Shadow Boxing:

The stage was set: Sugar Shane Mosley, recognized by boxing pundits as the most talented fighter in the world, would defend his welterweight title against challenger Adrian Stone at Las Vegas’ Caesars Palace. The opportunity beckoned for Mosley to showcase his prodigious skills on an exalted stage, the pugilistic equivalent of cellist Yo-Yo Ma performing at Carnegie Hall.

On that warm July evening, Mosley performed with aplomb, mixing his extraordinary hand- and foot-speed with swarming power. In the third round, he knocked out Stone with a flurry so devastating that the referee stopped the fight before Stone’s head thudded to the canvas. After checking to see if his opponent was OK--aside from a concussion, Stone was sound--Mosley flashed his dimpled grin and hugged his father and trainer/manager, Jack. Nearby, promoter Cedric Kushner applauded. Another win, another knockout: Mosley upped his record to 38-0.

And yet, with the exception of HBO, which had paid millions for the right to broadcast the bout, the East Coast press corps ignored the fight. No A-list (or even C-list) celebrities had come to preen, as is the custom at Vegas fights, and the national anthem had been sung by a Sinatra wanna-be. The fight had taken place in an oversized tent near the swimming pool. It was as if Yo-Yo Ma had played Hollywood’s Frolic Room.

Eighteen months ago, Shane Mosley and his six-pack of abs stood atop the boxing world. The Pomona-bred welterweight had just whipped Oscar De La Hoya in a 12-round war for hometown supremacy at Los Angeles’ Staples Center. Considering that De La Hoya was the biggest non-heavyweight draw in the sport, the victory seemed sure to change the course of Mosley’s career. It was presumed that not only would he become one of the sport’s biggest attractions, but his good-guy persona would also go a long way toward improving boxing’s shabby image.

That hasn’t happened. Sure, boxing insiders respect his talent--he’s been favorably compared to the legendary Sugar Ray Robinson--and he’s kept his nose relatively clean outside the ropes. And thanks to his multi-fight contract with HBO, Mosley makes good money--upward of $3.5 million per fight. But he performs in front of not-quite-sold-out crowds in tents and ballrooms, not major arenas, and he has no major endorsements. He hasn’t achieved stardom, much less super-stardom, in his own backyard.

“He’s the best-kept secret there is, and he may well remain a secret,” says boxing historian Bert Sugar. “That’s the hell of it.” Says Steve Kim of maxboxing.com: “The boxing fans who read KO and Ring religiously know who Shane is, but the people who read GQ don’t.”

The situation confounds the 30-year-old Mosley. “I thought it would be different,” he says. “I thought that I’d have more marketing, more promotion, more endorsements. Now I’m going, ‘Wow, what’s going on? Everything’s at a standstill.’ ”

Why hasn’t this generation’s greatest fighter broken through? Why isn’t he a star on the magnitude of his rival, Oscar De La Hoya?

The answer is simple and yet complicated. The answer is boxing. In this most Darwinian sport, where climbing into the ring means literally to risk your life, ability is only part of the equation.

The Fighter

Two weeks after his victory over Adrian Stone, Shane Mosley opens the front door of the Pomona home he shares with his fiancee, Jin. He looks like hell: the toothy grin is nowhere to be found, and his blue eyes are lifeless. He whispers a greeting, then slumps onto a couch. The cause of his fatigue is readily apparent. Najee, the couple’s then-2-month-old son, alternately fusses and drools on Mosley’s shoulder. “I didn’t get no sleep last night,” he says with the exhausted shrug of a new parent. (He has full custody of his first son, Shane Jr., 10, from a previous relationship.)

Mosley’s well-appointed home is conveniently located less than a mile from his parents’, high above the I-10 freeway, near the Denny’s that flaunts a large “Get Your Sugar Fix” banner. His two sisters live nearby. He claims he’d have it no other way. “Family’s more serious to me than money any day,” he says. “Only thing I’m doing with the money is putting it away into college funds.”

Soft-spoken and polite, a homebody who travels without an entourage or an attitude, the 5-foot-9 Mosley comes across as impossible to dislike. He’s been labeled the “anti-Tyson” and “the boxer next door,” and notwithstanding the two children he has fathered out of wedlock, he’s proud of his image. “They identify me as a great fighter and a great person,” he says. “That’s my personality--I stay truthful to me. What I am is what I am.”

Mosley started boxing when he was 8, tagging along when his father worked out at the local gym. He developed into an excellent fighter, compiling a 250-10 amateur record and winning three national titles. As a top prospect in the country, he was considered a lock to make the 1992 U.S. Olympic team. But Vernon Forrest of Augusta, Ga., defeated him at the Olympic trials, and Mosley had to stay home.

The setback was devastating to Mosley’s career. American boxers who make the Olympic team get immediate attention; winning a gold medal jump-starts their professional careers. Promoters bid against one another to sign them; cable networks promise TV coverage. Gold medalists who’ve used the Olympics as a professional springboard include Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, Sugar Ray Leonard, Pernell Whitaker, Oscar De La Hoya and David Reid.

“Since Floyd Patterson in 1952, virtually all American fighters who’ve built a fan base have come rocketing out of the Olympics,” says Mosley’s publicist, Norman Horton. “The platform of being seen in prime time gives them unprecedented exposure.” That boost is even more significant today. Fighters used to gain prominence through appearances on network television. Sugar Ray Leonard, for instance, became a star partly because ABC showcased many of his early pro fights. Now, HBO and Showtime (and their pay-per-view entities) dominate the industry at the elite level. The relationship is unique to the sport--and one that even cable executives find troubling.

“One of the problems boxing has as a business is the lack of network involvement and exposure,” say Kery Davis, HBO Sports’ senior vice president of programming. “If you look at football, their biggest game--the Super Bowl--is seen by the most people possible. When Felix Trinidad fought Oscar De La Hoya--a major event with two undefeated champs--it was considered a mega success when 1.2 million homes purchased the pay-per-view.” The networks’ decision not to broadcast boxing, says Davis, hurts Mosley and other up-and-coming fighters. “Shane would have been exposed to a large audience and built a following,” he says.

After the Olympics, “I was left out in the cold,” Mosley says. “Everybody treated me like a stepchild. It hurt. I was like, ‘Wow, I know I’m the best fighter. I’m not gonna stop until I’m world champion.’ And I vowed to knock out everybody--that’s why you see so many knockouts. I was like, ‘OK, I’ll show you guys.’ ”

He signed with local promoter Patrick Ortiz, receiving a small bonus, and made his pro debut Feb. 11, 1993, knocking out Greg Puente at the Hollywood Palladium. Mosley was on his way, or so he thought. Despite winning seven fights that year and nine more in 1994, Mosley soon found his career stalled. He says that Ortiz promised financial backing and an eventual title shot, but didn’t deliver. “I did my part: I knocked everybody out,” says Mosley. “But Patrick was very inexperienced. He didn’t have the connections and the promotion savvy to go in there and pick up deals. I wasn’t in one big fight.” Ortiz refused to comment.

Mosley’s largest purse was a paltry $6,000, and he once fought in front of 504 people at the Pond of Anaheim. He took second jobs, including stints at Kmart and Big 5, and lived with his parents in a garage apartment. With little to gain, Mosley ceased fighting. In turn, Ortiz sued him. (The case was eventually settled.)

“Signing with Ortiz was an egregious error,” says maxboxing.com’s Kim. “A fighter of Shane’s quality needed a promoter who knew how to move him.”

By 1996, when his contract with Ortiz expired, Mosley was 24 years old. He had a 19-0 record, with 18 knockouts, but he had no national profile. Nor did he have much of a local profile. His hometown newspaper, the Los Angeles Times, was too busy mining the De La Hoya phenomenon. Tim Kawakami, who covered boxing for the Times and later wrote an unauthorized biography about De La Hoya, notes that De La Hoya’s promoter, Bob Arum, did “a masterful job” in wooing The Times. Arum introduced the fighter to the paper’s most prominent editors; he and his staff dined with Times writers and editors whenever De La Hoya fought in Las Vegas. “It’s rare that a fighter catches the attention of the L.A. Times,” says Kawakami, now a columnist with the San Jose Mercury News. “De La Hoya did and that blotted out everyone in the area. Shane was the one great young talent who got wiped out by the De La Hoya sensation. The fact that Shane may have been more talented was beside the point.”

The Promoter

Mosley was finally a free agent. If he was a baseball or basketball player, he’d have many options. In boxing, promoters build careers and create stars. Two handle the bulk of the talent: the wildly coiffed Don King and Arum. A former U.S. attorney, the Las Vegas-based Arum promoted several of Muhammad Ali’s fights, as well as Sugar Ray Leonard, Marvin Hagler and, most recently, De La Hoya. Like King, Arum will do whatever it takes to make a deal. In a recent trial, he admitted to paying $100,000 to bribe officials representing the International Boxing Federation, one of the sport’s sanctioning bodies, to permit George Foreman to defend his heavyweight title against unranked Axel Schulz in 1995.

No one, however, disputes King’s or Arum’s ability. Through their relationships with HBO and Showtime, Arum and King control the direction of the sport. They are, in effect, Coke and Pepsi. “They have the best fighters,” says historian Sugar, “and so the other fighters must come to them. Boxing is the last individual sport. Total entrepreneurship wins--and often the smarmiest ones are the winners.”

When Mosley parted with Ortiz, Arum made a pass. But he was too busy with De La Hoya’s burgeoning career to make a serious offer. King sniffed around, but Mosley says he was troubled by King’s reputation. He had one other card to play: Cedric Kushner, the Dr Pepper of boxing. With his bushy mustache and perpetually rumpled look, Kushner is often said to resemble a walrus. The 53-year-old South Africa-born promoter has thrived in the entertainment business since the 1970s, first in music (he handled Fleetwood Mac during the band’s heyday), and then in boxing for the last 16 years.

Kushner may not be as well-known--or, for that matter, as despised--as King or Arum, but he enjoys a close relationship with HBO and has handled his share of champions, including Orlin Norris and, most recently, Hasim Rahman. Kushner also hasn’t escaped legal controversy. During the same trial in which Arum admitted to bribery, Kushner testified that he, too, bribed IBF officials.

In 1996, Mosley signed with Kushner. Both say that the deal was forged out of mutual convenience. Kushner controlled IBF lightweight champ Philip Holiday. By agreeing to a contract with Kushner, Mosley was promised a title fight with the undefeated Holiday. On Aug. 2, 1997, four fights into their deal, Mosley won a 12-round decision over Holiday to win the championship. He received $75,000.

Kushner had delivered what Mosley called his “ultimate goal.” He repaid the favor by staying busy: He retained his title eight times in 20 months. And, finally, he was noticed. HBO signed him to a multi-fight contract, while the Boxing Writers Assn. of America named him its 1998 “Fighter of the Year.”

A year later, he put himself in position to challenge De La Hoya. The ensuing fight, the first-ever held at Staples Center, was a classic duel between two excellent fighters in their prime. Mosley prevailed with a smash-mouth 12th round that sealed the win. He became just the sixth boxer in history to win both the lightweight and welterweight crowns.

Mosley had beaten the Man, but he soon discovered that he hadn’t become the Man. Mosley lays much of the blame on Kushner, saying that the promoter did little to boost his career. He points out that when he jumped two weight classes so that he could challenge De La Hoya--from the lightweight division to welterweight, or from 135 pounds to 147 pounds--he did so on his own initiative.

“There was no long-term plan [after the fight] because he didn’t think I was going to beat Oscar,” he says. “Cedric hasn’t done anything for me as far as making phone calls, or flying me out for a photo shoot, or planning my career. I get nothing out of Cedric. He doesn’t make my fights an event. There’s no ads on the buses or in movie theaters or in malls.”

Says Rock Newman, former manager of ex-heavyweight champ Riddick Bowe: “There has been a void in his marketing, in getting people interested and fired up in what he does. Shane’s an incredibly handsome guy. He’s well-spoken. He is blindingly quick. He is powerful. He has every ingredient to be an international superstar. He’s done his part.”

Mosley notes that after beating De La Hoya in the not-quite-sold-out 20,744-seat Staples Center, his next fights were held in a 5,000-seat theater and a 2,800-seat ballroom. “I was like, ‘What’s going on here? What is he doing? Why is he going lower and lower?’ ” he says. “Cedric just goes to the fight and collects his check and leaves.”

Says Arum: “I think initially Cedric did a terrific job with Mosley. The problem was that he either was unable or unwilling to take him to the next level. If I had Mosley after the Oscar fight, I would’ve have busted him out on a pay-per-view fight. You don’t put him back on HBO, take the easy money and put him in with relatively unknown fighters.”

Sitting in a Caesars Palace bar on the afternoon of the Mosley-Stone fight, Kushner looks shellshocked. Earlier in the summer, he’d lost control of boxing’s holy grail--the heavyweight title--when then-champ Hasim Rahman used a technicality to get out of his contract with Kushner and sign with King. Now, with Mosley’s contract nearing expiration, Kushner knows that he’ll lose him too.

Wearily, Kushner denies that he hasn’t worked hard for Mosley. “The way fighters become popular is by fighting big fights,” he says. “Every time we try and put a big fight together, there’s some reason that the challenger or the other champion doesn’t want to fight Shane.”

He ticks off potential big fights--Vernon Forrest, Andrew “Six Heads” Lewis, De La Hoya--and says he approached each fighter only to be turned down. “I’m not a genie--I can’t just wave a wand and make this happen,” he says. “We have a mutual goal: to get the biggest fights and to make him as popular as he can be. Shane will have a big fight when another big fighter is prepared to challenge him.”

Kushner is too savvy to assign blame. But those close to the situation believe that Jack Mosley, Shane’s father and manager-trainer, has contributed to the problem. One confidant notes that while Jack is an excellent trainer, he’s a “terrible manager” who turned down a sneaker-endorsement deal for his son and refused to green-light marquee fights.

“Jack didn’t seize the moment [after De La Hoya],” says former advisor Charles Muniz, who helped the family negotiate with HBO. “He blew it. He said, ‘Let’s go collect our money and have easy fights.’ Well, you’re entitled to one easy fight, not three in a row.”

Says an HBO executive who requested anonymity. “This business is about putting [people] in the seats. Jack doesn’t realize that Shane, for all his ability, doesn’t do that.”

The finger-pointing notwithstanding, Mosley’s lack of visibility may simply reflect the fight game’s present-day stature. In the first half of the 20th century, the sport was considered one of the big four, ranking just below baseball, college football and horse racing. Today, rejected by network television and ignored by corporate America, boxing isn’t disseminated or even discussed.

“Shane is trying to achieve historical significance in boxing,” says former HBO matchmaker Lou DiBella, now president of his own entertainment company. “It happens or it doesn’t. It’s not the promoter or manager or the kid who determines that. It’s the public. Unfortunately, the public hasn’t noticed.”

Indeed, the sweet science has become so marginalized that it scarcely registers a pulse. Plagued by scandal and populated by sleazy figures, its biggest draw remains former heavyweight champ Mike Tyson, who makes pro wrestling seemly.

As Steve Burgess of Salon.com suggests, “In polite society, pugilism is now about a half step up from cockfighting.”

The Man

Besides Tyson, only one contemporary fighter has gained crossover prominence: East L.A.’s Oscar De La Hoya. Shortly after he won the Olympic gold medal in 1992, De La Hoya was dubbed the “Golden Boy.” With good reason: His pretty-boy looks and tough-guy skills have made him a mint. It’s estimated that, with Arum as his promoter, De La Hoya earned a staggering $125 million (not including numerous endorsement deals).

His timing was impeccable. The ultimate ghetto-to-glory sport, boxing disproportionately attracts African American and Latino fighters. But with an overwhelming edge in population numbers, Latino fans now drive the market. Indeed, De La Hoya’s Mexican American heritage is as valuable as his powerful left hook.

“The audience for boxing is Latino, period,” says Arum. “They’re the most dedicated group of fans, with boxing and soccer being the two most popular sports.”

The flip side is that African American fighters aren’t considered box-office draws. “It’s more and more difficult for black fighters to build a substantial fan base,” says HBO commentator Larry Merchant. “It’s like the tectonic plates shifted. The Latin fighters and fans are now the base of the business below the heavyweight division. De La Hoya became the Mexican American version of Sugar Ray Leonard.”

Like Leonard, De La Hoya has never been just hype. He’s beaten a string of top-flight fighters, including Rafael Ruelas, Genaro Hernandez, Julio Cesar Chavez, Pernell Whitaker and Ike Quartey. He’s won six titles in five different weight classes. He’s lost only to Mosley and Felix Trinidad.

When Mosley defeated him last year, many assumed the two would fight again immediately because their contract contained a rematch clause. Mosley was game. During the postfight press conference, De La Hoya said he was, too.

But the loss was an especially bitter one for De La Hoya. He decided to take time off and record a music album. When he returned to boxing, the rematch clause had expired. De La Hoya decided to go in a different direction, jettisoning Arum and hiring Univision CEO Jerry Perenchio to guide his career. He moved to the super-welterweight division (154-pound limit) and has since won two fights against inferior opposition. (De La Hoya recently terminated his relationship with Perenchio.)

This summer, Kushner sent De La Hoya a $10-million offer to fight Mosley again. He got no reply. Mosley believes that De La Hoya will eventually fight him, if only to regain his reputation. “Oscar needs me more than I need him,” he says. “Right now, I’m gonna go down in the history books as being the better fighter.”

For the rematch, he says, he’ll demand an equal share of the money. (Mosley received approximately $4.5 million for the first fight, De La Hoya approximately $12 million.) “It’s gotta be 50-50,” he says. “It’s only fair.”

Others believe Mosley should agree to take less--say, $8 million to De La Hoya’s $12 million--if only to make the fight happen. “Shane and Jack are under the impression that, if you beat the superstar, that makes you the superstar,” says HBO’s Merchant. “That’s not the case. Beating Tiger Woods doesn’t make you Tiger Woods.”

If the rematch doesn’t happen, Mosley will move on. He’s begun to take greater control of his career, nudging his father aside regarding boxing decisions and signing with Cleveland-based talent agency IMG to increase his marketing potential. With or without Kushner, with or without De La Hoya, he’ll continue to do what he does best--knock people out. A number of intriguing matchups await, including Forrest (who beat Mosley at those long-ago Olympic trials) and, perhaps, Oxnard’s Fernando Vargas.

Maybe this time, Mosley says, the world will take notice. “This is about respect,” he says. “I already proved that I’m the best fighter in the world. Now, I want the people to know that I’m the best.”