Only Thing Left Is to Win the Title

Society has always viewed left-handers with suspicion. The word sinister derives from the Latin for left-handed. So does the French word “gauche,” which gives you an idea of the disdain. In baseball, left-handed pitchers are wildly held to be dottier than the rest of the rotation. Left-handers throw “screwballs.” In politics, the “left” is a fringe, the “right” is a principle.

But nowhere are lefties more anathematized than in prizefighting. To a man, orthodox pugilists hate to encounter a southpaw in the ring. Joe Brown, when he was a lightweight champion tormented by the breed, delivered himself of the opinion that all left-handers should be drowned at birth.

In boxing, it’s more than superstition. A left-hander makes the standard right-hander look--well, gauche. Awkward, uncertain. It frustrates his attack, deprives him of his best moves. It’s like trying to dance with a drunk. Most fighters on the right would rather do roadwork than face a lefty. Lefties thus historically have had a hard time getting fights.

There has never been a left-handed heavyweight champion, for instance. In all the decades of pugilism, we have had boxers, sluggers, infighters, cleavers, clumsies--but we have never had a lefty own the heavyweight crown.

This could change April 22 at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. For the first time in history, the title is, so to speak, in danger of going south.

Michael Moorer, who fights Evander Holyfield for the title that day, is left-handed. Is he anything else? Will his unorthodoxy be enough to propel him to the title of Joe Louis, Jack Dempsey, Muhammad Ali and John L. Sullivan?

Well, at first blush, he seems to have the credentials. Thirty-six out of 36 is a nice start, 30 of them knockouts. Either Michael is a new Brown Bomber or he is, so to say, a bull in a china shop--and his opponents have had the greatest collection of dinnerware for jaws in the game.

To be sure, knocking out Ramzi Hassan is not exactly knocking out Joe Frazier. And he seemed to knock out somebody named Frankie Swindell every other year. Once more and he gets permanent possession of him.

Moorer is also widely credited with another victory--over a cop in Monessen, Pa. It was not exactly sanctioned by the Marquis of Queensbury rules and it wasn’t televised. It took place outside a saloon in a town where Moorer had been celebrating his victory over Alex Stewart. The cop says he ended up with a broken jaw, but Moorer disavows the win, says it should go on somebody else’s record and, to be sure, no charges were filed. Moorer says proof of his innocence is the fact the cop never took a count. Moorer insists that anybody he hit flush on the jaw would have hit the floor. He paid the bill anyway, just as he did when he knocked out an airline computer one night with one of the best lefts he ever threw. Moorer said the computer deserved it because it had fouled up his reservation.

Moorer says he wouldn’t hit a cop or any law enforcement official anyway because he means to become one some day--head of the FBI, maybe, or with the Secret Service or Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agency.

But, first of all, there’s the business of becoming heavyweight champion.

Moorer is a departure in a way. In this era of trash-talking, high-walking pre-fight press conferences, Moorer speaks in tones of deepest respect about his opponent, the champion, Evander Holyfield.

“I’m not into disrespecting people,” he says. “That’s not for strong-minded people. I’m not into making him an enemy.”

So, will the fight be a mutual admiration society waltz? “There’ll be some hitting,” Moorer promises. “He’s a man, and he’s there to be hit.”

So, of course, is Michael. Does he expect his left-handedness to be an advantage? “I don’t know,” Moorer says. “I never fought myself.”

Moorer, who is training down here on a converted tennis court at the Riviera resort spa this week, was made into a fighter by his grandfather, an old-time fight trainer named Henry Smith. Grandpa Smith, who raised him, used to take his grandson down to the gym where he worked, and one day Michael put on the gloves and worked over an older, experienced pro. Grandpa tried to make him over into a standard right-handed fighter but gave up when his grandson won fight after fight his way.

Despite his impressive record (26 consecutive knockouts to start his career), Moorer is hardly a marquee name. “Iron Michael,” he’s not. And, try as they might, present contenders have trouble convincing the public they’re anything but interim titleholders because the real titleholder and the real “Iron Mike” is in an Indiana prison and will restore order when he gets out.

We have had a succession of champions who lost their titles not in a ring but at the buffet table. Buster Douglas seemed to think his contest was sumo wrestling; and Riddick Bowe was so slow and overweight, he almost got hit by a guy passing through on a parachute.

On common opponents, the fight appears a standoff. Both beat Bert Cooper--but not easily--and both beat Alex Stewart. But Moorer knocked him out, and Holyfield could get only a decision.

Moorer is not concerned that no one knows his name (they pronounce it “Moore,” “Muir,” and “Morris”). Once he wins the title, he feels, everyone will know his name. So they will. “Lefty.”