By Eric Bottjer
Michael Katz was one of the Big Four in New York boxing writing in the 1990s. Each of those writers reflected the personality of their publications. The loud and entertaining Mike Marley for the New York Post (the trash tabloid with world-class classless headlines {“Headless Man Found in Topless Bar” being the most famous, although my all-timer was Ike Turner’s obit headline, “Ike Beats Tina to Death”}, the handsome, talented Wally Matthews at Newsday, who had the space in that tabloid to “go deep” when necessary; the lowkey Phil Berger for the staid New York Times, Phil being the best writer of the four (of course he was, he worked for the fucking New York Times, home of the best journalists on the planet, no matter what the “Fake News” cretins say); balanced out by the bearded curmudgeon Katz, who boasted all the best qualities of his three brethren. He was a talented writer (he worked at the Times before the Daily News pilfered him), knew boxing, tolerated no bullshit, was informative and entertaining simultaneously andwas, believe it or not, quite sensitive.
Michael left us Monday, breathing his last at a Brooklyn nursing home. He was 85. Much of his spirit departed four years ago when his only child, daughter Moorea, was robbed of life by cancer. As a single father of an only child (a daughter), I know the spot Moorea occupied in Mike’s soul. I also know first-hand how close they were. After an Atlantic City show in the 1990s, I found Katz sitting alone at the end of the bar at the Irish Pub, a pint of beer in front of him. Katz was a reformed drinker, so the site was shocking. Me, being an enthusiastic drinker and unabashed Katz fan, only had to be motioned over once to the seat next to him. Moorea was leaving the nest, off to law school.
Cancer took Mike’s wife Marilyn years prior, so Moorea was Mike’s world. Mike spoke and I listened. I learned there can be nothing more powerful than the connection a father has with a daughter. He nursed that beer and he teared up more than once. He showed himself as only one can when confronted with losing (in a sense) the love of their life. He was a beautiful soul when open and vulnerable.
Others who knew – or just encountered – Katz could use different adjectives (combative, profane). And they wouldn’t be wrong either. Katz had a rumpled look (although, it was the look of a rumpled European, so there was some class in there), wore a neck brace for years and was often armed with a walking stick. He always was armed with a biting intellect.
Katz vacationed annually in France, where he had worked for the Times before returning to the states to work as the paper’s boxing writer. He was cultured and educated and delightful company when he did not feel provoked. He was (overly) sensitive and an empath, which endeared him to many boxers. The smart fighters could tell that Katz gave a damn and cared about them as people.
When he was provoked, Katz would barrel into Thunderdome with anyone. A physical fight with Boston Globe columnist Ron Borges resulted with Bob Arum as collateral damage, the promoter being knocked from a chair. Unrelated, Arum sued Katz for defamation after Mike pounced on Bob in print for promoting a show on Yom Kippur.
Fightnews.com editor Scott Pope (aka “Flattop”) threatened Katz’s life after a colorful phone conversation.
Katz swung his trusty cane at a fellow writer once in Vegas. Vegas boxing writer Kevin Iole jumped in to take the blow on his hand. At that point, in 2001, Katz was writing for a website. His 15-year run at the Daily News ended the previous year, the last of the Big Four to grace the New York papers with boxing news. Katz moved to Vegas in the early 2000s and he basically retired, the sport – and print journalism – passing him by. He never got a proper sendoff. Stupidly, I never reached out to Mike after he retired.
Mike moved me that night at the Irish Pub long ago, laying himself bare in the midst of a painful separation. I’ll pay it forward and honor his memory today by reaching out to a long-lost friend. Why not do the same, dear reader?
