The Neutral Corner

That’s the way he wanted it. It wasn’t always the way I wanted it. But today, I know he was right.

It’s Father’s Day and the world of sports has thousands of great Father’s Day stories. I’d like to share mine with you.

My father fought under the name of “Irish” Bobby Cassidy from 1963 to 1980. His fights were often covered on the back pages of the local newspapers. I grew up with a professional athlete in the house, but one who never forgot to call his two sons no matter the time zone or area code in which he found himself. His career took him to nearly half the states in the union and to Sweden, Italy, South Africa, Belgium and Trinidad.

It was a tough act to follow. But I was willing.

As a young kid, I had seen my father fight in person seven times and at home I’d often watch his fight films. I’d put on his Kelly green trunks and his gloves and mimic the action in the living room of our Levittown home.

There was one film that would always serve as a reminder of what boxing is and why I could never confuse this make-believe game with my other sports fantasy of playing shortstop in Yankee Stadium.

The footage was grainy and the frames of the black-and-white 16 millimeter film sometimes hiccupped, accelerating ahead of the action. As worn as the film was, there was no confusing what took place on October 13, 1970 at Sunnyside Garden in Queens, New York.

As the film starts, two men come together at the center of the ring. Johnny Burnside is the man in the white trunks. My father is the man in the dark trunks, which I recognize as the green pair I wear in our living room. At the age of 26 and 163 pounds, my father is near his prime. His wavy black hair is cut short. His back is wide and his torso is funneled into the narrow waistband of the green trunks. Interpreting his body language is like reading an essay in confidence. He arrives at this fight, at every fight, savoring the conflict before him. When it is accomplished inside of a ring, the physical dismantling of another man can be elevated to art.

My father was an artist, supremely certain about the beauty – the destruction – his fists were capable of producing.

Burnside, a Golden Gloves champion and unbeaten pro, was touted as the future of the middleweight division. This fight was an important steppingstone en route to being a contender. Burnside would solidify his reputation with a win on this night.

The footage begins rolling by and the action is fast-paced. Burnside is bouncing on the balls of his feet, firing right crosses with an emphatic enthusiasm that illustrates his confidence and determination. My father, in his seventh year as a pro, is calm and patient. He counters with left hands. Burnside, full of youth, speed and adrenaline, is growing comfortable with the pace to which this violent ballet has been set. In the final moments of the fourth round, my father drives home a stiff left hand that causes Burnside’s legs to shimmy.

The blow should have served as some form of notice that, in boxing, your future can change with a single punch. But such warnings are often lost on the young and gifted. The fifth round begins with the same pattern. Burnside is moving nimbly, pumping right hands. My father is following. But now his posture changed from studying his opponent to stalking him. A weakness has been exposed and not even Burnside’s talent or enthusiasm can save him. It happens, suddenly, midway through the round. A left uppercut – boom -- followed immediately by an overhand left – BOOM! -- and Burnside is moving about the ring like a man who has one foot stuck in a bucket. Another left sends him tumbling backward to the ropes.

I watch the remaining moments again and again. The ropes prevent Burnside from falling. He is lying, motionless, at a 45-degree angle between the third and fourth strand. His arms are down, his chin pointing to the ceiling. My father moves closer to Burnside, his left arm swinging back. This will be the definitive blow of the fight, perhaps the final blow of Burnside’s life. There is absolutely no hesitation on my father’s part. The left hand starts to come forward when, seemingly out of nowhere, the referee grabs my father’s arm. But like a windmill, my father’s right arm is also in motion. Its destination is Burnside’s head. It is airborne; the referee is unable to rein it in. Somehow the momentum of the referee upsets my father’s balance and, luckily, the right hand sails harmlessly into the arena’s smoky air.

The referee begins to issue a 10-count but stops the fight at the count of five. The camera pans to my father, pacing the ring with his arms raised in triumph. Twice he glances to the corner where they are attempting to revive Burnside.

Johnny Burnside did wake up. He was escorted to his dressing room and wept when he was told of what happened. “I don’t remember any of it,” he said in the papers.

My father remembers all of it, every frenzied second. The adrenaline rush of scoring a knockout and the sense of satisfaction in derailing a popular young prospect. And yes, the consequences of what could have been if another left hand landed.

“It’s not something you think about,” he told me when, as an adult, I asked him about the fight. “As a fighter, you can’t afford to think about that. You have a job to do. You fight until they stop you. It’s instinct. He would have done the same to me.”

It was true. His profession did not allow him to contemplate his own mortality or that of his opponent. It was all part of the risk he willingly took in each fight. With two sons growing up in the shadow of his legend, he could certainly afford to think about the dire byproducts of boxing as it related to us. He pondered it often and was unwavering in his belief.

“My sons will never fight,” and he stated it with pride.

Today, I thank him for that. And I thank him for exposing me to a sport where nobility and grace and honor are found in three-minute intervals at every fight card in the world.

My father retired from boxing in 1980. He had 59 wins, 15 losses and 4 draws. He was a contender in four weight classes, fought main events in both the old and current Madison Square Garden, went on to train two world champions and has been inducted into the New Jersey Boxing Hall of Fame.

By steering me away from the ring, he encouraged me to play many sports. Today, by the luck of my job, I get to watch many different sports, including boxing, at many different levels.

And for every single event that I’ve covered, I’ve always had one thought. I wish I was watching this with my Dad.

Happy Father’s Day.

Please watch this wonderful video of the original Middle Class Middleweight. It was produced by my brother Chris. The song is called, "Last Party," by the Huntington-based band, Mad Larry.

-- CASSIDY