By Lee Groves [Click Here For Part 1]

For those of you that didn’t read the first installment, I recently indulged in a mind game while transferring VHS fights to DVD in the Home Office. If someone were to give me the choice of the greatest weaponry in boxing’s pantheon, which tools would I choose and why?

The picks I listed in the first part had to do with inflicting blunt force trauma – Larry Holmes’ jab, Thomas Hearns’ cross, Tommy Morrison’s hook, Ricardo Lopez’s left uppercut, Julian Jackson’s one-punch power and Joe Frazier’s body punching. Today’s concluding article addresses talents that are more subtle in nature; inborn gifts that would provide invaluable assistance to applying the tools listed above. To call them “hammers” might be somewhat inaccurate, but the name was retained to maintain continuity.

The hand speed of Sugar Ray Leonard: What good would it be to have all these terrific tools at my disposal if I couldn’t launch them at warp speed? Many knockouts occur because the opponent can’t see what’s coming and if I had my druthers I’d love to have Leonard’s launching system.

In terms of raw speed, the most dramatic example of Leonard’s capabilities came in the opening moments of his 1976 Olympic quarterfinal bout against East Germany’s Ulrich Beyer. In just nine seconds Leonard uncorked 43 punches, a little less than five per second. The punches poured in with such speed that I had to double-check my count via frame-by-frame replay.

Granted, Leonard’s burst was not intended to be a decisive scoring sequence – those would come later in Leonard’s 5-0 decision victory – but it did send an appropriately malevolent psychological message. It didn’t matter that only 13 punches broke through the guard even in a glancing way, Leonard showed that his fists had ungodly velocity.

When Leonard learned to properly incorporate a professional’s power to his raw materials he became a monster. The pyrotechnics he displayed against Pete Ranzany, Dave “Boy” Green, Andy Price, Daniel Gonzalez, Tony Chiaverini, Thomas Hearns and Bruce Finch were wonders to behold and served as the building blocks for the legend he enjoys today. But as great as Leonard was in this department, I looked to another “Sugar” for another piece of the puzzle…

The combination punching of Sugar Ray Robinson: To me, hand speed and combination punching are two parts of the same task; the former is the raw material by which the latter can be executed.

The reason why so many experts rate Robinson the all-time pound-for-pound king was his ability to string punches together like pearls on a necklace. Over the years I’ve seen countless examples of Robinson’s magnificent bouquets, each punch delivered with perfect balance and leverage. This is immensely difficult to achieve against a moving target but Robinson’s timing and intelligence was such that he instinctively chose the correct moment, the definitive distance and the precise sequence to maximize the opportunities presented to him.

The examples are almost too numerous to mention, but here are a few:

* A seven-punch burst highlighted by a brutal left uppercut earned Robinson a second round knockout of Carl “Bobo” Olson and a third middleweight championship reign.

* A lightning quick three-punch salvo capped by a flush right to the jaw sent Rocky Graziano down and out, allowing Robinson to complete an off-the-floor comeback. The conclusive ending was written without any foreshadowing and Robinson’s cat-quick delivery was beyond defending for even the very best campaigner, much less the crude but dangerously powerful former middleweight champion.

* During his initial drive toward the middleweight title in November 1950, Robinson stopped Jean Stock with a sizzling eight-punch sequence: A lead left hook, a one-two to the jaw, a shoeshine left-right-left to the body and a crunching hook to the jaw that flattened the Frenchman in round two.

* Just 12 days later in Brussels, Robinson stopped Belgian Luc Van Dam in the fourth with a triple hook, the first two of which targeted the body and the third a wicked but smoothly thrown punch to the chin.

Two of the most famous examples of Robinson’s prowess came in his first two middleweight title-winning fights, the “St. Valentine’s Day Massacre” against Jake LaMotta in 1951 and his rematch against Randy Turpin seven months later. Sugar Ray’s sizzling blows sliced and diced the gritty LaMotta until the very end, when a relentless torrent of blows left referee Frank Sikora no choice but to intervene. Against Turpin, a cut and desperate Robinson first floored the Briton early in round 10, then unleashed a tidal wave of leather to prompt Ruby Goldstein to step in.

Who wouldn’t want to bedazzle their opponents like Robinson did? On some level, that may be one of the reasons why Robinson ended up fighting for 25 years.

The punching technique of Joe Louis: Being the perfectionist I am, I’d want not only to overwhelm my opponents with brute force and comet-like volleys, I would also want to execute every punch with textbook precision. That’s where the “Brown Bomber” comes in. Even though his prime was more than 70 years ago, he remains the “how-to” standard by which all other fighters are measured.

The endless drills under trainer Jack Blackburn transformed Louis from a raw talent to the complete fighting machine. Yes, his movements were stiff and mechanical but his punching form was flawless. The jabs and crosses were hard and straight from the shoulder. The hooks and uppercuts were compact and well disguised. And the results offered the ultimate final argument – 66 wins in 69 fights with 52 knockouts – including 23 in heavyweight championship competition.

Louis was a joy to watch for the cognoscenti and the casual alike. The first group delighted in his patience, intelligence and supreme balance, a picturesque sight for those who seriously study the sport’s inner workings. To the latter he was a heroic destroyer who dispatched his rivals in a way befitting the majestic title he held.

There was little need for subjectivity when Louis fought, for the sight of his battered and broken rivals was enough to confirm supremacy over his era – and of all eras in terms of title defenses (25) and length of reign (11 years 8 months).

The defensive prowess of Pernell Whitaker: The name of the game is hitting while not getting hit and to achieve that goal, give me “Sweet Pete’s” sweet moves. Yes, Willie Pep was the “Will O’ The Wisp” but his genius was heavily dependent on lateral movement. Whitaker, on the other hand, mastered the most difficult defensive style imaginable: Being elusive while remaining within point-blank range. Longtime trainer George Benton was the mastermind behind Whitaker’s transformation from runner to Rembrandt and the results were often breathtaking.

Being left-handed certainly helped Whitaker not only physically but also psychologically. Despite the preponderance of southpaws in recent years, right-handers – and their managers – still have nightmares at the thought of fighting a talented lefty, especially one like Whitaker who tantalized his rivals by being invisible and within striking range at the same time.

If Whitaker’s bag of dips, slips, ducks, dodges, spins and parries weren’t enough to deal with, there was also the taunting. From time to time Whitaker executed an exaggerated deep knee bend and wiggled near the floor like a limbo dancer gone mad. He would do this at least once in most fights but few ever took full advantage because one never knew when he would try it.

As an avid hoops fan, Whitaker knew that good defense sets up offense. His rivals’ whiffs created plenty of opportunities to land his spear-like counters. Most of Whitaker’s title fights went the distance but the final bell was a source of relief all the same, for it signaled the end of a hellish night of frustration.

 “So near and yet so far” could have been the motto for most Whitaker opponents and the lopsided scorecards inflicted just as much emotional stress – in a historical sense – as other fighter’s knockouts did.

The chin of Marvelous Marvin Hagler: Of course, if I had Whitaker’s defense I wouldn’t get hit all that much but on the off chance I was hit solidly I’d want Hagler’s chin as insurance.

Sure, Jake LaMotta had the legendary whiskers but even he suffered a legitimate knockdown late in his career against light heavyweight Danny Nardico. Wouldn’t life be so much easier if all our highways and high-rises were made of the material that constituted Hagler’s jaw? Potholes would be extinct and building codes would be rendered irrelevant. Want proof? Hagler’s chin not only allowed him to walk through Hearns’ cannon-like cross – my earlier weapon of choice – it actually broke it.

Attitude plays a big part of having a great chin and Hagler had plenty of it. He saw himself as the “destruct and destroy” man and while most would associate that motto to the way he broke down opponents, his ability to sap his opponent’s spirit was another vital ingredient. Nothing deflates a big puncher more than having his victim stand there and defiantly stare back at him after tasting his best shot. Hagler walked through fire against Hearns, Mugabi and Roldan only to come out the victor each time. Such are the exploits of greatness and that’s why Hagler is a living legend.

Speaking of Roldan, Hagler’s only trip to the canvas was a half-punch/half-slip courtesy of a looping blow by the Argentine that curled around the back of Hagler’s head and pulled him to the canvas. He was aghast when Carlos Padilla began to toll a count and it was said that Hagler actually had the knockdown expunged from his record after his retirement. Hagler not only took pride in the way he dished it out but also how he took it and I’d like to think I would have been the same way.

The psychology of Muhammad Ali: The greatness of Ali can be encapsulated in the phrase “less is more” because his game consisted of a darting jab, a pinpoint right cross, otherworldly hand and foot speed and more guts than a slaughterhouse filled to capacity. One could make an argument, however, that the most vital ingredient to his success was the way he manipulated his opponents’ psyches.

How could a man who nicknamed his opponents after wildlife (“The Bear” for Sonny Liston, “The Rabbit” for Floyd Patterson, “The Octopus” for Ernie Terrell), occupations (“The Washerwoman” for George Chuvalo”) and horror movie characters (“The Mummy” for George Foreman, “The Vampire” for Leon Spinks) drive grown men crazy? Why did a few lines of childish verse and a series of self-important declarations have such a powerful effect? Why did they forget the lessons we all learned in childhood, that  “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me?”

Here’s why: Nothing bothers a proud athlete more than public humiliation. Heavyweight boxers, big as they are and tough as they are, are never subjected to this kind of treatment because their menacing presence is enough to discourage most interlopers. Because no sane person would ever dare try it, Ali knew they were particularly susceptible to his tactics. Liston actually thought Ali was certifiably insane and that element of doubt proved vital to Ali’s subsequent successes.

Throughout the years, Ali’s poetic glibness dominated pre-fight coverage. He filled reporters’ notebooks by the dozen and when his rivals were approached for a response most lacked the ability to break through Ali’s noise. To paraphrase “Star Trek’s” Dr. Leonard McCoy, “I’m a boxer, not an orator.” Because of this, Ali inflicted a double whammy: First they are insulted by Ali’s mouth, then again in print and TV, the shapers of public opinion.

Yes, it helped Ali immensely that he had the skills to back up his words. But the array of insults, jokes, verses and bombast set the tone for the gloved sticks and stones they would face in the ring.

An aside: I actually tried something like this during one high school confrontation. An upperclassman I’ll call “Julio” was one of many that had their jollies picking on me. One day, one of my buddies told me that Julio was all bark but couldn’t fight a lick. He said all I had to do was scare him and he would back off. Not long after that conversation I was going down a darkened stairwell between classes when I saw Julio out of the corner of my eye. He was just a couple of words into his spiel when I unleashed a verbal explosion.

“All right, that’s it! I’ve had it!” I yelled, empowered by my friend’s scouting report. “You want to fight me? Then let’s go! Let’s go now! C’mon Julio, come and get me! I’m going to tear you up! Why aren’t you coming at me? Are you scared? Huh? Are you scared?”

By this time I was screaming at full volume and my eyes were flaring with fury. The acoustics only heightened the effect. I was unleashing all of the pent-up anger from years of being bullied and the intensity of my verbal assault must have been overwhelming to him. My fiery demeanor caused Julio’s eyes to widen and his body struck a cowering posture. Believe me, I was bluffing to the max but as the seconds ticked by I worked myself up to such a fighting froth that I almost wanted him to take a shot at me.

“Whoa, wait a minute,” he said. “I was just kidding around. I don’t want to fight you.”

“Good,” I said. “And don’t you come running your mouth at me again if you know what’s good for you.”

As we walked away I was filled with a mix of fear and excitement. Perhaps that’s how Ali (then Cassius Clay) must have felt when he ranted against Liston at the weigh-in of their first fight and saw Liston react the way he did. By the way, Julio never did pick on me again. Who knew that a ruse would have such a profound effect? Muhammad Ali did, and he used it to build a most powerful legend.

The ring smarts of Archie Moore: Once the bell sounds, a bout’s outcome is determined in part by how well a fighter executes his strategy. Of course, that blueprint can change several times during the course of a fight and the winner would be the one who has enough experience to shift gears with a minimum of effort.

Moore was called “The Old Mongoose” because the mongoose is one animal that can take down the deadliest of snakes. The sobriquet fit Moore well, for he thrived on his ability to analyze his opponent and seize upon weaknesses with knockout potency. That patient approach netted him the most knockouts in the history of the sport, no matter whether the number is 131 or 145.

Moore mostly worked out of a rolling crouch often referred as “an armadillo defense” and snaked out his highly educated left hand, always probing and thinking about his next series of moves. Once he made his decision he struck his targets with cerebral and purposeful intent. Although Moore wasn’t the perfect fighter – after all he suffered 23 losses and 11 draws according to Boxrec.com – he was never accused of fighting stupidly, especially in championship affairs. In those contests, he lost only because the other man was better, not because he erred in his thinking.

With all the weapons included in this essay I would want the best brain possible to coordinate my attack and as far as I’m concerned Moore’s was as good as it got.

The recuperative powers of Arturo Gatti: If my opponent somehow penetrated my Whitaker-like defense, survived my offensive weapons and dented my Hagler model chin, I would want to have Gatti’s ability to pull himself together. Through all the years Gatti found himself at the brink of competitive extinction but his enormous storehouse of will allowed him to emerge from holes that would have swallowed up everyone else.

One of the best examples of Gatti’s unique brand of determination may have been his very first one against Wilson Rodriguez in 1996. Overcoming a knockdown and two horribly swollen eyes, Gatti dug deep and produced a bodacious hook for the ages in round six.

Another fantastic rally was the one he staged in round nine of his first fight with Micky Ward. Floored by a sapping hook to the liver, Gatti mustered up an inconceivable rally before Ward staged his own surge to nearly stop Gatti at round’s end. The fact that he could climb out of that abyss to win the 10th round is beyond human comprehension. It was rallies like these that may allow Gatti to overcome his spotty record in major fights and be enshrined in the International Boxing Hall of Fame.

The sportsmanship of Floyd Patterson: To this day, Patterson remains one of history’s most beloved champions because of the way he conducted himself in public. Humble in victory and magnanimous in defeat, Patterson was the ultimate sportsman in the immediate aftermath of a grueling contest.

A deeply sensitive man that dealt with severe emotional issues in childhood, Patterson was keenly aware of how others felt when they lost. Therefore, he did his utmost not to add to the emotional hurt that his defeated rivals were already feeling. He was quick to compliment his antagonists’ efforts and when he failed to win, he didn’t dampen their victories by casting aspersions or throwing tantrums fueled by feelings of injustice.

Granted, Patterson didn’t deal well with some of his defeats once he left the ringside area. After his first knockout loss to Sonny Liston Patterson donned a disguise and he spent weeks inside his own home in the aftermath of the first Ingemar Johansson bout. But when journalists asked for his instant analysis inside the ring, Patterson was class personified whether he won or lost. That requires remarkable restraint and immense strength of character, traits all of us would want to have.

* * *

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if a fighter came along that had all of these ingredients? That surely would be the tonic for a sport that needs every scrap of positive press it can get. How dominant would such a fighter have been and how much money could he have generated for himself, those who handle him, his opponents and those entities that televised his bouts?

Alas, no one person can – or ever will – merge these superlative gifts, at least not to the extreme degrees personified by these men. An athlete such as this would have been so commanding that his fights would be spectacles rather than sporting dramas. I don’t know about you, but I believe most boxing fans watch fights because every contest has the potential of producing a memory that will last a lifetime. Displays of virtuosity have a short shelf life in boxing and repeated episodes often result in boredom and criticism. If you don’t believe me, allow me to enter Whitaker as Exhibit A. Appreciated but unloved, Whitaker’s career is gaining admiration only in retirement. Better delayed than denied.

Human nature being what it is, it’s probably better that boxing doesn’t have its ultimate Superman. But wouldn’t it be nice to see – or better yet experience for oneself – the fruits of perfection?