Unbeaten Nunn Still Has Title but Not Much Style : He Took His Lumps From the Crowd

Michael Nunn: “I didn’t need to win no last round! I could have done nothin’ in the last round and still won!”

Iran Barkley: “Aw, man! You know who was fightin’ in that last round and who wasn’t!”

Nunn: “I manhandled Iran Barkley! Ask him!”

Barkley: “Shhhh . . . man, you never hurt me! You hit like a flower!”

Nunn: “Yeah? Then why you all lumped up?”

Barkley: “I might be lumped up, but I lumped you up, too!”

Nunn: “Yeah? Where? Ain’t a mark on me! Where you lump me up?”

Barkley: “You lumped up.”

Nunn: “From a head butt, maybe.”

Barkley: “Yeah. Uh huh. Whatever you say, Mike. Whatever you say.”

So ended the circus-circus of Monday night’s middleweight championship fight between North Hollywood’s Michael Nunn, who apparently was too Hollywood for Nevada’s tastes, and the South Bronx’s Iran Barkley, who fought the fight with the crowd on his side, then discussed the fight with an ice pack on his skull.

The man they call “Second To” outpointed the man whose chances were supposed to be Slim And. Nunn called Barkley worse names before the fight, insisting that he had “the IQ of an onion,” promising he was going to make this Bronx bull weep. Barkley’s response was understandable. He said he intended to kill Michael Nunn.

Not surprising, then, that the Blade had a headache at bout’s end. This was not the first time a controversial decision had gone against him. Happened when he took Roberto Duran the distance, too. Oh, sure, his eyelid was swollen, his lower lip was blood-stained, his cranium was lumped up, but as far as he was concerned, it was the decision that wasn’t pretty.

This was the end of a long, long day for Barkley, who literally stripped himself naked to make sure the fight came off.

At the morning weigh-in, after Nunn checked in at 159 pounds, Barkley stepped on the scale, wearing only his Fruit of the Looms, and heard a figure that made him wince: “160 1/4.”

He whispered into the ear of Jay Edson, the event coordinator for Top Rank boxing. Edson then made an announcement:

“Mr. Barkley has decided to take off his underwear before being weighed again, so, if there are any ladies in the audience who would care to turn away, feel free at this time.”

Some did, some didn’t. The Blade got on the scale, and suddenly his weight was 160 on the nose. Oh, the problems we men have with those quarter-pounder underpants.

Anyhow, at least Barkley was a hollow reed compared to Roberto (Waist of Stone) Duran, who fought a few exhibition rounds on the undercard, much to the amusement of those who were thinking about buying tickets for Duran’s Dec. 7 fight against Sugar Ray Leonard. Somebody might have telephoned the Reno Zoo to see if the baby hippopotamus had accidentally wandered out. Duran was that fat.

After waddling around in his XXXL black-velvet trunks for a while, Refrigerator Duran stuck his head through the ropes in the direction of Leonard, who was ringside, smiled through his mouthpiece and muttered, “No mas champagne.”

In far better shape was Barkley, who was ready for this scaled-down version of Ali-Frazier that he and Nunn were about to stage. Barkley is a fighter who does not know how to step backward. Nunn is a dancer who is tired of having it misinterpreted as cowardice. Nunn was eager to prove he could mix. I’ll rock Iran, he said.

He brought to his corner his usual collection of California friends, from San Francisco 49er running back Roger Craig to the jewel-bedecked Mr. T, not to forget that gaggle of Goossens in his corner. Whether it was this entourage that alienated the Lawlor Events Center audience or the tactics that had Nunn backpedaling and rope-a-doping, conserving strength, something caused the crowd to turn against him, and there were constant chants of “Barkley! Barkley!”

Nunn landed far more punches, maybe twice as many, but never once sent Barkley sagging or reeling. The Blade laughed in his face, dared him to fight, goaded him into some display of pretend manhood that would not have served Nunn well.

At the final and fatal (for Barkley) 12th round’s start, he was insulting Nunn, daring him to step closer, wondering why the man was dancing three feet away with a championship belt on the line. “Why you ‘way over there?” Barkley yelled at him.

Nunn responded by popping him in the facial area with eight consecutive rights, and this gave him the round on all three judges’ cards, and in turn gave him the fight. Had Barkley won the round, it would have ended a draw, same as that other middleweight fight between Thomas Hearns and Leonard did, and would have had the same exasperating effect on the fight game.

Nunn pulled it out, though. Then he made out like it shouldn’t even have been close.

“I thought I won the fight hands down,” Nunn said.

Barkley shook his head, as though the man must be crazy.

“Aw, give the man credit,” the Blade said, lifting up his fist. “He knew if he got hit by this, he’d be dead.”

Or at least lumped.