The fighting life

Boxing's reputation is tattered, but aspiring contender Anthony Chase shows how the "sweet science" still sparks dreams of riches and glory

by David Hirschman

It's 9:30 on a Thursday night at Rhodes-on-the-Pawtuxet, the plush banquet facility in Cranston, and Anthony "The Candyman" Chase, a medium-sized man with a tattoo, goatee and Latrell Sprewell-like braids, is showering punches on a short, lean man named George "Simply the Best" Best. Best has kept with Chase since the fight began, dancing away from his punches and hitting back from time to time, but now his guard is up and he's absorbing hooks and uppercuts to his face and side. Punch after punch smacks into Best like the rhythm of a drumbeat, and he curls up under his gloves, staggering backwards and wobbling slightly, as his rival follows him. Chase lands 15 or 20 hard, lightning-quick punches in less than 30 seconds, and Best finally doubles over and falls onto the canvas, his gloves waving. "The Candyman" hovers over him, glistening with sweat, ready to pounce if Best makes the slightest motion to rise. A police officer standing in the aisle turns to a teenage boy beside him and they exchange approving glances.

"Get up, sister," shouts a person in the crowd, as the referee counts to 10, but it's over. Trainers converge on the fighters, pull off their gloves and remove the white tape from their knuckles. As the music fades, the roar of the crowd settles and the bell rings. The announcer grasps a wrist of each fighter, and his voice flows through the speakers: "The winner, by way of knockout, and still undefeated, Anthony `The Candyman' Chase." Chase's hand is raised in the air, and a huge cheer goes up through the crowd of 2000. Beefy men put down meatball sandwiches and gin and tonics to give each other high-fives, and businessmen -- upstairs in the $500 luxury boxes, their neckties loosened and sleeves rolled up -- clap furiously.

"You gotta love the fights," says a sweaty man in his 50s, wearing a nylon warm-up suit and sitting with his thirtysomething son. "It's all about courage. I can't imagine stepping in the ring there where the other guy just wants to knock your block off." Asked why they come to the fights, the father says, "Because it's real. It's real action. It doesn't get any more real than getting hit in the face, ya know?"

The battered reputation of professional boxing took another big blow in mid-January, when a federal judge in Newark picked a monitor to manage the International Boxing Federation, the sole American-based organization that ranks pro fighters. According to the New York Times, (which ran a front-page story headlined, "No One's in Charge and Boxing is Biggest Loser") it was the first time a federal court had intervened to oversee a private sports organization, and followed the indictment in November of four IBF officials who are accused of soliciting bribes to upgrade boxers' rankings.

But events like the fight at Rhodes-on-the-Pawtuxet show how the spirit of pugilism remains alive in Rhode Island, albeit on a smaller scale than in the past. While top prize fighters vie for fame and multi-million dollar purses in Las Vegas casinos, aspiring boxers train in obscurity in gyms in Providence, Pawtucket and Warwick, blackening eyes and bloodying noses, fighting their hearts out for $100 a round in the hope that one day they, too, will become contenders.

Chase, 29, is on his way. Though still on the lower echelon of the boxing pay scale, he's considered one of the rising stars in the local scene and has already made a name for himself on the East Coast circuit.

In an upstairs dressing room, Chase stretches his legs after the fight and poses for photographs with his trainer, Artie Artwell. A former professional boxer from Philadelphia, Artwell runs the Phantom Boxing Club in Providence. And just like the Burgess Meredith character in Rocky, he's responsible for keeping his protégé in peak physical form and teaching him the moves he'll need to become a champion. This victory bodes well for Chase's next fight, at Foxwoods, which will be broadcast live on national television.

There was a graffiti mural of Mike Tyson on a street in lower Manhattan a year or so ago, a cartoon portrait of the former heavyweight champ with his fists up and blood dripping from his mouth. The caption, "If you can't beat 'em, eat 'em," referred to Tyson's infamous mutilation of Evander Holyfield's ear during their 1997 title fight. This thuggishness has haunted pro boxing in recent years because it shows how the "sweet science" -- as the sport has been called by admirers since British historian Pierce Egan coined the phrase in 1824 -- can degenerate into spectacle and madness. Even Tyson's most recent fight, in October, ended in a no-contest after one round, when a stray punch that he threw after the bell caused his opponent, Orlin Norris, to fall awkwardly and injure his knee.

Iron Mike aside, boxing's credibility has been damaged by questionable split decisions, such as one which saved Holyfield's title in his first fight against Lennox Lewis, and another which lost Oscar De La Hoya his in a recent bout with Felix Trinidad. And as the Times recently reported, the absence of a central governing body means there's no one to enforce safety rules, establish credible rankings and ensure that the best boxers advance.

Many boxing fans had hoped Tyson would remain as compelling in the '90s as he had been in the '80s, when he rose from the ghetto to dominate the heavyweight class. But with Tyson's fall from grace and a revolving door of heavyweight title holders, the '90s lacked a figure who could inspire the kind of hero worship bestowed upon past greats. As noted by Steve Nicholson, a writer who contributes to Fight Game magazine, noted boxing remains sorely in need of "a charismatic superstar who could fill the large shoes of a Muhummad Ali or a Sugar Ray Leonard and do for boxing what Michael Jordan had done for basketball."

In contrast, Nicholson places the golden age of boxing in the late '40s. Older fighters like Joe Louis were eclipsed by new talent, like Rocky Graziano, "Jersey" Joe Wolcott, Archie Moore and Jake LaMotta (later memorialized in Martin Scorsese's Raging Bull), and the emergence of television vastly increased audiences for the fights. In Rhode Island, such legends as Ralph Zanelli, George Araujo and Rocky Marciano came into their own, making Providence a focus of boxing in New England. This generation's exploits injected new vitality into the sport and paved the way for Ali's storied career.

But even with all the spectacle and scandal of recent years, the essence of boxing maintains an unimpeachable resonance and archetypal appeal. A fight distills the essence of competition to the bare minimum -- two people with only their clenched fists as weapons, both entirely responsible for their fate, and only one who will emerge as the winner.

"I think it's the idea of the primal instincts," says Artwell. "It's the bloodletting. Boxing, it has been said, is the theater of the unexpected. Anything can happen in the ring. That's really the draw."

Vinny "The Pazmanian Devil" Pazienza, the super middleweight who is Cranston's own five-time world champion (speaking before he was arrested January 23 and charged with assaulting two Pawtucket police officers), concedes that boxing resembles a spectacle, but he doesn't see anything wrong with that.

"Boxing is entertainment," Pazienza says. "It's a business. People come to see a show. But boxing is also physical warfare between two human beings that's legal. So, sure, it's sensational, but there's only so far that that can go, because the pain is real and the blood is real. It's brutal."

A few decades ago, Portuguese immigrants staged Fight Club-like bouts in the basements of their Providence homes, as relatives and friends sparred for the entertainment of neighbors. Building on the city's status as a boxing mecca, the hub for local boxers and enthusiasts was Manny Almeida's Ringside Tap. Adorned with a gaudy neon sign at the corner of Wickenden and Brook streets, Manny Almeida's thrived for several decades in the spot where young professionals now eat gourmet pizzas at the Z Bar & Grille.

"It was a great gathering place," says Jimmy Burchfield, a spiritual descendant of Almeida, who promotes the New England Explosion, a two-year-old fight series that has added fresh energy to the local boxing scene. "All of the boxers and fans in the area would go there. You would go there to meet a fighter, and you never knew who would be there. One day Muhammad Ali would be there, the next day Sugar Ray Leonard, the next day Marvin Hagler."

Now, the number of boxers, gyms and the audience for live fights have diminished, but a hardcore following of several hundred fans still turn out for the bouts organized by Burchfield's North Providence-based Classic Entertainment and Sports. These events, which draw a mix of old-school fans and new aficionados, are held almost monthly at Rhodes-on-the-Pawtuxet.

For the past two decades, Pazienza has been the face of Rhode Island's boxing tradition. The Paz, 37, with a professional record of 46-8, has largely dominated his opponents in the ring, winning five world titles as a lightweight, junior middleweight and super middleweight. A natural showman, Pazienza found love with an exotic dancer who he met at a strip club and battled back from a life-threatening 1991 car accident that nearly paralyzed him. During a three-month hospital stay, doctors said he would never be able to fight again. But only a few months later, against doctor's orders, the Paz returned to the gym, trained relentlessly, and in 1993 -- barely two years after the crash -- won the IBO world super middleweight championship with an 11th round knockout. In March, shooting is scheduled to begin for Pazienza's first starring role in a feature film, Thunder Doyle, which, not surprisingly, is about a boxer.

"Vinny is exciting in the sense that he comes to give you your money's worth," says Burchfield. "Every once in a while there is an extra-special fighter, like Vinny or Ali or Sugar Ray Robinson, who just outshines most fighters. Television loves him. Fans love him. Some people don't like him -- some people come to see him get beat -- but that's okay, too."

Both the Rhode Island Medical Society and the American Medical Association have long argued that boxing should be banned. The AMA believes that boxing, like tobacco, is innately harmful and opposes its legal status. Steven DeToy, a medical society spokesman, says the organization's policy is to "support any efforts to eliminate boxing and to curtail utilization of boxing as a public spectacle."

Most boxers are aware of the sport's inherent risks. Many know either of someone who has died in the ring or been severely injured. Artwell says he tries to impress on his fighters that boxing is hazardous. He tells them, "One punch can end a fight, one punch could end your career, and one punch could end your life." In training, he emphasizes a defensive style, teaching his boxers to keep their hands up as much as possible, to minimize the chance of serious injury.

With the magnitude of risks involved, one wonders why fighters still step into the ring. Chase believes the desire to box, to some extent, is a reflection of human nature. "Everybody does things that they know are dangerous," he says. "People smoke cigarettes every day, even though they know that it's going to cause cancer. People do drugs, even though they know they're going to get addicted. Boxing is a sport, and in any sport there are risks, except maybe something like tennis. It's just something I've got to do."

Artwell says some boxers fight out of anger and many do it for a shot at the megabucks that world-class fighters make. Particularly in Hispanic and African-American communities, he says, boxers believe they can transcend social and economic hardships if they work hard enough. For those who are willing to train and face the risks, boxing offers a shot at greatness.

The essence of boxing is still found in one-ring gyms in rough neighborhoods, where puffy-eyed fighters pound out their aggressions on duct-taped heavy bags and piercing buzzers signal the beginning and end of sparring rounds.

Fighters typically work their way up in small venues far from the spotlight, and most don't earn enough to support themselves from boxing. To line up a big-time match against a well-known opponent, an aspiring pug needs to spend three to five years building a nearly flawless professional record (Artwell recommends 15 to 20 wins without any losses). Rookies generally make $200 to $1000 for each of their first 10 or 15 fights, but once a boxer can be paired against a certified name -- a marquee draw like Felix Trinidad or Oscar De La Hoya -- the purse for a fight skyrockets from $25,000 to as much as $250,000. After a fighter has proven himself at that level, the prize can reach into the millions for each fight.

Chase is a South Providence native who traces his ancestry to the Narragansett Indians and the Cape Verdean islands, and over the past three years he has built a pro record of nine wins, no defeats and three knockouts. After graduating from Central High School, he began boxing in 1989 while stationed with the Army in Hawaii. Ever since going to see a bout with his uncle at the Cranston Armory when he was eight, Chase knew he wanted to fight. But it took a while, because of his size, for him to get the nerve to step into the ring.

"I was a midget back then," he recalls. "I must have been the smallest senior graduating from Central in `88. When I went to the Army I was maybe 5'6" and 120 pounds. So I was never really a fighter growing up. I knew I could fight, but I was never really a rowdy type of kid . . . I always wanted to go into Archie Johnson's gym on Prairie Avenue, but the closest I ever got was just peeking in the door."

Chase made his professional debut in 1997 after winning national championships as an amateur, and his following has grown in recent months. "Anthony Chase could be a world champion," says Peter Manfredo, the former world champion kickboxer who owns the gym where Chase trains. "He's really one of the very few boxers in the area right now who have the tools to compete on the next level. But he's still got to put his time in at the gym and do the work if he's going to get there."

Artwell also believes Chase is one of the best fighters in the area. While most are either boxers (meaning they have good skills, but not so much punching power) or punchers (meaning they have power, but lack finesse), he classifies Chase as both a boxer and a puncher because of his ability to switch between strategic boxing and hard fighting.

Chase's daily schedule demands a hefty amount of physical conditioning. He runs five miles at dawn before working as a unionized carpenter's apprentice. Then, after stopping at home to play with his six kids, he goes to the gym for several hours to practice under Artwell's supervision.

Chase trains at Manfredo's Gym, on the second floor of an old factory on Pawtucket's west side while Artwell's Providence venue, the Phantom Club, is refurbished. Manfredo's is a large, dimly lit square room, with minimal decoration other than equipment, practice rings and a glass case filled with the proprietor's kickboxing trophies. Heavy bags sway from the ceiling, and men and women of varying sizes hit speed bags, jump rope, shadowbox and spar under the guidance of their trainers. While there's camaraderie among the fighters, the practicing is serious and focused. In a corner of the gym, Chase and Artwell spend a lot of time analyzing fight situations and discussing problems of form.

"I need a lot of work on conditioning, combinations and timing," Chase says. "Everyone says boxing is a brutal sport -- and it is -- and anyone can get out there and just brawl it out. But what I really want to do is master the mental part of it. I want to become an expert at that."

It's a few weeks before his next fight, and neither Chase nor Artwell knows much about the opponent Chase will face at Foxwoods for as much as a $1000 payday. All they know is that he's a righty who sometimes switches and boxes from the left side. Later, when Chase is more established, there will be scouting reports and videotapes of his opponents. But for now, all he can do is to practice combinations that will help him counter the righty-lefty switch.

The bingo hall at Foxwoods Resort and Casino in Ledyard, Connecticut, is a rectangular room, decorated with teal designs and large lightboards. A canvas boxing ring in the center of the room is surrounded by four ropes, the tallest almost at the level of the boxers' shoulders. A huge boom microphone and an ESPN2 camera hang over the ring, ready to broadcast the action.

The room slowly fills with the sold-out crowd of 4000, most of whom have paid between $55 and $330 for their seats on this November night. Chase is fighting on the same card with Vinny Pazienza, with Pazienza being pitted against "Dangerous" Dana Rosenblatt -- the heralded Jewish boxer from Malden, Massachusetts -- whose only loss was in his previous fight against Pazienza. Many of the fans wear "Pazman" T-shirts and leopard-patterned clothing.

When the first fight begins, between two relatively unproven super welterweights, the crowd quiets to concentrate on the intermittent slapping sound of gloves connecting with flesh. When there are more than a couple of seconds between hits, voices in the crowd yell, urging more contact. A referee with white gloves glides around the ring, trying to remain out of the way and in the best position to judge the action.

In one of the early fights, a promising undefeated welterweight named Michael Covington, who had matched his opponent pretty evenly through the first few rounds, is leveled with a single punch. Covington's chin has been hit on exactly the right (or wrong) spot, and he lies motionless for several minutes after hitting the canvas. Four paramedics and a host of fight officials descend to secure a heavy plastic brace around his neck and load him onto a stretcher. It's unclear what has happened, but the fact that Covington is unconscious and his eyes are wide open suggests something is very wrong. Meanwhile, his opponent, Andrew Murray, dances around the ring amid cheers, exulting in the knockout, even as Covington is carried from the ring. Later, the injured boxer is reported to be in stable condition at a nearby hospital.

Covington isn't the only one having a hard time. During the final fight of the night, Pazienza, sporting leopard-print vest, trunks and a lopsided haircut with a shaved stripe on the side, thrust himself into the ring as the crowd roared, battling Rosenblatt for the full 12 rounds, at times looking as unbalanced and mad as the cartoon devil that inspired his nickname. The Paz is the picture of heightened emotionality, pounding his chest like a theatrical caveman and suddenly bursting on Rosenblatt, even knocking him down during one of the early rounds. But although Pazienza showed valor and resilience, fighting energetically into the late rounds even as blood dripped from his face, a split decision gave the victory to Rosenblatt's methodical punch-and-cover technique.

Bob Marley's "Get Up, Stand Up," blares into the crowd as Chase is introduced near the end of the night. Chase enters from the corner of the room, flanked by Artwell and his cornermen, and makes his way toward the ring. The boxer steps through the ropes and jumps back and forth a little while the crowd cheers. The hood of his robe covers his face, and a palpable chill spreads through the room when he lifts it. His face is dark and emotionless, yet totally confident. Chase's demeanor is almost icy, threatening in its understatedness, very much like the Yankees' ace reliever, Mariano Rivera, and he paces in his corner, unfazed, as his opponent, Tyrone Jackson, enters the ring.

The two men shed their robes, meet in the center and the referee runs through the rules. Jackson moves around uneasily, but Chase calmly stares straight ahead, and then the two break and go back to their corners. The bell rings.

The fight starts slowly. Both men feel each other out, their guards up. Chase's jabs are precise and quick, but he doesn't connect with many, and the two become caught in several clenches, neither able to establish dominance or a rhythm. In the second round, Chase begins to land some hard punches, but his face betrays no expression. It's as though he's just taking care of business, like a mason laying bricks. Chase's movements are smooth and calculated, never showy, as he puts rapid combinations together and then backs away.

In the third round, Chase finds an opening, a moment like the one in the fight against Best, and he begins to unload on Jackson. But it doesn't last more than a few seconds, and soon the round is over. As the bout goes on, Chase attacks more and Jackson backs away, forcing Chase to assume the role of pursuer, as in a seduction or a game of tag. Sitting in his corner before the sixth and final round, Chase still looks calm. Artwell quickly maps out a strategy for him, miming a short sequence of punches and giving Chase a light slap to the cheek while cornermen feed him water and wipe away his sweat. It's clear that Chase is ahead in points, so the goal for this round will be to maintain his advantage.

In the sixth round, Jackson comes on like a series of small waves. He moves forward to land a punch and then recedes. When Chase follows these recessions, he is finally able to connect with more punches. At the very end of the round, Chase begins what seems like another breakthrough, and Jackson stumbles backward as the bell rings.

Chase wins by unanimous decision. As at his earlier bout with Best, he goes to Jackson's corner in a show of sportsmanship to try to raise the other man's hand, as though to declare his opponent a winner for lasting the whole six rounds. Jackson resists the gesture, but the two part with a friendly glance as Chase goes to talk with the ESPN commentators. He hasn't been as dominant in this fight as he was in the last one, but the win is still impressive and it bolsters his record.

After the fight is over, Chase walks through the crowd, greeting people he knows and shaking the hands of well-wishers. His girlfriend and her family swamp him with congratulations as he comes out of the dressing room, and there's no longer any trace of iciness in his face. Chase is all smiles and warmth as he flexes a bicep and asks if anyone's talked to his kids.

"I called the house and told your boy, Cassius, to turn on ESPN," gushes his mother, Evelyn, "I told him, `You better watch. Your daddy's on TV. He's hitting the big time.' "