life.
In the late 1950s – when only
one championship belt had existed – Eugene Profit had been a world contender.
Number Two in the world rankings no less. Back then, Profit had cut a dashing
figure; handsome, with an uncanny similarity to the Hollywood actor, Cary
Grant. Time Magazine had listed the young fighter as one of America’s
most prolific sportsmen.
By the time he was just
seventeen he’d already turned pro and had quickly risen within the ranks. At
twenty-one he boasted a scorecard of twenty-one wins, eighteen by knockout, and
zero losses. In a sport that had become predominantly dominated by African-Americans,
the public and promoters had fallen over themselves to get at this handsome,
enigmatic, young white fighter. And by his twenty-third birthday, was working
his way to a serious shot at the title.
What followed became the stuff
of legend.
Profit, unmarked, touted as
being too wet behind the ears by some and well out of his depth, had stepped
into the ring that night as a 10-1 underdog. The then current champ had been an
ugly, flat-nosed French-Canadian named Maurice ‘Mad Dog’ Russo. Mad Dog
had laid waste to all that had stood before him, having defended his crown no
less than eleven times already. A seasoned champ who knew every trick in the
book – and then some.
For the first five rounds,
Profit was forced to question his current occupational choice many times over.
His straight, finally chiselled nose was busted by the end of round two, and a
cut that was deep enough to shove dimes into had opened up above his right eye
by the beginning of the fourth. Twice his corner men pushed to end the fight. Perhaps
the masses had been right, and Profit was not ready for such an undertaking.
But something had the young fighter in its grip and was unwilling to let him
go. Profit shook off his fears and, with blood dripping from both nostrils and
brow, he stepped into the centre of the ring.
Profit got on his toes and
worked the ring like a matador. He utilised his strengths: speed and stamina,
and concentrated on using his sticking left jab to maximum effect. Every time
Mad Dog held them in a clinch, Profit stepped back and countered with simple
straight lefts and rights. By the eighth round the fight began to swing towards
the newcomer. The ninth saw both opponents floored – Profit by a swinging right
hook that he failed to duck, and Mad Dog by a vicious right cross delivered
with such speed that even the rolling cameras at ringside were unable to pick
up clearly.
Rounds ten, eleven and twelve
came and went in a blur of leather, with so many punches landing, the
statisticians had difficulty keeping count. The current champ had two factors
working against him now: age and tiredness. His guard began to drop and his
shots were rapidly losing their power and accuracy. With fire in his belly and
lightning in his fists, Profit backed his opponent up against the ropes.
The fifteenth round was Mad
Dog’s undoing. Knowing now that only a knockout could save his championship, he
came storming out of his corner like a man possessed. Within thirty seconds,
though, he’d blown himself out, leaving himself wide open to a counterattack.
Profit happily obliged. His simple combinations of left and rights eventually
reduced Mad Dog to a spent force. And, with only seconds remaining on the
clock, he’d landed no fewer than thirty punches that were undefended and
unanswered. With no other option, the referee jumped in to end the fight.
The American dream now lay
subserviently at Eugene Profit’s feet. He took hold with both hands. In less
than a year, he had defended his title successfully on three occasions. The
film studios of that time were falling over themselves to include him as a
bit-part player in countless films. More importantly, he met the love of his
life on the parking lot at Paramount Studios.
Elizabeth Montague, a B-movie
actress, was herself on the verge of international
In the late 1950s – when only
one championship belt had existed – Eugene Profit had been a world contender.
Number Two in the world rankings no less. Back then, Profit had cut a dashing
figure; handsome, with an uncanny similarity to the Hollywood actor, Cary
Grant. Time Magazine had listed the young fighter as one of America’s
most prolific sportsmen.
By the time he was just
seventeen he’d already turned pro and had quickly risen within the ranks. At
twenty-one he boasted a scorecard of twenty-one wins, eighteen by knockout, and
zero losses. In a sport that had become predominantly dominated by African-Americans,
the public and promoters had fallen over themselves to get at this handsome,
enigmatic, young white fighter. And by his twenty-third birthday, was working
his way to a serious shot at the title.
What followed became the stuff
of legend.
Profit, unmarked, touted as
being too wet behind the ears by some and well out of his depth, had stepped
into the ring that night as a 10-1 underdog. The then current champ had been an
ugly, flat-nosed French-Canadian named Maurice ‘Mad Dog’ Russo. Mad Dog
had laid waste to all that had stood before him, having defended his crown no
less than eleven times already. A seasoned champ who knew every trick in the
book – and then some.
For the first five rounds,
Profit was forced to question his current occupational choice many times over.
His straight, finally chiselled nose was busted by the end of round two, and a
cut that was deep enough to shove dimes into had opened up above his right eye
by the beginning of the fourth. Twice his corner men pushed to end the fight. Perhaps
the masses had been right, and Profit was not ready for such an undertaking.
But something had the young fighter in its grip and was unwilling to let him
go. Profit shook off his fears and, with blood dripping from both nostrils and
brow, he stepped into the centre of the ring.
Profit got on his toes and
worked the ring like a matador. He utilised his strengths: speed and stamina,
and concentrated on using his sticking left jab to maximum effect. Every time
Mad Dog held them in a clinch, Profit stepped back and countered with simple
straight lefts and rights. By the eighth round the fight began to swing towards
the newcomer. The ninth saw both opponents floored – Profit by a swinging right
hook that he failed to duck, and Mad Dog by a vicious right cross delivered
with such speed that even the rolling cameras at ringside were unable to pick
up clearly.
Rounds ten, eleven and twelve
came and went in a blur of leather, with so many punches landing, the
statisticians had difficulty keeping count. The current champ had two factors
working against him now: age and tiredness. His guard began to drop and his
shots were rapidly losing their power and accuracy. With fire in his belly and
lightning in his fists, Profit backed his opponent up against the ropes.
The fifteenth round was Mad
Dog’s undoing. Knowing now that only a knockout could save his championship, he
came storming out of his corner like a man possessed. Within thirty seconds,
though, he’d blown himself out, leaving himself wide open to a counterattack.
Profit happily obliged. His simple combinations of left and rights eventually
reduced Mad Dog to a spent force. And, with only seconds remaining on the
clock, he’d landed no fewer than thirty punches that were undefended and
unanswered. With no other option, the referee jumped in to end the fight.
The American dream now lay
subserviently at Eugene Profit’s feet. He took hold with both hands. In less
than a year, he had defended his title successfully on three occasions. The
film studios of that time were falling over themselves to include him as a
bit-part player in countless films. More importantly, he met the love of his
life on the parking lot at Paramount Studios.
Elizabeth Montague, a B-movie
actress, was herself on the verge of international
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