No Win Race. Derek A. Bardowell
blacks and immigrants of colour sold papers, won votes. How perverse. The National Front and their supporters needed no excuse to instigate random acts of violence against blacks and Asians; the people they blamed for just about every problem in society.
Minter’s words and actions came across as anti-black, not patriotic. By fight night, the contest was not just the United States versus the United Kingdom. It was black versus white.
With the anthems out of the way, the MC took centre stage. He announced that the fight would be for the ‘undisputed middleweight title of the world’ as if presenting the next act at a circus. The MC then introduced Minter, who wore dark red shorts with a thick white trim. Before the announcer could finish his name, the crowd let out a lusty cheer as Minter, hands held aloft, drifted to the centre of the ring to acknowledge them.
‘And from Brockton in the United States, the challenger …’ The crowd dampened the atmosphere with boos before the MC could announce Hagler’s name. Hagler, bobbing up and down and with his head bowed, half-heartedly pumped his left fist in the air, but it was unclear whom he was acknowledging.
Minter towered over Hagler as they met face to face in the middle of the ring for the referee’s instructions. Some fighters look away, shaking their nerves loose by moving from side to side. Others will stare at their opponent and try to intimidate them. Minter and Hagler barely moved as they gazed at each other in the misty arena. They looked as if they were each about to avenge a friend’s murder.
Once the bell rang, Minter came out aggressively, hoping to impose his will, but Hagler kept catching him with leaping right hooks. Every time Hagler caught him with a punch, Minter looked distressed. It was like he couldn’t see the punches coming. Within a minute, Hagler opened a cut under the champion’s left eye. This had been common for Minter. Most of his six previous losses had been due to severe facial cuts. Undeterred, the Brit pressed forward, although Hagler’s jerky movements and compact stance appeared to confuse him. Minter offered little movement. His head stuck out like a pelican’s. Every time they exchanged, Minter appeared to throw more punches but Hagler landed the more damaging blows. Minter was bigger and quicker, but his punches were more like slaps than real decisive hits.
The two traded blows as if in a street fight. There was no rhythm to it, just malice and anger. They’d throw scrappy punches in close, take a breather, and then go tearing into each other again. By round two, Hagler’s slashing overhand lefts and uppercuts were hurting Minter. The American’s shot selection was mesmerising. Hagler could slug or box. He could fight on the back foot or come forward, or from an orthodox (leading with his left hand) or southpaw (leading with his right hand) stance. Hagler’s ability to adapt in a fight was also legendary, so it was unsurprising that he became the aggressor to neutralise Minter’s attacks. The challenger had been winning the brawl, making the champion look amateurish, when Minter caught Hagler with a clubbing right hook. The punch stopped the American from advancing forward and momentarily buckled his knees. Minter had finally derailed Hagler’s charge and he moved in for the kill.
This appeared to be the turning point of the fight, the defining moment when the contest would be won or lost. Would Minter finish the job? How would Hagler react? I thought Minter was about to knock Hagler out. But Marvellous Marvin was a bitter and determined man. He’d waited years to get a world title. If the hostility of the crowd could not deter him, nothing Minter could throw at him would push him back. As that right hook landed, Hagler probably had flashbacks to his early days fighting in grimy Philadelphian gyms, picking up little or no money. I’m sure he didn’t want to go back to those days. So Hagler came right back at Minter. The American stole the initiative away from the Brit, who was now bleeding from the nose and had a mark under his right eye.
According to Harry Carpenter, commentating for the BBC, Hagler had said before the contest that the title was rightfully his. In round three, he became the stalker, throwing double jabs with his snaking arms, moving around, always changing angles, never allowing Minter to relax or ease his way into the fight. Minter could not set his feet, which would allow him to generate enough power into his punches to push Hagler back. Every time Minter planted himself, Hagler would either hit him or move out of punching range. Minter’s hands were quick, but his feet and reactions were slow.
The crowd, undeterred, chanted ‘Miiiin-tuh, Miiiin-tuh, Miiiin-tuh!’ But Minter’s face was a bloody mess. He now had a cut over his left eye. I wondered how he could see Hagler through all the blood. Midway through the round, Hagler bludgeoned Minter with a right hook; the Brit grabbed his face with his gloves as if his nose, lips, eyes and cheekbones were about to collapse. I didn’t know whether he was trying to stop his gum shield from flying out or his face from crumbling onto the canvas.
When you see fighters in pain or hurt while watching a contest on television, you’re detached. You cannot smell the metallic fragrance of blood. You cannot hear the abused squeals of grown men in pain. You cannot see the saliva flying from the mouths of the fighters after absorbing a punch. You cannot hear the trainers shouting instructions or the audience urging their man to win. You cannot see the fighters’ distorted expressions or the way their eyes roll aimlessly like a metal ball in a pinball machine. But after that shot, I could feel Minter’s pain.
Soon after, the referee called timeout. He tugged a reluctant Minter to his corner for the ringside doctor to inspect the facial damage. Minter’s face looked like someone had slashed him above and below each eye with a knife. The crowd’s mood changed. Chants turned to grunts. Minter’s father-in-law and trainer Doug Bidwell had seen enough. Bidwell stopped the fight. Minter lodged his arms on the ropes in frustration. Hagler sank to his knees in the middle of the ring as if in prayer. The title was finally his.
Then a beer can whistled towards Hagler’s head. Before Hagler could get to his feet, another object flew over his bald dome, then another missile and another. Soon bottles and cans rained. The new champ curled into the canvas like a scared child at a fireworks display. The police jumped into the ring to apprehend a man who tried to attack Hagler.
I couldn’t believe how quickly the crowd had soured. Nor could I tear my eyes away from the screen. Hagler’s corner men Goody and Pat Petronelli came into the ring to protect him. They formed a human pyramid over the fighter as the crowd gathered ringside to shout racist abuse. Most of the press sitting ringside sheltered under tables or held chairs above their heads to avoid being hit by the alcoholic missiles. Objects struck Carpenter and ITV’s Reg Gutteridge, British boxing’s foremost commentators. These fans, it appeared, had not thrown empty cans and bottles. They had thrown half-full weapons in disgust and hatred.
I did not see Hagler again that night, maybe a knee on canvas or the shining glint of his beer-stained bald head. But his corner men, some officials in suits and the police scraped him through the bottom rope. ‘He had to be smuggled away like a criminal from the scene of his triumph,’ said the Daily Mirror’s Frank McGhee. They dragged him through the hostile crowd to his changing room as remnants of blood and beer sizzled in the ring.
‘Disgusting!’ was the headline on the front cover of the 3 October issue of Boxing News. Mullan opened his report by stating: ‘The long-dead myth of British sportsmanship was finally buried at Wembley as a cascade of beer bottles and cans showered the ring and a racist mob howled obscenities at the black fighter who had taken Alan Minter’s world middleweight title and at the black referee who had stopped the fight after one minute 45 seconds of the third round.’
In the same edition of Boxing News, American promoter Bob Arum, who staged the Minter–Hagler fight, had stronger words. ‘This was a disgrace … It was ridiculous the way this nationalism was built up before the fight.’
Once Minter had drawn the colour line, the fight had taken on a sinister tone. Black had beaten white. Black had beaten up white. Embarrassed white. England’s ego had been bruised. And they couldn’t accept it. My father was happy for Hagler, but the racial conflict had disturbed him into silence. England had lost more than just a boxing contest.
Until the first beer can flashed past Hagler’s head, I had not completely inherited my father’s support for the American. I couldn’t grasp how Hagler’s skin colour could be the cause of such fury. And sport seemed