One of the old saws still heard occasionally in fight gyms goes like this: “If it’s simple, it ain’t pure. If it’s pure it ain’t simple.” This statement is always uttered with oracular authority. When I ask what it means, the answer is a snort to the tune of: “If you don’t know, you can’t understand.” In the far from simple case of Alexis Arguello, I began to get a glimmer. This appeared in Willamette Week on October 24, 1985.
When Alexis Arguello appears on national television this Friday, October 25, he will not be wearing his usual elegant white suit. He will not be exquisitely polite on behalf of Miller Lite beer. At the age of 33, after two years in retirement, one of the finest fighters in boxing’s long history will try to return to the ring. The question for Arguello and for fight fans and scholars will be, “Is this still the great Alexis Arguello?”
In his 17-year professional career, the shoemaker’s son from Managua brought brilliant gifts to the ring, but his greatest impact was ethical rather than physical. Arguello knocked out 63 opponents in his 78 victories, but the cynical fight world was touched deepest by his professionalism, his personal dignity, and the respect and courtesy he offered to everyone he met in or out of the ring.
Arguello’s return is not triggered by vanity, or by the restless itch that spawns so many comeback fiascos. Having amassed two substantial fortunes during his career, Alexis Arguello is broke. He is fighting again to support his family.
Aficionados, who respectfully dub the former champion of three weight divisions “St. Alexis,” or “The Archbishop,” are of two minds on the subject of his return. Remembering depressing attempts by Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, and even Sugar Ray Leonard, they say, “History shows you can’t come back.” Frankly sentimental about Arguello’s glowing image, they fear that age and rust may tarnish what mere defeat could not. On the other hand, boxing is the most unpredictable of human pastimes. There are always exceptions. Maybe, the fans speculate, there could be another year or two of recovered glory. Maybe Arguello could actually be the first man to win the title in that magic fourth weight division—especially now that his nemesis, Aaron Pryor, has skidded into drug limbo. One way or another, the answers will start coming off the TV screens this Friday night.
The fight will take place in Anchorage, Alaska, part of that state’s effort to attract major television events. Co-promoters of the card are Sam Glass of Tiffany Productions in New York, and Bobby Stroup of S Productions in Eugene.
Arguello cannot appear in the ring against a less than reputable opponent. This test bout will pit the former champ against a Eugene fighter from the Ox Boxing Team stable, a subsidiary of S Productions. It is a big crack at a Top 10 rating for Pat “Lightfoot” Jefferson, the 1980 U.S. Olympic team 140 pounder. Jefferson is known for speed and excellent boxing skills but he lacks a power punch. The twenty-seven year-old Jefferson, 25-5, is hungry. He is also a fine defensive stylist, a type that has given Arguello trouble in the past.
The pundits shake their heads. The odds have to go with Arguello, but this is definitely a fight rather than a pushover. As of early in September, Arguello’s trainer, Eddie Futch, was not committing himself about the ex-champion’s future. “We’ll see in this fight coming up,” says Futch.
S Productions brought Arguello to Eugene to train quietly for two weeks early in September. This serious work time allowed no press splash, no crowds in the gym to watch the workouts. Still Arguello’s presence caused the local fight buffs to consider the road that brought him here.
In Nicaragua’s capital, Managua, where Arguello was born, they call him Flaco (skinny). From the time he turned pro at age 14 until the 1978 revolution, they chanted Flaco in the streets on fight days. The patented Arguello right to the chin was an unofficial national resource. In the U.S., however, where the casual fan is only interested in rhino-sized heavyweights, the 126-pound world champion is frequently ignored. When Arguello came to the U.S. to live after the Sandinista revolution, and moved up to take the 130-pound world title in 1978, the U.S. TV networks began to notice him. He was more salable as a U.S. resident. And his formal English improved rapidly, a big advantage in pre-and post-fight interviews. The ultimate attraction, though, was that he kept winning, usually by dramatic knockout. The right hand appeared magically, to clip the sleep buttons of a dozen opponents’ chins.
Arguello’s American breakthrough came on October 3, 1981, when he defended his third world title, the lightweight (135-pound) championship, against the wildly popular nice Italian boy from Youngstown, Ohio, Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini. When Arguello stopped the blue-collar cyclone in the 14th round, he put a new face on macho in America. Mancini, the rare white hero in a sport dominated by blacks and Hispanics, was a soap-opera lure for spectators. Mancini’s manager was a reformed fight writer named Dave Wolf, whose skill at playing high and sweet on the emotional keyboard turned Mancini’s family fantasies into greenbacks.
Arguello demolished the “People’s Champ.” Any other fighter would have created 20 million enemies in the process. Arguello, behaving precisely as usual, helped the bruised and bleeding Mancini up off the deck, hugged him and said, “You are a great fighter. One day soon you will be a great champion.” The TV cameras zoomed in on Arguello’s leading man looks, his cheerful smile and his genuine courtesy. You could almost hear the thunderclap of the great, goofy American heart opening to this totally alien creature—a gentleman.
Recalling that moment four years later, Arguello frowns slightly. “That was nothing staged. It was from my heart. It’s ridiculous for fighters not to respect each other, not to behave respectably. This is our job. Do two opposing lawyers leave the courtroom and go on snarling at each other after the trial? No.”
Nobody thought it was staged. Boxing scholars had watched Arguello act the same way for years. Those casual viewers, more interested in Mancini than in boxing, forgave Arguello for trouncing their hero.
More startling was the sudden vivid effect on other boxers. For decades the American model of a champion was the lyric braggadocio of Muhammad Ali. Fight gyms from coast to coast rang with crude imitations of Ali’s “I’m the greatest, he’s vermin” attitude. What Ali carried off with brilliance, his thousands of youthful imitators rendered simply obnoxious.
Within days of the Arguello-Mancini bout, 10-year-old amateurs were shaking hands gravely and congratulating each other on their excellence. The weekly TV fight cards blossomed with post-fight interviews in which the suddenly gracious winner “didn’t want to take anything away “ from his opponent’s reputation. Even the 140-pound world champion, Aaron “The Hawk” Pryor, formerly the angriest buzz saw on the block, changed his ways overnight.
The fight Magi watched this dramatic change in general ring demeanor and nodded sagely at each other: “It’s good they should copy Arguello. He does everything right. Ali was Ali. Nobody can copy him.”
Defeat came to Arguello in his attempt to be the first man ever to hold a world title in four weight divisions. The effort brought him up against the human machine gun, Aaron Pryor, who held the 140-pound title. Their two bouts, in November 1982 and September 1983, were each named “Best Fight of the Year” by various boxing magazines. The two devastating losses dropped the lid on Arguello’s boxing career. He was thirty-one years old. He had boxed professionally for 17 years. He had several million dollars worth of real estate in Miami. Arguello hung up his gloves. Two years later, as Pryor wandered in grim decay, Arguello announced that he planned to campaign again at 140 pounds for a fourth title.
The boxer and the fan tend to view the sport in the same way. They are intrigued by the performance, by what happens in the white light of the ring. The knifing and dodging and politicking that happen in the murk around boxing have little to do with the sport. It is strictly business, another game entirely, designed for and by people who do not box. It is the business of boxing managers, agents and trainers to conduct these affairs cleverly while preventing them from intruding on the concentration of the guy who does the fighting. An unfortunate side effect of protecting fine athletes as though they were racehorses is the frequency with which they reach retirement with all the political and financial savvy of a four-year-old colt.
Fight scholars were reluctant to admit that this had happened to the dignified, intelligent Arguello. Yet, how else could he have lost as much as $20 million dollars? He wouldn’t squander it on drugs and gold-plated convertibles. His style is class rather than flash, and the standard forms of foolishness seem totally uncharacteristic. With this and other questions in mind, I visited Arguello’s training camp in Eugene. In conversations with Arguello and with Bill Miller, the New Englander who has been his booking agent since 1978, the picture began to emerge.
Since Arguello was fourteen years old, his financial affairs have been handled by one Dr. Eduardo Roman, a successful Nicaraguan businessman with a PhD in economics and an eye for fight talent. Roman was Arguello’s adviser and mentor, his “patron.” Under his guidance Arguello won what amounted to a fortune in Nicaragua along with his featherweight title. He built a pleasant house for his wife and two children. He supported his parents and various other family members.
Roman’s clout in Managua was tied to the Somoza government. When the Sandinistas rebelled in 1978, Roman bolted to Miami and persuaded Arguello to come with him. Arguello’s family sympathies were with the Sandinistas. His brother died fighting for the revolution. But Arguello depended on Roman for everything. When Arguello defected, the new Sandinista government seized his property. The house he built for his family is now, reportedly, a Russian consulate. Arguello, once a national hero, is now an outlaw in Nicaragua.
In the United States, Arguello stuck to his trade. Meanwhile, Roman was managing Arguello’s money and campaigning heavily for the return of Somoza. Booking agent Miller says, “Roman is a political animal. He used Alexis to draw contributions for Nicaragua. As Roman handed out the money, some of it naturally spilled his way.”
Unknown to Arguello, Roman’s interest in Nicaraguan politics had superseded his interest in Arguello. The fighter and Miller believe that Roman began siphoning money from Arguello’s personal corporation to help finance the anti-Sandinista forces.
After Arguello’s retirement from the ring, he made headlines when he announced his intention of joining the guerrilla forces in Nicaragua to help overthrow the Sandinistas. “Roman urged Alexis to go and involve himself in the war,” says Miller. “He had Alexis change his will so that Roman was the beneficiary and then sent him into the jungle. Alexis is an athlete. He’s never fired a gun in his life. He was willing but it was ridiculous.”
After a few months in Nicaragua, Arguello returned, intensely confused. He was no longer sure who was right and who was wrong in this ideological battle. Arguello no longer talks politics in public. “No matter what I say,” he explains, “somebody gets hurt. It’s best that I say nothing.”
Upon his return to his home in Miami, Arguello discovered his money was gone and that the Alexis Arguello Corporation was facing serious tax problems with the IRS. Having dismissed Roman and liquidated his assets, Arguello has paid his taxes and his debts. But he has little left.
“At first he thought of promoting boxing matches in Miami,” says Miller. “Finally he told me his situation. I went down to Miami. He said, ‘Maybe I could fight again. I’ll make a comeback.’ I said, ‘Let’s take it slow. Let’s get a complete medical evaluation first.’”
Arguello went to New Hampshire; he began working in a makeshift gym set up in an empty wing of a computer factory owned by a friend of Miller.
“He was tested and examined continuously through June and July,” explains Miller. “In July the medical evaluations came in. The doctors said he has the body of a seventeen-year-old. It gradually became apparent that he was no longer a former athlete to be examined. He was an athlete in training for competition.”
The question of a trainer arose. Eddie Futch, who trained champions Larry Holmes and Michael Spinks, is working with Arguello now. The seventy-four year-old Futch has a list of former students that reads like the boxing hall of fame. His reputation for integrity and civility is equaled only by his fame as a teacher. Yet it is surprising to find him working with Arguello. Futch trained Arguello for the first bout with Aaron Pryor. Afterward, Arguello blamed Futch’s training techniques for the loss. This remark was so opposite to Arguello’s normal manner that observers wondered if he might have suffered brain damage during the bout. Within days, Arguello retracted the statement and apologized publicly to Futch. Still, the question lingered.
“Who do you want as a trainer?” Miller asked. “Alexis said, ‘we should get Eddie. I owe him one.’ I said, ‘Forget owing. You should have the best. Who is the best?’ Alexis said, ‘Eddie.’”
The Arguello family is at their table in the Hilton’s top-floor restaurant shortly after 5 p.m. The fighter’s grave, working manner is gone. He is relaxed, smiling calmly, joking. The maitre d’, a Peruvian and a boxing enthusiast, is flambéing a mushroom sauce at their table and chatting with them in Spanish. The maitre d’ has arranged to open the restaurant kitchen an hour early each evening for Arguello’s convenience.
Beyond the windows the whole Willamette Valley stretches, but the fighter in his white suit, his graceful wife Loretto’s mane of black hair, and the cheerful good manners of their four-year-old son attract more attention from other diners.
Arguello talks about his other son, a thirteen-year-old who is staying with a grandmother in Miami so he can go to school. “He goes to public school,” says Arguello. “I don’t want it to be too easy, too protected for him … he doesn’t box. He plays football. He’s a good quiet boy, shy, serious in school. It is probably a burden being my son. His friends know who I am. The only pressure I place on him is to behave with respect and honor. To be decent.”
He contrasts his own sons’ lives to those of the boys he met in June. “I was the commencement speaker for the graduation ceremony at Boys Town. All tough kids. Hard lives. I just spoke to them about what I know. They understood, I think. I love boxing. We boxers come from the slums, the ghettos. It’s my duty to help the young. To show them a way to succeed, to have self-respect and heart. It’s my duty to be an inspiration to them.”
What might be overly sentimental or even contrived for another athlete, Arguello says with complete conviction. Yet, the Boys Town speech was a remnant of his last non-boxing form of income. He is under contract to Miller Lite to do TV commercials. His decision to return to the ring has eliminated commercial work, because FCC rulings prevent a competing athlete from endorsing alcoholic products. Now Arguello is on the Miller All-Star roster, making occasional personal appearances, such as the Boys Town commencement, for $2,000 a day plus expenses.
The Arguellos leave to put the child to bed, and Alexis invites Miller and Futch to come to his room later. “You know the film cassette I found for tonight? Casablanca.”
Just days later, the smooth, protected process of Arguello’s preparation ran into stormy disruptions. While sparring with Eugene fighter Jesse Lopez Jr., Arguello felt some discomfort in his inner ear, but ignored it. Then the promoters discovered that their October 5 date in Anchorage was in conflict with a major televised football game and they postponed the bout until October 25.
Anxious not to miss his peak of condition, and eager for a tune-up bout, Arguello agreed to a short-notice match on October 1 in Reno, Nevada. He would meet former northwest welterweight champ, Francisco Roche. Roche, an unpredictable wildcat from Seattle, was delighted at the chance. The Arguello camp left Eugene, going to Reno to train.
During the last week of September, Arguello suffered a dizzy spell and collapsed on the streets of Reno. Bill Miller immediately called off the October 1 bout with Roche. Climbing on the plane to fly to the Eastern doctors who had worked with Arguello before, Miller told reporters that it was an infection of the inner ear.
“If it’s temporary, a little thing, then we may be able to fight in Anchorage. If it’s serious, Alexis is going back into retirement.”
On October 2, the press was informed that the Anchorage bout would take place on October 25 as planned. Pat Jefferson’s boxing skills are not to be taken lightly. Arguello’s fans are worried. They expect a lot from Arguello, and they fear he won’t be able to deliver.
Ask the fighter if he ever resents the demands of the crowd, the howls for blood from ringside, and Arguello becomes quietly indignant.
“No. Never. They have given me everything. And it isn’t blood they want. They want from me exactly what I want to give. The performance. Boxing is a great art form. I have lost in the past. But I have never, and I will never give a bad performance.”