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Interesting article about Bernard Mays King of the Kronk Gym in the 70's. I cannot find much about this guy but apparently he threw it all away for alcohol. Sad.
Champ’s promise drowns in alcohol
‘Superbad’ was most talented Kronk boxer
By Fred Girard / The Detroit News
How bad was Bernard “Superbad” Mays, the tragically flawed sensation who may have been the greatest prizefighter in the rich history of the Kronk Boxing Club?
So bad that he won 200 fights and lost only one as an amateur; so bad that he won 40 straight bouts and lost only one as a pro; so bad that Thomas Hearns, who went on to six world titles, nearly quit boxing rather than face the prospect of sparring with him every day at Kronk.
“Bernard Mays was the king,” Hearns recalled. “I almost gave up boxing because I dreaded going to the gym every day. I knew I’d have to get in the ring with Bernard, and it was going to be a brawl.”
With all of that talent, Arthur Bernard Mays died an alcoholic pauper in 1994 at the age of 33, his brilliant talents withered.
More than any other former star from the fabled, 80-champion Kronk gym, Mays represents the tragic waste of lives and talent that have dogged many Kronk fighters.
Mays was born in 1960, the son of Victoria Mays and Prince Milton. He hated the name Arthur, and used only his middle name. When he was barely 11, an older cousin, a journeyman heavyweight fighter named Charlie “Big Tuna” Jordan, brought him to Emanuel Steward, the young trainer everyone was talking about at the Kronk gym. Within weeks, the quiet, angelic-looking lad was known only by the nickname he carried the rest of his too-short life — “Superbad.”
Best of all
“He was the most talented Kronk boxer of all,” Steward said. “He was like a legend, really.”
Kronk boxers says Steward is not exaggerating.
“It gives me chills just to talk about him,” said Robert Tyus of Detroit, one of the original Kronk team, winner of two amateur national titles. “Superbad Mays was like Sugar Ray Robinson — he had it all.”
“Superbad Mays was the awesomest fighter I ever saw — he could devour you,” said John Johnson of Detroit, who won a national amateur title under Steward. “Speed is power — it’s the punch you can’t see that knocks you out — and Bernard had a wicked left hook that would just take the breath from your body.”
Tournament winner at 14
When he was 14, Mays swept to victory in the 106-pound class of the national Junior Olympic tournament. Two years later, he repeated in the 139-pound division. He fought more than 200 times as an amateur, losing only once, and at every fight, Steward said, the first two or three rows would be packed with managers and trainers who had brought their boxers to see Superbad Mays.
But, “Bernard started disappearing on me,” Steward said. “He’d always been quiet, but he got moody, stopped showing up at the gym regular.”
Sixteen-year-old Superbad Mays had become addicted to Colt .45 malt liquor.
“Bernard and I had been drinking and smoking since we were 14,” acknowledged Eric Williams. That was also about the time, family members say, Prince Milton left and stopped being any influence on his young son’s life.
Former world lightweight champion Jimmy Paul said that at the 1977 Ohio State Fair national tournament “I’d be in bed sound asleep the night before every fight, and Bernard would be out drinking beer with the ladies all night, then come in and absolutely destroy everybody else in the tournament.”
Mays was named the tournament’s outstanding boxer. Later that year, he traveled to England and knocked out the European amateur champion.
Turned pro in 1978
When he turned professional in 1978, Mays parted company with Steward, who had hounded him about his drinking. His next manager, Chuck Davis, tried just as hard, and had just as little success.
Mays hired noted Oakland County attorney Elbert Hatchett to break his contract with Davis. After he did so, Hatchett, who fought as a kid and followed the game all his life, decided to manage and promote Mays himself.
“We lost a ton of money,” Hatchett said. “Bernard fought like Joe Louis. He was a middleweight, a classic boxer, just classic. He was the first guy (who) I saw knock somebody out hitting him in the side. But he would drink beer all the time.”
Roland Scott, Mays’ last trainer, said. “That beer just tore him up. He would get absolutely smashed.”
Won 40 straight
At the age of 31, Mays had fought 40 times as a pro and won them all, when everything caught up with him in a bout in California. An opponent hit Mays hard and staggered him badly, costing Mays the fight. The next day Hatchett had him in a hospital.
Mays’ alcohol-damaged pancreas was dangerously inflamed.
The doctor told Hatchett, “Look, this condition has progressed to such a point that he takes his life in his own hands if he decides to fight,”the doctor told Hatchett.
Superbad Mays would fight no more.
He stayed with his mother for a time, and after she died, a broke Mays entered the New Light Nursing Home in Detroit.
“He walked in here under his own power,” said administrator George Talley, and stayed for nearly a year.
In the final weeks his condition deteriorated rapidly. “When I saw him there at the end, his stomach was so swollen it looked like he was pregnant,” trainer Scott said.
On March 1, 1994, at 9:55 p.m., Superbad Mays’ heart stopped, unable to fight any longer against the crushing load of diabetes, chronic pancreatitis and chronic malabsorption syndrome.
He is buried in an unmarked grave — Section 4, Row 18, grave No. 36 — in Mt. Hazel, a small cemetery on Detroit’s far west side that has been closed for years.
Mays’ sister, Esther Farley of Ypsilanti, signed the death certificate.
“It was a painful thing to visit Bernard” in the nursing home, she said. “He was always a real charmer, a sweetheart — who knows where his life might have led?
“But alcoholism is a terrible disease.”
http://www.detnews.com/specialreport...ardmays14a.jpg
Champ’s promise drowns in alcohol
‘Superbad’ was most talented Kronk boxer
By Fred Girard / The Detroit News
How bad was Bernard “Superbad” Mays, the tragically flawed sensation who may have been the greatest prizefighter in the rich history of the Kronk Boxing Club?
So bad that he won 200 fights and lost only one as an amateur; so bad that he won 40 straight bouts and lost only one as a pro; so bad that Thomas Hearns, who went on to six world titles, nearly quit boxing rather than face the prospect of sparring with him every day at Kronk.
“Bernard Mays was the king,” Hearns recalled. “I almost gave up boxing because I dreaded going to the gym every day. I knew I’d have to get in the ring with Bernard, and it was going to be a brawl.”
With all of that talent, Arthur Bernard Mays died an alcoholic pauper in 1994 at the age of 33, his brilliant talents withered.
More than any other former star from the fabled, 80-champion Kronk gym, Mays represents the tragic waste of lives and talent that have dogged many Kronk fighters.
Mays was born in 1960, the son of Victoria Mays and Prince Milton. He hated the name Arthur, and used only his middle name. When he was barely 11, an older cousin, a journeyman heavyweight fighter named Charlie “Big Tuna” Jordan, brought him to Emanuel Steward, the young trainer everyone was talking about at the Kronk gym. Within weeks, the quiet, angelic-looking lad was known only by the nickname he carried the rest of his too-short life — “Superbad.”
Best of all
“He was the most talented Kronk boxer of all,” Steward said. “He was like a legend, really.”
Kronk boxers says Steward is not exaggerating.
“It gives me chills just to talk about him,” said Robert Tyus of Detroit, one of the original Kronk team, winner of two amateur national titles. “Superbad Mays was like Sugar Ray Robinson — he had it all.”
“Superbad Mays was the awesomest fighter I ever saw — he could devour you,” said John Johnson of Detroit, who won a national amateur title under Steward. “Speed is power — it’s the punch you can’t see that knocks you out — and Bernard had a wicked left hook that would just take the breath from your body.”
Tournament winner at 14
When he was 14, Mays swept to victory in the 106-pound class of the national Junior Olympic tournament. Two years later, he repeated in the 139-pound division. He fought more than 200 times as an amateur, losing only once, and at every fight, Steward said, the first two or three rows would be packed with managers and trainers who had brought their boxers to see Superbad Mays.
But, “Bernard started disappearing on me,” Steward said. “He’d always been quiet, but he got moody, stopped showing up at the gym regular.”
Sixteen-year-old Superbad Mays had become addicted to Colt .45 malt liquor.
“Bernard and I had been drinking and smoking since we were 14,” acknowledged Eric Williams. That was also about the time, family members say, Prince Milton left and stopped being any influence on his young son’s life.
Former world lightweight champion Jimmy Paul said that at the 1977 Ohio State Fair national tournament “I’d be in bed sound asleep the night before every fight, and Bernard would be out drinking beer with the ladies all night, then come in and absolutely destroy everybody else in the tournament.”
Mays was named the tournament’s outstanding boxer. Later that year, he traveled to England and knocked out the European amateur champion.
Turned pro in 1978
When he turned professional in 1978, Mays parted company with Steward, who had hounded him about his drinking. His next manager, Chuck Davis, tried just as hard, and had just as little success.
Mays hired noted Oakland County attorney Elbert Hatchett to break his contract with Davis. After he did so, Hatchett, who fought as a kid and followed the game all his life, decided to manage and promote Mays himself.
“We lost a ton of money,” Hatchett said. “Bernard fought like Joe Louis. He was a middleweight, a classic boxer, just classic. He was the first guy (who) I saw knock somebody out hitting him in the side. But he would drink beer all the time.”
Roland Scott, Mays’ last trainer, said. “That beer just tore him up. He would get absolutely smashed.”
Won 40 straight
At the age of 31, Mays had fought 40 times as a pro and won them all, when everything caught up with him in a bout in California. An opponent hit Mays hard and staggered him badly, costing Mays the fight. The next day Hatchett had him in a hospital.
Mays’ alcohol-damaged pancreas was dangerously inflamed.
The doctor told Hatchett, “Look, this condition has progressed to such a point that he takes his life in his own hands if he decides to fight,”the doctor told Hatchett.
Superbad Mays would fight no more.
He stayed with his mother for a time, and after she died, a broke Mays entered the New Light Nursing Home in Detroit.
“He walked in here under his own power,” said administrator George Talley, and stayed for nearly a year.
In the final weeks his condition deteriorated rapidly. “When I saw him there at the end, his stomach was so swollen it looked like he was pregnant,” trainer Scott said.
On March 1, 1994, at 9:55 p.m., Superbad Mays’ heart stopped, unable to fight any longer against the crushing load of diabetes, chronic pancreatitis and chronic malabsorption syndrome.
He is buried in an unmarked grave — Section 4, Row 18, grave No. 36 — in Mt. Hazel, a small cemetery on Detroit’s far west side that has been closed for years.
Mays’ sister, Esther Farley of Ypsilanti, signed the death certificate.
“It was a painful thing to visit Bernard” in the nursing home, she said. “He was always a real charmer, a sweetheart — who knows where his life might have led?
“But alcoholism is a terrible disease.”
http://www.detnews.com/specialreport...ardmays14a.jpg
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