Punches & Prayers: A Fighter's Journey from the Gulf Coast to the Big Apple

By Ricky Ray Taylor

Punches and Prayers is a colorful memoir of a tired & worn amateur boxer from the Gulf Coast who, amidst stepping foot in nearly every state in America, ended up establishing a career, falling in love and finally embracing Jesus in the greatest city in the world. The Ten Commandments of a Boxing Gym 1. Honor Thy Coach.
Do not curse at, disobey, disrespect, aggravate, back talk,
slap box with, or shadow box with the trainer. 2. Never Forget Your Mouthpiece.
Always be ready to box. 3. Put Your Stuff Up.Do not leave wraps, gloves, shoes, mouthpiece, cups, headgear,
or anything else on the floor for someone else to pick up.
Do it yourself. 4. No Profane Outbursts.
Nobody cares how you feel.
Keep it to yourself. 5. Compose Yourself as a Champion at All Times.
No lying on the floor, hugging the heavy bags, running around the gym,
or pursuing any other end which does not constitute the means
of becoming a champion.
6. No Food in the Boxing Ring.
The boxing ring is for fighting, not eating. 7. Do Not Offer Unsolicited Advice to Another Trainer's Fighter.
Ask the trainer if it is okay to speak with his/her fighter beforehand. 8. Know the Difference Between Sparring and Fighting.
Sparring: looking to improve.
Fighting: going in for the kill. 9. Be Mindful of Your Surroundings.
Do not jump rope by the bags.
Refrain from doing floor exercises where people are working.
Leave the ring if fighters need to spar. 10. Follow Gym Etiquette
Change clothes in the dressing room.
Place wet gear where it belongs.
Do not encroach into someone's space.
Report broken/downed bags or accessories.
No fighting/sparring outside of the ring.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642993608

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Punches and Prayers

A Fighter’s Journey from the Gulf Coast to the Big Apple 

Ricky Ray Taylor

ISBN 978-1-64299-359-2 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64299-360-8 (digital)

Copyright © 2018 by Ricky Ray Taylor

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

For Nicole

You know who’s first, baby, but you’re second (and whoever’s behind you is a distant third).

Giving Thanks

Although a lifetime of teachers could fill this page and what’s been forgotten greatly exceeds the names that will be remembered, all I can do is my best. In regards to what this memoir is about – it may be best to begin with the guys from the gym who are educating me by the day. Fortunately, I am surrounded by a group of fellow boxing trainers in NYC who I simply have to give a shout to:

FRANSISCO Sisco MENDEZ— You injected the Membership with Instruction option with steroids while allowing freelancer’s (like myself) to train in your gym. Thank you!

JUSTIN B.— When you hired me, life became good again. When you fired me, it became better. You were only taking care of business. So was I. Thank you!

SAL— Sisco’s sidekick, the boop-boop kid.

IVAN— From restaurant worker to boxing trainer (and a decent one at that), overnight.

DELL B.— Will KO someone with either hand, any punch—before apologizing and making them his friend.

BOYD M.— Long before you became a politician, I said that you would be President—first thing’s first, brother.

SIMON B.— The Paris-Punisher, the Sultan of STING.

DANNY N.— Can make a fighter out of a life-long librarian. One of the very best Boxing Trainers on the planet who learned boatloads about the science by being a perpetual student.

KRISTOFF M.— The Klitschko-conqueror.

RO— The Filipino Suga-man.

T— Easily one of the friendliest boxing trainers on the planet—but don’t let your guard down!

RASOOL— Legend. ’Nuff said.

GREG V.— We have over 300 fights twinst-us. One of the small handful of guys that I know who, like myself, had so many amateur wars that the fragrance on turning pro lost its appeal.

VIC P.— The only Muslim who accepted my invitation to attend church with me, more than once!

NESS— One of the first people I met in NYC, sweated alongside one another in boxing gyms for years, great friend.

LONNIE B.— World Champion in the house!

RENE P.— Old school fighter, gym comrade, the salvager of my gloves, mitts, weights that I tend to leave on the floor all day & night, by the hour.

LYON M.— Unknowingly kept my business afloat with an act of kindness that exceeded what I deserve.

JASON L.— Yikes! Big fella, all NYC, raised on concrete!

LEO M.— Came from nothing to make something of himself!

JOEY G.—The guy who forced me to write my own INTRO - and the most humble 2-time World Champion any of us will ever meet.

TERRY S.— 25 years after the fact, we each discovered that our coaches almost matched us up back in the 90’s. Only one of us should be thankful it never happened though {I ain’t sayin who tho}.

TUMBLER D.— Living-legend, Superman’s dad.

ANGEL and FREDDIE R.— The jury’s still out as to whether these two are really related; one is more cool than the other—I’m just not saying which one.

MAXIMO P.— Living legend, top ten on the all-time trainers list, one of my longest reigning comrades in NYC, loves to call me other because in Mississippi, I’m neither black or white!

NELSON C.— Old-school Cus Diamato fighter who loves cruises with his wife and switchblades equally.

BUTCH V.— The coolest guy on the planet, by far.

IASSAC A.— Big, humble, subdued, quiet…heavy-handed killer.

PAUL N.— The way we met was classic! ’Nuff said.

KING— Mr. NYC, if dude wasn’t my friend-I’d be scared of him.

RAY V.— Unmistakable, undeniable legend (nope, not the car).

ALEX S.— Alex be like…

CHARLIE— A true work-aholic.

MATTHEW & MONGOOSE— Two people who actually get-it

SANTIAGO— Loves America & our President!

MACHO— Has more war-stories than Patton.

HARRY K.— Old school legend

LUPIN, JOSE G., CHIMMY & ANDY— Of these 4 boxing trainers, I like one of them best of all—one of them, not so much. I just ain’t naming names.

MICKEY Z.— Your amendments, patchwork, revisions & rewrites were irreplaceable. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY does it like you champ!

Honorable mentions: Smiley, Hooo-lia, Mau-dey, Enrique, Kick-boxing-Steve, Lupin, Speedbag-king, Frankie (goes to Hollywood)/Luz/Seniora

LENARD J.— All because of YOU, champ!

MOSES S.— Probably the purest of all boxing trainers, unknowingly, showed me the ropes.

I need to give an extra-special thank you to both mine and Nicole’s brilliant brother and sister in Christ, Mr. and Mrs. COLONEL DAN & KELLIE MOY. Col. Dan, your friendship is invaluable to Nicole and I and this book would never have been complete without your input, THANK YOU!

Last but certainly not least, I absolutely must thank my family members – My dad Jerry Ray Taylor (RIP) who is waiting for me in Heaven now, upon giving his life to Jesus Christ from his deathbed a few months before passing on, my Mama the ultimate entertainer – Evangeline Josephine Taylor, Jayde, Cheyenne and the rest of my nieces and nephews who were each spawned by my awesome siblings: Trina Rea, Gary Linn, Llari Llee, Terry Joe (RIP), Kari Dee & Sherry Kay (RIP) - Brittanie and Jordan - Nobody has or will ever chisel me more than you two. Words aren’t enough. With a heart full of love, thank you for your patience with me. I have cousins, aunts and uncles in nearly every state and each of you played a role here - in varying degrees, each of you have molded me in some form or fashion into the person I am today, thank you - My absolutely incredible extended family are the most solid assembly of angels any person could pray for: Pops, Momz, Jennifer, Richard, Benjamin, Toni and Kenny - yep, I prayed for Nicole and everyone she brought with her are icing.

Introduction

This book has been a lifetime in the making. Some of these writings are just thoughts & harpings-on regarding how I see the world as the 50 year mark bulldozes towards me. Other portions are just good & bad’s that I needed to get off my chest.

Much of what is behind these pages are just scribblings which have been jotted down through my years of living in this concrete oasis—deep-seeded ramblings of a Southern-Christian Conservative who wades daily in an incredible city with hard-pressed ideologies which were in place long before I emerged from my mother’s womb. Their whimpers are like a left-wing groan that permeates the atmosphere on a continuous basis.

But hey, outside of being a solid witness for them, I know that I really can’t change any-one-person, nor is it my place to do so. In truth, the variance keeps me on my toes and makes life that much more exciting!

…reflections, contentions, obsessions, revelations, inventions, personifications, competitions, fortunes and misfortunes, analyzations, characterizations and observations—all of which led to my ultimate Salvation.

What a ride!

Other segments of this memoir are ramblings of a few inner groanings which I felt just had to be put into words. For instance, why does everyone have to keep staring at the new kid?* -yeah, stuff like that.

Also scattered throughout this book are segments which may help educate a few readers on the sport of Boxing.

It just felt useful to implement chunks of information about boxing (and boxers in general) throughout this read. I don’t know, it’s just something that had to be done. By in large, the majority of people in my life never truly got this great sport - and this is sad.

As I dove into my parents’ background, the more I uncovered about them, the far less compelling things seemed to have gone down for my siblings and me thus far! Albeit, our pages are still turning…

But hey, I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t an absolute world-beater in the boxing ring. There were a couple of handfuls of seismic victories which will always be remembered, life changing stuff. Alongside them however, loom handfuls of seismic defeats which crippled me from going far enough to be able to compose an entire book based fully on my boxing career.

However, when all of these life-experiences are woven together, intertwined if you will as a catalyst which ultimately spear-heads me into being a Christian, then, perhaps…someone may be encouraged.

Author’s Foreword: My Testimony

For years, my wife, Nicole, and I enjoyed doing whatever we could to help out at our church. Then, in 2014, we were asked to offer our individual testimonies in front of the congregation. I guess Times Square Church foresaw this as a way for our brothers and sisters to get to know us before we were granted more responsibility in helping point people to Jesus.

Nicole’s was an exceptional story of deliverance from a rebellious lifestyle of nightclubs, rock and roll bands, and life in the fast lane—all the way to full submission to Jesus Christ. Upon making that shift, she went fifteen years without thinking about dating—immersed in church ministry and enjoying traveling the world with her siblings

Nicole’s fervent prayers were also for Jesus to lead her to…me.

Along with abandoning nearly every single one of her friends from her old life, she embraced a radical new persona. She had an entirely new meaning of who she was—one that was centered on walking with Jesus. I saw this deep devotion when we were dating and knew instantly that Nicole was the one I needed. She would be standing immediately behind Jesus, with me.

That’s my girl.

I wish I could say my testimony was as disciplined as hers. It wasn’t. The path that led me to full submission to anyone but myself is a bit unique. For starters, unlike Nicole, I did not grow up in a Christian family.

Jesus was never mentioned around my house during the week. The extent of our church life was limited to Mama wrestling Trina and I into church clothes on the occasional Sunday when she’d drag us to Catholic Mass with her. We would sit silently, avoiding all leanings so as not to fall asleep…and we’d listen and listen and listen. No knock on Catholics but the experience was excruciating. It wasn’t so much the church service itself, which pained me as it was the idea of sitting quietly, motionless, dressed up, next to my sister—for ninety minutes!

There was an alternative plan to Catholic Mass whenever Mama preferred a few hours of peace on Sunday morning. When her desire not to play referee between the two of us won out, she’d instead point us in the direction of the Sunday School bus.

This old jalopy would roll through our neighborhood each Sunday at around 7:45 a.m., picking up the rest of our neighborhood friends. I guess their parents also opted for some alone time on that particular morning. It was a bus full of spiffed-up, tee’d off kids looking their Sunday best but wearing I didn’t wanna wake up so early frowns.

The bus ride was hosted by Bible Baptist Church, which was all about the supernatural life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. They hammered it in hard and loud, preaching about Holy Spirit miracles, speaking in tongues, hands waving in the air, and the laying of hands for healing. You know, full-gospel style church stuff.

Translation: Bible Baptist Church and all of their praising was the polar opposite of the Catholic Mass solemnity services we attended the other half of our Sundays.

These two extremes were complemented by almost daily personal lectures from my dad who lived as far away from both of those churches as he could possibly be. Harmony was not the result. My dad, for all of his wisdom and humor, wasn’t a religious guy at all. He’d watch us leave each Sunday morning with a bad taste in his mouth. He poked fun at me when I walked out the door for church. It just wasn’t his thing.

My dad wove within me the threads of disdain that held my spiritual walk together. Since I was attached to his side like a shadow for so long, chaos loomed in my spiritual life like a bad decision in a prizefight. By the time I was in Marquette, the old man’s philosophy eventually won out, and midway through my junior year, I’d become a full-blown atheist. I’d sit with my leftist friends (the few acquaintances I had in college outside of the OEC boxing team) in the grass and we’d share our lamentations on George Bush and Jesus. That was it, politics and religion. We knew everything and nothing at all.

So, for a short yet, ROCK-SOLID season of my life, I’d inadvertandly morphed into being 100% Leftist, 100% Atheist. This was never a goal or anything I banked on becoming. It just was what it was, period. From around eighteen to twenty-five, this is who I was and nothing good came of it.

In the years after college, I was living and working the casinos dealing craps in Biloxi and St. Louis, as well as for Princess Cruise Lines. I also worked with my buddy Roger Peacock hosting gaming parties over a craps table in Dallas. My life was centered on hustling people from their earnings. When I wasn’t doing that, I was carousing with cocktail waitresses at work and in the bars after work. I was buying, selling, and smoking pot each day and night, arguing and fighting with people in bars and parking lots, dodging jail time by bouncing in, around, and through the Southern Mississippi court system, spitting cuss words from my mouth as often as I breathed—the sordid list goes on and on.

Around that time, I started going out with a girl I’d met in a bar in Gulfport. As soon as we became boyfriend & girlfriend, a barrage of ear pulling and guilt-trips ensued trying to get me into church. In those years, I couldn’t even begin to fathom anywhere I wanted to be less than church.

Furthermore, the church that her and her family were referring to was the absolute last church I could see me attending. About ten years earlier, its preacher was the talk of the coast. He was one of those fire and brimstone fellas. There were billboards of him all over Gulfport. Ironically enough, on said billboards, he’d be standing behind a gate which looked like prison bars, exclaiming: PASTOR RICK EDWARDS IS SHAKING THE GATES OF HELL! He was loud, in your face, and the epitome of a Southern-style, arms flailing, suit-wearing, my way or hell’s way, full-gospel preacher.

In the early eighties, at the height of his popularity, Pastor Rick was at the center of a sting operation targeting a cocaine-smuggling ring. Evidently, private jets were bringing in large shipments of this powder into the Gulf Coast and his holy name was all over these shipments. Pastor Rick and his church were front page on every newspaper in the South back then. In turn, the media had a blast with pics of him being thrown into prison and of him holding onto prison bars, attempting to shake them.

Well, a decade later, this was the