TEN PERCENT OFF THE TOP
I LEFT Madison Square Garden before the main event started and headed for the parking lot, depriving myself of the only opportunity I would ever have to see Muhammad Ali fight live – against Earnie Shavers, no less. But I surrendered to an uncontrollable urge to leave, and the only thing I knew for sure was that I had to put some miles between boxing and me before sunrise.
The opening bell must have rung by the time I exited the Lincoln Tunnel on the Jersey side and gunned the car into the early morning gloom. I was not angry or upset, just tired. I wanted to go home and sleep. Tomorrow would be soon enough to think.
That night marked the beginning of the end of an adventure into territory for which I was unsuited and ill prepared, a stranger in a strange land. Circumstances persuaded me to step out of my comfort zone and I did, willingly diving into a parallel world where it’s virtually impossible to fly above the fray. Long term it wasn’t for me, but I have no regrets. The best part of slipping into darkness is the stories.
The deal went down at the Pub Tiki on Philly’s Walnut Street, one of those kitschy Polynesian-themed joints that were popular in the 1970s. There were three of us, promoter J Russell Peltz, trainer Leon Tabbs and myself, hashing out the details of a transaction that would make me manager of junior lightweight Jerome Artis.
I sat there sucking up a rum drink called Missionary’s Downfall, as Russell explained the terms of
