Las Vegas, January 2013
On a slow Saturday morning in a parking lot without cars, only a solitary swivel chair could loosely be classed as a wheeled vehicle.
The chair was isolated in the middle of the lot, seemingly abandoned along Schiff Drive by a disgruntled member of staff working for any one of the modest businesses situated in the area west of the Las Vegas strip, and, for the purpose of entertainment, and motivated in large part by boredom, Paddy Fitzpatrick sauntered over and claimed it. Once there, he sat down, clicked it into first gear and then scooted it back towards where George Groves was standing, just inches from the doorstep of the Mayweather Boxing Club, its name spelled out above it in bright red, white and blue lettering. Groves smiled. He was entertained by the trainer’s antics, for it helped ebb away some of the time.
Time. There was plenty of it. Punctuality ensured Groves, Fitzpatrick and fellow trainer Darren Chan arrived in Chinatown at 11.30 am, a full half an hour before they were told Floyd Mayweather Jr’s gym opened, and even then they weren’t sure the gym would ever open, and found themselves relying on the word of an Irishman on a swivel chair who had earlier that day completed a covert mission to find the phone number of an old Las Vegas friend, Roger Mayweather, and ask him if it would be okay for him to bring along a fighter to train at the gym.
“Black Mamba” apparently said yes.
Consequently, Groves, though in Sin City less than twenty-four hours, jet-lagged, and presumably still bloated from the three bottles of beer he sank at a hotel bar the previous evening, stuffed his training gear into his large suitcase and wheeled it through an empty parking lot in pursuit of sparring. Ever the pro, he was, rather than flustered or ill-prepared, excited by the prospect of gatecrashing Mayweather’s gym and beating up one of the many fighters who train there. He spoke of nothing else and was open to sparring anybody, be it a super-middleweight or a heavyweight. It didn’t matter to him. And he wasn’t at all anxious about the gym’s reputation, either, or the propensity of its inhabitants to goad and deride any newcomer who dare take on one of their own. If anything, it was that element, the idea of being an unwanted stranger in a foreign land, which most appealed to him. How strange.
Admittedly, when waiting patiently outside the door marked 4020, Groves by his suitcase and Fitzpatrick sucking liquorice root on a swivel chair, there was no doubting who the foreigners were. To the uneducated, the Commonwealth and former British super-middleweight champion, kitted out in a grey hooded top and grey bottoms, appeared nothing more than an overzealous fan desperate to catch a glimpse of one of boxing’s most famous gyms, and Fitzpatrick his protective father.
It couldn’t be denied. Groves’ demeanour was certainly a far cry from the shit-talking and boisterous prizefighters who regularly rocked up in hefty Range Rovers and Bugattis and barged through door 4020 with the help of minders. It was why he looked out of place. It was why he looked lost. I was why he – they – must surely have resembled tourists in the eyes of John Sinclair, Floyd’s uncle – the other one – when he prised open the door at 12.15 pm and stared at a peculiar Irishman in a porkpie hat joyously spinning around on a desk chair.
‘I spoke to Roger and he said it was okay for us to train here,’ said Paddy.
‘All of you?’ asked Sinclair.
‘No,’ said Fitzpatrick. ‘Just him.’
The trainer pointed at Groves and Sinclair eyed him up and down like a fake designer suit. He then shrugged.
‘Okay, but you’ll have to leave the chair outside.’
‘Not a problem, brother,’ said Fitzpatrick.
The reception area, like the gym itself, was essentially a shrine to its owner, and, upon entering, Groves and company were immediately ambushed by various Mayweather murals. On one wall there were images of Floyd dressed as an unconvincing gangster – pin-striped suit, fedora, wads of cash and machine gun in hand – and on the other were dozens of Mayweather versus Miguel Cotto fight posters, all stuck together in some kind of confused collage. Then, next to that collection of posters and to the side of the gym’s entrance was a message scrawled on white A4 paper that informed all guests: “The gym is closed at 5pm and only those under Mayweather Promotions will remain to train. NO ONE ELSE. Thank you, Mayweather Boxing Club.”
Groves eyed up the message, and the pictures, and even the plasma television showing a college basketball game. He then peered through the door that led to the main gym area. He tried to resist enthusiasm, but it was tough. Sinclair was standing nearby and sensed it. ‘You can go through and take a look around, if you want,’ he said, assuming the boxer to be high on hero worship. ‘It’s pretty empty right now, we’ve only just opened, but it will get busy later.’
‘Have you got any super-middleweights coming down?’ asked Groves.
‘I’m not sure. Why? You looking for sparring?’
‘Yeah.’
Sinclair appeared sceptical. ‘And you’re a super-middleweight?’
‘Well, not right now. Probably more a light-heavyweight. But, yeah, that’s the weight I fight at.’
Sinclair nodded his head and again looked him up and down.
‘I’ll spar anybody, though,’ added Groves. ‘Even heavyweights, if you’ve got them.’
Shocked by this confidence, Sinclair chose to flash a wry smile and close the conversation there. Clearly a non-believer, he had no idea who Groves was, nor how talented or accomplished he was in the ring. Didn’t wish to know, either.
Fitzpatrick was keen to keep it that way. At least for now. As they both finally walked through the door into the gym, he grabbed George by the arm and whispered into his ear, ‘Don’t tell any of them who you are, okay? Let’s just do the job we came to do and go home.’
It was a job easier said than done, however, as Groves, international man of mystery, wasted no time cracking open his suitcase and pulling from it a number of T-shirts, all of which featured his name and logo. With that, the jig was up, and all Fitzpatrick could do was roll his eyes.
Floyd Mayweather, of course, was also a fan of self-promotion and T-shirts, but was beyond using them as unofficial ID cards. Besides, his entire gym paid tribute to his name, face and achievements; like one almighty mirror, his reflection stared back at him and everybody else lucky enough to shadowbox in front of it. There were Mayweather Promotions logos splashed all over two ring canvases, as well as the corner pads, and countless fight posters, new and old, each involving Mayweather, plastered on the surrounding walls. Sponsors such as Grant and Reebok also received kudos on ring ropes, and the flags of America, Mexico and Panama briefly hinted at a world consisting of more than just one man.
On the whole, though, this was all about Floyd. Even when not present, he was everywhere. Contagious, too, as time and time again youngsters would filter through the door and each wrap their hands, step inside one of the two rings and shadowbox exactly as their hero and mentor would. Hands low, smiles bright yet insincere, they would take comfort in the shoulder-roll defence and perform every move with typical Mayweather swagger, as though it all came far too easy to them.
Sinclair, too, the reluctant host, was a walking, talking human billboard for his boss and nephew. The oversized T-shirt on his back, for example, was decorated with images of Floyd, and the manner in which he and the other employees spoke was in keeping with the way the fighter carried himself. They were brash and positive and their words seemed rapped rather than spoken, emphasis always on promotion and money.
‘You want T-shirts?’ Sinclair asked Darren Chan as he toured the gym. ‘I can get you T-shirts. I’ve got to go home and get them, but I can get you T-shirts. You can’t find them anywhere else, either. I got them done, so trust me on that. And I’m Floyd’s uncle. I’m not just some nobody. I’m his uncle.’
The title of uncle appeared every bit as prestigious as the many Floyd had held over the years. It carried status and power and seemingly put Sinclair a notch above the numerous other cronies who spent their days whooping and hollering the champ’s every move. It also meant he was connected by blood and not simply a desire to penny-pinch from a man considered the best boxer on the planet. That day, though, when pressed for his actual role, the best Sinclair could offer was ‘masseuse’ – that is, masseuse to a boxer absent from the gym. It was as bizarre as it sounds.
Ultimately, Groves and Fitzpatrick didn’t care for T-shirts. They were there on business and, despite an alarming lack of fighters, especially super-middleweights, Fitzpatrick wrapped his man’s hands as though in preparation for battle, a real fight, all the while Groves looked over the trainer’s shoulder and jumped in anticipation every time a fresh face entered the gymnasium.
‘You guys English?’ asked an elderly man dressed in a sky blue shell-suit and cap, sitting not far from where Groves had his hands seen to. Your typical gym rat, this man had a free Saturday afternoon and loved nothing more than parking up inside Floyd’s gym and watching the latest up-and-comers go to work.
‘Some of us are,’ replied Groves.
‘I tell you what,’ he said, ‘I do miss that Princess Diana. What a lovely, lovely woman. There isn’t a day goes by when I don’t think about what happened to her.’
Groves and Fitzpatrick nodded in agreement, both unsure what exactly could be added to this opening statement.
‘I don’t think that country of yours will ever be the same without her,’ he continued. ‘What an incredible woman she was. So beautiful as well.’
The infatuation stopped there. Seconds later, Diana made way for Ricky.
‘And that Ricky Hatton,’ said the old man, raising his hand to his head. ‘That boy’s sure popular over there, ain’t he? I couldn’t believe the support he gets in England. You guys love him. Floyd loves him, too. We all do.’
Though hardly said with spite, the comment served to put the out-of-towners in their place and let them know exactly whose house they had entered. Hatton, of course, had been one of Mayweather’s many victims during an incredible unbeaten run, and, like Hatton, the latest addition to the Mayweather household was also British and suspiciously pasty. Evidently, in the eyes of the locals, this didn’t bode well.
Yet there was never any hint of trepidation on the soon-to-be-sunburnt face of Groves; never any sense he was wary of stepping on toes or acting out of turn. In fact, just moments after having his hands bandaged, he shunned further small talk with the locals and instead climbed inside the main ring – slightly more elevated than the other one – and began shadowboxing as though he had been training there all his life. He covered every inch of the canvas, throwing punches, avoiding imaginary counters, and never once second guessed his decision to do so.
But then the gym started to fill up. Younger, smaller fighters made their way through the door and prepared to wrap their hands. One of them, a spindly boy in glasses, wearing yet another Money Team T-shirt, instantly made his presence known by skipping towards the CD player and sorting through a number of homemade CDs scattered on a table. Each of the discs had song titles, album titles or the name of an artist scribbled haphazardly upon them and the boxer grabbed one, simply labelled A$AP Rocky, then called out to his friend, who by now had entered the second of the two rings and started shadowboxing. ‘Yo,’ he said, ‘you want that new ASAP Rocky joint?’
This was not the kind of Rocky most boxing aficionados expect to be name-dropped in a gymnasium. Rather, in place of “Eye of the Tiger” were a number of abrasive, profanity-ridden rap songs, one of which, “F****n’ Problems”, started up at precisely the moment a six-foot-three, 220-pound heavyweight trudged through the door and straight into the eye-line of Groves, whose face brightened and pace quickened at the mere sight of him. Finally, a breakthrough, he thought, and, at the end of the round, he darted over to the corner, took a swig of water from Fitzpatrick and said, ‘I’ve not seen any super-middles yet, but I’ll stick it on that big bastard if none show.’
The big bastard in question was an amateur heavyweight, with a physique more suited to body building than boxing, all comically large arms and shoulders, but most definitely a big bastard nonetheless. And when he finally gloved up and whaled away on the heavy bag, he left clear indentations following each and every predictable swing.
No amount of muscle could spook Groves, however. When shadowboxing, for instance, as he did for approximately fifteen minutes, the tourist constantly glanced the way of the heavyweight working the bag. He wanted to get to know him and to figure out his tendencies before hopefully then exposing them in the ring.
The entire gym sensed what was about to happen, too. Now and then, as the heavyweight abused the bag, he would be interrupted by gym mates, many of whom whispered something in his ear and then pointed at Groves, who by now had finished shadowboxing and was stepping into his groin protector. They told the heavyweight stories of a deluded super-middleweight from England who believed he could hang with the best young talents the gym had to offer. Each time they covered their mouths with hands and laughed.
Groves, as it happened, was oblivious to the put-downs and scathing looks. As well as his groin protector, he had now slipped into a different mindset, one of a hard-nosed, ignorant destroyer. He spoke sparingly from that point on and seemed to switch on to the fact he was on the brink of sparring an unknown heavyweight on foreign territory, surrounded by woof-woofing Americans who would revel in seeing his oh-so-British demise.
Click below to read Part II
Two southpaws stepped inside the empty ring and began sparring. One of them was J’Leon Love, unbeaten in fourteen professional bouts, who had left the Kronk Gym in Detroit to train among the Mayweathers in Las Vegas, while the other lefty, name unknown, was essentially Floyd Mayweather Jnr without the money and talent. Together they got busy with tricks, feints and, occasionally, punches.
Soon a procession of other boxers entered the gym and either prepared for sessions of their own or stood around the ring to watch the sparring. The 220-pound heavyweight, meanwhile, decided against watching. Instead, after finishing on the bag, and doing a few half-hearted rounds of pads, he disappeared into the changing room to shower, his training session having seemingly come to an abrupt end.
Damn.
Rather than spar a super-middleweight, the heavyweight was on his way home and the dream crumbled before George Groves’ very eyes.
Mercifully, he wouldn’t have to wait long for a replacement, though, as shoved in the heavyweight’s place was Lanell Bellows. Bellows, a fighter with three professional bouts and thirty amateur contests to his name, hadn’t been due in the gym that day but had been called out of the blue and informed there was an English super-middleweight looking to invade. There in a matter of minutes, Bellows lacked the muscles and shoulders of the heavyweight, but was definitely closer to Groves in weight. A genuine super-middleweight, in fact.
His reputation preceded him, too. The old guy in the cap knew all about him, and wasn’t afraid to tell the visitor just how big and bad he was. ‘You’ll be sparring a kid called Lanell,’ he said, as Groves and Fitzpatrick waited their turn. ‘The kid hits like an ox. But you’ll be okay if you move and keep out of his way.’
As the old man left, Groves grinned. The endorsement failed to shake him. ‘First bit of trash-talking today,’ he said. ‘I love it.’
‘How hard does an ox actually hit?’ pondered Fitzpatrick. ‘I mean, I assume it’s quite hard, but just how hard? Do you think you could take the hit of an ox?’
‘I guess I’ll find out in a minute.’
Not quite an ox, Bellows was nevertheless an impressive physical specimen. He had won all three of his pro bouts by knockout and had yet to go beyond the second round, so surely packed a considerable punch. But he was also 27 years of age, relatively inexperienced, and in something of a hurry. He looked the part, as they all did, but appearance counts for little once two men step inside a ring and only the movement of gloves provide identification.
Still, when Groves finally positioned himself opposite Bellows, the common belief, from the old man on the plastic chair to the many boxers and trainers that had now congregated around the ring, was that the Englishman was going to get shown up. Mayweather called it “The Doghouse” for a reason. You didn’t come into his home unannounced and survive to tell the tale. They’d let you inside and show you around, maybe even offer you an overpriced T-shirt, but eventually they’d have to kill you. That seemed to be the Mayweather modus operandi.
As video cameras and phones found their way into the hands of bloodthirsty spectators – presumably to record and then replay the limey’s downfall – DeJuan Blake, the man in charge of Bellows that day, picked up two head-guards from the ground and waved them in the direction of Fitzpatrick.
‘Hey,’ he said, calling out across the ring, ‘we’ve got a couple of head-guards for your guy.’
Fitzpatrick looked over at Groves, who was already perfectly comfortable in a head-guard of his own. ‘No, it’s fine,’ he replied. ‘You guys can wear them. We’ve got one, thanks.’
Blake hadn’t expected that response. He shook his head despondently, before repeating, more firmly, ‘But we want you to wear one of these.’ The head-guards in question were lifted even higher above the top rope.
Sensing what was going on, Fitzpatrick’s shoulders loosened. ‘No, we’re good, honestly,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t want to take it off now.’
‘But we want him to.’
‘I know you do.’
Plan on the brink of failure, Blake smiled. ‘Well, we don’t like that ball at the front of the head-guard,’ he said.
Groves’ head-guard consisted of a nose strap, or aforementioned “ball”, which covered his nose and face, as opposed to the traditional chin strap, meaning his chin was exposed while his nose was fully shielded from incoming punches, elbows and head-butts. Yet he wore it because his nose was broken in sparring the previous year and he was still nursing it back to full health.
This was something Fitzpatrick was quick to explain to his opposite number, before then pointing across the ring at the head-guard encasing the head of Bellows. Interestingly, that too came with a nose strap rather than chin strap. The Americans had been rumbled. ‘Okay,’ conceded Blake, smiling, ‘but if we ain’t happy with the spar, he’s changing.’
‘Okay,’ yelled Fitzpatrick in response, as he climbed down from the ring and cleared the decks. He winked at Cornelius Boza Edwards, the former world super-featherweight champion sitting on one side of the ring, and then explained, ‘That was all about control. That wasn’t about head-guards. They just want to control you and let you know who’s boss.’
Well-accustomed to the way of the American gym, having spent many years based Stateside, Fitzpatrick emphatically outwitted Blake that afternoon, and Groves, the fighter, would now try and do the same to Bellows.
On paper, of course, it was pretty much expected of him. He was the champion, the one with sixteen pro bouts to his name, whereas the American boasted a mere fraction of that. He knew that, we knew that, yet nobody else in the vicinity appeared to know or want to believe that.
In fact, the overall feel of the place brought to mind good old Billy Hoyle stepping on court for the first time in “White Men Can’t Jump”, only Groves was spared the goofy baseball cap and cargo shorts. To those unaware, though, he was undoubtedly a source of amusement: a fall-guy, the last-pick, the chump.
It then took Groves roughly thirty seconds to convince the non-believers. A few snappy jabs, some flashy head movement and the occasional jarring right hand did the job, as Bellows heroically stumbled forward in the direction of most of what Groves slung his way. The pace was frenetic, influenced no doubt by the pressure from those around them, but never did the Englishman relinquish the upper hand. Whenever he controlled Bellows with his jab it appeared one-sided, and only when Groves allowed him to have fun inside did the ox seem remotely comfortable. (Even then, when in his kind of zone, the American often failed to capitalise and would wind up in a nervy clinch.)
Round one ended and Blake was worrying about more than just head-guards. He saw to Bellows in the home corner, then called out to Groves, ‘Hey, this ain’t no hockey, man’.
George’s laugh was muffled by the nose strap of his head-guard, but he was nonetheless amused. The comment, no matter how obtuse, suggested he was winning them over and that he wasn’t bad for a white guy. Slowly but surely, his plan was coming together.
Rounds two, three and four followed a similar pattern to the first, but consisted of more in the way of action, as Groves became bored and went after a little fun of his own, the idea of chinning Bellows in front of his homeboys no doubt in the back of his mind. This resulted in a few messy exchanges, no shortage of big punches, and, as the spar progressed, and Groves’ dominance increased, the attention span of Blake and the supporting cast noticeably waned. Fed up, they began to watch the action in the adjacent ring, where a young boy threw feeble punches at the pads of his trainer. It was a distraction of nothing else. It diverted their eyes away from the sight of one of their own getting beaten up and taken to school by an outsider.
In the end, video cameras were turned off midway through the final round and one-by-one the listless cheerleaders evaporated from ringside, their pom-poms dumped on the floor. Groves, meanwhile, returned to his corner at the end of four completed rounds to be greeted by a smile and a tender tap on the head from Fitzpatrick. ‘When the Mayweather gym goes silent you know you’ve done your job,’ he said.
Groves, the king of the playground, walked a little taller and with renewed bounce in his step when exiting the ring and removing his head-guard. There was no longer any need to prove himself or validate his place in the gym as once pitying eyes now looked at him with respect, maybe even envy, and fighters like Bellows and Love, in spite of all their showy arrogance, warmed to him. Not only that, they now recognised him.
‘It was an honour to spar with you,’ said Bellows, as he shook the Brit’s hand minutes after they sparred. ‘I’m sorry for doing so much holding. I’m still learning, man. Still finding my feet in there.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ said Groves. ‘How many fights have you had?’
‘Three so far. I’m fighting again next month.’
‘That’s good. You’ve got a lot of potential.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No,’ said Groves, ‘thank you for coming down at late notice. You really helped me out.’
‘Shit, as soon as I heard you were down, I got here as quickly as I could.’
Love, waiting in the shadows, went one better.
‘It’s great to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’m a big, big fan.’
‘Seriously?’ said Groves, surprised by the admission.
‘Hell yeah! I saw what you did to Glen Johnson last year and I said to myself, ‘Boy, I need to keep an eye on that guy.’ So, honestly, it’s great to actually meet you today. I never thought I’d see you here.’
As he picked up his suitcase and prepared to leave, Groves was once more accosted by Bellows and Love, both apparently in need of pictures, and then Sinclair, the T-shirt designer, masseuse and uncle, who urged the fighter to return as soon as possible and to always call the Mayweather Boxing Club “home” whenever Stateside. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘let me show you guys out. It would be my pleasure.’
Upon exit, Groves stopped to notice the lonely swivel chair still in the exact same place it had been left. Only now it resembled more of a throne. His throne.
Well, at least until Floyd arrived.
This Saturday night (September 12), two-and-a-half years on from conquering The Doghouse, George Groves returns to Las Vegas and once again looks to tame a member of The Mayweather Team. This time it’s Badou Jack, the WBC world super-middleweight champion, and this time Floyd Mayweather Jr, the top dog, the headliner, will be present to watch it all unfold.
