young. But respect for Robinson transcends time and fondness for any given era.
Indeed, Robinson’s legacy arguably would have been even greater than it is but for the absence of film footage of his fights from the 1940s. People who watch films of Ray as a middleweight (particularly his final victory over Jake LaMotta and one-punch knockout of Gene Fullmer) have seen Sugar Ray Robinson. But they haven’t seen him at his best and never will.
Virtually no film footage of Robinson in action prior to 1950 exists. There are home-movie snippets from seven fights in the 1940s (three Golden Gloves bouts and four professional contests against lesser foes), but that’s all. The first professionally-filmed footage of a Robinson fight is of his lackluster title defense against Charlie Fusari in mid-1950.
That’s like a Frank Sinatra songbook without the young Sinatra.
Robinson’s final ring record was 175 wins against 19 losses with 109 knockouts and 6 draws. There was one “no contest.” He was never knocked out. Once, he collapsed from the heat. As a pro, he boxed 1,403 rounds.
By way of comparison, Sugar Ray Leonard boxed a total of forty pro fights. Leonard’s record after the age of 32 was 1 win, 2 losses, and 1 draw. Robinson, on his thirty-second birthday, had retired from boxing after losing to Joey Maxim and had been defeated just three times in 136 fights. After he returned, he had 66 more fights and won the middleweight championship three more times.
“With some fighters,” Jerry Izenberg observes, “the longer they’re away from the game, the better they get. But Ray was as good as people say he was. He did things that were beyond the imagination of other fighters.”
“The great ones are pioneers in some way,” adds Teddy Atlas. “That’s what Ray was. He took speed and combination-punching and a certain smoothness when it wasn’t all connected, and he connected it. Everything he did, he did with meaning and accuracy. He took away the waste. He didn’t just throw flurries. He threw tighter harder combinations that were all meaningful. He had more than talent. He had genius.”
Consider the phenomenon of being the best ever; a man who defines his craft. Shakespeare . . . Michelangelo . . .
In recent decades, Tiger Woods, Roger Federer, and Michael Jordan have been called “the greatest ever” in their respective sports. But Sugar Ray Robinson required that the language of boxing be changed as a way of codifying his greatness. “Pound for pound” belongs to him. Only Babe Ruth (think “Ruthian blasts”) had a similar impact on the language of his game.
Don Dunphy was the premier blow-by-blow announcer of the Robinson era. He called more than two thousand fights in a career that began during the golden age of radio and ended after the glory years of Muhammad Ali. Reflecting on a half-century behind the microphone, Dunphy declared, “Any ingredient that any champion ever had, Ray Robinson had them all.”
Joe Louis was in accord, saying, “Sugar Ray Robinson was the greatest of anyone who stepped in the ring. I saw him at his best. He was the best fighter that ever lived.”
Don Chargin journeyed to a bullring in Tijuana in 1965, the last year of Robinson’s career, to watch him fight Memo Ayon.
“It was pathetic,” Chargin remembers. “Ray was in this terrible-looking dressing room before the fight, all alone, wrapping his own hands. Not another soul was there except for myself. He lost the fight. But for a few seconds, as shot as he was, I thought I saw flashes of what he’d once been. Since then, I’ve often wondered if that was something I really saw or just something I wanted to see.”
The day after losing to Ayon, Robinson flew with Millie to Las Vegas, where they were married by a justice of the peace. The cab driver who picked them up at the airport was their witness at the ceremony.
“I knew Millie loved me because there wasn’t anything else for her to love,” Robinson said several years later. “My flamingo Continental [that Ed Sullivan had given him at the behest of a sponsor to replace the fuchsia Cadillac] had been sold. My café had closed. The symbols of my success had disappeared. Only me was left.”
The Robinsons “honeymooned” in Honolulu, where (six days after they were married) Ray lost a ten-round decision to Stan Harrington.
On September 23, 1965, he was taken the ten-round distance in a victory over Harvey McCullough (who’d won three of thirty-one fights in the preceding eight years).
Eight days later, Robinson won again but was extended the full ten rounds by Peter Schmidt (who retired soon after, having won just one of his final eleven fights).
On October 20th, Ray knocked out Rudolf Bent (who was in the midst of a thirteen-fight losing streak). His purse for the Bent fight was five hundred dollars.
On November 10, 1965, Sugar Ray Robinson entered the ring as an active fighter for the last time. The opponent was Joey Archer, a stylish boxer with a 44-and-1 record and a powder-puff punch. Ray had been told that, if he beat Archer, he might get another title shot. And he needed the money. Besides, as Robinson noted in his autobiography, “Archer hadn’t knocked down anybody in five years.”
In round four, Archer put Robinson on the canvas. When Ray was young, on those rare occasions when he was decked, he’d spring to his feet immediately. When Archer knocked him down, he took an eight-count. The need for a few more seconds outweighed his shame at finding himself on the canvas.
Archer won a unanimous decision. By most accounts, he won every round.
One month later, Robinson formally retired from boxing at an elaborate farewell ceremony just prior to Emile Griffith’s welterweight title defense against Emanuel Gonzalez at Madison Square Garden. A sell-out crowd of 12,146 jammed the arena to pay tribute. The ceremony started at 9:30 PM, a half-hour before television coverage of the night’s main event began. Robinson had refused to be on camera because he wasn’t being paid for his presence.
In retirement, Robinson was revered by the boxing public. When he was introduced at fights, he had a way of tilting his head a little to the side and reaching out with both hands as he moved across the ring, as if he were embracing the crowd.
Money remained an issue. To make ends meet, Millie took a job as a receptionist. Frank Sinatra got Robinson a part in a 1968 film (starring Sinatra) called The Detective. In 1969, Viking paid a $50,000 advance for Ray’s autobiography. A national tour highlighted by an appearance on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson was planned to promote the book. But Robinson refused to participate unless he was paid for the appearances. The tour was cancelled.
Bob Arum recalls that, when the Las Vegas casinos started hosting big fights, Robinson was invited to sit ringside for a mega-event at Caesars. He asked for a five-thousand-dollar appearance fee on the theory that his presence on television would be a marketing plus for the casino. Caesars refused, so Ray asked Arum for a hundred-dollar ticket and sat in the nosebleed seats.
Robinson’s final years were spent in Los Angeles, where he and Millie lived on the top floor of a two-story lime-green duplex. His once-stylish wardrobe had been replaced by Hawaiian shirts that hung loosely over his expanding middle-age frame. Asked by a reporter if he still owned a Cadillac convertible, Ray answered, “No more. The car I drive now is a little red Pinto. But I’ve been there.”
In 1984, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. That year, when a writer inquired about his status as the greatest fighter of all time, Robinson fumbled for words before saying, “It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. I can’t say any more. I loved boxing, and every time I hear someone say ‘pound for pound’ . . .” His voice trailed off, then picked up again. “It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.”
Arteriosclerosis, diabetes, and hypertension left him further debilitated. Don Chargin recalls, “A year or two before Ray died, Lorraine [Chargin’s wife] and I were with him and Millie at the Forum Shops in Caesars. Lorraine and Millie went into a dress shop. I was standing outside with Ray, talking. And he panicked. ‘Where’s Millie? Where’s Millie?’ He got very upset that she wasn’t there. By then, he needed her around to protect him all the time.”
On April 12, 1989, Walker Smith Jr (known to the world as Sugar Ray Robinson) died. At his funeral, Jesse Jackson eulogized him as “an original art form.” The United States Postal Service would print one hundred million postage stamps bearing his likeness. The only other boxer so honored was Joe Louis.
Most of us tend to be loyal to the sports heroes we worshipped and the music we listened to when we were young. But respect for Robinson transcends time and fondness for any given era.
Indeed, Robinson’s legacy arguably would have been even greater than it is but for the absence of film footage of his fights from the 1940s. People who watch films of Ray as a middleweight (particularly his final victory over Jake LaMotta and one-punch knockout of Gene Fullmer) have seen Sugar Ray Robinson. But they haven’t seen him at his best and never will.
Virtually no film footage of Robinson in action prior to 1950 exists. There are home-movie snippets from seven fights in the 1940s (three Golden Gloves bouts and four professional contests against lesser foes), but that’s all. The first professionally-filmed footage of a Robinson fight is of his lackluster title defense against Charlie Fusari in mid-1950.
That’s like a Frank Sinatra songbook without the young Sinatra.
Robinson’s final ring record was 175 wins against 19 losses with 109 knockouts and 6 draws. There was one “no contest.” He was never knocked out. Once, he collapsed from the heat. As a pro, he boxed 1,403 rounds.
By way of comparison, Sugar Ray Leonard boxed a total of forty pro fights. Leonard’s record after the age of 32 was 1 win, 2 losses, and 1 draw. Robinson, on his thirty-second birthday, had retired from boxing after losing to Joey Maxim and had been defeated just three times in 136 fights. After he returned, he had 66 more fights and won the middleweight championship three more times.
“With some fighters,” Jerry Izenberg observes, “the longer they’re away from the game, the better they get. But Ray was as good as people say he was. He did things that were beyond the imagination of other fighters.”
“The great ones are pioneers in some way,” adds Teddy Atlas. “That’s what Ray was. He took speed and combination-punching and a certain smoothness when it wasn’t all connected, and he connected it. Everything he did, he did with meaning and accuracy. He took away the waste. He didn’t just throw flurries. He threw tighter harder combinations that were all meaningful. He had more than talent. He had genius.”
Consider the phenomenon of being the best ever; a man who defines his craft. Shakespeare . . . Michelangelo . . .
In recent decades, Tiger Woods, Roger Federer, and Michael Jordan have been called “the greatest ever” in their respective sports. But Sugar Ray Robinson required that the language of boxing be changed as a way of codifying his greatness. “Pound for pound” belongs to him. Only Babe Ruth (think “Ruthian blasts”) had a similar impact on the language of his game.
Don Dunphy was the premier blow-by-blow announcer of the Robinson era. He called more than two thousand fights in a career that began during the golden age of radio and ended after the glory years of Muhammad Ali. Reflecting on a half-century behind the microphone, Dunphy declared, “Any ingredient that any champion ever had, Ray Robinson had them all.”
Joe Louis was in accord, saying, “Sugar Ray Robinson was the greatest of anyone who stepped in the ring. I saw him at his best. He was the best fighter that ever lived.”
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