The idea of him being punch-drunk were simply not true. I only knew he was not the same fighter he once was, regardless of age?
Wilfred Benitez was considered one of the finest natural boxers in history. He moved like a gazelle bounding across the planes, dodging and weaving his way through the tall grass. He slipped punches like a greased pig and his punches were sharp snapping whips. Between 1976 and 1982 he made fools out of some of the best boxers in the business including Tony Petronelli (35-1-1), Randy Shields (31-3-1), Carlos Palomino (27-1-3), Pete Ranzany (50-4-2), Maurice Hope (30-2-1), Carlos Santos (23-0-0), and Roberto Duran (74-2-0). He has earned over 7 million dollars, money that went out faster than it came in. He is the youngest boxer in history to hold a title.
Things started to change after his majority decision loss to Thomas Hearns (35-1-0). The fight was close, but not close enough. Benitez never liked to train and counted on his natural ability to carry the fights, often going into big fights with only two weeks training.
Every boxer?s body falls into decay, especially if he does not train. Benitez?s started to fail. His mind seemed to follow. He often kept his hands low while avoiding punches and frustrating great boxers who threw punches where he was not. The technique no longer worked and, even with his hands up, he caught too many punches. He lost to Mustafa Hamsho (36-2-2), Davey Moore (13-1-0), Matthew Hilton (19-0-0), Carlos Herrera (54-9-0), and Pat Lawlor (13-1-0). He had trouble eking out a decision against Sam Wilson (1-5-1) in a sleeper hotel fight attended by no one. Now he was training at the Al Davies Boy?s Club in Tacoma, Washington.
The boy?s club had a reputation for turning out great boxers including Davy Armstrong, Sugar Ray Seales, Rocky Lockridge, and Leo Randolph.
The first time I saw Benitez in person he was sitting on the ring apron staring into a place I could not see. He was broke and tired. I pulled up a chair and watched him as he stared straight ahead. Trainer George Wright stood in a corner of the ring, his arms crossed, his face twisted with frustration.
George Wright, (18-3-2) was a slick puncher in his day with 15 KOs in his 18 wins. He had beaten Charley ?Tombstone? Smith (45-26-0), Ramon Hernandez (26-29-2) and Hilario Morales (37-27-4). He had agreed to train Benitez for his upcoming fight in Canada. Things were not going well.
There exists in boxing managers and promoters who attempt to squeeze a few final bucks from a once great fighter. There are also managers and promoters who attempt to get a shot fighter a little spending money in the end. I did not know which type was handling Benitez. I only knew Benitez did not seem quite right.
I crawled into the ring and talked to George. George shook his head. Benitez was living with him. ?He?s shot, and he?s crazy,? said George. He tapped himself on the forehead. ?The best I can do is try and not get him hurt.?
He said Benitez often stayed up all night and constantly mumbled to himself. Sometimes he screamed and went running out of the house. George could not ask him about his problems. Benitez spoke very little English and George could not speak Spanish. Most communications were through pantomime. When he could get him to jog he tried to talk to him but without any success.
Earlier I had talked to Victor Machado, one of Benitez?s former trainers. He said Benitez should not be fighting. People said he had taken too many punches. Machado said that was not true. In fact, his defenses were so superior, he had taken few devastating punches. Machado said Benitez was suffering a hereditary and debilitating disease that would continue to get worse. Benitez?s father had suffered the same illness. The idea of him being punch-drunk were simply not true. I only knew he was not the same fighter he once was, regardless of age.
I sat down beside him and introduced myself. He smiled and offered his hand. Although distant, his eyes were bright and he was instantly likeable. I have seldom met a fighter who was not friendly or ingratiating. All their ferocity is saved for the ring leaving nothing but warmth for the public.
We stumbled through a halting conversation, both of us laughing at our silly attempts to communicate. He said he was happy. He admitted he did not like to train. He did not know how many fights he had left in him. Eventually he got up and shadow boxed, then worked the mitts.
I dropped by several times during the week and usually found him sitting on the ring apron or on a chair, always with that distant stare. On the last day I wished him luck in his fight in Canada. He tapped my shoulder. I turned as I exited the gym. He was back on the ring apron staring blankly straight ahead.
He lost the fight in Canada.
