BOXERS

The most obvious truth about boxers is that most of them don’t make it. For every fighter who steps through the ropes and into the bright lights of Caesar’s Palace or Madison Square Garden, there are hundreds of others pounding their way to nowhere. Last December, the Three Star Gym, a storefront operation reeking of stale sweat and battered hopes, sitting forlornly in a worn shopping strip in Pleasant Grove, was home to two Dallas fighters trying to make it. One of them was Cookie Wallace, a 32-year-old heavyweight. The other was Mike Hutchison, 25, a light-heavyweight. On Friday night, December 14, at the Dallas Convention Center, Mike and Cookie both had bouts in front of a crowd of 4000 people. Except for photographer Peter Calvin, nobody paid much attention to Mike or Cookie; everybody was there to see the Dallas boxing debut of Too Tall Jones. The two guys from the Three Star were just there to fill out the card. Both lived to fight another day. The Three Star, their boxing refuge, wasn’t so fortunate. It died a few days later.

Cookie Wallace has been boxing since he was 13. He once beat Ken Norton in Golden Gloves and, after turning pro, won his first few bouts. “I figured I’d be heavyweight champ,” says Cookie. He wasn’t. He lost some fights, lost his wife, lost his kids. But he’s still boxing. This fight will be billed as the Texas Heavyweight Championship. That doesn’t mean much, except to Cookie. “I’m heartbroken. I still love my wife and every night when 1 go to bed, I grieve over the loss. But I believe my life can be really happy if I can win this one for my kids.”

Mike Hutchison lives at the Three Star, sleeping on a mattress in the storeroom and subsisting on 7-Eleven stew out of Styrofoam cups, paid for with the few bucks he earned by giving blood at the blood bank earlier in the day. Mike is a fill-in on the Friday night card for another fighter who couldn’t make it. For the six-rounder, win or lose, he’ll get $200. There’s no title at stake. Mike’s just happy to get a check before Christmas. “If I get hit,” he grins, “I’ll just fall and make that money.”

On fight night, Cookie steps into the ring with Nick Wells. For 10 rounds, Cookie batters Wells against the ropes and wins the Texas heavyweight title. Most of the press and much of the crowd have left, since Too Tall has already fought. But Cookie doesn’t care; he’s got his trophy and that’s what he came for. And he knows his son watched from ringside as he strutted triumphantly, momentarily a champion. On this night, at least, he’s made it.

For two rounds, Mike Hutchison fights well, outboxing his opponent, tagging him with a couple of good rights. But at 1:25. of the third round, Mike comes off the ropes, hands down, and steps into a stiff right. Mike’s chin hits the canvas first and splits open. He is unconscious for almost five minutes. In the dressing room, blood dripping on his trunks, he sits on a table, dazed. “Who was that I fought?… How many rounds was it?…Who was that I fought?”