On March 28, about a week after returning from Augusta, I was back in Joe’s North Philadelphia gym. The boss and Kenny were down south again with the tour. With Joe gone, his son seemed particularly relaxed, enjoying the heightened attention from those around him. He also looked locked in on his big amateur fights coming up and worked comfortably with trainer George Benton to get ready.
In two weeks, Marvis had the Regional Semi-Finals of the 1980 AAU Heavyweight Championship. The Regional Finals were scheduled for the week after that. One key goal for this year was for Marvis to win the National AAU title and the recognition as the United States amateur heavyweight champ that went with it. After that, it was supposed to be on to the Olympic Trials in June, glory at the Moscow Games, and—by Joe’s account—the debut of a rewarding professional career thereafter.
Exactly a week before, however, Marvis’s dream of winning gold in the upcoming Olympics had been all but shattered. It had suddenly become highly unlikely that he would ever get to team up with Joe as the first father and son Olympic heavyweight boxing champions. He should have been devastated. I had expected to find a despondent kid with no desire to train. That clearly was not the case.
President Jimmy Carter had officially informed an elite group of American athletes and coaches on March 21 that the United States planned to boycott the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow. The announcement was prompted by the Soviet Union’s refusal to adhere to Carter’s February 20 deadline to withdraw its troops from Afghanistan. The Russians had invaded Afghanistan in December 1979 to supposedly support the country’s pro-Soviet government against threats from Islamic fighters. Carter saw the invasion as more of a “stepping stone to [Soviet] control over [Afghanistan’s] oil supplies.”
In his speech, Carter had admitted that he wasn’t sure what other countries would do about the boycott. He even acknowledged the possibility that some athletes from the United States might try to make an end run around the boycott by competing under a neutral Olympic flag. The president argued against that strategy given the resolve of the U.S. government and the nation. He pointed out that Congress had “voted overwhelmingly, almost unanimously” to approve the Olympic boycott, reflecting the will of the American people.
Marvis’s first reaction was a qualified optimism—at least when he talked to me. He reminded me there were still almost four months until the start of the Summer Olympics on July 19. That left plenty of time for the president and his advisors to find a political solution or to show their displeasure in another way. If that failed, he talked about how he might stay amateur for four more years and compete in the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles. And, of course, he had the option of succumbing to pressure from Benton and his father to turn professional.
I had already been dealing with a slew of heartbreaking phone calls from Olympic hopefuls all week. The calls were a by-product of a widely circulated Summer Olympics cover story I wrote for the Sunday magazine Family Weekly in June 1979. The article, predicting the fortunes of the top American athletes set to compete in Moscow, had appeared in over 360 newspapers nationwide. The athletes I had befriended either wanted to bemoan the loss of years of work and sacrifice or ask me about the chances of a reversal by Carter. Most didn’t have a pile of family money or a promising pro career to fall back on.
George Benton, embracing his fighter’s optimism, had already stepped up the intensity of Marvis’s workouts in preparation for the AAU and Olympic Trial fights. Despite Joe’s protests, the trainer insisted Marvis spar more often with up-and-coming pro heavyweights. Benton believed that if Marvis could hold his own against these more dangerous fighters, amateur opponents would have less of a chance to do damage. He also realized Marvis might be battling exclusively with pro fighters sooner than they had originally expected.
Marvis was initially scheduled to spar with Michael Dokes that day. The 6ʹ3ʺ, 220-pound fighter was widely considered a heavyweight champion in the making. He was currently 17–0 as a professional with an impressive win over Jimmy Young. He also had a promising televised exhibition bout against Muhammad Ali that opened a lot of promoters’ eyes. Dokes was trained by Benton and had been in the ring with Marvis several times in the previous weeks.
Unfortunately, Dokes had to leave early. That left Marvis matched up with Dwight Triplett. He was another pro prospect signed to a management contract by Joe Frazier. Triplett came into the ring that day at 180 but usually fought as a 175-pound light heavyweight. His record showed only 35 amateur fights, but he had already posted a draw and a victory in two pro contests.
What the record didn’t show was the kind of toughness Triplett brought to the ring after spending time in jail. He was on a work-release program under Benton’s supervision. George worried that Marvis might feel the need to match Dwight’s jailhouse aggression. He didn’t want Marvis to charge straight forward like his dad when challenged.
Benton began by reminding his fighter to box, to use his left hand more effectively, and to make Dwight miss on his jabs.
“He knows how to fight and rip,” said Benton, looking over to Marvis. “But now I want to see him get back to boxing. He gets into too many fights and he forgets about defense. He knows how to do everything, but now he has to learn how to stay cool.”
I didn’t see the problem with fighting and ripping. It seemed to me the whole idea of boxing was to mix it up and get into some nose-to-nose fights—especially when you could hit as hard as Marvis.
“He gets reckless, [gets] hit unnecessarily,” said Benton. “Sometimes [that] makes an easy fight tough. In the amateurs, you got to get your hands going. You don’t have to knock guys out—just outpoint them.”
Benton noted that a lot of the kids in the amateur ranks made the same kind of mistake. He said they “constantly throw hard” and think “offense is their defense.” He felt Marvis was too good a fighter to waste his energy on that approach.
“I want Marvis to be more polished, a pro-looking boxer,” said Benton. Before the sparring match began, Marvis confirmed that he had heard George clearly and he would work on his jab.
I followed up by asking what exactly he wanted to do with the jab today.
Marvis looked at me wide eyed, like I was stupid or crazy. “Hit him with it!” he said, pointing to Dwight.
Then he laughed loudly and nudged my shoulder in jest.
George Benton stood next to me at ringside as the sparring match began and provided a running commentary throughout the three rounds. In the first round, he purposely emphasized some of the things that made Marvis such a promising prospect.
For starters, Benton alerted me to the kid’s prowess as a counterpuncher—even against an opponent with a two-inch height advantage and three-inch greater reach. On cue, Marvis went into a shell to draw Dwight’s off-balance lead jab. Then he connected with a clean counterpunch followed by a leap inside to do more damage.
“The other man is taller, so Marvis [always] stays just within his own [punching] range,” said Benton. “So, he can counter [while] he slips and slides and catches punches. Marvis probes with his jab and makes his opening [to move inside]—like a surgeon.”
I wondered why George had his fighter moving straight in on the counterattack all the time. Wouldn’t some side-to-side action have made him more unpredictable, dangerous?
Benton shook his head and offered me a boxing lesson.
“Marvis only moves side to side when it is necessary,” the trainer said. “When a man is firing right at you, you stand directly in front of him and duck, dodge, catch, and slip punches. You only move side to side when your man is in a shell and you’re trying to open him up.”
Benton turned to face me and slipped into a tight boxing stance.
“Move to one side, hit!” he said, throwing a strong left jab and sliding laterally. “Other [side], hit! Marvis has more thrust in his jabs because he plants in front of his man.”
Later in the round, Marvis led with a low jab that brought Dwight’s hands down and opened up room for a straight right to the nose. He continued to pop in and out effectively with what Benton called his “direct technique.” But, as time ran down, a couple of looping hooks invited a particularly heavy exchange. And Marvis got hit with some jolting shots to the body.
Between rounds, Benton told his fighter to keep his elbows closer in, and then turned to me to explain.
“[Keeping the elbows in] gives more power—tighter punches,” said George, leaning toward me. “Also tightens up his defense of his body. Head down, left arm pulled in closer to protect the stomach.”
Benton had Marvis working up and down in the second round. “First body, then head,” he yelled, and the kid complied with crisp jabs to the midsection and neck.
Marvis, on demand, also mixed in a series of fakes with his jabs. Benton wanted to throw Dwight off balance and make him nervous.
“Can’t see where or when the jab is coming,” said George, about the effect of the fakes. “Makes Dwight edgy, miss, start overdefending. Then underdefending to compensate for the fakes.”
In the final round, Marvis was backed into his corner trading punches with a suddenly more aggressive opponent. He instinctively covered up in a “rock-a-baby” crouch behind high hands and elbows. George nodded his approval. And he gave a giddy laugh when Marvis finally exploded, bobbing and weaving, out of the corner with a sustained left-right flurry.
Benton opted for the third round to run long. He liked the way Marvis had stepped in close to throw shorter, harder shots near the end. His fighter grunted with each blow. The kid kept the barrage of hooks and uppercuts coming until time was called.
“That’s finishing strong!” said George.
Benton’s reaction made me wonder why Marvis didn’t whale away like this to close every fight. Hell, I mused, why not finish off most key rounds with both fists flying?
“You can make an easy fight the hardest fight in the world,” said Benton, warning me against a one-style-fits-all approach. “You can get one of those little, strong bearish guys—like Joe Frazier. And it doesn’t make any sense to get in there and grind with him if you don’t have to. And Marvis doesn’t have to grind with anybody. He’s got the height and he can box.”
Benton said “the bears”—Joe in particular—always wanted bigger, leaner fighters, like Ali or Marvis, to stand in close with them and mix it up. He noted that the guys with the bear physique—“a short body; short, thick arms; and stumpy legs”—had to be on top of their opponent to win. Marvis, on the other hand, had the option to use his speed and range to move, counterpunch, go in tight when openings appeared, and then get safely away.
George abruptly turned to Marvis and offered him a little ditty on the dangers of standing toe to toe with bearish guys like his dad.
“He who fights and stands his ground might not last another round,” he sang.
I laughed—Marvis didn’t.
Benton credited Joe Frazier’s ability to work his compact, bearish body inside against taller, quicker boxers like Ali as the key to his greatness. Once inside the taller fighter’s jab, Joe usually landed devastating hooks to the body. George said these body shots sapped the life out his opponent and inevitably brought the guard down. This, of course, allowed Joe to reach the bigger man’s head.
The trainer smiled at the thought. He marveled at how Joe had managed to make his bearish features an asset rather than a terrible liability.
According to Benton, George Foreman had been the only boxer to totally frustrate Joe Frazier and keep him at bay. Benton saw Foreman’s first bout with Frazier as a veritable master class in how to beat a bear in the ring. It had taken place in Kingston, Jamaica, on January 22, 1973, and came to be known as “the Sunshine Showdown.” It had matched the undefeated heavyweight champion Frazier (29–0) against the unbeaten, number one WBA and WBC contender. Foreman had won his first 37 fights, and 34 had been by knockouts.
Foreman, listed as 6ʹ3ʺ, was four inches taller than Frazier and had a much longer reach. But Joe had just proven he could overcome those impediments with a convincing win against Muhammad Ali in the Fight of the Century. It had been Foreman’s superior strength and punching power that made him the true bear killer that day. Joe had never faced a taller, longer-limbed opponent who could both outmuscle him and hit harder.
As usual, Joe Frazier’s fight plan had called for him to get inside and smash the body. Foreman had used his strength from the outset to keep Frazier pinned outside. That had left Joe just inside his opponent’s jabbing range but forced to lunge to make contact of his own. This had allowed Foreman to stay back and pick his shots. The onslaught began less than two minutes into the fight.
Foreman had initially jolted Frazier with a flurry of punches that culminated with a right uppercut, a stunning knockdown, and a mandatory eight-count. Foreman immediately continued his attack and soon put Joe down again with another uppercut. As Joe got to his feet, Foreman landed a combination that put him down for the third time. When the bell rang, Joe had somehow managed to survive the round on sheer guts and willpower.
The Foreman formula for beating a bear had called for constant pressure, no breathing room. Not surprisingly, Foreman began the second round by charging in with an overhand right that put Joe down. The champ reached his feet, but Foreman quickly pounced and leveled him again. The final knockdown had come moments later after another stunning right hand connected. The referee had finally stopped the slaughter at 1:35 of the second round.
Foreman had knocked Frazier down three times in a span of 35 seconds in the first round. Big George had sent Joe to the canvas six times during a four-minute period in the fight.
Foreman had made the point of his boxing lesson crystal clear in Jamaica. When a bear failed to penetrate a taller, stronger fighter’s defense, the only way to go was down. That lesson had cost Joe Frazier the heavyweight title he had won from Ali and his undefeated record.
After the sparring match, Dwight walked over to compliment his opponent. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but boy did you look sharp, much better today,” he said. Dwight particularly liked the way Marvis had ducked smartly under a roundhouse in the second round to deliver two quick hooks.
During the chat with Dwight, Marvis was toweled off by an old fighter turned trainer named Mickey Grandinetti. Mickey, who boxed in the 1930s and ’40s, claimed to have fought more than 200 amateur matches with only two losses. He said he had never lost in his relatively short time as a pro.
Grandinetti talked about how he had watched a lot of the great ones early in their careers. He considered Marvis one of the best amateur heavyweights he had ever seen. He singled out one of Marvis’s recent workouts against Michael Dokes as proof of his potential.
“Marvis looked good with Dokes, holding his own all the time,” said Mickey, watching Marvis go off to skip rope. “With some seasoning, he could give Dokes a fight. Marvis is the best amateur in the world.”
The old boxing man then compared Marvis to Joe at a similar time in his amateur years.
“I think he’s much better than his dad [at that time],” said Mickey, noting the kid’s polish and toughness. “There’s nothing to stop him from being the heavyweight champ. In a year and a half, he could be fighting for the title. [He’s] too overanxious now, but he got the guns, can take the punch.”
As we spoke, I noticed that Grandinetti’s forehead and eyebrows seemed particularly puffy all these years later. It reminded me of the way the middle-weight champion Gene Fullmer had looked near the end of an especially brutal career. I wondered if it had been the physical punishment that had prompted Grandinetti to exit the ring prematurely.
“Nah,” said Mickey, claiming it wasn’t the punches that had hurt the most. He blamed the lack of money for pushing him out of the game. “My biggest purse was $500. In boxing, timing is everything. And it was just the wrong time for boxing.”
Grandinetti credited the first Ali-Frazier fight for dramatically raising the purses for heavyweight title bouts—and eventually for all of pro boxing. He recalled that the Fight of the Century drew a huge international audience via closed-circuit venues. That, in turn, had changed the way big fights in all weight classes got promoted.
In Mickey’s view, the economics of boxing had historically broken down to two clearly defined eras. There was the pre–Ali vs. Frazier period and then the years after their first fight. And it was much better financially for those boxers who came after Frazier’s initial clash with Ali.
The workout ended, and Marvis headed for the showers. This allowed me to sit down with George Benton for our first in-depth interview. He began by talking about his 21-year career as a savvy middleweight who had fought most of the really good boxers in his weight class from 1949 to 1970. Remarkably, as the number one contender for many years, he had beaten three world champions without ever getting an official championship fight of his own.
Benton blamed the emphasis on nepotism over talent back in the day. The rampant racism in deciding who got a title shot didn’t help either. For example, after he had topped Joey Giardello back in 1962, Benton appeared in line to fight Dick Tiger for the championship. But Giardello’s manager, Lou Duva, finagled the title match for his white fighter instead.
“Yeah, I screwed George out of his shot,” admitted Duva in a 1992 article about Benton titled “The Master” in Sports Illustrated. “He didn’t even know about it until I told him many years later.”
George might not have known about all the behind-the-scenes efforts to screw him over during his career. But he certainly knew the score and who called the shots.
“At the time, there was a lot of politics involved,” said the ex-fighter, who had been in the ring with the likes of Bennie Briscoe, Jimmy Ellis, and Rubin “Hurricane” Carter. “Either you were in or not. Used to be that certain people decided who got shots and who didn’t. It depended on who your manager, trainer was then.”
Benton admitted things still weren’t perfect. However, he saw the boxing game as moving in the right direction. The Ali-Frazier matches had again played a major part in that improvement. The trainer saw how their rivalry made things better for every professional boxer—and especially for fighters of color.
“Today there’s more money, exposure, and awareness,” said George. “Fighters have more respect for themselves—and their lawyers get them more respect. Boxing used to be the kind of sport where it was glamorous for a businessman to be at ringside, but not managing a boxer. A racehorse, football or baseball team was a different story.”
George Benton had been forced to hang up his gloves in 1970, not too long before Ali first came back to fight Frazier. But, unlike Mickey Grandinetti, the decision had nothing to do with tiny paychecks or even missed title bouts. George had been shot in the back by a man who had a dispute with members of his family. After years of failed operations, the bullet had remained imbedded just inches from his spinal column. And it was still there.
The ex-fighter had first learned the ins and outs of being a trainer by studying with some of the best in the business. In fact, he had been in Joe Frazier’s corner for the Thrilla in Manila as the assistant trainer under Eddie Futch. In the years after that, he had trained great fighters like Leon Spinks and eventually Meldrick Taylor, Pernell Whitaker, and Evander Holyfield. His ingenious tactics had soon earned him the nickname “the Professor.”
Benton currently saw himself as a “free-agent trainer.” He spent a lot of time working for Joe and with Marvis. But he also attended to a growing stable of top professional fighters—several of whom were ranked or likely to be in contention for a title at some point soon. Yet Marvis held a special place in the trainer’s heart.
“In the beginning, I treated Marvis just like any other kid,” said Benton, remembering what it had been like to teach Joe Frazier’s son how to box. “Being a Philadelphia kid, he knew his boxing and had plenty of competition. All over the world the Philadelphia boxers are put on a pedestal. But watching Marvis grow was like easing into big money.”
I gave him a quizzical look.
“One day you have a hundred dollars,” George said. “Then a week later another hundred, then a week later another hundred, then another. You don’t suddenly get rich. You grow into big-time money without making any startling jumps. You don’t get excited about Marvis because his growth is so steady and a bit at a time. But it adds up. He can go all the way.”
I expected Benton to compare Marvis in some way to his dad. But he likened Marvis’s demeanor to Joe’s boyhood hero instead—both outside and in the ring.
“Marvis’s mannerisms are similar to Joe Louis,” said George. “[He’s] warm, level, easygoing—not flamboyant. When boxing, like Joe Louis, he’s all business, strong, keeps his eye on ya, stalks ya, never smiles. Looks like he’s ready to break you in half. But Marvis moves better than Louis.”
The trainer admitted to often hitting heads with Joe about how the kid should fight. He implied that Papa Frazier treated his son like a version of himself. Joe always wanted him to adopt his bearlike style. Benton said that meant pressing Marvis to “stay stationary in front of the man” and move straight in to “overpower the guy” just like Joe would.
George then smiled and confessed to a system he had worked out with Marvis. It was meant to prevent the kid from succumbing to the pressure to swarm opponents when his dad looked on. The trainer told his fighter to nod his head in the ring at whatever Joe said. But he was to only follow instructions that came from the corner.
“Appeasement,” said George. “Keep [the] boss and old man happy.”
I wondered how much it would actually hurt for Marvis to listen to his dad, to try to please him. After all, Joe was the heavyweight champ.
“This is a touchy conversation,” confessed George. “The one fight Marvis lost was because he was fighting the way his father wanted—not the way I told him it should be fought. He was hooking and swarming when he should have been moving and jabbing.”
I recollected that Joe had seen Benton as responsible for that loss to Tony Tubbs when we first talked up in the lair. Now I was a whole lot less sure who should get the blame.
Benton said that despite the boss’s success in the ring, he really didn’t have much finesse or flexibility in his attack. Now he wanted his son to take on the same plodding approach. The trainer said this showed that Joe Frazier was not equipped to instruct Marvis on how to take the next big steps up to the professional ranks.
“All Joe knew was to come straight forward,” said George, down in a crouch and moving in my direction. “Joe Frazier was a tank coming right at you. All you could tell your fighter was to get in shape because this guy is attacking.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “What would you tell your fighter about preparing for Marvis?”
“I’d tell my fighter to watch Marvis because he, and his punches, come from all angles,” replied George. “Marvis has to box these guys and hurt them before he swarms in on them. Marvis is deceptive. He doesn’t punch as hard as his father now. But as he thickens, and gets older, he might hit as hard as Joe.”
Benton explained his startling projection about the kid’s future punching power.
“He should be 212 [turning pro] and Joe only weighed 190 for his first fight,” said George. “When I first got Marvis he was only 165 pounds at 15. He’ll eventually be 210 or 212 but look 225.”
Benton paused seemingly lost in thought. Finally, he acknowledged that above all else Marvis had to become “a thinking boxer.” He wanted him to be able to adjust on the fly to whatever his opponent threw at him. And he implied that the kid would never become that thinking fighter under his dad’s tutelage.
The interview moved on to Marvis’s choices after the Olympic Trials if the American boycott continued. I repeated Marvis’s desire to go to college and stay amateur until the 1984 Games rather than turn professional. The push to go pro had become more urgent in the Frazier camp in the last week. I just assumed the impetus for the move was coming from Joe.
I told Benton that I had been against Marvis turning pro from the start. I said I couldn’t understand why the son of a famous millionaire, with brains and a good heart, would risk his health against hungry pro fighters. I admitted that Joe had gotten annoyed whenever I broached the subject with Marvis. It turned out the trainer didn’t love my view of things either.
“Honest to God, it would be the biggest mistake in the world for Marvis to hang around for 1984,” said George, the passion rising in his voice. “The longer you stay in the amateurs the worse you get. You can only get so good in the amateurs. Only going three rounds, having to fight straight up, can only punch a certain way, all that bowing and scraping to the judges.”
George Benton took a breath and summed up what he feared most about Marvis’s plan to wait for the next Olympics. He worried that Marvis would become one of those great young fighters who spent their best years in the amateurs fighting inferior competition.
“Plenty of fighters have left it in the amateurs,” he warned.
As the interview with Benton wound down, Marvis returned from the lair. He was dressed for a trip down south with his family. He said everyone wanted to get away a little early for the Easter holidays. We agreed to cram in one of our quick chats before he took off.
The conversation rambled from Joe’s financial support of the extended family to the way employees reacted to Marvis as the boss when Joe wasn’t around. It then took a surprising turn to the kid’s apparent desire to marry young like his dad. In the end, it lighted on issues of race and the constant pressure of being Joe Frazier’s son.
Marvis remembered first growing up in a “tough, black neighborhood” not far from North Philadelphia that he categorized economically as “lower middle class.” He lived there from age four until he turned 10. After that, he moved to the mostly white, more affluent White Marsh community. He talked freely about the challenges both environments offered.
“I have found that all people, blacks, whites, greens, and yellows, are going to say dumb or mean or ignorant things,” said Marvis. “You have to be mature and ignore it. You handle ignorance with maturity.”
Surprisingly, Marvis remembered being picked on more in the poorer black area.
“I used to have my lunch money taken away from me in school,” said Marvis with an embarrassed shrug. “And all the kids wanted to beat me up or fight with me to see if I was tough like my father. I was always being chased home from school.”
Marvis paused, and a smile spread across his face as he relived the victory. “I finally got a white German shepherd, and he went to town on those guys.”
“So, you never were a fighter as a kid in the black neighborhood?” I asked.
“No, but I was good runner,” replied Marvis, grinning at the memory.
Marvis saw the move to the upscale community more like a tenuous transition at first rather than an escape. He had no idea how the white people of White Marsh would react to him.
“I thought I’d be fighting there too,” said Marvis. “But they treated me like some kind of hero. It was like ‘Wow, you’re really his son.’ It was a combination of the black kids being a bit jealous of what we had and I was older when I went to the white neighborhood.”
After almost a decade in White Marsh, Marvis now claimed to have a clearer perspective on how the relocation had impacted his upbringing.
“The move there was a big bonus for me educationally, and as far as getting a well-rounded knowledge of people,” he said, referring to the advantages of attending a top private school. “It gave me a chance to accept who I am and to be at ease with white people who might have been foreign to me otherwise. I can be friends with anybody now.”
Marvis said he was unsure about Joe’s comfort level living in White Marsh. His dad just wasn’t around enough for him to get a reading.
“Dad’s a goer,” he said. “He’s not comfortable unless he’s on the move. All his life he’s been running, doing something.”
Marvis never seemed to embrace that wanderlust. He mused about finding his own path. This got me back to what Benton said about staying too long in the amateurs—to what Marvis saw for himself after the Olympic Trials.
“If I can do anything next year, I would go to school for business,” said Marvis. “The money, and businesses, my father has waiting for me is like blood money. I am looking forward to getting out on my own rather than being dependent [on dad]. Mom says, ‘It’s your life—do what you want to do.’ I can still see myself marrying young, but it has to be to the right person. Somebody who can deal with being married to a businessman—or a fighter.”
We finished up and Marvis turned to head for the exit. But before he could leave, someone pointed out a pile of flyers next to the ring. They featured a photo of Lonnie Young. He was a local American-team boxer who had died recently in the plane crash in Poland.
The flyers announced Young’s upcoming funeral arrangements. This prompted a discussion with other fighters nearby about the official services for the boxing team at Andrews Air Force Base. Marvis turned solemn and promised to meet them all there.
Before he left for his trip down south, Marvis noted that there were worse things to deal with in life and sports than an Olympic boycott.