Untiring, unrepentant and unscathed, ‘Teflon Don’ is boxing on, writes Donald McRae
‘See you in Paris, baby,” Don King had promised as the diamond-studded crucifix swung gently from his massive neck. And so, big Don being a man of his word, it came to pass. A day later we walked through Paris together.
His cross glittered in the gaudy light, jangling against a second necklace cast in pure silver. At its curving base, a crown rested on the similarly diamond-encrusted name of Don.
King’s voice soared as he quickened our pace. Even the largest American tourists scattered before him. Aware that his awestruck audience had expanded into a small crowd which trailed our every step, King cranked up the volume as he switched languages.
His command of French was rudimentary. “Bonjour, madame!” he waved grandly to a bemused croupier. We swept beneath one of the fake Eiffel Tower’s giant legs, which arched through the gaming room’s 120m-high roof and down into the centre of the casino floor.
“Only in America,” King whooped again, as we strode through the Paris Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, “could they recreate the land of enchanting style with such deferential attention to detail. Mmm-hmm, it has that same delicious mustardy tang we Frenchmen of the world call savoir-faire.”
The most astonishing truth about King is not his ability to feign entranced delight at the strange fact that, beyond a life- size Eiffel Tower, the Vegas Strip now boasts imitations of the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre. It is far more extraordinary that, aged 68 and suffering from dizzyingly high blood pressure, an inexhaustible King still straddles the insanely fragmented world of professional boxing.
In Vegas to promote Saturday’s “historic rematch between Evander ‘The Real Deal’ Holyfield and Lennox ‘Lonesome’ Lewis which we call the Search For Truth: Unfinished Business”, King was as formidable and nonsensical as ever. After more than 25 years as a genius huckster, as boxing’s sinister Lord of Chaos, he should be sliding towards retirement or jail. But they don’t call him “Teflon Don” in jest.
Despite the latest series of FBI investigations into his tangled business affairs, King flowed on in full cry. Even away from the gaping hordes who might be persuaded to shell out another $50 to buy a potential pay- per-view repeat of the last Holyfield/Lewis fiasco, boxing’s own Eraserhead sounded like a dangerous riot. And the godlike blast of hair continued to stand in silvery salute of his grandiloquent gibberish.
“The rematch is on and this will be a November to remember,” he said. “Saturday November 13 is the night and there will be no possible reciprocity with Saturday March 13 when, first time up at the plate, Holyfield drew with Lewis and the good name of boxing was defiled by outrageous accusations. They even said I tampered with the minds of the judges. That ain’t nothing new. I’ve been accused of being a twister of minds, a fixer of fights, even a stealer of souls. But I am innocent, inviolate and indestructible.”
The Madison Square Garden debacle was not fixed – at least not in the simplistic sense of old Hollywood movies where a cigar-chomping promoter hands over a dirty wad of cash to a sweaty referee or a dejected fighter willing to take a fall. Holyfield and Lewis, for all their limitations on the night, both wanted to win; and none of the officials were paid to score a draw.
Boxing works in a far more stealthy and confusing way, but that dubious result deepened federal investigators’ desire to nail King.
He might have survived more than a hundred court cases brought with the express intention of imprisoning him, but the FBI went back to work with renewed zeal. In early June, it again confiscated his records. A similar raid ensued on the New Jersey headquarters of the International Boxing Federation (IBF), one of three sanctioning bodies involved in this week’s unification bout.
Last week four IBF officials were charged with accepting bribes in exchange for favouring selected fighters in their ratings. Within boxing, it is believed that King again heads the FBI’s list of suspect promoters. He may also soon be charged.
Though less shocking than the raw and still rare crime of “fixing” a fight, the alleged ratings scam confirms boxing’s endemic corruption.
“It’s just more trickeration from those who wish to bring me down,” King growled.
King’s latest FBI troubles were compounded by his rivals’ efforts to prevent him from promoting Holyfield/Lewis II, on the basis that a federal indictment would jeopardise the rematch. The battle against King was led by Lewis’s London promoter Panos Eliades.
“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” King yelped. “Eliades and the others wanted to squeeze me out of the frame. As always, they failed.”
King beamed as he wiped his brow. The hardest player in a dirty business was on a roll. “Whatever happens in the ring, the real winner will be Don King. Just being able to announce this fight makes me the winner.
“They tried to boil me in oil with their accusations but I stayed resolute. Even though I was burning in the hot fat of their oily deceit, I didn’t care.
“Now Eliades and the rest say they’re proud to be associated with this Don King promotion. It’s the largest gate in boxing history; $19-million worth of tickets sold out in 30 minutes. Ah, mon ami, here in Paris, victory is sweet.”
Yet the dregs of boxing have become increasingly bitter. Whether you turn towards the tawdry memory of Madison Square Garden or the September dispute, which saw King’s fighter Felix Trinidad awarded the decision after being outboxed by Oscar de la Hoya, the shadow of the Don looms.
Even when you think of the shattered hulk of Mike Tyson, the twitching wreck of Muhammed Ali or the almost mindless world of the blind and impoverished Gerald McClellan, it’s easy to remember one fact. They all passed through King’s meaty hands.
“Everybody uses me as their scapegoat,” King protested. “But boxing is a pristine and Spartan-like sport. Boxing will save itself – starting on November 13 when Evander Holyfield returns the sport to its most noble image.”
He started to laugh, making an eerie cackle which sounded as old as Paris and as hollow as Vegas. “I have been a pioneer and a pathfinder, a trendsetter and a trailblazer. And still they can’t stop me.” King paused for dramatic effect. He lowered his head towards mine. “Baby,” he whispered with scary glee, “I am the ultimate survivor. I dance on.”