Sugar Ray looked a good deal less reassuring to Champion Fullmer. It was evident that Gene had signed for the fight not only in the hope of redeeming himself for the 1957 knockout, but of avenging a series of slights by Sugar Ray in the intervening years—little things like not accepting Fullmer's phone calls when Fullmer knew perfectly well he was there, and big ones like limiting Fullmer to a meager 12�% of the gate and no TV money for their first fight.
Where Gene was quietly determined, Manager Marv Jenson was blustery and cocksure. " Robinson is nothing but an ungrateful, no-good bum," he shouted on one occasion during prefight training. "I hope Gene puts him in the hospital for six months."
In the fight, Gene appeared a good deal more concerned with keeping himself out of the hospital. He showed almost too much respect for the Robinson punch. He had heard stories that the Robinson he was meeting was a counterfeit Robinson, a shell of the man who had upended him with one punch three years before, but it was evident he didn't believe them. Not even with eight-ounce gloves, which California insists that fighters over 147 pounds use instead of the normal six-ouncers, did Fullmer feel safe. He joined the battle with a peekaboo defense that, by comparison, would have made a turtle look recklessly vulnerable. When he finally satisfied himself that Robinson was not going to take him out again with one punch, it was very nearly too late—and might have been too late in any case had it not been for the judges.
Fullmer's strategy was to let Robinson wear himself out in the early rounds and then polish him off in the finale. But the foils of Robinson were magnificent in this duel, and not even Fullmer's water buffalo charges could dent Sugar Ray's aplomb. It was hard to believe that the superbly conditioned Robinson could ever have been pressed by a clutcher like Paul Pender, but Manager George Gain-ford, as usual, had an explanation. Robinson, he said, had not trained as assiduously for Pender as he had for Fullmer. With Fullmer, he took no chances.
Robinson's strategy was simple: get himself in as good condition as possible, fight his fight and trust the memory of the knockout to psyche Fullmer out of really believing in himself. It might very well have worked. In the dressing room after the fight Fullmer, an extremely honest man, readily admitted that he might have been too cautious. "But he can knock you out if he hits you clean," Fullmer reminded his audience, one of whom then asked, "Did any of his punches hurt you?" "No," answered Fullmer, "but neither did the one he knocked me out with." The memory of waking up on the floor in May 1957, asking "Why did they stop it?" and being told, "Because the count was 11," was still with him.
Sugar Ray, as usual, had come to town with an entourage so large and colorful that the uninformed might have thought a convention was on. Ray admitted that it cost him more than his cut (estimated at $40,000 before taxes) to feed, transport and house this human menagerie. The usual secretary, manager, barber, masseur, manicurist, golf teacher, golf companion, two assistant trainers, a minister in clerical collar and a camp hostess who called him "Darling," were joined this time by a voice coach, replacing the drama coach he had on his last visit West. During training, before he would do up his hair, get his nails buffed and hold court in bed with the press standing around like hospital visitors, Sugar Ray would favor the folks with a few songs. Not the old stand-bys of Irving Berlin or Elvis Presley but arias from Simon Boccanegra, an opera from the far reaches of Verdi, so far in fact that it is almost never performed in this country—outside of Ray's fight camp.
Even in the dressing room after the deadly draw, the operatic quality remained. Solicitous handlers applied ice packs and eye drops and made loud vehement comments on the rank robbery of the decision, but Robinson seemed above it, world-weary, eyes brimming with sadness. Ray, in short, seemed too sugary. "I'm sorry I let you down," he whispered apologetically to the clustered press. Would he fight again? "I don't know if I'm interested in boxing anymore." He refused, rolling his eyes toward heaven, to criticize the decision of the judges. "Oh, no," he said reproachfully, "I couldn't do that. Please, fellows, don't ask me to do that."
But just as it seemed that Robinson was going to throw himself wholeheartedly into the role of Camille, a scene that could only take place in Hollywood suddenly put the fight in its proper aspect as a mere diversion. An Italian movie producer appeared at the dressing room door in the tow of George Gainford, and behind him slithered a pneumatic blonde in silver mink and a black-lace dress cut low enough to make any garage calendar in the country.
Sugar Ray brightened considerably. The ice bag disappeared, the eye dropper was put out of sight, and the cameras began popping. The vision inhaled deeply and blew her bangs out of her false eyelashes. Then she posed with Ray, who grinned idiotically through it all. It appeared that this was show business. Gain-ford, who speaks a kind of singsong Elizabethan English anyway, except when he is mad, announced, after some conversations in fractured French with the producer, that this was Signorina Rita Giannuzzi who was going to make a movie in Italy with Ray that would be "a drama, not about prizefighters and will have no racial questions."