FEATURE: Ex-champ Riddick Bowe finds new career

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Wed, Aug 26, 2015 page19

FEATURE: Ex-champ Riddick Bowe finds new career
- NY Times News Service, NEW YORK
Three men stood on a street in Harlem, handing out fliers and pointing to a big man sitting alone inside a small restaurant with four tables called Bowe’s. He looked around, eager for company.
“That’s the two-time heavyweight champion of the world,” they told pedestrians on West 116th Street. “That’s Riddick Bowe.”
“Say hello to the champ,” one of them said. “Go inside.”

International Boxing Hall of Fame inductee Riddick Bowe, right, shakes hands with Hall of Fame member Nino Benvenuti, second from left, while fellow inductee, Steve Smoger, left, and Hall of Famer Richard Steele look on during the Hall of Fame induction ceremony in Canastota, New York, on June 14.

Photo: AP

Riddick “Big Daddy” Bowe, as booming ringside announcers once introduced him at fights, towered above Harlemites entering to meet him. He signed autographs on takeout menus. He posed for photographs. He threw jabs into the air.
A woman applied lip gloss with a pocket mirror while waiting to take a selfie with him. She was shocked when he stood up.

“Damn,” she said. “Big Daddy.”

International Boxing Hall of Fame inductees, from left, Riddick Bowe, Yoko Gushiken, Steve Smoger, Ray Mancini, Jim Lampley, Nigel Collins and Rafael Mendoza pose with their induction rings during the International Boxing Hall of Fame induction ceremony in Canastota, New York, on June 14.

Photo: AP

“That’s what they say,” he said.
Kitchen workers prepared rotisserie chickens, and juice blenders rattled as screens in the small seating area flashed decades-old images of Bowe devastating his opponents. His dismantling uppercut into Evander Holyfield’s chin, in Las Vegas in 1992, appeared several times. A punching bag hung in a corner for decoration. The sign outside displayed a Bowe in his prime with a title belt draped over his shoulder, and the name of his place, Bowe’s.
Bowe’s is a narrow establishment on 116th Street and Frederick Douglass Boulevard that sells rotisserie chicken and fresh juices. It is discreet enough that you could walk right past it. It is also the latest stop for Riddick Bowe, the two-time former world champion heavyweight boxer, who has struggled with life after boxing since he retired from the sport in 1996.
He is the restaurant’s face, its theme and one of its owners. Meals are named after him, and he stops by at least twice a month for meet-and-greet sessions.
He owns the restaurant with his fast-talking manager, Ashley Khan, and they hope the Harlem storefront, which opened in March, will be the foundation for a chain. Another location is planned farther uptown, as well as one in the Bronx.
“We have big plans,” Khan said. “I’m hoping he can dress up like Santa Claus for Christmas and hand out turkeys. I want to make a special Bowe juicer. It could be like the George Foreman grill.”
If starting a hole-in-the-wall juice-and-rotisserie-chicken franchise seems like a comedown for a boxer who earned more than US$80 million, then Bowe’s last decade is worth considering: a vortex of misfortune that included bankruptcy, failed comebacks and incarceration. The restaurant is a welcome turn of events.
“I’m hoping it will take off,” Bowe said.
The post-career path of boxing’s champions is frequently distant from the glories of the ring, and Bowe’s life has been a sequence of detours since his pinnacle as one of the heavyweight division’s titans in the early 1990s.
He secured his place in boxing history in 1992, when he was 25, by beating the heavyweight titleholder, Holyfield, in a violent tug-of-war that lasted 12 rounds. It commenced an epic trilogy of bouts between the men that became one of boxing’s famed rivalries.
When Bowe first held his title belt aloft, his bleak childhood in Brownsville, Brooklyn, must have felt incomprehensibly far away. He had grown up with 12 siblings, down the street from Mike Tyson, in an infamous housing complex where, he said, finding dead bodies on the street in the morning was commonplace. He escaped by finding a vocation at a boxing gym and soon emerged as one of New York’s finest fighters, winning four Golden Gloves tournaments. He represented the US at the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul, losing to Lennox Lewis and taking home the silver medal.
Some believed that Bowe had the potential to be a once-in-a-lifetime kind of fighter: an heir to Muhammad Ali. Eddie Futch, the famed trainer who instructed Joe Louis and Larry Holmes, took on Bowe, seeing such promise.
“With his natural tools, he could be the best heavyweight I’ve ever had,” Futch said of Bowe in the early ’90s.
However, Bowe’s legacy has become emblematic of how cruel boxing can be and how far its champions can fall. His career after he defeated Holyfield is remembered as a descent into the trappings of wealth and a crumbling of discipline.
“Bowe had a curse,” said Ron Borges, a sports columnist for the Boston Herald. “And that was he had no second dream. When he won the title, he had nothing else he wanted to do. He wanted to be the heavyweight champion, and he got it.”
Boxing fans awaited another masterpiece like the Holyfield bout, but were treated to a procession of lesser opponents. The most-anticipated fight, against Lewis, never happened — some attribute that to fear on Bowe’s part, others to mismanagement.
After defeating Andrew Golota, a Pole who won the bronze medal in Seoul, in two fights best remembered for their brutality and Golota’s disqualification for low blows, Bowe quit boxing at 29.
When he retired, Bowe was worth US$15 million, he has said, and he spent it amply: on 10 houses, 26 cars, furs and diamonds, and accommodations and monthly allowances for his large family.
However, the millennium would bring bankruptcy, an expensive divorce, a comeback attempt and 18 months in prison for abduction and domestic violence. His fighter’s physique also left him, as did his smooth voice, warped into slur, probably as a result of blows in the ring.
“I hate hearing my voice on the radio,” he recently said.
Since filing for bankruptcy in 2005, Bowe has tried becoming a trucker, taught exercise classes, sold signed memorabilia at conventions and reinvented himself as a Muay Thai kickboxer. His one match, in Thailand to a Russian opponent 15 years his junior, lasted only two rounds. He lost.
“I don’t have as much money as I used to, but I’m fine,” he said.
“If people want to help, they can send money to the Riddick Bowe Better Life Foundation,” he said wryly.
Although his fortune has dissipated, Bowe said he earns enough from public appearances and has three homes: one in New York, one in New Jersey and one in Florida, where he spends most of his time with his wife and daughter.
When examined at its roots, Bowe’s reputation as one of boxing’s casualties can seem unfair.
He was born Riddick Lamonte Bowe in 1968 in East New York, Brooklyn, the 12th of 13 children, to Dorothy Bowe. His father was practically invisible.
His mother moved her children across the borough in a constant search for cheaper rent — Coney Island, Bushwick, Bedford-Stuyvesant — but Bowe would spend his formative years in Brownsville, at 250 Lott Avenue in a bleak housing complex nicknamed Gunsmoke City for the frequency of gunfights.
The teenage Riddick did not slide into vice and dwelled instead within walls of discipline. He trained at a gym in Bedford-Stuyvesant after school every day. He was only the second child in his family to graduate from high school. With his imposing size, he protected his mother, walking her to her job at a plastics factory every night.
However, while Bowe managed to avoid being swallowed by neighborhood violence, his siblings did not. His sister Brenda was murdered when he was 18. His brother Darryl was stabbed in the chest in front of a fruit stand near their high school. Another brother, Henry, was in and out of jail and later died of AIDS.
“It was survival of the fittest,” Bowe said.
Being virtually the last in line in such a large family, he said, influenced him as a boxer as much as anything else.
“I had to fight to put my socks on,” he said. “That’s why I’m a great fighter. My brothers and sisters didn’t realize they were creating a monster. And then that monster made it to the Hall of Fame.”
“You need to have that killer instinct,” he added. “It can’t be taught. Where does it come from? A couple slaps. A couple things you had denied to you.”
However, he does not speak with his family anymore, and partly blames them for his financial woes.
He carried them out of Brownsville, he said, and bought houses for them near his own home at the time in Fort Washington, Maryland. He paid their taxes and provided allowances, but he said he believes that he came to be perceived as little more than a breathing bank account.
“They tore those houses up,” he said. “They don’t love me. They can’t love me.”
“I don’t speak with my mother,” he said. “Whenever I wanted to talk about my problems, she would just ask me when I was going to send her more money.”
“I’ve cried many a day and many a night, but things happen how they happen,” he said.
However, when Bowe is at his juice shop, he is treated as nothing less than the champ, and the other day, his most pressing concern was the preparation of his chicken wrap.
Dirk Eduardo Bobbit, who could recall Bowe’s fights by date, refused to accept the narrative of the fallen prizefighter.
“The future is going to be bright for him here,” Bobbit said. “Riddick Bowe has found peace in Harlem.”
William Ponder, who had pointed Bowe out to his daughter with excitement, said history was too harsh to the boxer.
“The problem is that people are only judged by their failures,” he said. “We only look at what went wrong, but Mr Bowe is a winner. And his chicken is good.”
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