IT’S the summer of 1960. A teenager stands under a sign that reads “Sugar Ray’s” at Seventh and 124th in Harlem. He shifts nervously, scanning the avenue, waiting for a god. After three hours a purple Cadillac pulls up.
“Mister Robinson?” the teenager says. Sugar Ray Robinson, the consensus choice for the greatest boxer of all time, notes his tall, golden frame and handsome face.
“Yes, ol’ buddy, what can I do for you?”