Sugar Ray Robinson: Dancing Violence
Photo courtesy of Downward Elbow
Introduction
In any kind of topical discussion, especially in the context of competition, there’s an implicit interest in the absolute ceiling. That is to say, conversations can be inclined to wonder about what the pinnacle - the standard that all others aspire to reach - is. In regards to combat sports, this discourse can be intricate to navigate. Pugilism, despite being a somewhat mainstream commodity, is less accessible than you would expect. Many spectators do not train, let alone participate in competition the same way they would in most ball sports. Moreover, as once specified by a peer of mine, fans are often not empathetic nor attempt to be towards the sacrifice or necessities of fighters. As a result, what demands or stipulates how good or how ‘great’ a fighter actually was is seen in fairly subjective terms. Or, at least, it appears to be subjective because so many nuances and intangibles actually go into criterion as to how good at fighting said fighter actually was. My point is as follows: There are reasons that, especially in individually-confrontation-driven contests, there is a necessary distinction between what a pound-for-pound great is versus how good a fighter was head-to-head. Unfortunately, making this distinction is also easier said than done for a reason. It requires rigorous study of both the historical opponents of said fighter and how the fighter’s style works respectively. To that end, how good the fighter was in-ring can differ from how accomplished they were. The rarest of them, however, were those who could be both of those; the absolute monsters and geniuses of the ring.
Born Walker Smith Jr., there are very few boxers with the esteemed resume and background of the illustrious ‘Sugar’ Ray Robinson. Robinson wasn’t just flash and style for the sake of it - he was an astonishing display of raw dynamism and skill in the ring. Robinson had it all. He was an astounding puncher, ludicrously well-conditioned, and a generational athlete. And even worse for his competition: He was good. By all accounts, he is the most accomplished welterweight - a division known for its many talents - of all time and may well have been unbeatable there. He then cemented his place at arguably an even-more esteemed division, middleweight, whereupon he was competitive with among the most rugged competition well-past his best days. Robinson had such a commanding presence, he is credited as one of the boxers who were not just the embodiment of a pound-for-pound great, he was among the few who led to the term’s inception and mainstream popularity. To even qualify how legendary Robinson was in-ring is bound to be littered with an assortment of understatements. Moreover, Robinson became one of the first of many African-American pugilists to gain significant publicity; he was a showman as much as he was a presence. The technical capacity of a fighter is often coined as ‘the sweet scientist’ and many called Robinson ‘sweet as sugar [itself]’. His legacy remains a standout to this day, as he inspired the namesakes of many fighter epithets. Fellow boxing greats such as Ray Leonard or Muhammad Ali credited him as inspiration. Even in other combat sports, the name ‘Sugar’ may well be synonymous with esteemed prestige. The term royalty is often loosely thrown around with a many combatants, yet Robinson was definitively as grandstanding as you can get.
To be frank, I am intimidated to even try to approach him and his game. I’ll give an effort, at the very least.
The Premises of Engagement
““Rhythm is everything in boxing. Every move you make starts with your heart, and that’s in rhythm or you’re in trouble. Your rhythm should set the pace of the fight. If it does, then you penetrate your opponent’s rhythm. You make him fight your fight, and that’s what boxing is all about.””
At the highest levels of the sport, it’s ideal to be able to handle a wide variety of situations. That is to say, no singular fighter can reach the pinnacle of his or her sport without, at minimum, crafting a number of responses to different opponents. Alternatively, if they cannot wage a fight in just about every area, then it becomes far more invaluable to be able to find ways to enforce their game strategically and tactically.
The boxer-puncher, as a general archetype, is often thought of as someone who could fight anywhere and everywhere. This tenet is a bit reductionist. Boxer-punchers truly excel in most sorts of fight, though their game is best catered around neutral ranges and the pocket. They can ‘box’ and ‘punch’ respectively, though that doesn’t necessarily mean they cannot do a bit of both at the same time. Ideally, the best boxer-punchers are those who can efficiently make engagements on their terms and cater their shot selection according to what the opponent offers. Some, such as Alexis Arguello, may struggle if they’re forced to chase, though they have to build ancillary methods to make ends meet. Again, the aforementioned Arguello would answer these sorts of situations by drawing out responses with his jab and then punish the body as just one of many solutions. To be a good boxer-puncher means to understand how to, as Robinson says, “fight your fight” especially if you were fighting in a phase where they were inferior.
It may seem a bit hyperbolic to call Ray Robinson the pinnacle of boxer-punchers, though I genuinely do struggle to think of a more potent, capable one than himself. Robinson could fight on the frontfoot and backfoot; he could be the initiative aggressor or the responsive counterpuncher; he could go to war or play the neutralizing game. For all intents and purposes, Robinson took his own advice from the above quote.
Suffice it to say, Robinson’s game begins and ends with the application of his lead hand to control exchanges.
I’ve talked at length about the proper utility of a jab, though it bears repeating. A jab functions as a multifaceted tool. Among its many functions include:
Distance measurement or to distance establishment as a potential threat. Some applications include throwaways or transitioning into stiff-arming the opponent.
A building block for longer and more potent combinations - potency depends upon amount thrown out and opponent responses (proactive use)
A method of breaking or establishing rhythm (drawing out reactions)
The most effective jabs accomplish all of the above because they facilitate both offensive and defensive options. For many pugilists, the jab is the cornerstone to their ringcraft. In this writer’s opinion, this rule applies to Robinson as well. Robinson’s jab never comes at exactly the same velocity or timing. He is always working behind it to create range or to set up his next available option.
What makes Robinson’s jab stand out among all of his other tools, however, was his understanding of rhythm. To control rhythm is essential to controlling a fight. That is to say, a fighter wants to inaugurate their sense of rhythm while trivializing all attempts of their opponent’s. Ergo, efficient rhythm involves having versatile mixups or approaches. With a jab, for instance, firing it at different speeds (sometimes, even not even throwing it at all) or hooking off of it are just two of many ways to affect rhythm. And once rhythm is firmly on that fighter’s side, their offensive capabilities emerge exponentially.
Pay attention to the footage in the two compilations above and watch how Robinson has these half-beats or pauses to his attacks. Maybe he mixes up his shot selection by double-jabbing instead of just one jab. Oh, wait. Now he’s just thrown a shovel uppercut that has the same telegraph as a left hook. It might have also looked like he was level changing too. Sometimes, he even will extend his lead hand out to touch or grab the other fighter to position their head for another punch.
All of these small tactics may not seem like much, but they make all the difference in the world. The other fighter becomes disoriented and uncertain about what is coming next. They, therefore, fall into their opponent’s control of rhythm and subsequently lose control of the fight.
To be frank, when preparing for this article, I wanted there to be a trick to Robinson’s ability to fire out combinations off his lead hand alone faster than most could even throw a one-two. I know part of it lied within Robinson’s bladed stance and ability to pivot into his weight distributions. That said, it’s impossible to deny that the real reason is the simplest one: Ray Robinson was a ludicrous athlete. He could do all that could, not only because he was well-trained and technically-sound, but also because his durability and physicality were above his competition. Robinson couldn’t just throw at implausible velocity - when he hit, he put his man on skates or on the ground. Moreover, his own absurd durability meant that engaging him in any trade was just a recipe for disaster. He could be hurt, but chances were he would hurt you first and worse.
His athletic attributes, when working in tandem with Robinson’s understanding of rhythm, would play havoc on his opponents’ expectations. In many ways, Robinson thrived in the chaos. Because Robinson could explode into combinations out of nowhere, it became a conundrum to predict when and where he would strike.
Engaging Robinson, especially if you were not durable or defensively sound, was out of the question. Alternatively, too much passivity would allow Robinson to work on the outside and then build momentum.
Still, the above came with a caveat: Robinson had to control the engagements and pace. It became essential that his footwork, timing and ringcraft all worked in tandem to ‘fight his fight’. That is to say, Robinson needed to control the initiative.
When it came to controlling where he fought, Robinson relied upon threats. His lead hand would already be working to determine distances and setups, but he would cork his right hand at all times. If an opponent went towards his power hand, he quickly established that he was willing to throw with intent to the body. And because of an arguably even greater threat in his left hook, opponents were often left with an option to stay away from Robinson or tried to hold their ground in front of him. Feints on the frontfoot were backed up as well because Ray was an avid feinter, specifically with his half steps and level changes. All threats were done to discourage the other fighter from moving laterally and then force them into Ray’s preferred range.
Of course, Robinson faced a wide variety of opponents in his career that chose to meet him with different tactics and engagements. Against an active jabber like Robinson, several opponents chose to jab with him. In response, Robinson would use his rear hand to parry jabs and then jab back. By forcing a battle of the jabs, he could then break rhythm by countering to the body or flurrying upstairs. Moreover, a constant jabbing battle means the range of the fight begins to close into the pocket, where Robinson was at his most lethal.
However, a durable and willing enough boxer could put him on the backfoot. In this case, Robinson was forced to apply some more defensive measures. Fortunately, he proved to be an avid, monstrous counterpuncher.
Robinson’s primary choices were the counter rear uppercut or the lead check hook. The uppercut could allow him to stand his ground and prevent an entry from an overaggressive adversary. The purpose of a counter lead hook has already been explained prior; however, I’ll still cover some of the basic premises. In short, the purpose of a left hook is known as “closing the door”. This phrase has two simple applications:
It can punctuate an exchange to end or continue on one fighter’s terms. In other words, it ‘closes the door’ on the other fighter’s advantage. It can, as stated above, ‘herd the opponent’.
It breaks off an exchange entirely. In this case, it ‘closes the door’ on an engagement and allows one fighter to disengage and reposition.
If this article has not already given the indication that Robinson’s left hook, let alone his lead hand, is nothing less than superlative, then this is the point to believe it. Robinson’s combination work, whether it be on the backfoot or frontfoot, favored the left hook for a reason. Not only was it fast, but it also could fulfill the above purposes. The counters, when delivered with intent, were punishing and effective. Moreover, Robinson’s willingness to reply with thudding body shots only made it more dangerous to even be near him.
And when Robinson truly wanted to put a beating on the other guy? I’d hesitate to say there were too many fighters who personified violence the way he did.
Many of Robinson’s foes stood among the most experienced, sturdy pugilists of their generation and of all-time. Besting many of the names alone is absurd. Henry Armstrong is reported to have been past his best but his experience was second-to-none. Robinson reportedly shut him out.
Kid Gavilan held one of the most impressive welterweight kingships of all time - Robinson beat him twice.
Jake LaMotta handed Robinson his first loss and the latter responded by avenging it five times over, culminating in an viscerally-uncomfortable beating in their sixth and final meeting. LaMotta’s granite chin stands as royalty among monarchs in boxing’s pantheon and, although Robinson didn’t have him out or down, he had his archrival everything but at the point it was waved off.
Even in his late thirties, Robinson was still one of the premier fighters in the world, giving the top of the middleweight division all they could handle. He split a series with Carmen Basilio and notably rocked the fellow great multiple times. Gene Fullmer, after giving Robinson a rugged, difficult bout, suffered his only knockout loss at the hands of one of the finest left hooks ever thrown. Robinson was truly a monster; he beat greats for reasons.
The Monster’s Imperfections
To ask what sorts of flaws exist in any and every fighter seems as though it’s a recipe for petty, arbitrary statements. When it comes to the best pugilists ever, it seems especially demanding. In the case of Sugar Ray Robinson, an extraordinary champion among many others. For such a fighter to have weaknesses of any kind sounds absurd. And yet, here I am, without much hesitation, about to say that Robinson was ostensibly not a perfect monster - even if he was very close to it.
Robinson was an offensive disaster, however, his game came with an enormous asterisk: He had to control the initiative consistently. In other words, Robinson’s best defense was often facilitated by his offense. Sure, he could dance on the outside and his punching selection was superb, but if Robinson wasn’t able to get momentum or any sort of initiative going, then his game lost a significant amount of its luster. I said before that Robinson tended to throw most of his blows as missiles. The problem there should be obvious: It requires him to control his own pace and control of the exchanges consistently. If Robinson could not dent his opponent or they were willing to stand their ground, he could tire himself out. Once Ray became fatigued, his stance would collapse and he would be more susceptible to counters.
It’s a necessity, therefore, to say that Robinson was not as strong when he was pressed back than he was at a neutral or pressuring range. He could be forced back in straight lines and often relied upon his counterpunching to keep opponents off of him rather than focusing on lateral movement. He could employ outside footwork; his defensive ringcraft, however, led to him favoring being offensive first more often than not.
Robinson’s willingness to engage also lends itself to another significant problem: He could be open to counters himself by taking himself out of position.
This all leads to an important side conversation about fighters and athleticism:
Fighter attributes are an inherent part of any game’s success. Sugar Ray Robinson’s victories and longevity was heavily supported by his top-tier athleticism. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about this. Robinson’s dynamism was an essential part of his game. It allowed him to get away with breaking his stance or standing square in exchanges - habits that he did frequently. That said, Robinson was self-aware of his own immortal abilities and maximized upon their effectiveness. Attributes don’t simply affect a fighter’s abilities, they affect the approaches or applications of their game. A pugilist who pays attention to what they can do and builds a game around it are often the ones that triumph at the highest levels of competition. Robinson was definitely one of those. To acknowledge his reliance upon his athleticism is less of a criticism and more of an acknowledgement that no fighter was flawless.
I digress.
Although he was abetted by the scorching heat and Robinson’s own faulty energy conservation, Maxim’s jabbing from an upright stance allowed him to catch Ray coming in or to predict his entries because the lighter man would have to spring far more into Maxim.
These issues were further extenuated by committed pressure infighting tactics employed by rugged fighters in Basilio or Fullmer. Fullmer’s awkward cross arm defense and counters allowed him to close the distance, place his head under Ray’s and nullify a number of Robinson’s own counters (and honestly, he was obscenely strong with some illegal tactics).
For his part, Basilio looked to engage Ray on the inside by outpositioning him through level changes as they exchanged.
On the inside, Basilio exploited another major issue with Robinson’s game: His periodically-inert inside game and vulnerability off of breaks.
There arguably is no finer undoing of Robinson’s game being undone, though, than by the work of the forever underrated Ralph ‘Tiger’ Jones. Although Robinson is in the latter stages of his career, Jones’ effort to shut him down stands among the more disciplined ones.
The details:
Jones cut the ring off on Ray at a distance outside of the pocket. When he closed, Jones would wait until Robinson jabbed - then slip or catch the jab and weave under it to get inside.
On the inside, he deliberately positioned his head to force Robinson to smother himself.
To avoid longer exchanges, Jones would employ a tightened, cross-arm guard while bending over his waist or employing a shoulder roll. These consistent measures, alongside a dazzling assortment of upperbody feints, never gave away his full intentions to Robinson.
When he threw, he only did so when Robinson had finished throwing or was repositioning.
Robinson was still competitive and could force himself back into the fight with his body work, though Jones’ discipline and superior ringcraft never allowed Ray to control the fight for long. It stood as the defining win of Jones’ career though, given the context of Robinson’s age, it remains unclear whether to call it an all-time great win. In the opinion of this writer, I think that caveat is fair, but Jones still does deserve credit for understanding how Robinson built initiative and exploiting his weaknesses without compromising himself at any point.
Ultimately, it sure as hell was not an easy task to best Sugar Ray, but these above examples qualify that there were always gaps in the armor. Though even the most decorated fighter earned his or her accolades for a reason.
Heart of the Sweet Science
You can learn a number of things about anyone when they deal with adversity. This tenet is especially true for fighters - and the greats truly separate themselves from others in this department. The best not only know how to enforce their fight, they learn from their trials and tribulations and are willing to do what it takes to win. Robinson could be beaten or faced with phases of a fight outside of his control. It’s the little things he did to mitigate or prevent those dangers from happening again that further reinforces his status.
Let’s begin with how Robinson dealt with opponents who wanted to get inside or clinch up to take away his pocket advantages. In short, there were two methods Robinson used.
First, Robinson used tie-ups to his advantage. By grabbing the wrist or elbow and pulling the opponent forward so he could posit his head and shoulders close to them, Robinson could apply overhooks or underhooks and smother them - to prevent attacks to his body. Although this did contribute to a fairly passive inside game, Ray did have a trick or two up his sleeve because opponents tended to think the clinch was a safety zone for offense and a lull in the action.
Punching into the clinch is one thing, but notice how Ray constantly turns or pushes the other man in a set direction that gives him a set advantage for when the referee has to break them? The clinch is where referees are supposed to break fighters up because there is no action. This is important.
The most dangerous tactic Robinson had on the inside was that he attacked off the breaks or made breaks of his own. If he could get overhooks, he would pull the opponent closer and assault the body. Alternatively, he showed he could be shrewd enough on the inside to create single punches to catch his man unaware. For example, he would switch to a collar tie and uppercut them to force separations and then hit more off the break. The clinch, therefore, offered Ray some respite within the rules and still provided him an opportunity to be surprising while bending what was and was not allowed between the ropes. These tools established Robinson as a boxer who could attack and understand the value of transitions.
Speaking of hitting off the breaks, please consult Rocky Graziano’s therapist. He is now a rich man. His client might be dead though.
(Review time: Robinson uses a throwaway right to get to that clinch, fakes going for the underhook/overhook as he uses just enough space to uppercut Rocky’s head into a left hook. The clinch is now broken and Graziano finds himself on the ropes with nowhere to go as the jab pierces his guard and the right cross sends him into a different dimension. All of these embody Robinson’s rhythm with deception and veteran understanding of the ring.)
The second tool against willing aggressors and infighters was an example of Occam's razor: Don’t ever let it become an inside fight.
The Gene Fullmer knockout remains an unbelievable one that’s been broken down elsewhere, though the leadup to the finish requires some discussion too. Because Fullmer’s goal was to get on the inside and was willing to trade to get there, tie-ups were less optimal. Ergo, Robinson applied his outside neutral game and ringcraft. Against Fullmer, Ray maximized upon his lead hand’s ability to force reactions out and then punish them accordingly. He would force Fullmer to chase into counters (remember, “closing the door”?).
Eventually, Fullmer was a sitting duck at distance for Robinson’s left hook-right body dynamic without easy entries. You see just how much he’s hesitating at a longer range? The counters and repositionings have made him hesitate and now he’s stuck at one of the worse ranges trying to counter. You know what’s next.
Fullmer’s escalating predictability eventually let Robinson make his read and deliver an earth-shattering left hook that detonates on Fullmer;s jaw.. Fullmer, whose notoriety among iron man in boxing history stands as a given, was completely down and out. Florentino Fernandez, Dick Tiger, and Eduard Lausse stand among the most ferocious punchers in the history of the middleweight division and they struggled to even faze Fullmer at times. Yet Robinson took him out.
Against the savvy and gritty technician Basilio, Robinson focused more upon his positioning in their rematch to avoid letting the former get inside. He would posture his head on level with Basilio’s and square up to throw to the body. This allowed him easy access to the clinch if he desired. Likewise, Robinson tightened up his counterpunching to never let Basilio get his entries and chose to punish as many of them, including the feints, as possible.
The term ‘genius’ is thrown around loosely, but Sugar Ray Robinson absolutely was that and then some.
Conclusion
It’s a testament to Robinson’s knowledge of the ring and his own abilities that he amassed an unbelievable record. Numbers are often inflated without context, but the very suggestion of a career-defining run of 173 wins, 19 losses and 6 draws (2 No Contests) is absurd. With the context of who he beat and how, it only solidifies that Robinson was legendary for a reason. He fought the best of his generation and he beat almost all of them.
As talented as many fighters that I’ve studied are, I can maybe name only a few within the same league of talent as what Robinson demonstrates on footage. Footage of his best days does exist in a comparatively incremental measure, but if the Ray Robinson in his late thirties still stands among the finest pugilists to ever grace the ring based upon an eye test, then what does that tell you about the peak of his powers? Any other statement to define how great and how good Robinson was would not do him justice.
Ultimately, I don’t know if Robinson is the most accomplished boxer of all time nor the best that I’ve ever watched. What I do know is that I would never argue with anyone who argued if he was number one in either category.