http://tinyurl.com/5ch3yc Rise and fall of boxing champion Michael Nunn By SEAN KEELER • sekeeler@dmreg.com • July 6, 2008 Sandstone, Minn. - He shakes your hand with the kind of grip that would make a brick cry. FCI Sandstone inmate No. 11172-030, the quiet man with the shaved head and easy smile, tells you he's a grandfather, yet he doesn't look a day over 35. "If I never fight again in my life, I'm the happiest man in the world," Michael Nunn says. He shifts a bit in his chair, then leans forward. Slowly. "I'm a two-time world champion. You can't ever take that from me." It was 20 years ago this month - July 1988 - that Nunn, a tough kid from inner-city Davenport, became the talk of the boxing world. Rows of jaws at Caesars Palace dropped like coins in a slot. Nunn scored a ninth-round TKO of Frank Tate, the former Olympic gold medalist, to claim the IBF middleweight title. Iowa's first professional boxing world champion, Nunn added a WBA super middleweight crown a few years later. In all, he won 58 fights, lost four, and recorded 38 knockouts. He reportedly earned at least $6 million. <SCRIPT language=JavaScript>OAS_AD('ArticleFlex_1');</SCRIPT><SCRIPT language=javascript1.1 src="http://gannett.gcion.com/addyn/3.0/5111.1/133600/0/0/ADTECH;alias=ia-desmoines.desmoinesregister.com/sports/article.htm_ArticleFlex_1;cookie=info;loc=100;target=_blank;grp=358720;misc=1215797898320"></SCRIPT><SCRIPT language=JavaScript src="http://optimized-by.rubiconproject.com/a/4275/4803/6722-9.js?cb=0.4678364556281411&keyword=6171" type=text/javascript></SCRIPT><SCRIPT src="http://ad.targetingmarketplace.com/st?ad_type=ad&ad_size=160x600&site=199310§ion_code=Gannett-Sports" type=text/javascript></SCRIPT><SCRIPT src="http://ad.yieldmanager.com/imp?Z=160x600&S=Gannett-Sports&i=199310&_salt=4284497793&B=10&u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.desmoinesregister.com%2Fapps%2Fpbcs.dll%2Farticle%3FAID%3D%2F20080706%2FSPORTS14%2F807060338%2F1023%2FSPORTS13&r=1" type=text/javascript></SCRIPT> He hung out with movie stars. He captained a fleet of fancy cars. He was going to be the next Sugar Ray Leonard. The canvas was his canvas, the world his easel. Tomorrow morning, he will be handed a paintbrush. Michael "Second To" Nunn reports to a paint crew at 7 a.m. Jobs for inmates at the federal prison in Sandstone, Minn., typically pay between 12 cents and 41 cents per hour, depending on the assignment. "That life, it's over with," the 45-year-old says, leaning back in the chair, eyes downcast. "It's caused me a lot of pain. You know what I'm saying?" The local kid who talks with his fists climbs the ladder to the top of the boxing world, only to watch rung after rung snap beneath his feet. Sex. Drugs. Violence. A 24-year prison sentence for cocaine trafficking. There's a book in Nunn's story, maybe even a movie script, buried among the pathos. He promises that the final chapter will be different, that there will be redemption, a happy ending. The kind that Hollywood producers eat for breakfast. You don't have to forgive him. You don't have to trust him. You don't have to like him, although it will be awfully, awfully hard not to. All Michael John Nunn asks is that you remember him. Remember the good with the bad. Remember the lessons. "A lot of these guys (in prison)," Nunn says, "they (talk about) it. But I lived that life."
'Almost perfect' He had all the tools. Tall. Left-handed. Six-foot-two with great reach. In his prime, he was poetry. Feet borrowed from Fred Astaire, a jab like a jackhammer. "As a boxer, a pure boxer," boxing analyst Al Bernstein says of Nunn, "he was almost perfect." "There were times, earlier in his career, you couldn't hit him with the backside of a buckshot," adds Bert Sugar, the longtime boxing historian and author. "He could move." And he could charm. Young, handsome and athletically gifted, Nunn seemed tailor-made for Madison Avenue. He hobnobbed with actors Gene Hackman and Michael J. Fox. He offered boxing tips to a young Michael Jordan. He was honored at the state Capitol in 1991. He was a good talker. And an even better listener. "Whether it was sitting with people that waited on tables or presidents of networks or casinos, he always seemed to fit in," says veteran boxing promoter Dan Goossen, who managed Nunn during his first professional ascent. "He made people feel comfortable. He had the ability to speak to kings and queens as equally as the common man. "That's the disappointment. That's what Michael lost out on. That's what a lot of people lost out on. You hang out with rats, you're going to eat cheese." Which was the greater tragedy: That the rats finally did Nunn in? Or that he let them? When asked about the January 2004 sentencing - 292 months in federal prison for buying cocaine from an undercover agent - Nunn says the responsibility rests squarely on his shoulders. "I wasn't supposed to be here, but I am here," he explains. "I did wrong. I told the judge, 'I did wrong.' I made a mistake. I'm paying for my mistakes. I blame me. I hold myself accountable for the things that I've done." There are no promises, no guarantees, but Neal Randolph Lewis, a Miami attorney, says he has at least one more appeal in the works on Nunn's behalf. "As a professional boxer, he's got some skills that I think they were concerned about, initially," Lewis says. "But I think he's shown them that he's a really good prisoner." FCI Sandstone is Nunn's third prison in nearly five years. A low-security facility for male offenders, it sits roughly 90 miles north of the Twin Cities. The campus is a concrete island amid an emerald ocean of birches and pines, not far from Banning State Park, nestled at the end of a two-lane road just outside town. "This here," Nunn says, "is a kiddie camp compared to places I've been." He rises at 6:30 a.m., assuming this is a typical day, and devotes most of the morning to work. Lunch comes around 11:30. Give or take. If Nunn isn't running, he's reading. The Bible and motivational texts are his favorites. At last count, he had close to two dozen books within arm's reach. He spends afternoons in class, and expects to complete his GED before the end of the summer. "Go to school. Get an education," Nunn says. "There's no money in the world that's worth being in jail. It didn't have to be like this. This is what happens when you make bad choices." He still gets letters. Letters from friends, letters from fans. Maybe 25 to 30 a month. They ask how he's doing. They ask about life in prison. They tell him to keep his head up, to keep fighting. He says he writes every one of them back. "I feel it's my duty," Nunn says. "You feel good that people still think about you. Makes you feel truly blessed. Makes you want to do the right thing. I don't want people to think of me and say that 'He was a drug dealer.' I don't want to paint the wrong picture to the kids. "I want to right my wrongs. You put that in there."
'Nunn was an original' Alvino Pena's place, the Davenport Boxing Club, drips history. And paint chips. The wood is creaky and rotting in places. Some of the ceiling tiles look as if they've gone 12 rounds. If the walls could talk, they'd stutter. And yet some of the best fighters in the state have cut their teeth here, Nunn chief among them. Michael moved to the Quad Cities from Mississippi when he was 3 months old. He was raised by his mother, Madies, and never knew his father. He drifted. Scuffled. Stole. He might not have been a bad kid, but he certainly ran with a bad crowd. A cousin, Marshall Jackson, suggested he channel that aggression constructively. Nunn was eventually steered toward Pena's club in downtown Davenport. "He was a fast fighter," Pena says. "He could move around like nothing. He's jabbing with the right hand (and) because he's a lefty, you could never see it coming. Jab-jab-jab, you know?" Nunn won three Iowa Golden Gloves titles and posted an amateur record of 168-8. The rest reads like a local fairy tale, Cinderella with a heavy bag: He was one victory away from making the U.S. Olympic team in 1984; eventually discovered by Bob Surkein, an amateur official and Olympic referee who lived in Moline; and later introduced by Surkein to Goossen and a new management team from California, known as Ten Goose Boxing. The Goossens moved him west. They groomed him to be a star. An unpolished gem was handed a ticket out of town on the back of a golden goose. "I don't know how the heck he could have got into trouble and everything," Pena says. "He could have been champion of the world right now, if he wouldn't have been (in prison). I know he would, if he could have stayed out of there." Pena says he and Nunn have remained close over the years, yet there is little of the former champ to be found around the club. Michael's name was prominently painted on a sign inside the front window, but the name was mysteriously blacked out a few years ago and has never been repaired. There used to be picture of Nunn on one of the walls, Pena says, but it's gone, now, too. A few browning newspaper clippings of the glory years are all that's left. That and word of mouth. "People that are good are originals," says fighter Josh 'Jungle Man' Jungjohann, a 32-year-old Rock Island native. "All the standouts in any sport, they're originals. And Nunn was an original." In another corner of the room, Donovan Dennis, a 20-year-old heavyweight from Davenport who's one of Pena's next up-and-comers, says he's seen clips of Nunn's biggest fights on YouTube. And while he's never met him, he'd like to. "If he was like a mentor to the kids, he'd help keep the wrong ones focused," Dennis says. "I think he should get his story out there, though, so the kids here don't go down the same road." 'He got used a lot' The road is long. Long and winding. It curls from Las Vegas to Los Angeles to Miami and back again, yet it always swings through Davenport. And the farther down you go, the deeper the potholes become. On May 10, 1991, Nunn was still clinging to the pinnacle, but only by a couple of pinkies. He'd split from the Goossens acrimoniously. He'd beaten Iran Barkley, Marlon Starling and Donald Curry to retain his IBF title, but few had come away impressed. Still, he was a 20-to-1 favorite to hang on to his belt, in his hometown, against challenger James Toney, with famed trainer Angelo Dundee in his corner. The stars were aligned. Or so everyone thought. He'd fought crisply for the first five rounds at John O'Donnell Stadium, but was beginning to tire by the seventh. In the 11th, Nunn dropped his hands for a split second. That was all the time it took for Toney to plant a left hook that sent him sprawling. "My God, he was kicking the snot out of the guy," Dundee says now. "And he got hit with an inside left hook. He didn't see it." Nunn lost the title. The big purses shrank. The downward spiral picked up speed. Federal court records show that between April 1983 and April 2002, Nunn was cited at least 28 times by law enforcement in Iowa, Illinois or California, with charges ranging from driving under a suspended license to assault. All but three of the incidents took place after the loss to Toney, and in nine cases, he was either found guilty or pleaded guilty. The knockout blow came in the fall of 2002. Nunn hadn't had a title bout since losing a split decision to Graciano Rocchigiani in 1998. He was in his late 30s and had put on weight. Personal debts were mounting; he'd filed for bankruptcy in March 1995. On Aug. 6, Nunn and another individual agreed to meet at a Davenport hotel with a man who turned out to be an undercover FBI drug agent. According to affidavits filed in federal court, when presented with 2.2 pounds of cocaine from out of state, Nunn told the undercover officer that he could sell it in a couple of weeks. Nunn reportedly took the package, stuffed it down the front of his pants, and turned the corner to leave. While in the hotel's hallway, the former champion was approached by law enforcement officers, who identified themselves and ordered him to the ground. He eventually pleaded guilty to one count of conspiracy to distribute cocaine. It's here that things start to get a little hazy. While Nunn has denied drug use for decades, and maintains that stance to this day ("I never used drugs," he says. "To be a drug dealer, you don't have to use drugs"), a court-ordered substance abuse evaluation directly contradicts him. The report indicates that Nunn had occasionally used marijuana since the age of 17, and cocaine since the age of 21. Personal foibles compounded bad business decisions, and vice versa. A vicious cycle, forever turning. During one block party back home, at Cork Hill Park, Nunn supposedly turned up with handfuls of $50 and $100 bills and simply threw them up in the air for the local kids to chase. Court records in 1995 showed Nunn had accumulated debts of $4.66 million against assets of $647,575. It became a feeding frenzy. The Internal Revenue Service claimed $81,984 in unpaid federal income taxes from 1992 and 1993. Three Davenport women claimed he owed $46,517 in child support. Another Davenport woman who allegedly lived with Nunn in California made a $200,000 claim in palimony. Don King, Nunn's former promoter, also put in a claim for $1 million. When you ask about the money, Nunn respectfully declines to address specifics. Old wounds. "Money's a good thing to have; you have to know how to take care of it," he says, the pain of hindsight dangling from every word. "Everybody who shakes your hand is not your friend." Nunn admits that he did not choose his company wisely. As a young man, he had chased the good life, embraced it with two mighty arms, and watched it turn around and swallow him whole. "I think his problem was that he didn't see what other people were possibly doing to him and what he was doing to himself," says Chicago attorney Anthony Schumann, one of Nunn's former lawyers. "And it appeared to me, over the course of representing him, that he got used a lot. By a lot of people." What if Nunn had said no? What if he'd stayed away from Davenport, kept his nose clean? Where would he be now? Not Sandstone, surely. Television analyst? Coach? The star of some cable network reality show? Would every 21st century bachelor pad have an electric grill that bore his name instead of George Foreman's? "If you're around bad," Nunn says, "you're going to get bad." In retrospect, the decision to leave Ten Goossen in 1990 was the one that probably proved the most costly. Dan Goossen had offered Nunn an 80-20 split of future winnings, a fairly generous cut by industry standards. A deal was reached with casino magnate Steve Wynn; Goossen says that he was even pitching Nunn to the powerful Creative Artists Agency, whose stable of sports stars these days includes names such as LeBron James, Peyton Manning, Derek Jeter and Jimmie Johnson. But Nunn's friends and family in Davenport had different ideas, and urged him to walk away. He did. The golden goose was cooked. "Davenport," Nunn says, "has been my nightmare in a way."
'It's like I'm gone' You don't have to pity him. That's not why he's talking. What's passed has passed. He doesn't want you to feel sorry for him, either, even though he misses his family like crazy, and they miss him right back. Madies did not respond to the Sunday Register's request for an interview, but Jackson says Nunn speaks to his mother on a daily basis. "I get a little upset talking about him," Jackson says. "That's my family. I love him, I always will love him, but that's tough. I think about him every day." So does Goossen. "It's not that Michael Nunn blew through double-digit millions," says the promoter, who would eventually reconcile with his old client. "It's not a tragedy because he may not go to the (Boxing) Hall of Fame. "He just was too good of a man to put himself in that position, where he's not there to be able to touch people and touch their lives and make them feel special. That's the tragedy." That's the lesson. Today, Michael Nunn is out of sight and out of mind. A legend and a whisper. A whisper that waits. A whisper that hopes. "It's like I'm gone," Nunn says, softly. "And I'm not gone."
He was a great fighter and I enjoy rewatching his bouts but I don't really feel pity for a guy who sells drugs. They are low-life
I don't have any sympathy for him either. It is a pity, however, that he was such a monumental waste of talent. I think at his best, he'd be a handful for most of the middleweights in history.
dsimon writes: More accomplished than Toney was and maybe as physically gifted as Roy, with the grace and cunnign of Calhoun. Goddamit!!!! Call me a romantic call me crazy, or just call me an idiot like Neil does but I swear.... when people are too talented at something it becomes its own problem. I knew guys in Baltimore that had drug problems and were so good that they would stuff NBA guys in pick up games in the Harlem league.
Nunn would be the P4P best if he was prime today. I like Pavlik, but I dont think he coulda beaten Nunn. Not the version that beat Tate anyway. The Nunn from the Tate fight would give ANY middleweight in history hell. That includes Monzon, Hagler, and even my boy Roy. And excluding those guys, I think that version of Nunn would have BEATEN any middleweight in history.
whilst drug dealing is bad, his sentence is a huge joke :notallthere: the unfortunate result of the government trying to show something is being done about the drug hysteria meanwhile rapists and murderers get less time than that
I agree 100% - preposterous, that rapists and kiddy fiddlers get out quicker than Nunn. Truly absurd.
Between this thread (Nunn is my second favorite fighter ever) and the Pavlik-Williams thread (PW is my current favorite), I'm guessing that someone wants me to just crawl into a hole and die. Great..now I sound paranoid and depressed. This bodes well for my future :boohoo:
dsimon writes: I tend to exxagerate these things, I mean I am convinced Ike Ibeuchi was the second coming, but Nun..... Nun was the package. His drug sentence as Lb 4 Lb said was ridiculous. He was set up.
Nunn was indeed a great talent. A very skilled boxer-puncher who happened to be very tall and a southpaw on top of it. With those atributes it's easy to say that he could be competitive or even beat other great fighters on paper. For whatever reason people only seem to remember potential when it comes to athletes who had their careers cut short. To put him on a pedestal with the all time great middleweights is ridiculous regardless of how much talent he had. Imagine if never got knocked out by Toney. (let alone the other losses) The worship in this thread would be tantamount to jehovas witnesses praise of jesus.
agREED. Good post. Nunn had talent and skills, but he never accomplished as much as his talent could have allowed him to. Nunn had a short run where he looked like he might be a special fighter, but his career peaked with the win over Kalambay. Then followed 3 lackluster title defenses, the loss to Toney and then the remainder of his career was a series of more lackluster fights in which he was unable to recapture his status of a top fighter (despite winning an alphabet 168 lb title) and was mostly living off the reputation he had from the late 80's.
