A Regular Cutup : Lightweight Greg Haugen Carves a Niche With His Brutal Punching Style

Greg Haugen fights the way men once fought, before the advent of 10-ounce gloves and three-minute rounds. And, you imagine, the way men fought before the discovery of fire or the invention of the wheel.

Haugen, a 5-foot-7, 140-pound package of fury, fights the way you figure cavemen once fought over the carcass of a brontosaurus.

“I love to beat people up,” said Haugen, a former two-time world champion and the only fighter to beat three-time world champion Hector Camacho. “There’s no question about that. I just enjoy beating people up. A lot.”

So it comes as quite a surprise to hear Haugen (28-4-1, 13 knockouts), who will fight Alfonso Perez (18-6, 13 knockouts) of Guadalajara, Mexico, at the Country Club in Reseda on Tuesday night, explain why he fights.

“For my children,” he said. “That’s all. I fight to provide them with the things I never had. My children are the whole world to me.”

And with that, Haugen automatically has taken himself out of the running for the 1991 Cro-Magnon man-of-the-year award. In the ring, he might act like a guy trying to wrestle his lunch out of a tar pit, but when the fight ends, Haugen is relatively normal, as boxers go.

He is even funny.

At a news conference in 1988 before winning his International Boxing Federation lightweight championship in a bloody and brutal 15-round beating of Vinny Pazienza, Haugen proclaimed that he was in town “to get my belt back.”

Lou Duva, the considerably overweight co-manager and trainer of Pazienza, replied, “The only belt you’re going to get is the one I give you after the fight. My own cowboy belt.”

Drum roll, please. . . .

“Great,” Haugen shot back. “I can use it to tow my car.”

Comedy, however, is not what has made Haugen a wealthy man. His best work always has been on a stage that has ropes around it.

Now 31, Haugen has gotten more from boxing than he ever dreamed. There have been huge paydays, including a $1.2-million purse in his most recent bout, a controversial loss to Camacho in May in the rematch of a bout in which Haugen won a close decision over the previously unbeaten Camacho.

And just as importantly to Haugen, he has earned the respect of the boxing world. Late in Haugen’s thrashing of Pazienza in 1988, Duva screamed at Pazienza between rounds, imploring him to stop or block some of Haugen’s furious punches.

“I can’t stop them, Lou,” Pazienza replied. “If you want them stopped, you go out and stop the . . . things.”

All of which is quite remarkable for a guy whose preparation for a pro boxing career came in the smoke and whiskey-filled and riotously uncivilized Gussie L’Amour Dance Hall and Saloon in Anchorage, Alaska, where Haugen spent an entire year engaged in bloody combat with booze-stoked lumberjacks and gill net fishermen.

At age 20, Haugen was the undisputed Alaskan Tough Man champion, hammering men of all sizes and shapes into submission with his fast and heavy fists.

The title came when he delivered a thorough beating to a 210-pound mountain of a gentleman who went by the name of Yukon Crusher, a burly Alaskan native who assuredly spent many days and nights thinking he was probably the meanest man in the toughest state, right up until he stepped into a ring against Haugen, who gave away 70 pounds to the bearded giant.

“He was one of those real thick guys,” recalled Haugen, a Nevada resident. “Like a tree. And he was mean. But I let him punch himself out for the first three minutes, then just hammered him. I knocked him out. He seemed pretty confused.”

Haugen’s 26-0 record in the barroom tough-man contests gave him an idea. He already had fought more than 300 amateur fights in and around his hometown of Auburn, Wash., before he headed for Alaska and a career as a furnace repairman. Now, with his newly found confidence bred in the dim lights of the Gussie L’Amour Dance Hall and Saloon, he decided to give pro boxing a shot.

Actually, it wasn’t his idea. Not at first. In a subtle change from the theme in the “Rocky” films in which Adrian spends most of her adult life begging her husband not to fight, Haugen’s wife was all in favor of it.

“Actually, she suggested it,” Haugen said of his wife Karen. “I’d watch a fight on TV and say, ‘I can whip that bum,’ and she finally got tired of it, I think. One day she says, ‘Go train. Go fight. Get it out of your system.’

“Really, she could see that I was unhappy, that I was feeling I was missing out. She didn’t want me to always wonder, to always think about whether or not I would have been a good boxer.”

So Haugen turned pro and began a quick and steady rise. He won his first 19 fights and then won the IBF lightweight title in 1986 with a solid beating of Jimmy Paul. But in his first defense, on June 7, 1987, he lost a highly controversial, 15-round decision--and the title--to Pazienza, in Pazienza’s hometown of Providence, R.I. When the fight ended, Pazienza’s face looked like a basket of ripe plums. But Pazienza won the close decision, and even his most loyal followers who had packed the Providence Civic Center booed.

“It was humiliating,” Haugen said. “I won the fight so convincingly. But you know what made it worth it? When it was over, the crowd, which was mostly his crowd, his family , cheered me.”

It was the first of three bloody battles between those brawlers. Haugen whipped Pazienza in 1988 to regain the title but lost it in 1989 to the fast hands of Pernell Whitaker. He lost again to Pazienza in February of 1990 and his career seemed headed for a close. But early this year, he revived it in a big way, outpointing the fading but still talented Camacho over 12 rounds.

Three months later, Camacho narrowly defeated Haugen in a rematch.

And now, he will fight at least once and perhaps twice at the tiny (900-seat) Country Club under the marquee of Van Nuys-based promoter Dan Goossen. The goal is a major bout next year against either Camacho, Whitaker or unbeaten Julio Cesar Chavez.

“I like this kind of place,” Haugen said of the Country Club. “These are the kinds of places where I started. It feels nice to be back. I’m used to fighting in front of 6,000 or 7,000 people on national TV, but this feels better. A great atmosphere. And it lets me keep busy, keep tuned for the big fight that will come next year.”

Haugen vows, like a thousand fighters before him, to quit after that. “I won’t hang around,” he said. “I’m not going to be one of those guys mumbling and drooling on themselves. You’re only born with so many brain cells. You don’t get any more. And boxing isn’t the way to keep them.

“Boxing is brutal. It’s barbaric. The people come to watch someone get hurt, watch someone bleed. They come to see a mess.”

Asked what he hopes to be remembered for when he does retire, Haugen replied: “I hope they remember me as someone who was worth paying to see, someone who gave the fans what they wanted.”