Think of Pablo Picasso. Think of Miles Davis. Think of Sugar Ray Robinson.
All three were artists in their chosen realms, who expanded those realms into previously unknown dimensions. All three were difficult and ambiguous and contradictory. All three answered only to themselves in the mysterious ways of genius. Tough nuts to crack.
Herb Boyd, with Ray Robinson II, has a go at cracking the diamond of a nut that is Sugar Ray Robinson in Pound For Pound, a Biography of Sugar Ray Robinson.
Our childhood heroes linger unblemished in the halls of memory, and Herb Boyd has overcome that admitted hero worship in his story of the life and times of his subject. It is an intensely American story, urban, rags to riches and back again.
In serviceable, if sometimes gaudy, prose, Boyd refers to Robinson throughout as simply “Sugar,” never “Sugar Ray” or “Robinson,” which might be off-putting if it were not for the fascinating story he tells of perhaps the greatest prizefighter who ever lived. He evidently feels there is no “perhaps” here.
Ray Robinson’s record could bear this opinion out: undefeated in 85 amateur bouts with 69 knockouts (49 in the first round); 202 professional fights with 109 knockouts, 65 decision wins, 18 decision losses (mostly when he was decidedly on the downslide), 6 draws, 1 loss by TKO (caused more by the heat than his opponent, Joey Maxim), 1 no-decision, and 1 no-contest.
In 1943, he lost a ten-rounder to Jake LaMotta on February 5; on February 26 he beat LaMotta in ten rounds. In between, he beat Jackie Wilson in ten rounds on February 19. These are not typos. He fought the beast that was the Raging Bull for twenty rounds within three weeks with another ten rounder in the middle for good measure. And that was not unusual in those times. Instead of spending time in the gym, many fighters spent it in the ring, getting paid, and taking fights on short notice. Actual fights became training, in one sense. There were a lot more cards to be filled then, too. Boxing was big everywhere. This ethos is unimaginable today, virtually impossible.
Ray Robinson came into this boxing world and “he created a new place for the imagination of a fighter,” Boyd quotes the writer Jack Newfield.
Ironically, it was a woman who gave the former Walker Smith, Jr. the “Sugar” appellation after seeing him perform as an amateur.
Robinson was not always “Sugar” to women. Boyd has used his access to the unpublished 300-page memoir of his first wife, Edna Mae, to establish him as a chronic wife-beater. Pound For Pound is almost a parallel examination of Ray and Edna Mae in relation to each other and separately. We find out a great deal about the beauteous Edna Mae, a rising star herself when they met, and a cousin of Sidney Poitier. Maybe not so much about her husband. He’s a lot of things to a lot of people and maybe to himself. He’s of course the consummate practitioner of his ring art. He’s not so good at marriage and parenting and finance and keeping his temper and off-duty fists in check. He hit a lot of people, including his kids.
There are eight pages of black and white photos. They are forties and fifties cool and Edna Mae is high glam indeed. They were well-matched. Those pix show Ray as ever-smiling, cool and pressed as a new hundred dollar bill. Hell, didn’t he have a pink Caddie convertible and own a whole block in Harlem? He did.
Sugar Ray was on the dollar in some ways and not so good with money in other, important ways. Like Picasso, who was the scourge of art dealers, he managed himself and wanted what he thought he was worth. He was a tough negotiator. He was not a good manager: he went through money in a princely manner, and put his affairs in the hands of either incompetents or thieves. His career and life were perpetually shadowed by the IRS debt that his relaxed financial oversight had wrought. In the end, it was all gone.
If Joe Louis was king, Sugar Ray was crown prince. He had carried Joe’s bag as a kid back in Detroit, and they’d become close over the years. They were both casual and enthusiastic womanizers. IRS miseries were their shared royal lot. They’d soared together, and, finally, were forced aground, two confused old men.
Sugar Ray had a hell of life. He mostly lived up to it. They had parades for him in Harlem. Paris worshiped him. Those who saw him practice his art, simply nodded, acknowledging the obvious. It was a hell of a ride. Herb Boyd has taken us along in high style.
In a pink Cadillac.