Brick City Boxing

By: Danny Serratelli

Bill Coleman, a Marine Corps veteran who worked in the computer field for 20 years and established a successful career and a comfortable life for himself and his family still felt he had some unfinished business. Coleman embarked on a journey and he eloquently takes you through it with him in his book, "Million Dollar Maybe". Coleman's transition from corporate vice president to professional boxer at age 40 is highly recommended.

The following is the introduction and a chapter personally selected by author Bill Coleman to preview exclusively on Brickcityboxing.com.

For an autographed copy of the book please contact Bill direct at hometowndecisions@earthlink.net. At $20 plus $5.00 shipping and handling the Brickcityboxing Team guarantees you will get a lot of bang for your buck.

Introduction
“If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”

- Henry David Thoreau

Everybody has a dream of some sort, but few people are fortunate enough to be provided an opportunity to devote their energies to pursuing it. Whether your dream is boxing or ballet is irrelevant to whether or not you’ll be interested in my story, because it’s not about boxing, it’s about dreams.

When I began writing this book I assumed it would be an insider’s view of professional boxing. To be sure, that element exists, but the boxing is just a lively background to the actual story, which is an insider’s view of somebody who decides to “advance confidently in the direction of his dreams.”

[More:]

Boxing was my particular dream, and it had been for as long as I can remember. I wrote about my boxing aspirations in High School in 1979, but I didn’t put those dreams in motion until 1986 when I met with some initial success as an amateur boxer by winning the South Dakota 132-pound Golden Gloves championship. However, the realities and responsibilities of real life demanded I set those dreams aside to pursue a lucrative career in the corporate world.

But my boxing dreams never died, they stayed alive in my active imagination. Despite a demanding work and college schedule, and the responsibility to support a family of six, I still kept the flame of my dream flickering while I toiled in the obscurity of amateur boxing.

Then I came to a critical decision point where I knew the clock had ticked long enough, and it was now-or-never if I wanted to experience the life of a professional boxer.

There’s a certain fairy-tale aspect about this book, but since it’s a true story it has a real-life ending instead of a fairy-tale ending. Anybody who wants to read stories with fairy-tale endings has a multitude of good fiction works to choose from.

The idea of somebody pursuing their dream has been written about, sung about, and has been the central theme of countless movies. Billy Joel does a great job describing the heartbreak of unfulfilled dreams as he sings about them in “Piano Man.”

As a piano player in a bar, he observes the pain of people living lives of unfulfilled dreams. The common thread is they’re doing something for a living that’s not even close to what they’d like to be doing. One lyric insinuates this disconnect might be the reason they’re drinking in the first place – “If they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, well it’s better than drinking alone.”

But another indicates the bartender feels the same disconnect as the customers - “He says Bill I believe this is killing me, as the smile ran way from his face, but I’m sure that I could be a movie star, if I could get out of this place.”

He provides more information about John the bartender, so I assume he’s a notch or two above the pipe dreams of the customers. I’ll also assume while John’s been tending bar and raising a family for the past 15 years, he’s also been taking acting lessons and participating in community theater. If so, his frustrations with life, and his potential to change things, would be roughly equivalent to my own feelings at age 39.

So if you’re not interested in boxing don’t think of this as a boxing story. Instead, think of it as a follow-up piece to Billy Joel’s “Piano Man”, where John quits bartending and moves to Hollywood to find out once and for all whether or not he really could be a movie star, if he could get out of that place.

The chapters in this book were written as sequential journal entries, as though each were written on the specific date assigned to each chapter. I chose this style to illustrate how my thoughts and perspectives evolved along the way.

And finally, I’ve taken the liberty to change the names of everybody who’s not connected with the boxing business in order to avoid any disruption to their privacy. Since the business of boxing is all about public performances, the names of everyone associated with boxing have not been altered.

12. Pro Debut vs. Michael Sloboda,

Shreveport LA – June 28, 2002

“It’s like God’s looking right at you for just a second, and if you’re careful you can look right back.”
- Wes Bentley, “American Beauty”

If I was looking for a sign or an omen that linked the date of my professional debut with another significant date from my past, I couldn’t have done any better than this! Tonight was the night of my long-awaited pro debut, and it was also exactly one year since First Data released me. A year ago today in Hagerstown Maryland, I walked out their door and left the career I’d worked so hard to establish in corporate America.

In some ways it seemed a lot longer, especially when I consider the sheer volume of changes we’ve been through. In some ways though, it seemed like I just left.

Until last week I’d barely heard of Shreveport, and now it marked a pivotal milestone in my life. You only make one debut, and mine was made in Shreveport. When the opening bell rang tonight I officially became a professional boxer. The more I learned about Shreveport, the more magical tonight felt.

Even though I hadn’t given Shreveport any consideration before, right now it felt like the perfect place to make my debut. And Michael Sloboda, a local Shreveport fighter who entered the fight with a perfectly balanced record of 1-1-1 seemed like the perfect opponent for me.

It had been a surprisingly long drive from New Orleans to Shreveport, considering they’re both located in the seemingly small state of Louisiana. But since New Orleans is in the bottom right hand corner of the state, and Shreveport is in the top left hand corner of the state, and there’s no direct route except to go due west, and then due north, it ended up being quite a journey, a 350-mile trip that had taken the entire day.

Al and I made the trip yesterday, and I drove. Since my morning started in Gulfport and I had to drive nearly 100 miles to pick up Al in New Orleans, yesterday was totally consumed by driving. We didn’t arrive in time for the afternoon weigh-in held for the headliners, but there was another weigh-in at noon today for the rest of us.

It would’ve been nice to weigh-in the day before the fight because I had to make 129 pounds, and I hadn’t been that light since I entered Marine Corps boot camp in 1980. Up until a few days ago I thought I’d need to be 130, which wasn’t going to be easy, but the other day the promoter told Al the fight had been set for 129, so I had to go one pound lower.

Thankfully, I’ve trained so well I didn’t even miss a meal, except for this morning’s breakfast. All week I’ve been leaving the gym at 131 or 132, so I knew it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to make 130, even 129. Still, if I could’ve weighed in yesterday I could’ve had more than a cheeseburger for dinner last night, and I could’ve had a hearty breakfast this morning. As it ended up, I made the 129 pound weight limit with relative ease, weighing in at an official weight of 127 ¾.

To put that in perspective, I remember how conscientious I’d been in 1986 to make the 132-pound weight limit. And my amateur career since then was fought between 135-138, except for my last amateur fight at 142. And speaking of that fight, tonight was my first fight since getting knocked unconscious in West Virginia, so that was in the back of my mind in the days leading up to tonight’s fight.

As I was driving I felt a little guilty that Al was taking two days out of his life to come up here just for me. Since my purse for this fight was only $400, the typical going rate for an undercard four-round fight in this region, Al would only get a little more than $100 for his trouble. But at least I was driving, and the promoter was picking up the hotel rooms for us.

I felt a lot less guilty by the time the weigh-in and the buffet at the Horseshoe were complete earlier today. After those events I realized Al had the same mindset as me, and the short money was irrelevant. He was just happy to be here, and he was clearly in his element, reconnecting with so many others in the fight game and sharing war stories. He probably would’ve made the trip for free, just like I would’ve.

But short money or not, the mere fact I was being paid made tonight significant, as it marked my official entry into the professional ranks. And every aspect of this event, from the weigh-in, to the pre-fight address by the athletic commissioner, and finally our entrance into the arena tonight, was clearly different than anything I’d ever experienced as an amateur. But more than that, these events exceeded the lofty expectations I’d developed over so many years.

Even more surprising was the fact this location had a magical quality of it’s own. I’d picked up some bits of trivia from a few of the locals that really added some color to this already colorful evening. The show was being staged at the Municipal Auditorium on Elvis Presley Blvd. According to the locals, this was one of only two streets in the entire country the Elvis Presley estate sanctioned to use his name.

Shreveport isn’t too far away from Memphis, and apparently Elvis performed at this auditorium early in his career, and this venue was a critical launching pad for his career. I’m not sure if this is true, but the reverence with which these stories were spoken to me made me a believer.

The ring for tonight’s show was centrally located on the floor of the arena, rather than the stage. So the curtain was drawn on the stage, and the fighters used the dressing rooms on each side of the stage to get ready. In the past, actors preparing for theatrical performances used these dressing rooms. The stage itself was a kind of no-man’s land between the red-corner dressing rooms on the left and the blue-corner dressing rooms on the right.

The whole atmosphere felt authentic because the wooden planks that comprised the stage, and the wooden paneling in the dressing room, felt like the original furnishings. So when I wandered out onto the stage earlier to warm-up I couldn’t help but think I was breaking a sweat on the same stage that Elvis performed on so many years ago. According to local legend, I was preparing to launch my boxing career on the same stage where the King launched his own career.

My fight was the second fight of the evening, and I was so hyped I couldn’t wait to get it over with. The first fight lasted the entire four rounds, so I didn’t get any help there. I was surprised I only felt excitement; I didn’t feel any of the fear I’d anticipated and assumed I’d feel. I don’t mean that in a macho, ‘fearless-warrior’ manner of speaking, I mean it in a divine and spiritual way.

That feeling started when Al was wrapping my hands and I noticed a kid close to Drew’s age intently watching the whole process. It was kind of endearing to occasionally peek over at him and see how mesmerized he appeared to be watching this process. Then the promoter Mike Corbell, and another man who was presumably the kid’s father showed up. Apparently his father’s friendship with Mike provided him the opportunity to get a behind the scenes look at tonight’s show.

When Al finished wrapping my hands, they approached me, and the father asked if I could autograph his son’s fight program where my name was listed. It was my first official autograph as a pro, even though I hadn’t even entered the ring yet. In my mind I’d told myself I needed to remember all the specifics, since this was a momentous event, but I can’t clearly remember this kid’s name, though I think it was Kyle.

But more important than his name was the way he looked at me throughout this exchange. Religions are man-made, so I’m not a very religious person, but I’m an extraordinarily spiritual person. I believe God speaks to us through coincidences and strangers. Since this was one of those occasions, maybe that’s why his name slipped so quickly from my mind.

When I looked into his eyes as I handed my autograph back to him, he was looking at me like I was Superman. Through his eyes he was telling me I was something special tonight. Since I believe God speaks to us through strangers, I couldn’t help but believe the look in his eyes was God’s way of reassuring me tonight was a special night for me.

When it was finally time to make the walk I’d dreamed about, and to some extent dreaded for so many years, I felt absolutely no fear. I was so thankful to be blessed with the miracle of making my debut at age 40 I was almost in tears as I left the locker room. For once in my life, the only feeling I was aware of was one of complete gratitude as I finally entered the ring as a professional prizefighter!

One of the traditional rules in boxing is that the champion enters the ring last, and in fights that don’t involve any title, the hometown fighter enters the ring last. Tonight was no exception, and my opponent entered the ring after me. A noticeably larger round of applause marked his entrance, so it was clear he’d fulfilled his role as a hometown fighter by putting some fans in the seats.

As the fight started, I was the aggressor as he attempted to hit and move. He got into the rhythm of the fight a little quicker than I did, and landed more meaningful blows in the early exchanges. Being the hometown fighter, the crowd clearly favored his efforts over mine, but as the first round ended my continuous pressure was starting to take a toll.

When I returned to my corner between rounds I felt pretty good, my first professional round was behind me and I’d held my own. I took for granted that the round was probably scored in his favor because he was the house fighter, though in reality it was close enough it could’ve gone either way.

I started the second round a little better, and was able to effectively stay out of the way of the counter-rights he kept trying to throw over my left jab. Midway into the round I finally trapped him on the ropes and landed effectively with both hands, particularly to the body. I followed up on this advantage, and at one point he indicated to the referee he’d been hurt by a collision of heads, but I’m sure it was a left-hook that did the damage. The referee responded by stopping the action long enough to caution both of us about accidental head-butts.

I knew he was hurt and looking for an excuse to stop the action, so I pressed on. I felt like he might be ready to quit if I could land a few more big punches, but the round ended before I could take advantage of this opportunity.

By the third round he was completely focused on defense, and was fairly effective at keeping away from me, staying off the ropes, and avoiding exchanges. He landed a few counter-rights over my jab, and the crowd over-reacted to those relatively meaningless punches. This round ended without either of us doing any really significant work.

In between rounds I knew I was probably behind because I figured the house fighter got the benefit of the doubt in the close rounds. Round three had been the type of round that would’ve been scored in my favor if I’d been the hometown fighter, because of my continuous aggression. Since he was the hometown fighter, I guessed it was probably scored in his favor because of the couple right hands he landed that drew a response from the crowd. I felt like I needed to close the fight strongly, and possibly score a knockdown to win the fight.

Round four was a lot like the overall tone of the fight, with me pressing the action continuously, and him trying to occasionally pot-shot me with a counter-right hand. Neither of us really established an advantage until I seized on an opportunity with less than a minute remaining in the fight. When his back touched the ropes, I correctly calculated he’d duck and try to slide out to his left. As he began this maneuver, I committed to a big right-hook thrown where I expected his head would be.

I was right on the mark, and connected solidly to his temple. This punch landed forcefully because he was moving directly into it, and I could feel it all the way to my shoulder. His reaction told me he was in big trouble, as he bolted straight off the ropes, and literally had his back to me as he tried to regain his senses. I rushed in, knowing it wouldn’t take much to put him on the canvas.

But the referee intervened; an action that was technically correct, but realistically should’ve been ignored. He stopped the action to warn my opponent about turning his back to me. Rather than punish him for this maneuver, the referee’s action actually helped him because it kept me off him, and gave him a precious few seconds to regain his equilibrium.

As frustrating as this was, I still tried to press my advantage. I was trying a little too hard, and I completely discounted his ability to land a meaningful counterpunch, which was a mistake. He landed a winging right hand to my cheek that wasn’t nearly effective as the right hand I’d just landed, but was much more conspicuous to the crowd, and they roared their approval.

He didn’t even attempt to follow-up, and I visibly shrugged my shoulders as I lowered my arms to my sides to indicate his punch didn’t have any effect. After I shrugged, the crowd showed me a measure of respect for the first time in the fight by cheering. The round ended a few seconds later.

In my heart I felt like I’d clearly won the fight, but I was also realistic. It was his hometown, and even though my right hand in the final round was far superior to his, he’d given the judges enough reason to score the round in his favor. And that’s the essence of a hometown decision; a biased crowd gives the appearance their guy is winning the close rounds, and the judges oblige by scoring the round in favor of the hometown fighter.

I was really happy about my performance, regardless of the decision of the judges. I wasn’t surprised when the judges scored the fight in his favor, with one exception. Two judges gave him 39 points, indicating he won three out of the four rounds, but one of the judges gave him 40, indicating he won all four rounds. That was preposterous! I’d clearly administered a beating in round two, and obviously the two other judges saw it that way as well.

Regardless of the official decision, I left the ring with my chin up, as well as my spirits. I’d felt inspired when I entered the ring, and I fought an inspired fight. Obviously I’d envisioned and hoped for a different result, but I’d given a performance I could be proud of.

After the fight many of the people I encountered were quick to congratulate me and tell me I’d been robbed. In my heart I knew it was exactly the kind of fight you’ll always lose in the other guy’s hometown, so I figured the term ‘robbed’ was too strong to describe the decision. The key point was I’d fought the type of fight where people could say this with sincerity and a straight face. A moral victory if ever there was one.

Surprisingly, it was Al who said the words that brought the whole evening into perspective for me. And it wasn’t the fact he told anybody who’d listen I’d been the victim of a ‘hometown decision’ (although I found it ironic he was unknowingly using the name of my business venture to describe the outcome).

Instead, it was something he said privately to me in the locker room, after he cut away the wrappings on my hands. He said, “son, I’m proud of you, and I wouldn’t be any prouder if you’d have won the decision.” That mirrored how I felt as well.

The event that had been in front of me for so many years was finally behind me. And even more importantly, I was proud of the way I’d performed!