Holmes, Like Rose but Also Like Cobb, Goes for a Big Knock

As Larry Holmes prepares for a sweep of the Spinks brothers, thought to be only somewhat tougher than a sweep of the Niekros, talk turns to the cheapening of a cherished record.

To match Rocky Marciano’s record with a walk-through against a blown-up light-heavyweight, somebody’s little brother at that, is thought in some corners to be a sacrilege. It’s as if Joe DiMaggio’s hitting streak were equaled or broken on a bunt single that somehow didn’t roll foul. You’re taking that? For the record?

In fact, the sourness that attends Holmes’ quest Saturday night at the Riviera Hotel and Casino, as he goes to equal the record of most victories by an undefeated heavyweight champion, almost suggests that an asterisk should be attached to the achievement. Yes, Holmes may be 49-0, but all he had to do was mess over Leon’s little brother Michael to get there. Who couldn’t be 49-0 with a diet of spent cruiserweights and such. It is one thing to avoid undue excitement as he nears retirement; he is 35, slower and more vulnerable than ever. But for Holmes to handicap his fights by accepting only the least opposition is quite another.

Bring on Joe and Phil Niekro. Give them gloves for their other hands and we’ll really put that record out of reach.

Should Holmes beat Michael Spinks here as expected, then add another victory, he will be one of the least appreciated record-holders since Roger Maris befouled Babe Ruth’s legacy.

Says Holmes, flashing the sensitivity that has earned him a reputation for arrogance and general petulance: “I don’t care if people are upset about me beating the record. It’s there to be broken. It’s like Pete Rose beating Ty Cobb’s record.”

Well, of course it is not. Pete Rose is beloved, Ty Cobb was not. Rocky Marciano was beloved, Larry Holmes is not.

And there are glibber explanations than that, although glibness here is strictly point of view. Says co-promoter Don King, the man who has helped engineer the record-breaking fight: “I’d have to say that if Gerry Cooney were about to break the record, sentiment would be different.” It should be noted, as King definitely means it to be, that Cooney is white, Holmes is not. “I don’t have to be specific,” King says, “do I?”

Pressed to be specific, King says: “They ain’t gonna put Larry on no box of Wheaties, I don’t care if he knocks out 17 more guys.”

Leaving aside race, even leaving aside the fact that Holmes had to follow the impossible act of Muhammad Ali, there are other reasons why he won’t command a country’s affection. The thing is, Holmes, the gentle family man, can be flat-out nasty. And often is, come fight time.

Holmes enjoys a measure of obsequiousness among his followers and is vindictive when his rule is questioned. Richie Giachetti, the once-exiled trainer who has been brought back into camp for the career’s wind-up, can vouch for that. “Yeah, he scolded me the other day,” Giachetti says wearily. “But that’s a good sign. I’d feel bad if he didn’t yell at me three-four times in the week before a fight.”

And then there was the matter of firing the venerable Archie Moore, the former light-heavyweight champion. Moore has been employed, effectively, to help the promotion and to recall for reporters the time he campaigned against Marciano, to play up the angle of good little man vs. good big man. But when the Old Mongoose began consorting a bit too much with the light-heavyweight’s entourage, Holmes fired him, calling him a spy. Moore was checking out of the hotel when King finally reached him and returned him to the appreciative press.

The person Holmes needs in camp, however, is not really Moore. It’s Dale Carnegie. As they say, Will Rogers never met Larry Holmes on the eve of an important fight.

On the eve of a fight, which is really the only time he gets exposure, Holmes is nearly schizophrenic, driven to a strange madness by his underdog mentality. At a press conference this week, he called Don King the best thing that has happened to boxing since the protective cup. Yet Holmes has often been at odds with King. Then, belying his week-long cooperation with the press, he went on a tirade about a story that seemed to him to have implied racism in his camp and family and excoriated the reporter by name. The story had appeared more than three years before.

He is hard to figure, harder still to love.

Then, too, Holmes seems to work hard to remove the romance from his achievements. He adopts an attitude that suggests he is little more than a mercenary. Rose, despite contract squabbles in the past, is perceived as a sportsman. Holmes comes across like a gun for hire, compassionless and bottom line all the way. Talking of the record, Holmes says: “The record never really came up until I fought Carl Williams (in May). I didn’t even know it was 49-0. But the press is always reminding you. Even today, it doesn’t really matter to me. I win, get paid, go home and live with my money.”

It’s possible that this is not what the public wants to hear: He’s doing it for the money . Of course he’s doing it for the money. To stick your chin out for the fun of it requires the kind of help available on suicide hot lines. What romance is there to boxing? “Pete Rose,” says Holmes, indicating further the distinction, “does not box.”

A reporter strained to make it clearer. “You mean, Pete Rose gets hits, he doesn’t get hit.” Holmes wearily agreed to the unnecessary word play.

Whatever Holmes gives to boxing, it is not public relations. The persona he has cultivated is publicly unattractive. Alone with a few reporters in his hotel room, he can be funny and smart and the kind of person you don’t mind being with. But it just doesn’t translate in front of crowds. So in front of crowds he says things like: “You might think I’m arrogant. Yes, I am.”

Yet he has given boxing some standards. In the seven years since he took the title, enjoying a reign that is second only to Joe Louis, he has defended 20 times, first in the World Boxing Council and now in the International Boxing Federation. This is in contrast to the heavyweight champions of the WBC and World Boxing Assn., only one of whom has made even one successful defense, and only one of whom has not admitted to drug dependency.

Holmes has almost always been in condition and has never occasioned the ridicule that the other champions have sometimes prompted with their rolls of fat. He has never made headlines for drug use. Although he does tend to browbeat people with the fact, it is true that he has been extraordinarily dedicated to boxing for a long time.

“I have a commitment,” he says, “to my family, to myself and to the world.” Largely, he has fulfilled it.

But, should he flatten Michael Spinks (as he did Leon in three rounds four years ago), there will not be an overwhelming response, an outpouring of love. And, should he flatten somebody like Alphonso Ratliff, the cruiserweight being mentioned for his 50th fight, to break Marciano’s record later this year, his face still will not be plastered onto a cereal box.

But being liked is one thing, although it is good to be liked. Being recognized is something else. And surely he will be recognized for the record, no matter how he attains it. Who will deny him immortality then? Some other heavyweight down the road, beating up on somebody’s little brother? Not likely.

“Somebody will bring me back,” says Holmes, “just like I brought Rocky Marciano back to life.”