Fighter's Mind, A Read Online Free PDF Page B

skin. His face is familiar from the TV, in the corner for all kinds of fighters. He had the fighting nickname the “Choirboy” for his boyish look (as well as “La Cucaracha,” for the obvious reason). He’s one of the most unassuming men you’ve ever met, although his physical presence has an awareness to it that palpably extends outward. That awareness he has makes you pay attention—quiet and powerful. You get the feeling he sees everything in the gym, even when his back is turned. Even if you didn’t know who he was, you’d know he was somebody.
    Freddie was featured heavily on HBO’s dramatic series 24/7 for the buildup to Mayweather/de la Hoya fight, and on the show he admitted publicly to having Parkinson’s brought on by boxing. Sometimes he stands with his hands stuffed under his armpits to keep them from shaking. But when he climbs into the ring to work mitts with a fighter all weakness falls away. He moves like a young man, crisp and sure. And he can catch. When he hit mitts with Mike Tyson, somebody asked, “Is that Bruce Lee in there with Mike?”
    Freddie has been to the wars, without a doubt. As a fighter, he was known for his reckless style—he would take a few hits to give one. He was good enough to make it to the top, where he lost big fights to world champions; he was a very good fighter but not a great one. Perhaps Freddie mumbles more than he might otherwise, but he’s not punchy. His mind and his intellect are deep, his eyes quiet and shielded behind his glasses. You get the feeling Freddie knows all kinds of things. Like any good boxing trainer—anybody who is good at making a living building fighters—he can look right through your exterior and see what’s happening inside.
    Freddie sits at the front desk and watches his domain with a wary eye, but he’s eminently approachable, with the usual coterie of fighters and friends lounging, soaking up the presence of one of boxing’s greats. He enjoys himself, enjoys his day, and chats with all kinds, from this Russian trainer with his eastern bloc protégé to that crusty old boxing writer. For a while I lived ten minutes from Wild Card and I would hit mitts with his brother, Pepper, and then sometimes catch Freddie for a few minutes to talk. I gave him a copy of my first book and told him about this project. I had boxed under Tommy Rawson at Harvard, and Tommy had refereed a lot of Freddie’s fights. We had the Massachusetts connection and I milked it. Massholes recognize each other, something about those grim New England winters, the endless slush of spring.
    Pepper is Freddie gone awry. The brothers grew up in Lowell, Massachusetts, and were boxing from childhood. Freddie says Pepper was the really talented one—people thought he was going to be the next Willie Pep. Willie was one of the greatest pure boxers ever—he famously won a round without throwing a punch, just with his grace of movement and skill. Pushed hard by their father (himself a seasoned pro), they both boxed from six years old, and they fought and won Golden Gloves and amateur competitions. But then the older brother, Pepper, fell into drugs and crime and his career derailed.
    Pepper himself snorts at Freddie’s “Willie Pep” comparison, and says, “I was just older than Freddie, so he looked up to me. Freddie was always the one.”
    Freddie is a firm believer in the old saw, “Fighters are born not made,” because as a former fighter he knows the multitude of variables that go into making a world champion. They are infinite. If you start trying to make a world champion from scratch, you’re doomed to failure. First of all, you need the right athlete. He’s gotta be tough, strong, fast. You need a guy who’s showing promise, who has come far down the path of commitment, and you help him proceed. Nobody makes a world champion from nothing; he creates himself under the trainer’s shaping eye—over the long years, staying with the plan, and fighting through