A friend emailed me info about a popular boxer who just improved on his very impressive record. I had to admit knowing nothing about the prizefighter. I’m a self-proclaimed baseball maven but know nothing about professional boxing these days. I’m not a fan.
I don’t get my jollies watching two people bashing out each other’s brains. This is no ethical line in the sand. I enjoy football but never have fantasized about tossing a final second ‘hail mary’ pass to win the Superbowl for the home town team. I flinch when I see the guys grinding each other into the dirt just to pick up a few yards.
My Dad wouldn’t agree with me. He was the boxing maven in our family. We used to watch the old Friday Night Gillette boxing matches. It was our one Father-Son bonding event.
We used to watch the likes of Kid Gavilan, Chico Vejar, Sugar Ray Robinson, Henry Armstrong (no relation), Rocky Graziano, Rocky Marciano, Jake LaMotta, Floyd Patterson, Jersey Joe Walcott, Ezzard Charles, Ingmar Johansson, and the young Cassius Clay – Muhammad Ali.
Joe Louis was Dad’s hero. Unfortunately, I only remember seeing Louis in the declining years of his memorable career. Dad used to describe listening to his fights on the radio when “The Brown Bomber” was in his prime.
My father is on the left and Marvin Hagler is on the right.
I remember seeing Louis’ pictures in the homes of many Black families. He was more than a boxer, more than the heavyweight champion of the world. He was a folk hero and legend to people of color. Louis was a sport and cultural icon before Jackie Robinson. My Dad could recite, chapter and verse, round by round, of many of Joe Louis’ fights.
As a young boy, I looked at pictures of my Dad in his boxing prime. I was always awed. Dad was 6-feet plus a few inches. A tall, matinee-idol handsome man. This isn’t fog of memory sentiment. My Dad never lost those strikingly good looks – even in the autumn of his years. My girlfriends visited, they would stare at my father with jaw-dropping admiration, then glance at me with a, “What happened to YOU?” look. It always deflated my ego.
When we had visitors, it was like living with Sidney Poitier, Harry Belafonte, or Denzel Washington as my Dad. All three of the Armstrong boys addressed our parents as “Mommy and Daddy” even when we were adults, well into our professional lives. It may seem bit old-fashioned now but it felt normal for the 50-year-old Garry Armstrong, noted TV News Reporter to talk about his “Mommy and Daddy”. My friends always smiled with appreciation, maybe a little envy.
I am drifting here. Typical Garry. William Armstrong, Sr, the pride of Antigua and World War 2. Decorated Army Veteran ( The EAME Service Medal, The WWII Victory Medal and the American Service Medal), did a lot of amateur boxing during the war where he saw lots of active duty and action, including the Battle of the Bulge, Normandy, Vineland, and Central Europe.
I don’t recall Dad’s boxing record. He said it was recreational. An avocation. Something to do between combat. I suspect it was Dad’s way of getting respect during a period when our Armed Services were still segregated. When asked, he begrudgingly said boxing was relaxing for him and his opponents were usually friends or Army peers. As I write, I don’t remember if Dad ever fought a White opponent. I never thought to ask that question as a kid.
Dad taught his 3 sons some basics about self-defense but never made it a big deal. He never tried to force boxing on us. I’m not sure he shared our passion for baseball.
Dad showed rare outward passion when “nice guy” Floyd Patterson suffered boxing defeats. He always thought Patterson should’ve been a little tougher but the one-time heavyweight champ had a very sensitive outward demeanor that rankled some old school boxing fans.
Rocky Marciano’s undefeated career record was always appreciated by my Dad. I wanted to say my Dad commented “Good stuff for a White Guy” but, no, my Father wasn’t given to such acerbic comments. Leave it to his oldest son with a slightly bent sense of humor.
During my Boston TV News career, I met Marvin Hagler, the pride of Brockton, Ma. and a champion pugilist. We struck up a friendship beyond reporter-prizefighter when I talked about my Dad and his love of boxing.
I managed to score a painting that showed Mavin Hagler and “Bill” Armstrong, head to head, in a boxing match. An artist friend did the painting and Hagler was kind enough to add a personal sentiment to ” a fellow boxer” for my Dad. It was an emotional TKO for me.
When I presented the painting to my Dad, he gave me the biggest smile he’d ever shown me in my life. I felt a deep tug in my heart and barely held back the tears. My Father really LIKED the gift. It’s hard for me to explain how important that was for me.
Me and my father at our wedding.
Years later, after my parents had passed and we were on the verge of putting the family house up for sale, my two brothers and I were deciding who would get what. It surprised me when they said I should get most of Dad’s boxing stuff. I didn’t expect it because my two brothers were closer to Mommy and Daddy in their final years while I was busy with my career in Boston. I didn’t forget them but my visits were fewer. Yes, I felt a little guilty because I was so focused on my job.
When I started going through Dad’s stuff, a flood of memories came back. All those Friday evenings watching boxing matches. Dad’s expert take on the state of professional boxing (he didn’t like where it was going). Dad’s own recollections when he sifted through his equipment. The gloves, the shoes, the pictures. I could see my Father reaching into his own past when he was the boxer, master of his own moments in the ring, and maybe a magic moment in Madison Square Garden — standing beside his boxing heroes.
Top of the World, Dad! You made it!
This got me thinking about stickball.
