A Few Moments With The Great White Hope

I stopped into the Staples on Route 22 in North Plainfield, NJ, a few days ago to pick up a printing order. As I walked toward the kiosk, a very tall man approached from another angle and edged into the station just ahead of me.

“They’re so slow,” he said. “I came earlier but left and decided to come back.”

Recognizing him, I said, “I was here before you, but I’m not going to fight you to go first.”

“I don’t blame you,” he laughed, extending his hand. “What’s your name? I’m Gerry Cooney.”

Boxing fans remember Cooney for his devastating left hook and for his meteoric rise through the heavyweight division. His 1981 win over Ken Norton set up the massively hyped title fight against Larry Holmes the following year. In search of attention-and revenue-promoter Don King labeled Cooney “The Great White Hope.” Cooney lost that fight, and his last major bout, a defeat to Michael Spinks, came during a period when alcoholism had begun to overtake his life. Long sober now, Cooney is active in his community and works regularly with youth groups and incarcerated men.

He’s also quite the kibitzer. When I asked if he’d seen HBO’s new documentary revisiting the “No Más” fight between Sugar Ray Leonard and Roberto Durán, Cooney pulled out his phone.

“Yeah, funny you should mention it. I just got a text from Ray. Check this out.”

Sure enough, on the screen was a message from “Sugar Ray” himself.

“I got him a gig in Quebec,” Cooney said. “Thirty-five grand to play golf with some guys for two days. Can’t beat that, right?”

I asked if he’d watched Undisputed Truth, Mike Tyson’s filmed one-man show.

“Not yet.”

“Bright, troubled guy, Mike.”

“No, he’s not bright,” Cooney said bluntly. “You gotta keep what-15 at least, right? Tyson made 300 million and ended up broke!”

I then asked if he knew the Canadian welterweight Donnie Poole.

“No, and that’s funny, because I’m originally from Canada. Why?”

“Can I tell you a boxing story?”

“Of course!”

In 1988, I was running a small music-production company in the Flower District of Manhattan. My office was part of a space being divided into smaller rooms, and the owner had hired Donnie Poole to keep an eye on things. Over a few weeks we got to know each other. Donnie showed me his scrapbook-he’d risen to #2 in the world before injuries slowed him down. He’d come to New York looking for new management and was taking any work he could find, including giving boxing lessons.

At that moment in Staples, Vernon, the Copy Center employee, called Cooney to the front.

“Another time,” I said.

“No, I want to hear this story,” Cooney insisted. “Continue.”

One evening, before I left to catch my train home to central New Jersey, I asked Donnie for a favor: a brief boxing lesson.

“Okay,” Cooney said. “What’d he have you do? I want to see if he knew how to teach boxing.”

Poole told me to raise my left hand, forget about the right, and focus on defense. He threw slow right hands at my head, then faster, and faster. Finally, instinct took over: I blocked his right with my left and, without thinking, threw my open right palm at his face, catching him squarely on the jaw.

I thought he’d kill me. Instead, Poole told me I’d done the right thing-that the instinct to attack had kicked in. But my ability to reach him devastated him.

“If you can touch me-even though I wasn’t expecting a punch-I know I’ll never be able to box at a high level again,” he said quietly.

Back at Staples, Cooney smiled, amused. “Put up your hands,” he said, rising into a classic boxer’s stance. Standing before me was a 6'6" man with the wingspan of an eagle. I tried to mimic him.

“Hey, look out behind you,” he said, eyes darting past me.

I wasn’t falling for the oldest playground bluff in the book. I started to dance a little, waved my hands, and in my fiercest voice said, “I’m not playin’ with you, man! You want some of this?”-before laughing out loud.

Cooney nearly doubled over laughing. He reached out his huge right paw for one more handshake.

“Nice meeting you.”

“Nice to meet you, Gerry.”

Sometimes you go to Staples for paper-and walk out with a story.

1/30/2014