By Eric Bottjer
Six quarters lay on Sonny Liston’s grave Thursday late afternoon, planes loudly streaking overhead every 90 seconds moments before touching down at Las Vegas’ Harry Reid (aka McCarron) Airport. No resting in peace for Liston, who was buried here in January 1971. I stood over Sonny’s body, wondering why it took me 120 visits to even think of finding the grave, the stone itself the size of a large license plate. Sonny liesnext to a Latina who passed in 1979. Liston’s wife, Geraldine, died in 2005, but chose to reside eternally in St. Louis. Sonny wouldn’t have minded. He loved Geraldine, but he was not sentimental.
Matchmaker Jerry Alfano, the former 8-Count matchmaker in Chicago, chauffeured me to Davis Memorial Park in Vegas, part of which is a cemetery. Liston was one of its first residents (the cemetery portion opened in 1969). We left the quarters untouched and promised Sonny a gift if we returned. A pair of those mini boxing gloves that dangle on rearview mirror, perhaps.
In town for the mouthwatering David Benavidez-David Morrell scrap, I skipped the press conference threats and toured with Jerry the plentiful Vegas boxing gyms. The Top Rank Gym was basically empty. Keyshawn Davis had a press event at 3 pm and the regulars were asked to train elsewhere for the day.
The Mayweather Boxing Club hummed with activity. Otis Pimpleton is the boss here, one of Floyd’s Grand Rapids friends and a useful light-heavyweight in the 1980s. Otis and Jerry exchanged notes on who was training and who was looking for “work” (fights). A very German-looking German showed Jerry photos on his phone of Klitschko and said, in fractured English, that he worked with Felix Sturm. Jerry smiled.
The gym’s former dean, Cornelius Boza Edwards, lounged in the gym lobby, eyeing a Trump press conference. Boza nodded if he was still married. “Forty-three years,” he smiled. Both daughters grown and still in Vegas. When fans debate who was the 1980s most exciting warrior (Danny Lopez? Matthew Saad Muhammad? Ray Mancini?), Boza is often overlooked. But he’s in that class and doesn’t sit in the back.
Jerry takes us to the outskirts on the southern end of town and we hit the spacious Split-T gym, which is set up just as much for MMA as for boxing. There’s a separate room in the back with a full ring for private sparring. Split-T, of course, is Dave McWater’s management company, but the Vegas gym is Eric Belanger’s. Eric is a Canadian boxing guy (in the process of getting U.S. citizenship) and Dave has loaned his brand (name). Jerry tells Eric he’ll return in the morning to watch Shane Mosley Jr. spar.
Jerry takes me back to the Luxor (I’m not “flush” at the moment, as my old friend Cedric Kushner would say) and we pull in behind a cab what swallows up a hooker. She’s got a hideous tattoo on her thigh and I thought, as I felt disapproval, “I’m getting old.” I still wondered what she cost. It’s been five years since I’ve been to Vegas, and the going rate back then (knowledge known from questions, not actions) was $200-$300 an hour. Perhaps Luxor residents got discounts, just as the hotel’s rooms are discounted (at least this week). It’s not that I never entertained the thought of losing such money to a strange woman. They simply had to answer one question after five minutes of conversation: “What’s my name again?” None guessed correctly, although sadly I realized I looked the typical white middle-class guy. Lots of “Davids” and “Jims” tossed around. That’s OK. Even if they said “Eric,” they got no money. Because at Vegas bars, I was Travis. It was all fair – they lied to me about their names.
