When Walker Smith Jnr borrowed the amateur card of his friend, Ray Robinson, he could not have known that Ray Robinson would become the name by which he would forever be remembered. Nor for that matter could Smith/Robinson have predicted that being described as “sweet as sugar” after a fight in New York in 1939 would result in yet another name – this time a nickname – becoming a part of both his legacy and the sport’s lexicon.
But it’s true. All of it. If history is to be believed, that is exactly how it happened. One day Smith became Robinson and one day Robinson became “Sugar” Ray all because of one instance of lending and all because a fight manager, George Gainford, just so happened to call his fighter – yes, you guessed it – “sweet as sugar”.
Suddenly, from the ideas and identities of other men, there he was: Sugar Ray Robinson. He would, however, not be known as the Sugar Ray Robinson until much, much later. That distinction came only once he had won world titles as a welterweight and middleweight and proved himself as arguably the greatest boxer of all time. It was then that Robinson had not only given life and perpetuity to a name not even his, but he had also locked down his nickname, that of “Sugar”, and ensured that all future boxers would think twice before filching it and adopting it as their own.
After all, due to Robinson’s exploits, few nicknames in boxing carry the weight of “Sugar” and few, as a result, can boast such a clean and illustrious lineage. Some dared, of course, and tried it on for size, but predominantly the Sugar club is a club of just three: Robinson himself, Sugar Ray Leonard, and Sugar Shane Mosley. It is not a club easy to join, and it is even tougher to belong, hence why not many try. For most, it makes more sense to steal someone else’s nickname, or, better yet, create one of their own, with no history attached and therefore no expectation.
More than just a word, you see, “Sugar” reflects a certain style of fighter and a certain level of success. To carry it a boxer must fight in a specific way, in a way that cannot be taught, and they must use this style to dazzle fans and bamboozle opponents on fight night. They must also make a habit of winning, both fights and titles. It is not enough to just be a good fighter when bearing the name “Sugar”. You must be the best.
It is for this reason the nickname is rarely self-applied. Instead, what tends to happen is that the nickname is pushed on a fighter, as though a child they never knew about, or a series of unpaid bills left by a dead relative. It is hung around their neck, as either a medal or a noose, and with it around their neck all they can do is smile and say, “Gee, thanks,” not yet sure whether they have received a gift or a curse.
Typically, it all boils down to style. If you fight like Robinson, and plenty have tried (and failed), you fall within the bracket of possibility. If, as was true in the case of Ray Leonard, you also happen to possess a beaming smile and some movie star charm, you shift even closer to warranting the nickname “Sugar”. Throw in fast hands, faster feet, and an Olympic gold medal, which was once a sure-fire gauge of talent, and suddenly it becomes almost inevitable that if you go by the name Ray, someone, somewhere will try adding “Sugar” to it, just to see how it sounds and feels. At that point it will either be spat out like gristle and leave a bitter aftertaste, or it will be swished around like mouthwash, spat out only when it has done its job and starts to burn.
For Leonard, the next “Sugar”, there was never any doubt. There was never any doubt that somebody would at some stage try it, nor any doubt that he, of all the Rays and potential Sugars, would be the one best equipped to carry the mantle and not denigrate the name. He had it all. He had the look, the smarts, and the skills. He also had a medal from the Montreal Olympics and various promoters and managers battling it out for a sugar high. He was, in other words, no ordinary Ray and no ordinary fighter. He was, before even proving it, the most gifted Ray since Walker Smith Jnr and the only one worthy of being called “Sugar”.
By the time he had dethroned Wilfred Benitez in 1979 to become WBC welterweight champion, there was no arguing Ray Leonard’s brilliance. He wasn’t yet Robinson good, no, but he was good enough. He then went on to have not one but two fights against Roberto Duran in 1980, which, as a pair, revealed there was more to Leonard than just his brilliance. In fight one, the 45th anniversary of which arrives on Friday, he got it all wrong; he forgot to bring his sugar and allowed his natural gifts to be stymied by Duran’s pressure, aggression, and spite. However, in the rematch, Leonard was not only back to doing what he did best, but he managed to force Duran to say “no mas” and thus provide the fight with a narrative destined to endure. Now it was more than simply a fight. Now Leonard, in winning it the way he did, was more than just a champion.
Other wins helped, of course. His 14th-round stoppage of Thomas Hearns the year after beating Duran cemented top spot at welterweight, while the ’87, out-of-retirement win he registered over Marvin Hagler at middleweight seemed miraculous in the eyes of many. Both those fights, one conclusive and the other controversial, were iconic additions to the Leonard legacy and demonstrated he was more than just sweet.
As he aged, in fact, Leonard discovered that he could no longer rely on his smile, his charm, and his speed to get by. Now, as Robinson too found out, he was having to defy the implications of a nickname and prove that he was more than it; better than it. He did, too. He showed that nicknames like “Sugar” do not get given to boxers purely on the basis that they are marketable and smile with their eyes and teeth. Nor are they given to boxers just because they display a semblance of speed or grace in the ring. Instead, they are given only to the ones whose strength lies in their capacity to bear the weight of carrying such a heavy load.
Leonard didn’t just carry it, by the way. He added to it. He made “Sugar” an even heavier weight to carry for future applicants, with many of them put off trying. After all, it wasn’t just Robinson now. It was also Leonard. Leonard, in fact, was the “Sugarman” for an entire new generation of fans and he, unlike Robinson, was someone whose fights were readily available to watch and re-watch. As such, the Leonard name soon became synonymous with “Sugar” in a way that had some fans, those of a certain age, surprised to learn that there was a fighter even greater than Leonard with the same nickname.
Sure enough, Ray’s success intimidated as much as inspired the next generation of boxers, which included Shane Mosley, a young lightweight from Pomona, California. As with Leonard, they had gone early with Mosley, labelling him “Sugar” years before he had even won major honours as an amateur or turned pro. He was just 10, he says, when the nickname was first hung around his neck and they softened it, too, calling him “Little Sugar” as if that would somehow alleviate the pressure.
In the ring, though, the title was not softened but simplified. Simplified to this: “Sugar” Shane Mosley. That is how they introduced Mosley, the child, during many of his amateur bouts, notably one against Oscar De La Hoya at the age of 12, and it wasn’t long before it became part of the proceedings and a fun name to say. He wasn’t a Ray, no, but it could not be denied: “Sugar” Shane was catchy and had a certain flow to it. In fact, were it not for its history, one might even go so far as to say it was a nickname Shane Mosley was born to claim.
By the age of 14, he knew what it meant, too. Fourteen, you see, was the age at which Mosley was to finally meet Ray Robinson, a man about whom he had heard so much. It was also the age at which he encountered Robinson’s wife, who, upon learning that the boy shared a nickname with her husband, told him, “Well, you got to be good to be a ‘Sugar’. You got to train hard.”
“I am,” said Mosley, as though having been reprimanded. “That’s what I’m doing.”
Of the two Rays, it was perhaps Robinson whose style Mosley’s evoked, though Leonard was the one he found easier to both find and study. Robinson, in fact, was a fighter first introduced to Mosley by his father, Jack, who could see the benefit of trying to get his son to fight in a similar way, especially once he turned professional. In the pros, a boxer had more opportunity to do damage and Mosley, though a fleet-footed lightweight, would soon develop a style which enabled him to do a bit of everything. At welterweight, in particular, he was an all-round fighting machine.
Indeed, it was there, at welterweight, that Mosley started creating his legacy, having previously registered eight defences of an IBF lightweight belt. Skipping junior-welterweight altogether, he jumped to welterweight in 1999 with the aim of dragging Oscar De La Hoya, his old amateur rival, towards a lucrative and compelling Los Angeles super fight. He had no concern about his lack of experience in the new weight class and knew that Robinson had once made the same move. Besides, Mosley was now “Big Sugar”, not “Little Sugar”.
“I actually fought bigger than Oscar as an amateur,” Mosley said. “He fought at 132 [pounds] and I fought at 139. Even when he turned pro, he fought lighter than me. He fought at 130, 135, 140, then 147. I had to stay at 135 to prove myself whereas he was already the ‘Golden Boy’.
“I knew the big money was fighting Oscar at 147. Also, not many people jump a weight class like that, so I wanted to make a bit of history.”
Eight lightweight title defences was one thing, but what Mosley really needed was a defining fight, something to separate him from other world champions and edge him ever closer to justifying his nickname.
As it turned out, that fight would arrive on June 17, 2000 – 25 years ago yesterday – at the Staples Center, Los Angeles, and in the opposite corner was indeed De La Hoya, someone whose nickname, “Golden Boy”, both explained his allure and was exclusively his. With no real lineage to it, it was for Mosley to ruin, not De La Hoya.
“People think I won that fight on hand speed but what really paid dividends was my foot speed and the fact he got tired trying to keep up with my intensity,” Mosley said. “The first six rounds were close and then in the second half of the fight I blew him away.
“He spent all his energy trying to stay with me and my feet were a little too fast for him. Our hand speed was actually similar, but my feet were quicker, and my intensity meant he couldn’t match the tempo.
“I had an advantage because I had sparred him in the amateurs and lived in the same area. We knew each other. I knew if you didn’t anticipate that left hook landing on your chin, you’d be out of there. A lot of people didn’t know that. They would walk into it and be like, ‘Oh, shit, he fucking knocked me out.’”
Mosley not only avoided the De La Hoya left hook that night at Staples Center, but he outhustled the champion for most of the 12 rounds they shared and won a split decision at the bout’s conclusion. It wasn’t his finest win, he told BoxingScene’s Eric Raskin this week, but it was his first big one and it confirmed Mosley as a two-weight world champion. Best of all, he had outshone the “Golden Boy”, shared his riches, and was now heralded in some quarters as the new star of American boxing.
That, for a boxer going by the name “Sugar”, was about as good as it could get, a best-case scenario. Because Shane Mosley was many things, but never was he deluded or full of himself. He would have known and been quick to accept that he would never be the new Ray Leonard, let alone the new Ray Robinson, despite any similarities in style and despite paying tribute to them. The shoes were too big; the achievements too great. All he could really do was focus on staying in the club, proving he belonged, and making both Rays proud. All he had to do was be as “good” as Ray Robinson’s wife said he needed to be.
Twenty-five years ago, Mosley was really good. He was one part Robinson and one part Leonard and he was too much and too good for Oscar De La Hoya at a weight of 147 pounds. And yet, if the word “good” should also refer to behavior, it would be remiss not to point out that when the pair fought again, in 2003, Mosley was luckier to get the decision – this time unanimous – and fuelled by something more than just sugar. He had, for whatever reason, taken to injecting himself with EPO (Erythropoietin), a doping agent, in camp for that De La Hoya rematch, something to which Mosley would later admit under oath as part of the 2003 BALCO (Bay Area Laboratory Cooperative) scandal.
The founder of BALCO, Victor Conte, estimated that Mosley had injected himself 20 times on each side of his belly button in the month before the De La Hoya fight, though Mosley himself denied knowing that the drug he was injecting was banned or illegal. True or not, we can at least be sure of this: the drug had enhanced Mosley – his training, his performance – and the revelation of his dabbling served to demonstrate the lengths to which an athlete will go in pursuit of greatness, or just a sugar-coated illusion of it.