Becoming Holyfield (23 page)

The point of a boxing match isn't to maim the other guy or humiliate him or end his career. The point, as in any other athletic contest, is to
win.
In order to do that, you do anything and everything that the rules say you can. It isn't personal—it's business, just two guys doing their jobs. Just because they're hitting each other doesn't mean they hate each other. One very visible proof of that is what happens at the end of almost every fight. The two boxers give each other a hug, a few complimentary words, even shake hands with each other's corner men. They might even get together afterward and swap critiques of how they performed.

Now here are two guys who seconds before were trying to knock each other's blocks off, and all of a sudden they're embracing and telling each other “Great fight” or “Good job.” That's not the behavior of men who blew up and got into a fistfight over a parking space or a drunken insult in some bar. It's two athletes expressing mutual respect after a well-fought contest, just like two tennis players meeting at the net after a match and shaking hands. It's why I could knock Henry Tillman out in Reno and go to his wedding in Chicago a few weeks later.

If you fight a sanctioned bout under clear and time-honored rules against an opponent who chooses to enter the contest voluntarily, I believe that God approves. In fact, I think He more than approves. I believe He smiles on people who are willing to test themselves under very difficult circumstances, when they know there's danger and risk and have worked very hard to meet the challenge.

That's why I'm completely comfortable praying right in the middle of a fight. I don't worry that God is going to be mad because I'm throwing punches at another guy. I try to fight with a pure heart and good intentions, not anger, and I think that pleases Him. When I get into trouble in the ring and look to God, I don't ask him to let me win. I don't ask Him to weaken the other guy or throw a crimp into his game. All I ask for is the strength to do my best and the will to keep going no matter how much I hurt. If I can do that, then even if I lose, I can walk away satisfied knowing I gave as much as I possibly could.

That's what I was asking for when I fought my first world title match against Dwight Muhammad Qawi. I was so exhausted I could barely stand up. I ached all over and was so wasted I couldn't see straight. But my fear wasn't about pain or losing or getting hurt, it was about weariness. It was that I might have to quit before it was over. That to me was far worse than losing, and I remember exactly the prayer that was running through my mind: “Dear God, please help me keep going!”

Did God actually hear me and do something to allow me to keep going? To tell you the truth, I don't know. What I do know is that praying itself reminded me of God's presence, of what I'd come to understand was His plan for me, and that gave me strength. I prayed because in the later rounds I honestly didn't know if I could continue. I'd never gone that distance, so I had no history to assure myself that I had it in me. But I feel that God doesn't throw anything at us that we're not equipped to handle. Praying made me remember that, and gave me the answer right then and there: Yes, I could go the distance. If I couldn't, God wouldn't have put me in that position. That didn't necessarily mean that I would win, but that was beside the point. I wasn't asking for that.

Now, I don't want to sound naïve. I know that boxing isn't like other sports, and I'm not trying to get you to think it is. While you can win a bout on points, meaning that ringside judges have determined that you fought better than the other guy, the ultimate victory is a knockout, which means that your competitor is unable to pick himself up off the canvas. Not exactly the same as putting a ball through a hoop. But there are surprisingly few serious injuries in boxing, whereas athletes in some other sports get badly banged up all the time. At any given time during the football season there are hundreds of players on the injured list and you'd be hard-pressed to find an ex-player who isn't living with chronic pain of some kind. But everything you do in life carries risk, and we each make our own choices about the risks we're willing to take.

Boxing is not for everybody, and that's fine. Neither is hockey or rugby. But even if you're not a fan, boxing deserves your respect. If you visit a gym, you won't find a roomful of bloodthirsty thugs looking to break heads. You'll see a bunch of people—including a lot of kids—working themselves harder than you'd ever believe young people would be willing to. They're punching bags, skipping rope, shadowboxing, sparring—they're covered in sweat, panting and fiercely determined. Boxing isn't something you do for thirty or forty minutes in a ring a few times a year when you're competing in a bout. It's something you do every day, and not just in the gym, either. In addition to workouts and sparring, you have to be careful about what you eat and drink, even how much you sleep. You have to take direction from your trainer, and that translates into a special kind of respect that is sorely lacking among today's youth. Boxing is first, last and foremost about discipline, and if a kid doesn't have that, or isn't willing to learn it, he won't last twenty minutes in this game.

You might have noticed that a lot of boxers seem to come from very poor circumstances. Some of them have been in trouble with the law, or were obviously headed in that direction, what we call “at risk” kids. It's natural to think that these kinds of people bring an unsavory reputation to the sport.

I think just the opposite. Life is about capitalizing on opportunities, and some people have a lot more than others. It's hard for most of us to imagine the hopelessness and despair that exist in a lot of our inner cities and poor rural areas. Kids in those kinds of places don't do tennis or golf or anything else that requires money and well-maintained facilities.

Boxing is a way out for them. It provides discipline, direction, mentoring and an outlet for youthful energy. You don't have to be a title contender to achieve these benefits, either. There are literally thousands of gyms scattered all over the country. Look under “boxing clubs” in your local phone book and you'll be amazed. They're often sponsored by schools and youth associations and, yes, even churches. A lot of Boys Clubs were originally created for the purpose of starting boxing programs.

If you visit one of these clubs, the kids you'll see there—both boys and girls—aren't looking to break heads. They're looking to test themselves against other kids who are as ambitious and determined as they are. They want to be champions, they hope to make a living doing something they love, and they're willing to pour their hearts and souls into it, driving themselves to exhaustion day after day to be the very best they can. They help each other out, too, giving advice and support and encouragement. The amount of respect floating around a boxing gym is enormous. At sparring sessions where onlookers are present, there is usually a round of applause when it's over. It's not for winning—sparring is practice, not competition. It's acknowledgment and appreciation for hard work and the courage to step into the ring. For some of those inner-city kids I mentioned before, it's the first applause they've ever gotten in their lives.

Respect, dedication and devotion. Now I ask you: What kind of God wouldn't smile down on that?

T
hings were looking pretty good that summer, but there was one big situation that was threatening to unravel my life. Sandy and I were getting close to a decision to get married, but the more time that passed, the more I started to wonder whether Janice hadn't been dropped into my life for a reason. Janice had also met Tamie, my daughter Eden's mother, who was working for me, and they liked each other a good deal. Tamie was very well aware of my beliefs and had started to explore her own spirituality. Janice turned out to be the ideal vehicle for her to continue that. As a Bible scholar and natural-born teacher, she became a kind of personal guide for Tamie. Everything she did seemed to be some kind of sign that she would be the ideal woman for me. She was smart and well-spoken and strong in her convictions, and I loved talking to her on the phone every few days and learning about the Bible from her.

There was just one problem. Whenever I saw her in person, for some reason I couldn't quite figure out, there was a total lack of what you might call “chemistry.” Much as I wanted to, I couldn't muster up that kind of feeling. I'd get all excited whenever we talked on the phone, but when she visited me or I visited her, unless we were talking about God or the Bible or some other spiritual subject, there was this big blank space, because we didn't seem to have anything else in common. What made it all the more difficult was that she'd let me know at the very beginning that she thought she was the woman Benny Hinn was talking about at the revival meeting that night, and that it was fine with her. She wanted to marry me.

I prayed about it a lot. I was in love with Sandy but I didn't want to make a really big mistake, and what I prayed for was that God would make me fall in love with Janice. I had this strong feeling that my meeting her was preordained, and that's why Benny Hinn had seen it, or at least a hint of it. On paper, as the expression goes, she was perfect for me, but I just couldn't get myself to the point where it felt right as well. I couldn't marry her and then just talk to her on the phone for the rest of our lives.

I broke up briefly with Sandy later that summer after a minor spat. During that time, I brought Janice to Atlanta to meet my kids. They got along great, but I still felt no romantic love for her. Then Benny Hinn asked me to go to Jerusalem with him. He was putting on a crusade there and was taking about four hundred people. Janice was one of them, so I said yes, because I figured that if God was going to make something happen between us, He'd probably do it in the Holy Land. But He didn't. If we weren't talking about God or the Bible, there just didn't seem to be anything else to say.

Just before I left Israel I talked to Benny Hinn's brother about it. He was also a pastor, and he said, “Evander, don't ever marry somebody you're not in love with. You'll wake up one day just wishing one of you would disappear.” When I got home I spoke to my own pastor and he said the same thing.

There wasn't enough depth of the right kind of feeling to make a marriage, and I was still in love with Sandy, but every time Janice spoke, she brought me peace. It was killing me, and I had to be honest with her. When she got back to Chicago I called her and told her I wouldn't marry her because I didn't love her. Right in the middle of telling her that, something suddenly occurred to me: Maybe Janice didn't love me, either. Maybe she just thought God wanted her to marry me, and if He did, it wouldn't matter to her if she loved me or not. So was it possible that God had spoken to her, but not to me, because her faith was stronger than mine?

I needed time to sort all of that out so I didn't say anything more. I was thankful that despite my telling Janice that I wouldn't marry her, our friendship continued.

It was a giddy time for me. I was very happy to be fighting again after that awful scare with my heart.

I got my license back and in May of 1995 won a ten-rounder against 1988 Olympic gold medalist Ray Mercer after knocking him down in the eighth, the only time in his career he ever hit the deck. Six months later I fought Riddick Bowe for the third time and this time it was his turn. He TKO'd me in the eighth round.

No problem. I just got back in line and got a fight set up against Bobby Czyz for early the next year. If I won, it would be an important step toward regaining the world title. I had some time before serious training needed to begin, so about three or four weeks before the fight I attended a black college basketball tournament in North Carolina on behalf of Coca-Cola, which was a sponsor of mine. It was there that I received one of those phone calls that everyone dreads.

It was from Lennie Weaver, my nephew Mike's wife. Mike was my sister Eloise's son, and Lennie was calling because Mike had gone to the hospital. When I asked her why, she said, “To see your mama and Eloise. There was a car accident on the way home from church.”

The world seemed to freeze, but just as all kinds of horrible thoughts started to work their way up into my head, Lennie said hurriedly, “But don't worry! I don't think it was serious. They just went to the hospital to get checked out.”

“How do you know that?” I asked her.

Her answer was hesitant and unsure. “I don't know. That's just what Mike seemed to think.”

Later in the day someone else called to tell me that Mama was still in the hospital, banged up but not too bad. I was having trouble getting specific information and got the feeling that they weren't telling me everything, so the next morning I flew home and went straight to the hospital. One look at Mama and I knew I'd been right. All I could see of her was her face. It was badly bruised and she wasn't moving. There was a tube taped to the side of her mouth and connected to a machine that made a wheezing sound.

“Is that thing breathing for her?” I asked the doctor when he came into the room.

He nodded. “She was conscious on the way over here, but slipped into a coma as we were checking her in.”

I was supposed to be in Houston to start training but I stayed in Atlanta instead. Over the next few days they did two brain operations to try to relieve pressure inside Mama's head. After the second one she seemed to respond; Bernard read to her from the Bible and said she smiled and squeezed his hand. After about a week I decided to go to Houston, but first I made sure the hospital understood that they were to do everything possible for her. There was a little uncomfortable foot shuffling, and then one of the hospital people told me that Mama's care was costing a fortune and she had no insurance. I assured them that I would cover all the costs.

I went at my training extra hard to make up for the lost week, but it wasn't easy to stay focused, not knowing what was going to happen with my mother. After about two weeks Bernard called to tell me Mama had taken a turn for the worse and was never going to come out of the coma. The doctors wanted to know if they should take her off life support. I told him to tell them absolutely not, then called Benny Hinn. He said to head on up to Ohio where he was holding a revival meeting. I went, and after the meeting he and I and a few friends got together to pray for Mama. Benny asked me, “What exactly is it you want to pray for, Evander?”

Up until that point, I hadn't given it much thought. I did now, and said, “For the right thing to happen.” It was one-thirty in the morning.

The next morning Bernard called. “Mama passed,” he said, his voice raw with fatigue and emotion.

“When?” I asked him. He said the official time was one-thirty that morning.

I took great comfort in that, and made up my mind not to grieve for Mama but to celebrate her life. I also thanked God for not taking her right at the accident scene but giving her enough time so that everyone in the family could say good-bye.

I fought two-time champion Bobby Czyz on May 10. He weighed the same as me and it was almost an unfair fight, because I was so used to fighting guys who outweighed me that Bobby looked like a middleweight to me. I dominated him from the opening bell, throwing punches at will while he hardly hurt me at all. Only problem was, even though I had the decision in the bag, I couldn't knock the guy out. I wanted a knockout because that kind of performance would give me a better chance at a title shot against Tyson. I tried everything, throwing enough at Bobby to whup three guys, but man, could that guy take a punch.

I was so anxious to score a KO I didn't really fight my best, and got overexcited and sloppy. I started going to toe-to-toe, trading big punches instead of using my jab, and for a moment in the third round I thought I was finally setting it up properly. I had Bobby against the ropes and was raining blows on him that he couldn't answer. But just as I was getting ready to land the big one, the ref suddenly jumped in between us. I thought he was going to stop the fight, but instead he gave Bobby a standing eight count. I looked at him in amazement, thinking, “I'm finally about to put him away and you're giving him a rest?” There was no justification for a standing eight.

As usual, I kept my mouth shut, and then it was time to go back to work. I kept “loading up” on every punch, trying to score the knockout, but fighting inside like that, flat-footed and graceless, wasn't my style. Not only didn't it work, I was wearing myself out in the process, just as bigger guys had worn themselves out trying to do the same thing to me. I'll tell you truthfully, I'd made such a mess of this fight that after the fifth round I was about ready to quit. It wasn't because I was tired—I had so much energy I didn't even sit down after the round and my corner men had to work on me standing up—I was just frustrated. Here I was trying to prove to the world I was still championship material, but I'd gotten sucked into fighting somebody else's fight and couldn't put my opponent away. I thought to myself, “Boy, I must look terrible. One more round of this and I'm heading back to the locker room.”

It was a really low moment feeling like that, wanting to quit in the middle of a fight. Then the bell rang to start the sixth round—and Bobby didn't come out of his corner. He said his eyes were burning, so his trainer told the ref to stop the fight and, after a few seconds, Bobby agreed. They also demanded that the ref check my gloves, accusing me of having some substance on them that was getting into Bobby's eyes. So the ref came over and rubbed his fingers on my gloves and on my chest, then rubbed them into his own eyes, and when nothing happened, that was the end of that ridiculous accusation.

Talk about your basic blessing in disguise. Not only did I win the fight because Bobby quit before I did, but I looked so awful that Don King decided that
now
Mike Tyson could beat me.

And that's how my first fight against Tyson came about.

The Tyson fight was scheduled for November of that year, 1996, and it gave me a little logistical problem. Sandy, who by then had moved to Atlanta and was living with me, had gone back to Mississippi after our disagreement. I had to begin training for the fight and would need to spend five days a week at my camp in Houston for a few months. With Sandy gone I needed somebody to stay with my kids while I was in camp. They would be in school and I couldn't take them with me without disrupting their studies.

It occurred to me that maybe Janice could take care of them for me. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. The kids knew her and liked her, and she was exactly the kind of person I wanted them to be around. But when I floated it by her, she was hesitant. “I'd love to,” she said, “but I've got a job and don't see how I could leave it for that long.”

I offered her fifty thousand dollars so she wouldn't suffer financially. “I'm not paying you to do me a favor,” I told her. “It's a real job and you should get paid like it. Plus, you can go home every weekend.” She eventually agreed.

Every Fourth of July I throw a giant barbecue party on my property. A church helps me put it on and thousands of kids and their families attend. We have music and fireworks and truckloads of great food. A few days after the party I got back with Sandy, but I didn't want to ask her to stay with the kids because it might look like I was using her. Besides, I'd already made the arrangement with Janice so I stuck to it.

A week later I got one of the biggest honors of my life. When I got beaten by Riddick Bowe the year before, I said at the press conference that I had two goals at that point. One was to become world champ again, and the other was to carry the torch at the Olympics in Atlanta. The reporters laughed openly at both of those. HBO even did a show on why a fighter would never carry the torch. By the time the Olympics were getting ready to open, it looked like they were right.

But at midnight the night before the opening ceremonies, I got a call from Dr. Harvey Schiller, head of Turner Sports and executive director of the U.S. Olympic Committee. “Evander,” he said, “we'd like you to carry the Olympic torch into the stadium during the opening ceremonies.”

At first I thought he was playing a joke on me, but when I realized he was serious, the first thing I asked was who was going to light the Olympic flame. “Can't tell you that,” Harvey said. “It's a surprise.”

The next night, a runner handed me the torch in a tunnel below the Olympic stadium. I ran a few steps and emerged onto the middle of the stadium floor. In front of eighty-five thousand people in the stands and hundreds of millions more watching all over the world, I began running on the track and was soon joined by Greek hurdler Voula Patoulidou. I then handed the torch to the great Olympic swimmer Janet Evans, who ran the final leg and then handed it off to—Muhammad Ali!