Last Round For Johnny Tapia

From Sports Illustrated.
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The worst? For Teresa Tapia it wasn't the night she awoke to find her husband standing over her with a hammer, or the time he shoved her while holding a pistol; it wasn't any one disappearance or public humiliation or lie during their 15 years together. It wasn't even the morning 14 months ago when Johnny Tapia, a five-time boxing world champ, fell into yet another drug-induced coma and was taken to an Albuquerque hospital. No, it was the next day: when Robert (Gordy) Gutierrez, the brother closest to Teresa and Johnny's loyal cornerman, died while rushing to the fighter's bedside -- killed, along with the Tapias' nephew Ben Garcia, in a one-car highway wreck. Finally she snapped. Johnny should be the one who's dead, Teresa thought. He's to blame.

"I hated him," she says. "I wished it was Johnny because my brother wanted to live and be a father and a part of our lives, where Johnny had always wanted to go, to die. I felt a lot of anger and resentment and guilt -- and still do. If I would've been a stronger person or colder and didn't care what happened to Johnny, I would've left him years ago. Then my brother would be here."

Welcome to the marriage forged in hell. On Teresa's wedding night one of Johnny's cousins approached the bride at her mother's house and said, "Why don't you go back in that room and see what you married?" Teresa came upon Johnny plunging a needle into his arm. He took the wedding cash, then dumped her in a seedy hotel. The next morning, Teresa says, "they had to jump-start his heart, resuscitate him; he was dead in my car. It was all downhill after that."

Everybody in boxing knows Johnny's tortured history: fatherless at birth, nearly killed in a bus crash at seven, orphaned at eight after his mother was stabbed 26 times with a screwdriver and scissors by her married boyfriend. His near-mythic rise as a champ in three weight classes (super fly, bantam and feather) coupled with his spectacular falls made him an irresistible draw, the sport's reigning antihero. No one else so routinely courted death and defeat and still came out on top. Teresa became his manager, the stable voice amid chaos, perpetually hoping that Johnny had finally, after numerous attempts at rehab, kicked his habit.

Sometimes she believed it too. When sober, Johnny is all apologies, affectionate as a puppy, charming as sin. Gordy had warned her not to marry him, but he couldn't help but love Johnny too. For 13 years he was Johnny's alter ego, always ready to laugh and lift him up after another brilliant brawl, to comfort his sister whenever Johnny binged and left her and their three kids alone. In February, before the last round of his most recent fight, Tapia ignored the clamor, looked Gordy in the eye and said, "I love you." Eighteen days later Gutierrez and Garcia were dead.

"It's my fault," Johnny says. "I killed them both."

These days Johnny, 41, is as needy as ever, begging for Teresa's hugs and insisting he's clean while training his two oldest sons, 15-year-old Jonathan and seven-year-old Lorenzo. But one day in their Las Cruces, N.Mex., home is enough to feel the coolness; Teresa has put up a wall Johnny can't punch through. After last year's horror she made it clear: One more screwup and we're done. She says she'd already be gone were it not for her husband's ultimate snare.
"If she left, I'd end my world," Johnny says. "In a heartbeat."

"I know he would," Teresa says. She taps Jonathan on the arm. "I see my children, I think I'm being a bad mother by keeping them around this. But I don't have the strength to leave Johnny and watch him kill himself, either, because then I'll be blamed: Well, you knew what he would do. Are they going to blame me if their dad dies? Are they going to blame me for not walking out? I'm stuck. I'm doing time."

And the walls are closing in. A fight had been set for last Friday in El Paso, the first step toward Johnny's reclaiming his featherweight title, but four days before the bout he felt lost without Gutierrez. "I can't go through it no more," Johnny said. Two days later, on what would have been Gordy's 41st birthday, grief overwhelmed the Tapias; Jonathan called his father from Las Cruces and lit into him for causing so much pain. Johnny hung up crying.

So what happened last Friday came as no shock. Johnny pulled out of the fight, touching off a pointless crossfire with his promoter over money, contracts and lawsuits. Fans went to the El Paso County Coliseum, cursed his name and wondered what happened to Johnny Tapia's heart. "I'm empty," he said last week. "Everything's gone in me."

That's not quite true: He's alive, and the match of his life stands at a draw. Johnny and Teresa still have each other.

Bruce Seldon went from boxing champ to jobless, then homeless. It's time for a comeback, he says.

By David Weinberg

ATLANTIC CITY - Bruce Seldon couldn't win.
The 41-year-old was locked in the toughest fight of his 20-year boxing career since an embarrassing, first-round loss to Mike Tyson in 1996 ended his brief reign as WBA heavyweight champion. Now, during a recent training session at the Atlantic City PAL, he was firing punches until sweat dribbled down his arms and seeped into his gloves. Still, nothing was getting through his opponent's defense. Sharp jabs and powerful hooks all fell short of the mark.
When the bell sounded to end the round, Seldon reached for a towel and a water bottle, then fixed his gaze on a yellowed newspaper clipping that was taped to the wall. The headlined blared "He's The Champion!" and showed Seldon celebrating his victory over Tony Tucker in Las Vegas on April 8, 1995.
A smile briefly appeared, but faded just as quickly.
"Man, that was a long time ago," Seldon said. "I think that was the last time I was truly happy."

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Bruce Seldon's life began to unravel after he lost his title to Tyson in 1996. Two years later, he pleaded guilty to two counts of endangering the welfare of a child - the charges involved a girl who was 15 at the time - and was sentenced to 364 days under house arrest.
He wound up serving a much longer, self-imposed sentence.
Unfounded accusations that he had taken a dive hit him harder than Tyson's fists. Humiliated and hurt from the loss and arrest, he retreated into the basement of his home in Moorestown and stayed there for almost eight years. On the rare occasions that he ventured into Atlantic City, he did so as quietly as possible.
"Considering all the ups and downs I've gone through, I feel grateful just to still be here and for what little bit of sanity I still have," Seldon said. "Someone who was in my frame of mind back then might have killed themselves.
"There are people who still don't want to forgive me, but they are the ones who are suffering, not me. I put my trust in God and I learned to be forgiving. I learned that we all make mistakes in life. It's how you bounce back, climb back up and avoid making those mistakes ever again that matters most."
Co-managers Jim Kurtz and Joe Thompson finally convinced him to return to boxing in 2004, but he had mixed results. A pair of tuneup fights led to an opportunity to get back into the title picture, but his controversial loss to Gerald Nobles in Las Vegas - Seldon was winning the fight before he took a knee and allowed himself to be counted out in the ninth round - ended his quest.
He tried another comeback last year, but two more wins against undistinguished foes have gone virtually unnoticed. He has not fought since beating journeyman Jay Sweetman at the Days Inn in Winchester, Va. on March 10, 2007.

Seldon's career - and his life - appeared to be going nowhere.
"I felt like I lost everything," he said. "My friends, my family, my support, everything went. I had a lot of friends when I was on top, but the second I fell, they all disappeared.
"I sold my house so that I could make a fresh start. I moved into an apartment in Westville (Gloucester County), but I got evicted because I couldn't hold a job and pay the rent. I wound up having to sleep in the street before I got into a rooming house. I had a lot of sleepless, eatless nights. I realized I had to make some drastic changes."

He started by taking a job driving a forklift for a Millville company that makes kitchen appliances. Next, he moved into a tiny efficiency apartment near the warehouse. He said he is also taking better care of his money. He lost the bulk of his $3-million payday for the Tyson fight via loans to friends and a few unwise investments until his bank account sank from a couple million dollars to about $100,000.

Finally, he decided to get back to basics with his boxing career. After training in Vineland under former light-heavyweight contender Richie Kates, he switched to Atlantic City and veteran trainer Bill Johnson. Although Johnson was in Seldon's corner for his recent fights as a cutman, he has not been Seldon's primary cornerman since 1992.
"Bruce still has to wake up a lot of stuff that's been dormant for a while, but he's coming along surprisingly well," Johnson said. "He's in great shape, his reflexes are intact and he hasn't lost any hand speed.

"But the biggest thing is Bruce hasn't lost his legs, despite being 41. As a fighter's legs go, so goes the fighter. And Bruce still runs like a big middleweight."
The fighter and trainer have been leaning on each other for support.
Johnson is still coping with the death of his youngest son, former lightweight champion Leavander Johnson of Atlantic City, from brain injuries suffered in a fight against Jesus Chavez nearly three years ago. Seldon recently lost his father, Nathaniel, to cancer.
It remains to be seen if Bill Johnson is getting through to Seldon, but the relationship appears to be strong. Johnson lacks the ego of some of the sport's better-known trainers, but has a way of getting his point across to fighters.
Seldon, who has trimmed his weight to 219 pounds from a high of 263, seems eager to please his mentor. He is expected to put those lessons to use in one or two bouts this month, possibly in Atlantic City.

"I don't have a bad word to say about Richie because I respect him tremendously as a person and a trainer," Seldon said. "But at this point in my life and career, there's only one man who can put me in the frame of mind I need to be in and that's Bill Johnson.
"B.J. and I go way back, back to the very, very beginning. I have a chemistry with him that I don't have with anyone else. There's no trainer out there that is better for me than him."

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After staring at the newspaper clipping for a few minutes, Seldon's gaze ventured over to the ring, where some youngsters were swapping punches in a spirited sparring session.
"The best part about working with B.J. again is that I'm back home in Atlantic City," Seldon said. "Man, I love my city, even though it hasn't always loved me.
"Being around all the kids and the other fighters, I just seem to get so much more out of working out here. I know they've seen that picture, but they never saw me until recently. Maybe seeing me in person will help give them some hope."

The bell sounded again and Seldon resumed his fight. He started throwing more punches, fervently trying to find an opening in his opponents' defense. He also tried to protect himself, moving his head and rolling his shoulders to ward off the blows.

Three minutes later, the round ended.
Seldon turned away from the mirror and trudged toward the showers, uncertain if he had won or lost.

"I'm just now getting to the point where I'm comfortable in my life," Seldon said. "I'm still not happy, but at least I feel comfortable. It's been a while since I even felt that good."

Byrd Shot Down and Grounded...

From ESPN.Com

LAS VEGAS -- Shaun George did not feel bad for Chris Byrd while they were in the ring at the Cox Pavilion on Friday night. Not even after he had stopped the former two-time heavyweight champion in the ninth round did George feel any pangs of regret.
"No," he said. "I'm being honest. If he could have, he would have done it to me."

But when George saw Byrd in the dressing room later, it struck him. He had closed the book on Byrd's remarkable career in a concussive fashion.
"When I saw him in the locker room I kind of felt sad for him," George said. "I was talking to Antonio Tarver one day after we had sparred and he said that this is a sport that you love. You're going to have good days and you're going to have bad days. And there's going to come a point where you have to give it up. That's the hard part because you love the sport. It's sad for anybody, but especially someone like Byrd who is a two-time heavyweight champion."
Tracy Byrd, Byrd's wife and manager said, that was it for her husband, he won't be fighting anymore. He is going to have to give up the sport he loves.

I'm not letting him fight anymore. It's almost a relief to know that he's not going to do it anymore. It probably isn't a relief to him because he's so competitive. But for those around him, it's a relief.
-- Tracey Byrd"I'm not letting him fight anymore," said Tracy Byrd, choking back tears in a telephone conversation from Valley Hospital in Las Vegas late Friday night. "It's almost a relief to know that he's not going to do it anymore. It probably isn't a relief to him because he's so competitive. But for those around him, it's a relief."
And what if Byrd refuses to give it up?
"He would have to try to do it without my support," she said. "And I don't think he wants to do that."
Byrd suffered a dislocated right shoulder and had to be taken to the hospital when he had a bad reaction to painkillers that were administered in the dressing room to try to put the shoulder back in place.
"They gave him Valium and morphine and we couldn't wake him up," Tracy Byrd said. "I was so scared. We had to rush him to the hospital."
Byrd was revived at the hospital, his shoulder was put back in place and he was dismissed late Friday night.

Chris Byrd, right, has been in his fair share of battles throughout the years.Tracy Byrd said her husband dislocated his shoulder in the first round, but kept fighting. He made it worse after he was knocked down for the second time in the ninth round. Byrd fell in the corner, between the ropes and his shoulder slammed into the corner post. He scrambled to his feet. While referee Jay Nady was counting, Byrd appeared to tell him to stop the fight. Nady waved off the count and stopped it.
It was a good stoppage. Byrd had nothing from the very first round. No legs, no speed, no power and no chance against George, a lightly regarded light heavyweight from Brooklyn, whose two previous losses had come at cruiserweight.
Byrd had lost 36 pounds over seven months after deciding to drop down in weight and bypass cruiserweight. It was a dramatic, and as it turned out, drastic weight loss that sapped him of his strength, speed and power.
"I think he lost too much weight too fast," said light heavyweight titlist Chad Dawson, who watched the fight at ringside. "He was still fighting in heavyweight mode. He wasn't throwing that many punches and he was slow and he wasn't moving. You can fight like that as a heavyweight, but you can't do that at light heavyweight."
George found the stationary Byrd an easy mark for right hands. He staggered Byrd with the first solid right he landed in the first round and dropped him with another one later in the round.
"I should have put him away in that first round," George said. "I should have put my punches together better. But it was very difficult to hit him with that third shot."
When George did land that third shot in the ninth round he nearly took Byrd's head off. It was hard to watch Byrd, who had been such a valiant warrior as a heavyweight, getting smacked around the ring so easily at a lighter weight.

So Byrd's great light heavyweight experiment came to a crashing end at the hands of George, who had seven knockouts in his previous 20 fights. Every time George put together a combination it hurt Byrd. He had been softened up considerably in recent years in bruising heavyweight matches against Jameel McCline, who outweighed him by 56 pounds, and IBF/WBO champion Wladimir Klitschko, who pummeled Byrd on the way to a brutal seventh round KO.
A victory by Byrd would have added some excitement to the light heavyweight division. Roy Jones had talked about fighting Byrd when Jones was finished with a proposed match against Joe Calzaghe.
A competitive Byrd would have fit nicely in the 175-pound division with Tarver, Glen Johnson and Bernard Hopkins. But the way that George blasted him, there really is no need to continue that conversation. Now you have to wonder how George will fare against someone like Dawson, a 24-year-old slugger.

Having already won two heavyweight championships and having been stopped in recent fights against Klitschko and Alexander Povetkin, Byrd can't go back up. He can only go out.
On a night when the book was closed on Byrd's remarkable career, George, 29, opened up his horizon in the light heavyweight division.

"We've already been in touch with the German promoters for [WBO champion Zsolt] Erdei," said Donna Brooks, George's promoter. "We could do something with that or we could go in another direction. I think we have some choices now. It was a very good fight for Shaun. This is really a fight where everything came together. He has a lot of talent. He just never put it all together before."