DETECTIVE Bob Tonne began his report thus: On April 20th,1966, I was assigned to car 962 in company with Rtl.Morvath. At approximately 12.30pm we observed an assault take place at the corner of East 100 and Cedar. A colored male was laying on the northerly sidewalk and another colored was kicking him in the face and head.
We stopped the car immediately and as we jumped out we saw the assailant had a gun in his right hand. We ordered him to drop it and he threw it on to the trunk lid of a parked
In 1988, the American writer, Jack Newfield, wrote one of the great sports books of all time, The Life and Crimes of Don King. Man, this was something special. Investigative reporting par excellence.
There was the story of how King pistol-whipped that man to death on a street in Cleveland – the guy's last words being, 'Don, I'll pay you the money'. And how, 13 years earlier, King had shot a robber in the back and killed him. There was no end of testimony from his old fighters, big names and small and all bitter. There was meat put on the bones of his links with the mafia, with John Gotti, Godfather of the Gambino family, and Michael Franzese, capo of the Columbo family.
And there was no end of material about King's persuasive genius. There was an unforgettable scene in a Sheraton hotel in Ohio involving King and an elderly black churchgoing husband and wife, a gentle pair who lived for their faith. "We're blacks and we have nothing," King began. "We don't have expensive suits, or big houses, or luxury vacations. We're poor. All we got is the word. Our only invention that belongs to us is a word. And that word is motherf****r!"
King wanted his stunned audience to say it with him. Eventually the old man mouthed the word. "Louder" King shouted. "Motherf****r!" repeated the husband, then "Motherf****r!" yelled his wife. The three embraced like old friends. As a King associate said: "He can sell anything. Even the word motherf****r to God-fearing religious people who prayed every week."
The promoter climbed the walls with anger when the book was published but Newfield's work was so brilliant and so legally watertight that King could do nothing about it. Round about 1995 they ran into each other in a toilet in a federal courthouse. Newfield had just sold the rights to his book to HBO and King had read about what was a lucrative deal for the author. Standing adjacent to each other at the urinals, King broke the silence. "I read in the newspapers," he shouted deadpan, "that I'm now feeding your whole motherf*****g family."
Newfield had to laugh. And laugh. It was the beginning of the thawing of what had been for years the iciest of relationships.
Anybody who knows Don King's story can only be appalled by him. He has done terrible things in his life, from the shooting to the pistol-whipping to his treatment of fighters to some of the company he has kept in all his years in the game.
Outraged, yes. But also engrossed. Drawn into his world over and over. The man is 78 years old and if he's not the firebrand of before he still shows little sign of slowing down. He doesn't have a piece of the new heavyweight champion, David Haye, but you can tell that he wants some, needs some and will probably stop at nothing until he gets some.
The man has octopus tentacles. Where there's money to be had, you will find him there.
He was at ringside at Nuremberg on Saturday night, where his man Nikolay Valuev was beaten by the Hayemaker. Perhaps King spent long hours with the stricken Valuev, sympathising with him and telling him that he was going to stick by him in the future, but King was also seen sidling up to Haye's people. He was going around saying, "Oh baby, oh baby, David will be king, yes, he will be king" and "I love David Haye, God bless the Queen."
Haye's victory was not the great triumph you might have read about and he is not the great champion some claim him to be. Not yet. Saturday's fight was dreary. If it wasn't for the clean hook that Haye landed in the 12th, it would have been an incident-free bore. Valuev didn't land a blow of note. Not one. Giants don't come any more gentle than big Nikolay. He was hopeless.
It's fair to say that Haye's own performance was compromised by a hand injury sustained in the third round. We didn't see anything like the best of him, but there's plenty of time for that. The 29-year-old has huge promise, that much is obvious. What is also unmistakeable is his star quality. He's bright and articulate and stylish and good looking. That's what King wants a piece of. Frankly, the fight for the right to promote Haye's future career is going to be almost as enthralling as what might happen in the ring.
Haye is a sharp cookie. He's got his own promotions company and he's also in bed with Oscar de La Hoya's Golden Boy Promotions, a firm whose mission statement is all about empowering boxers and bringing them into the decision-making process.
He is holding all the aces now. He's got Don King where he wants him – at a distance. But Don didn't become King by letting the star of the heavyweight division do his own thing. Haye's next big fight is against one of King's own men, John Ruiz. You wonder what the Londoner will be looking out for more; Ruiz's punching or King's patter. The latter, after all, has proved hypnotic – ruinously so at times – to generations of prize fighters.
Haye knows their stories. So he knows that the danger in boxing doesn't always begin and end at the ring.
No place for halfwits who shamed Celtic
ALL around the island of Ireland there are people whose lives have been profoundly changed by the terrorism of the last 40 years, people who have lost family members and friends, who have seen them murdered and maimed.
If you want to understand, then all you have to do is talk to them and hear their stories and, most of all, listen to their incredible strength and dignity. Then listen to the hooped halfwits who sang outside Falkirk last Sunday, embarrassing their thousands of fellow supporters inside the ground.
The favourite terrorist organisation of the idiots at Falkirk decommissioned its weapons a while back, so here's an idea for the self- proclaimed rebels of Sunday: decommission the ignorance once and for all.
