TV Moment 5: Big Frank
Another British heavyweight, a different story. While I wrote pretty dispassionately about Lennox Lewis, which rather reflects the way the British public felt about him, it's a bit different with Frank Bruno.
I didn't watch Lewis vs Tyson live. In fact I'm not sure I watched a single Lennox Lewis fight live. I didn't have Sky and most of them took place in the middle of the night - they'd often show them on terrestrial TV a day or week later, but I already knew the result by then, so I enjoyed the fights and supported him, but my heart never beat like a train for Lennox Lewis.
Whereas, like a lot of Brits, I watched a lot of Bruno fights. And I didn't just watch Bruno fighting. I saw and heard Frank Bruno everywhere. He was a beloved and comical national treasure while still in his 20s. There's something very complex and possibly disturbing about Frank Bruno's place in the British national consciousness, in a country moving away from overt racism to the more subtle, insidious kind. If my memory's not playing tricks on me, I once wrote a story at school where I imagined Bruno as Man Friday, but for the life of me I can't remember if I was being precociously challenging and subversive, or just being a bit racist.
Frank Bruno, the pantomime dame, the guest on Jim'll Fix It, the dopey punchline machine, the boxing failure? That's the script from the hardcore boxing fans, that Britain loves a loveable loser and Bruno was just that, while Lewis was far more the real deal yet had a a fraction of the love. There's truth in it - Lewis's achievements ended up dwarfing Bruno's - Frank is little more than a footnote in heavyweight history. But he was no joke.
He is marked by failure, that's true, that's unavoidable. He had 45 pro fights, winning 40 of them, but he lost 5 of his biggest 6. All but once, when he stepped up to the highest level, he, as the phrase goes, was found wanting.
I'll go on to talk about the one time, the 6th of those 6, where he stepped up and was not found wanting, his moment of glory, that's the moment this blog is about. But first, the other five, the five defeats - in order, against James "Bonecrusher" Smith - top contender, Tim Witherspoon (no, with a knife) - World Champion, "Iron" Mike Tyson - World Champion, Lennox Claudius Lewis - World Champion, then Tyson again, the last bout of Bruno's career.
The thing, the tragic thing, about all those fights except the last one (which has a different tragic thing about it) is that Bruno did not underperform, nor was he unclassed. He was great, he was close to glory in all of them. Against Smith and Witherspoon he was winning, up on points, in the late rounds, before being stopped (that was when title fights were 15, not 12 rounds), against Tyson, still considered unstoppable in 1989, he was almost the one, the one who changed boxing history like Buster Douglas would a year later - he rocked Tyson to his boots in the first round, and fought toe to toe for five rounds before Tyson had his way. Watch that fight and say Frank Bruno couldn't take a punch. Then, against Lewis in 1993, he boxed beautifully for the first half of the fight, was up on points again, before Lewis caught up with him brutally in the 7th.
Bruno was a top-class fighter and he beat plenty of real contenders, tough guys and serious punchers, along the way, he had great skills and a thunderous punch. 38 of his 40 wins were by knockout. What's the story in those defeats? Does it speak of the nature of the man? Is it about some fundamental flaw in his training/physique (the most plausible explanation along those lines is that Bruno had the physique of a sprinter or bodybuilder - his strength was too explosive and he was gassed later in fights - if that's true, the marathons and half-marathons he ran clearly show he did his best to change that)? Was it destiny, or fatalism? Or was it just one of those things? I'd like to go with the latter. He was just unlucky in those fights, he might have held on, but got caught by big shots when vulnerable, and that was that.
So that, that litany of near-misses, of being in the lead then losing, is the backdrop to Bruno-McCall in September 1995. By chance, I watched that fight. I'd been at my friend Stephen's for the day, they had Sky Sports (a rare delight in those days) and as it got to evening, it just happened to be on. His dad sat in the living room and showed no objection to it being on so we all sat and watched it. I was already something of a boxing fan, though nowhere near to the extent I am now, and back then there was quite a lot of boxing on TV - I'd watched a fair bit of Bruno, of Hamed, of Eubank, I'd watched that dread night of Benn-McClellan and somehow not been put off boxing for life. Still, I feared for Frank.
McCall was rogue and getting roguer, but he was no joke. He'd won the title with a spectacular and shocking knockout of Lewis, defended against (an admittedly faded) Larry Holmes, and had a reputation as a big puncher with a chin of iron. But Bruno was the better boxer. And he dominated. In fact, he made it look easy and several times looked like he would finish McCall, but the American's famous chin held up. It was thrilling and powerful. Even at the age of 17, I'd been on a journey with Bruno through my whole life, and it felt wonderful to be witnessing his moment of what looked like being triumph. But the inevitable began to happen. Frank began to tire, severely. And McCall was still there. The same was going to happen again. Oh no! He'd lead, he'd dominate and then be thwarted at the last.
And, to be honest, if, as had been the case when he fought Smith and Witherspoon, it had been a 15-rounder, he wouldn't have lasted. No way. But in the intervening time, it had been changed to 12 rounds, and somehow, on fragile legs, cheered on by the Wembley crowd, he survived McCall's late onslaught and the final bell rang.
Such was his early dominance, the result was pretty inevitable at that point. Frank Bruno, after all that, after four glorious failures, was World Heavyweight Champion on all three judges' scorecards. This was the film ending, right here.
I remember in the interview afterwards (not with his BBC chum Harry Carpenter) Frank, beside himself with wild emotion and exhaustion, saying "I'm not an Uncle Tom ...". Stephen asked me (then as now I would present myself as the fount of all knowledge) "What's an Uncle Tom?" and I thought I knew, but actually had no idea, and I think Stephen's dad sensed that before my sentence had even begun and, to spare my embarrassment, explained it carefully to us both.
It says a lot about what Frank Bruno had to endure through his professional boxing career - the snarls and insults that he was somehow not a proper boxing man, that he was a white man's plaything, a comedy stooge. Funny harmless Frank. I remember around the same time (it may even have been at the Benn-McClellan fight) seeing Bruno ringside, baying for blood, and it was somehow shocking, though it shouldn't have been, that he was a real boxing man, as high on the brutality of it as any other boxer who wasn't a teatime favourite.
Of course, sadly, it isn't a film and that wasn't the glorious ending. It was in Bruno's contract that if he won, his first defence had to be against Tyson. I haven't watched that fight, haven't ever wanted to, but needless to say, he was demolished. People say he looked terrified beforehand, in a way he never had before. This Tyson wasn't the same fighter he'd been when they'd fought in 1989 when Bruno had stood up to him, but the memory of his power will have lingered. And it makes sense. Bruno had achieved his lifelong goal, late in his career, and this was his reward! To be pummelled by the baddest man on the planet. If you were scared of Tyson, even Tyson in decline, he had you. Bruno would have known he didn't have the spirit or the tools for it long before the night.
That was Bruno's last fight - he received an eye injury so retired on doctor's orders. We all know it hasn't been great for him since. Sportsmen's lives don't end when they achieve their goal. They go on. So I don't feel as utterly glorious about that night of triumph as I did back then. Lewis is long retired, Tyson's long retired, Bruno's long retired and hopefully is doing ok now. McCall, who's probably had a crazier life than all of them, he's 49 and he's still fighting and has never been knocked down in his whole life. Boxers, they're a rare breed.
I didn't watch Lewis vs Tyson live. In fact I'm not sure I watched a single Lennox Lewis fight live. I didn't have Sky and most of them took place in the middle of the night - they'd often show them on terrestrial TV a day or week later, but I already knew the result by then, so I enjoyed the fights and supported him, but my heart never beat like a train for Lennox Lewis.
Whereas, like a lot of Brits, I watched a lot of Bruno fights. And I didn't just watch Bruno fighting. I saw and heard Frank Bruno everywhere. He was a beloved and comical national treasure while still in his 20s. There's something very complex and possibly disturbing about Frank Bruno's place in the British national consciousness, in a country moving away from overt racism to the more subtle, insidious kind. If my memory's not playing tricks on me, I once wrote a story at school where I imagined Bruno as Man Friday, but for the life of me I can't remember if I was being precociously challenging and subversive, or just being a bit racist.
Frank Bruno, the pantomime dame, the guest on Jim'll Fix It, the dopey punchline machine, the boxing failure? That's the script from the hardcore boxing fans, that Britain loves a loveable loser and Bruno was just that, while Lewis was far more the real deal yet had a a fraction of the love. There's truth in it - Lewis's achievements ended up dwarfing Bruno's - Frank is little more than a footnote in heavyweight history. But he was no joke.
He is marked by failure, that's true, that's unavoidable. He had 45 pro fights, winning 40 of them, but he lost 5 of his biggest 6. All but once, when he stepped up to the highest level, he, as the phrase goes, was found wanting.
I'll go on to talk about the one time, the 6th of those 6, where he stepped up and was not found wanting, his moment of glory, that's the moment this blog is about. But first, the other five, the five defeats - in order, against James "Bonecrusher" Smith - top contender, Tim Witherspoon (no, with a knife) - World Champion, "Iron" Mike Tyson - World Champion, Lennox Claudius Lewis - World Champion, then Tyson again, the last bout of Bruno's career.
The thing, the tragic thing, about all those fights except the last one (which has a different tragic thing about it) is that Bruno did not underperform, nor was he unclassed. He was great, he was close to glory in all of them. Against Smith and Witherspoon he was winning, up on points, in the late rounds, before being stopped (that was when title fights were 15, not 12 rounds), against Tyson, still considered unstoppable in 1989, he was almost the one, the one who changed boxing history like Buster Douglas would a year later - he rocked Tyson to his boots in the first round, and fought toe to toe for five rounds before Tyson had his way. Watch that fight and say Frank Bruno couldn't take a punch. Then, against Lewis in 1993, he boxed beautifully for the first half of the fight, was up on points again, before Lewis caught up with him brutally in the 7th.
Bruno was a top-class fighter and he beat plenty of real contenders, tough guys and serious punchers, along the way, he had great skills and a thunderous punch. 38 of his 40 wins were by knockout. What's the story in those defeats? Does it speak of the nature of the man? Is it about some fundamental flaw in his training/physique (the most plausible explanation along those lines is that Bruno had the physique of a sprinter or bodybuilder - his strength was too explosive and he was gassed later in fights - if that's true, the marathons and half-marathons he ran clearly show he did his best to change that)? Was it destiny, or fatalism? Or was it just one of those things? I'd like to go with the latter. He was just unlucky in those fights, he might have held on, but got caught by big shots when vulnerable, and that was that.
So that, that litany of near-misses, of being in the lead then losing, is the backdrop to Bruno-McCall in September 1995. By chance, I watched that fight. I'd been at my friend Stephen's for the day, they had Sky Sports (a rare delight in those days) and as it got to evening, it just happened to be on. His dad sat in the living room and showed no objection to it being on so we all sat and watched it. I was already something of a boxing fan, though nowhere near to the extent I am now, and back then there was quite a lot of boxing on TV - I'd watched a fair bit of Bruno, of Hamed, of Eubank, I'd watched that dread night of Benn-McClellan and somehow not been put off boxing for life. Still, I feared for Frank.
McCall was rogue and getting roguer, but he was no joke. He'd won the title with a spectacular and shocking knockout of Lewis, defended against (an admittedly faded) Larry Holmes, and had a reputation as a big puncher with a chin of iron. But Bruno was the better boxer. And he dominated. In fact, he made it look easy and several times looked like he would finish McCall, but the American's famous chin held up. It was thrilling and powerful. Even at the age of 17, I'd been on a journey with Bruno through my whole life, and it felt wonderful to be witnessing his moment of what looked like being triumph. But the inevitable began to happen. Frank began to tire, severely. And McCall was still there. The same was going to happen again. Oh no! He'd lead, he'd dominate and then be thwarted at the last.
And, to be honest, if, as had been the case when he fought Smith and Witherspoon, it had been a 15-rounder, he wouldn't have lasted. No way. But in the intervening time, it had been changed to 12 rounds, and somehow, on fragile legs, cheered on by the Wembley crowd, he survived McCall's late onslaught and the final bell rang.
Such was his early dominance, the result was pretty inevitable at that point. Frank Bruno, after all that, after four glorious failures, was World Heavyweight Champion on all three judges' scorecards. This was the film ending, right here.
I remember in the interview afterwards (not with his BBC chum Harry Carpenter) Frank, beside himself with wild emotion and exhaustion, saying "I'm not an Uncle Tom ...". Stephen asked me (then as now I would present myself as the fount of all knowledge) "What's an Uncle Tom?" and I thought I knew, but actually had no idea, and I think Stephen's dad sensed that before my sentence had even begun and, to spare my embarrassment, explained it carefully to us both.
It says a lot about what Frank Bruno had to endure through his professional boxing career - the snarls and insults that he was somehow not a proper boxing man, that he was a white man's plaything, a comedy stooge. Funny harmless Frank. I remember around the same time (it may even have been at the Benn-McClellan fight) seeing Bruno ringside, baying for blood, and it was somehow shocking, though it shouldn't have been, that he was a real boxing man, as high on the brutality of it as any other boxer who wasn't a teatime favourite.
Of course, sadly, it isn't a film and that wasn't the glorious ending. It was in Bruno's contract that if he won, his first defence had to be against Tyson. I haven't watched that fight, haven't ever wanted to, but needless to say, he was demolished. People say he looked terrified beforehand, in a way he never had before. This Tyson wasn't the same fighter he'd been when they'd fought in 1989 when Bruno had stood up to him, but the memory of his power will have lingered. And it makes sense. Bruno had achieved his lifelong goal, late in his career, and this was his reward! To be pummelled by the baddest man on the planet. If you were scared of Tyson, even Tyson in decline, he had you. Bruno would have known he didn't have the spirit or the tools for it long before the night.
That was Bruno's last fight - he received an eye injury so retired on doctor's orders. We all know it hasn't been great for him since. Sportsmen's lives don't end when they achieve their goal. They go on. So I don't feel as utterly glorious about that night of triumph as I did back then. Lewis is long retired, Tyson's long retired, Bruno's long retired and hopefully is doing ok now. McCall, who's probably had a crazier life than all of them, he's 49 and he's still fighting and has never been knocked down in his whole life. Boxers, they're a rare breed.
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