http://www.newyorker.com/news/sporting-scene/floyd-mayweathers-father-he-didnt-do-bad
E very year, the Boxing Writers Association of America gives out the Eddie Futch Award, named for the man who coached Joe Frazier to victory over Muhammad Ali in 1971, in what was called the Fight of the Century. In six out of the past ten years, the Futch has gone to Freddie Roach, the garrulous trainer behind Manny Pacquiao. Not everyone agrees that Roach deserves all those Futches, and one of the most prominent dissenters is an accomplished but Futchless fellow trainer named Floyd Mayweather, Sr., whose son and namesake faced Pacquiao in what some called the new Fight of the Century, on May 2nd. As the fight wore on, its unofficial title seemed increasingly inappropriate. Mayweather, Jr., won so easily that most fans were disappointed, even though few experts were surprised. And he has a history of violence against women, which drives away many who might otherwise celebrate his athletic virtuosity. At ringside, not long after the final bell, Mayweather, Sr., took a moment to revel in his son’s victory over a more popular opponent. “The people that’s booing, all I can tell you: it’s a bunch of a$$holes,” he said. He revelled in his own victory, too. “I never got the kind of accolades Roach is getting,” he said, and he reprised some of the slant rhymes he had been reciting for weeks: “He’s a joke / Blowing smoke / With no hope.”
For years, the vexed relationship between Mayweather, Sr., and his son was one of the most compelling stories in boxing. (That story is told in this week’s magazine, in “The Best Defense,” an account of how Mayweather, Jr., became, for better or worse, the face of boxing.) But, during the weeks leading up to this fight, Mayweather, Sr., was once again secure in his position as his son’s trainer and cheerleader. Roach was, by his standards, rather restrained—at one point, he confided that Pacquiao’s promoter, Bob Arum, had instructed him to “shut the fukk up.” Mayweather, Sr., meanwhile, seemed unrestricted by any similar admonition. At one pre-fight press conference, he arrived accompanied by his publicist, Mark McCoy, who is trying to secure for Mayweather, Sr., some of the accolades that have so far been denied him. “I don’t think it’s gon’ be much of a fight,” he said. He explained how his son’s famed defensive fighting technique is actually a bundle of techniques. “When you can move on your feet, that’s defense,” he said. “You jabbing a guy back, double-jab, right hand, left hook—all that stuff’s defense. Push a guy like that?” He thrust out his right palm, then his left, then his right again. “Defense.” After about fifteen minutes of testimony, McCoy tapped him on the forearm, and Mayweather, Sr., shifted from prose to verse:
As a trainer, I’m the best
I must confess
All the rest
There’s no contest
I will shock your mind
I’m one of a kind
I’m the greatest trainer of all time
With moves and grooves that dance and prance
You fools better recognize who’s the man
In quieter moments, Mayweather, Sr., will allow that his feelings about his career as a trainer are considerably more mixed. A few weeks before the fight, Mayweather, Sr., had a free night in Las Vegas, where both he and his son live. After stopping by his son’s gym, he drove to a nearby restaurant, a beloved local soul-food place whose amenities include an armed guard, posted by the door. Mayweather, Sr., is sixty-two, and astonishingly fit; during a moment in the gym when his expertise isn’t required, he might relax by doing a set of standing tricep dips. In conversation, he is witty and waspish, although topics occasionally drift in and out of focus, for reasons that may not be unrelated to the sport that has defined his life.
In the car that night, he was talking about boxing: his own, frustrating career—which left him with twenty-eight wins, six losses, and one draw—and his son’s extraordinary one. “Boxing, when you slip-slide, dig to the body, drop up under the hook, come back with a hook? All that stuff beautiful, man, beautiful stuff,” he said. “But, after a while, man, you have to abandon the game at some point.” This applies to fighters, who are always urged to get out before they get seriously hurt, but Mayweather, Sr., was talking about trainers, too. “I’m planning on getting out the game,” he said. “But I having guys tell me, ‘Floyd, you can’t quit, man—I’ve got to be champ before you be doing that.’ ” He has trained a number of élite boxers, including Oscar De La Hoya, and these days he tends to a small stable that includes Mickey Bey, a top lightweight from Cleveland. (Last year, the International Boxing Federation named Bey its lightweight champion.) But he didn’t seem able to extract much pleasure from his success as a trainer, and he seemed taken aback by the suggestion that, once he retires from boxing, Mayweather, Jr., could become a trainer, too. “I’m hoping my son don’t never have to become a trainer,” Mayweather, Sr., said. “People usually become a trainer only because they’re broke.”
Mayweather, Sr., can be pricklier than Roach, and this is one explanation for his ongoing Futchlessness. Another is that his son’s boxing brilliance works against him. A trainer traditionally serves as both a strategist and motivator, devising a path to victory and then pushing the boxer, during training camp, to be strong and fit enough to follow through on fight night. But it is tempting to view Mayweather, Jr., as a boxer of such surpassing skill and intelligence that he scarcely needs help. Mayweather, Sr., loves to talk about how he had his son throwing punches before he could walk or talk. But he also recognizes that he can’t take responsibility for all the things that make his son so good. “There could be a whole bunch of Floyds running around, but they don’t want to put a lot of hard work and effort in,” he said. “I think my son took an initiative to go ahead and really train super-hard, where he can really be the best.”
Certainly, the relative lack of awards contributes to the Mayweathers’ sense of themselves as being unliked and undervalued. Mayweather, Jr., has always maintained, not always plausibly, that he doesn’t mind hearing fans root against him, especially if it contributes to his paychecks, which are the largest in all of sports. But Mayweather, Sr., doesn’t pretend to be unaffected by the opinions of fans or experts. “I don’t know why so many people hate on my son,” he said, inside the restaurant, as he emptied a fistful of sugar packets into his lemonade. When it was suggested that his son embraced his role as a villain, Mayweather, Sr., recoiled. “Who do you think likes being hated? Nobody!”
During the fight itself, Mayweather, Sr., sometimes seemed like the only person in the arena who didn’t think his son was winning handily. Between rounds, he implored his son to be more aggressive. A Showtime post-fight documentary captured the moment when Mayweather told his son, “You fighting like you scared, man!” After the fight, Mayweather, Sr., seemed much less anxious, especially when he was mocking Roach. But he still didn’t seem entirely satisfied. “It’s some soul-searching I’ve got to do right now, with this whole thing,” he said, rather cryptically. “I’ve got to change a few things.” (He didn’t say what he wanted to change, though he did admit that it involved his son.) And even when he discussed the night’s all but painless victory—a disappointment for fans, but also, and for similar reasons, a milestone for his son—Mayweather, Sr., displayed some of the itchy hunger for perfection that keeps great fighters fighting and great trainers training, even when they say they’d love to quit. “I told my son there’s a lot of other fights that he fought better,” Mayweather, Sr., said. “But he didn’t do bad.”
In the days and weeks after Pacquiao’s anticlimactic defeat, fans talked about who, if anyone, might be a worthy opponent for Mayweather, Jr.
The most popular answer is Gennady Gennadyevich Golovkin, known as Triple G, a cheerful but devastating fighter from Kazakhstan, who this past Saturday night knocked out his twentieth opponent in a row. Golovkin is a middleweight (a hundred and sixty pounds), whereas Mayweather, Jr., is usually a welterweight (a hundred and forty-seven), and, though it might be possible for the two to meet at junior middleweight (a hundred and fifty-four), Mayweather, Jr., has shown no interest in the fight. That night at the soul-food restaurant, Mayweather, Sr., betrayed no interest, either, in training his son to fight Triple G. (He said, “Who is Triple G?,” and it sounded as if he genuinely wanted to know.) He said that his son’s enormous earning power should make it easier for him to choose to quit, and soon. “With that kind of money right there, man?” he said. “If he didn’t walk away, he’d be a fool.” It would be difficult, surely, to be the best in the world at doing something and then voluntarily stop doing it. But Mayweather, Sr., sounded adamant. “Look, man,” he said. “In boxing, man, your ass better stop, or somebody gon’ make you stop.”
E very year, the Boxing Writers Association of America gives out the Eddie Futch Award, named for the man who coached Joe Frazier to victory over Muhammad Ali in 1971, in what was called the Fight of the Century. In six out of the past ten years, the Futch has gone to Freddie Roach, the garrulous trainer behind Manny Pacquiao. Not everyone agrees that Roach deserves all those Futches, and one of the most prominent dissenters is an accomplished but Futchless fellow trainer named Floyd Mayweather, Sr., whose son and namesake faced Pacquiao in what some called the new Fight of the Century, on May 2nd. As the fight wore on, its unofficial title seemed increasingly inappropriate. Mayweather, Jr., won so easily that most fans were disappointed, even though few experts were surprised. And he has a history of violence against women, which drives away many who might otherwise celebrate his athletic virtuosity. At ringside, not long after the final bell, Mayweather, Sr., took a moment to revel in his son’s victory over a more popular opponent. “The people that’s booing, all I can tell you: it’s a bunch of a$$holes,” he said. He revelled in his own victory, too. “I never got the kind of accolades Roach is getting,” he said, and he reprised some of the slant rhymes he had been reciting for weeks: “He’s a joke / Blowing smoke / With no hope.”
For years, the vexed relationship between Mayweather, Sr., and his son was one of the most compelling stories in boxing. (That story is told in this week’s magazine, in “The Best Defense,” an account of how Mayweather, Jr., became, for better or worse, the face of boxing.) But, during the weeks leading up to this fight, Mayweather, Sr., was once again secure in his position as his son’s trainer and cheerleader. Roach was, by his standards, rather restrained—at one point, he confided that Pacquiao’s promoter, Bob Arum, had instructed him to “shut the fukk up.” Mayweather, Sr., meanwhile, seemed unrestricted by any similar admonition. At one pre-fight press conference, he arrived accompanied by his publicist, Mark McCoy, who is trying to secure for Mayweather, Sr., some of the accolades that have so far been denied him. “I don’t think it’s gon’ be much of a fight,” he said. He explained how his son’s famed defensive fighting technique is actually a bundle of techniques. “When you can move on your feet, that’s defense,” he said. “You jabbing a guy back, double-jab, right hand, left hook—all that stuff’s defense. Push a guy like that?” He thrust out his right palm, then his left, then his right again. “Defense.” After about fifteen minutes of testimony, McCoy tapped him on the forearm, and Mayweather, Sr., shifted from prose to verse:
As a trainer, I’m the best
I must confess
All the rest
There’s no contest
I will shock your mind
I’m one of a kind
I’m the greatest trainer of all time
With moves and grooves that dance and prance
You fools better recognize who’s the man
In quieter moments, Mayweather, Sr., will allow that his feelings about his career as a trainer are considerably more mixed. A few weeks before the fight, Mayweather, Sr., had a free night in Las Vegas, where both he and his son live. After stopping by his son’s gym, he drove to a nearby restaurant, a beloved local soul-food place whose amenities include an armed guard, posted by the door. Mayweather, Sr., is sixty-two, and astonishingly fit; during a moment in the gym when his expertise isn’t required, he might relax by doing a set of standing tricep dips. In conversation, he is witty and waspish, although topics occasionally drift in and out of focus, for reasons that may not be unrelated to the sport that has defined his life.
In the car that night, he was talking about boxing: his own, frustrating career—which left him with twenty-eight wins, six losses, and one draw—and his son’s extraordinary one. “Boxing, when you slip-slide, dig to the body, drop up under the hook, come back with a hook? All that stuff beautiful, man, beautiful stuff,” he said. “But, after a while, man, you have to abandon the game at some point.” This applies to fighters, who are always urged to get out before they get seriously hurt, but Mayweather, Sr., was talking about trainers, too. “I’m planning on getting out the game,” he said. “But I having guys tell me, ‘Floyd, you can’t quit, man—I’ve got to be champ before you be doing that.’ ” He has trained a number of élite boxers, including Oscar De La Hoya, and these days he tends to a small stable that includes Mickey Bey, a top lightweight from Cleveland. (Last year, the International Boxing Federation named Bey its lightweight champion.) But he didn’t seem able to extract much pleasure from his success as a trainer, and he seemed taken aback by the suggestion that, once he retires from boxing, Mayweather, Jr., could become a trainer, too. “I’m hoping my son don’t never have to become a trainer,” Mayweather, Sr., said. “People usually become a trainer only because they’re broke.”
Mayweather, Sr., can be pricklier than Roach, and this is one explanation for his ongoing Futchlessness. Another is that his son’s boxing brilliance works against him. A trainer traditionally serves as both a strategist and motivator, devising a path to victory and then pushing the boxer, during training camp, to be strong and fit enough to follow through on fight night. But it is tempting to view Mayweather, Jr., as a boxer of such surpassing skill and intelligence that he scarcely needs help. Mayweather, Sr., loves to talk about how he had his son throwing punches before he could walk or talk. But he also recognizes that he can’t take responsibility for all the things that make his son so good. “There could be a whole bunch of Floyds running around, but they don’t want to put a lot of hard work and effort in,” he said. “I think my son took an initiative to go ahead and really train super-hard, where he can really be the best.”
Certainly, the relative lack of awards contributes to the Mayweathers’ sense of themselves as being unliked and undervalued. Mayweather, Jr., has always maintained, not always plausibly, that he doesn’t mind hearing fans root against him, especially if it contributes to his paychecks, which are the largest in all of sports. But Mayweather, Sr., doesn’t pretend to be unaffected by the opinions of fans or experts. “I don’t know why so many people hate on my son,” he said, inside the restaurant, as he emptied a fistful of sugar packets into his lemonade. When it was suggested that his son embraced his role as a villain, Mayweather, Sr., recoiled. “Who do you think likes being hated? Nobody!”
During the fight itself, Mayweather, Sr., sometimes seemed like the only person in the arena who didn’t think his son was winning handily. Between rounds, he implored his son to be more aggressive. A Showtime post-fight documentary captured the moment when Mayweather told his son, “You fighting like you scared, man!” After the fight, Mayweather, Sr., seemed much less anxious, especially when he was mocking Roach. But he still didn’t seem entirely satisfied. “It’s some soul-searching I’ve got to do right now, with this whole thing,” he said, rather cryptically. “I’ve got to change a few things.” (He didn’t say what he wanted to change, though he did admit that it involved his son.) And even when he discussed the night’s all but painless victory—a disappointment for fans, but also, and for similar reasons, a milestone for his son—Mayweather, Sr., displayed some of the itchy hunger for perfection that keeps great fighters fighting and great trainers training, even when they say they’d love to quit. “I told my son there’s a lot of other fights that he fought better,” Mayweather, Sr., said. “But he didn’t do bad.”
In the days and weeks after Pacquiao’s anticlimactic defeat, fans talked about who, if anyone, might be a worthy opponent for Mayweather, Jr.
The most popular answer is Gennady Gennadyevich Golovkin, known as Triple G, a cheerful but devastating fighter from Kazakhstan, who this past Saturday night knocked out his twentieth opponent in a row. Golovkin is a middleweight (a hundred and sixty pounds), whereas Mayweather, Jr., is usually a welterweight (a hundred and forty-seven), and, though it might be possible for the two to meet at junior middleweight (a hundred and fifty-four), Mayweather, Jr., has shown no interest in the fight. That night at the soul-food restaurant, Mayweather, Sr., betrayed no interest, either, in training his son to fight Triple G. (He said, “Who is Triple G?,” and it sounded as if he genuinely wanted to know.) He said that his son’s enormous earning power should make it easier for him to choose to quit, and soon. “With that kind of money right there, man?” he said. “If he didn’t walk away, he’d be a fool.” It would be difficult, surely, to be the best in the world at doing something and then voluntarily stop doing it. But Mayweather, Sr., sounded adamant. “Look, man,” he said. “In boxing, man, your ass better stop, or somebody gon’ make you stop.”
. . just out of nowhere, a very sick style of editorializing
