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  There was more trouble brewing. When Edna Mae returned home from the abbreviated theatrical run, she discovered a passel of expense sheets left by Sugar’s valet. “I saw all the Mr. and Mrs. Ray Robinson suite statements,” she lamented, realizing that while she had been busy trying to revive her career, her husband had been checking into hotels with other women posing as his wife.

  These bills were clear evidence of his extramarital sexual encounters, which, to some extent, matched his general cachet with young African Americans. After demolishing Rocky Graziano, Sugar must have known how much his image and persona were affecting thousands of young black men. They were copying his style of dress, getting their hair processed, and hustling to own a Cadillac. Sugar’s image would have been even more widely disseminated had plans to make a film of his life gone beyond the talking stage. Independent film producer Abner J. Greshler, taking his impetus from filmmaker Stirling Silliphant’s announcement to make a movie of Joe Louis’s life, contacted Sugar with an offer for a biopic, with Sugar playing himself. (Later, comedian Eddie Murphy would option Sugar’s life, with the promise of a film that has yet to be done.) Silliphant was able to complete his project on Louis (though his greatest success was yet to come—his scripting of television shows such as The Naked City and Route 66), while Greshler’s project fell by the wayside.1

  Movie or not, at least one renowned musician had already appropriated some of Sugar’s mannerisms—trumpeter Miles Davis, who in 1952 was deeply ensnared in a heroin habit. To get the monkey off his back, Davis turned to boxing, but with no intention to fight anything but his drug habit. Watching Sugar work out on 116th Street, Davis felt that the rigor of the training might help him both mentally and physically to overcome the demon. “I had already met Bobby McQuillen, who was a trainer at Gleason’s Gym in midtown Manhattan,” Davis recounted in his autobiography, written with Quincy Troupe. “When I’d go there he and I would sit around and talk about boxing. He’d been a top welterweight fighter until he killed a guy in the ring and then he quit and started coaching and training fighters…I asked him if he would train me. He said he would think about it.”

  When they next met McQuillen read the riot act to Davis, telling him he wanted nothing to do with anybody strung out on dope. The words hit Davis harder than a left hook from Sugar, and he made up his mind then and there to take McQuillen’s advice and go back home to East St. Louis and kick the habit. It would take several months before Davis completely banished the junkie plague. When it was finally over he met Sugar and told him that he was responsible for his getting clean. “He just smiled and laughed,” Davis said of the conversation.

  Sugar’s meeting with Davis would have been a perfect opportunity for him to discuss his love of jazz and his prowess on the drums. Since he was a teenager, Sugar had been playing the drums, often practicing on others’ sets before purchasing his own. But he may have been intimidated by Davis’s stature and renown, preferring to restrict his musical aspirations to local jam sessions among lesser musicians, or merely practicing alone, working on his timing and rhythm.

  And musicians such as percussionist Max Roach understood, as Sugar did, the relationship between drumming and boxing. “I know quite a few boxers who make a point of having something to do with a percussion instrument,” Roach told drummer Art Taylor. “Sugar Ray Robinson and Johnny Bratton both played the drums. Quite a few fighters got involved with music so they could develop the kind of coordination that was required. Dancing has a lot to do with good boxing, too, because it’s very rhythmic.” Many ring experts contend that if Sugar and Bratton had ever fought, it would have been as though they were fighting their reflections, so similar were their styles.2

  Miles Davis and Sugar must have made a striking pair, each aware of his popularity and the singular position he held in American culture. Both were stylish dressers, and had a den of fine ladies they often abused. Each demanded the latest and finest in everything, including beautiful cars, though Sugar preferred colorful Cadillacs and Lincolns, while Davis leaned toward the luxurious foreign models. They were the personification of slick and sleek black urbanity in the 1950s and 1960s. Possessed of suave masculinity, with more than a dollop of hedonism, and endowed with ample supplies of magnetism, the two icons, a couple of American originals, were ever the target of the media. That both were able to rebound from setbacks—Davis got off heroin, and Sugar got off the canvas—may have enhanced their popularity. Yes, they were human after all, with weaknesses and foibles; even so, they were able to transcend these failings and return to the top of their respective craft. But it was the mastery of their chosen professions, the radiant hipness and a defiant cool they exuded that was probably the main source of the countless imitators dogging their every move.

  Miles and Sugar never took to the stage as a duo, but Sugar’s idol, Joe Louis, was attracting crowds to his comedy routine with Leonard Reed. While Sugar was mulling over the idea of becoming an entertainer without a mouthpiece and boxing gloves, Louis and Reed were playing to standing-room-only audiences at the Apollo in the spring of 1953. A highlight of their routine was a mock boxing skit. Reed recalled: “He’d knock me down two or three times, and the last time he knocked me down, I just fell flat out. He said, ‘Come on, get up.’ I said, ‘Shit, you didn’t get up when Marciano knocked you down!’ The people would just scream.”

  Sugar’s foray into the realm of tux and tap was a bit more tenuous, as was his financial security. “Sugar was plagued with business problems,” Edna Mae observed. “The superintendent of his buildings owned a dog that had bitten the man who was delivering the oil to us one day and the man sued Sugar. The dog had bitten him on Sugar’s property. The oil man got a hefty settlement. That hurt Sugar, but not as much as learning someone in his employ had assisted the plaintiff to help him win the case. I found that very difficult to believe, but so many things began to happen involving his employees against him that I could no longer cope with the frustration of why his trusted friends were forsaking him and I began to stay away from his businesses as often as I could.”

  Edna Mae may have stepped back from the businesses, but she got more involved in helping her beleaguered husband with his theatrical pursuits. She volunteered to show Sugar a few fancy steps and how to strut and spin across the stage. Eventually she enlisted dancer Henry Le Tang as a tutor, and the instructor had Sugar doing simple rhythmic steps on his first visit to the studio. As Le Tang, whose instruction was sometimes augmented by Pete Nugent, put Sugar through the hoops, working on his movement and tempo, smoothing out the rough edges, Joe Glaser, his agent, was contacting clubs and talking to movers and shakers on the entertainment circuit.

  “In the weeks before my debut…I trained harder than I ever had as a boxer,” Sugar recalled. Le Tang repeatedly reminded Sugar that his legs must be as strong as they were in the ring. “I had to do roadwork every morning, five miles a day. In the afternoon, I was dancing, five hours a day. I’d do my routines over and over. Whenever I made a mistake, the piano would stop and Henry would glare at me. ‘You must understand,’ he liked to say, ‘that you are telling a story with your feet.’” But it wasn’t only his feet that had to do the talking—Sugar had to provide patter, tell a few jokes, and generally be a kind of a song-and-dance man: “I kept telling myself that it wouldn’t be any different than the time I was a kid dancing for two dollars a night at the Alvin Theater.” Le Tang worked him as hard as his boxing trainers had; he wanted to be sure Sugar had sufficient stamina to dance through the night if necessary. Of course, Sugar couldn’t dedicate all his time to perfecting his routines; there were still businesses to run, as well as a wife and child with emotional needs.

  “Our relationship had been lacking in the kind of close warm giving of ourselves, because of the demands of his new show business career,” Edna Mae mildly complained. “It was all I could do to satisfy his ardor. I often looked up into the mirror on our ceiling at his beautiful long limbs and the motions of his strong sinewy mu
scles as they responded to his efforts to relieve himself of all his pent-up emotion. I slid my hands over the smooth surface of skin, feeling the moisture forming on his back, then closed my eyes and felt our souls take flight before our bodies calmed and relaxed. We lay there until the chill air caused him to reach for some cover to pull over us. He drew close to me, put his mouth against my ear, and attempted to talk. I pressed my fingers against his lips and refused to allow him to speak. I just kept him quiet until he dozed off. I did not want that tender exchange of our caring spoiled by his usual vows of fidelity. I knew the man was different from the champion. That night I’d been loved by the man.”

  Their relationship would reach a plateau on May 23, 1953, when they celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary. Among the hundreds of photos in Edna Mae’s collection, none captures their bliss like those snapped by noted Harlem photographer Marvin Smith at their home and later at the café. Edna Mae is radiant as she plays the perfect hostess in a colorful dress, filling platters of food, pouring drinks, and attending to her son and husband without missing a beat. Sugar’s silk shirt is almost iridescent, with a sheen to match his freshly processed, silky hair. He is the only one wearing dark sunglasses. Ray II is outfitted in short pants and a jacket, looking for all the world like the most well behaved of children, a veritable Little Lord Fauntleroy. Later, at the café, the party intensifies, and Edna Mae continues to make sure everybody is comfortable, their glasses brimming with drink. She is perpetually smiling and just as content as she was when Edward R. Murrow visited their home to televise one of his famous interviews, or as she appears in the life-size photo of her suspended above Sugar’s desk in his office at the Enterprises. Sugar told Murrow that he never enjoyed fighting, that “it was just a business with me.”

  In the winter of 1954, Sugar, the Dominoes, and Count Basie were booked for a second appearance in Chicago. By Christmas, Basie’s band would be featuring vocalist Joe Williams and his glorious baritone, while the Dominoes answered request after request for their popular “Rags to Riches,” with dynamic lead singer Jackie Wilson have replaced Clyde McPhatter. (Though this Jackie Wilson also boxed, he should not be confused with Sugar’s old adversary and sparring partner.) This touring package was indicative of the musical mélange of the day, during which it wasn’t unusual to find various styles coexisting. Amidst their run at the Chicago Theater, they agreed to do a one-night stand at the DuSable High School auditorium. “A total of not more than five hundred people saw the two shows that night,” an article in the April issue of Ebony magazine reported, “and those who had come to the second show, scheduled for 10:30 P.M., had to wait until almost midnight before Sugar would go on. He zipped through a mediocre performance, insulted an influential Negro disc jockey, ignored a talented nine-year-old dancer who had appeared in the first show and stayed costumed until after 1 A.M. with the understanding that he was to appear on Sugar’s second show. The handful of stalwarts who stayed until the end left Sugar’s show firmly resolved never to see him again.”

  Sugar’s being so peripatetic didn’t stop Edna Mae from having her share of joy, and her sense of fulfillment continued right on into the new year. Meanwhile, Sugar took his act overseas. He played a few clubs on the Riviera in preparation for a more critical performance in Paris. Jazz pianist/singer Bob Dorough was Sugar’s musical director for the tour. They had met in Henry Le Tang’s Times Square tap dance studio, where Dorough was making three dollars a class as an accompanist. One day, Le Tang said, “I’ve got a five-dollar gig for you,” Dorough recalled. He welcomed the opportunity. Le Tang introduced him to Sugar, who was just beginning to put his act together. When Le Tang said “play ‘Green Eyes’ for Sugar Ray,” Dorough said he knew exactly what to do. Afterward, wiping his brow, Robinson said: “You’re going on the road with us.” To Dorough it was a command.

  The revue was billed as “The Champ.” They sailed over in first class, doing their act en route (singing for their supper, as it were) on the Ile de France. “We bombed in Paris…Larry Adler (the harmonica player) stole the show,” Dorough said. Film clips of Sugar in Paris show him wearing a vest emblazoned with “Le Tang Dancers,” and he demonstrates his tapping ability to what may be Dorough’s piano accompaniment while a chorus line of cancan dancers, their skirts raised, look on adoringly. (When Sugar and his retinue sailed back, second class, Dorough stayed in Paris to work at the Mars Club for the French franc equivalent of $11.65 a night. It went a long way in Paris in the 1950s. He recalled: “I was in pig heaven.” Dorough would later work with Miles Davis and comedian Lenny Bruce.) Only when Sugar relented and put his rope-skipping routine back in his act did he connect with his audience. Arrayed in his boxing trunks, to an up-tempo musical beat, Sugar skipped effortlessly underneath the turning rope. It reminded him of his training days—it reminded him too much.

  Soon, there were discussions with Edna Mae about returning to the ring. The gushing articles that had tapped him as a bright new star on the entertainment circuit were no longer in the daily newspapers. The laudatory columns had vanished almost as fast as the one hundred thousand dollars he’d made during his first year as a song-and-dance man. Though the money was earned with less risk to his health, it didn’t compare with the same amount he could once make for a mere hour or less in the ring. Like so many ex-athletes who try to parlay their popularity from sports to entertainment, Sugar did well at first, but audiences began to demand more and there was very little more to deliver after a few jokes and a dance routine. Also, and more damaging, Sugar’s short temper and sometimes demanding negotiating practices turned off many promoters and producers. Apparently he never gave more than a passing thought to the idea of teaming up with Edna Mae or with his sister, Evelyn, with whom he had won several lindy-hopping contests at the Savoy Ballroom.

  With the need for money becoming increasingly acute, he decided that the ring was the only sure bet of a big payday. Edna Mae strenuously objected, believing he would risk serious injury. But it was either risk getting your head bashed in or getting knocked for a further loop in his business investments, which were steadily declining. Both Sugar and spouse agreed there was only one option—back to the ring of resources where he was lord.

  When the money was plenty, Sugar had, as Billie Holiday sang, “lots of friends,” and a lot of desperate Harlemites in need of a helping hand, lest they fall victim to hunger, eviction, or something worse. Sugar was always a soft touch, ready to open the safe and give whatever was needed to get the landlord off the back of an elderly lady or to rescue a mother with a brood of kids on their way to the poorhouse. Doling out sizable sums was no sweat for him at a time when Dun & Bradstreet had valued his businesses at three hundred thousand dollars. Before the excursion to Europe he was under the impression he was pretty solvent, but the urgent message he received there to return home told a different story. He checked his books to discover that two hundred and fifty thousand dollars had disappeared.

  “I was threatened with foreclosures on my mortgages,” he told sportswriter Dave Anderson. “My taxes were unpaid. My stock portfolio was virtually worthless.” The man who had done so much to relieve others was now perilously close to needing help himself. “You see, Sugar Ray was not the most astute businessman,” said Langley Waller, who processed posters and placards for Sugar Ray Enterprises, “but he was nobody’s fool either. It was the people around him who made a mess of things. They got him in trouble. He told me one time that it was hard for a young person with a lot of money to manage it well. He was doing all right, but he had a lot of scumbags around him who were eager to rip him off, and they did.”

  Glaser had provided Sugar with some lucrative dates as a dancer and promised more, but it was not enough to defray the accumulated debts. He told Edna Mae that he could make more money in one fight than what he earned in a whole year of dancing on stage. “After bragging about how I was going to end up differently than Joe Louis…,” he said, “I couldn’t swallow my pride and admit it”—t
hat, unfortunately, he hadn’t.

  CHAPTER 19

  RETURN TO THE RING

  Without too much fanfare, Sugar eased out of retirement and back into the ring with a six-round exhibition fight against Gene Burton, his stablemate, one bone-chilling night in Hamilton, Ontario, on November 29, 1954. Burton was no match for Sugar. Nor would Joe Rindone present any real opposition as a new year dawned. Sugar called Rindone the “ugliest guy I ever fought,” and he dispatched him in the sixth round with a booming left-right combination, thereby avoiding any further clinching with the mauling, flat-nosed, hairy-chested ex-Marine from Roxbury, Massachusetts. So overwhelmingly loud was the crowd of nearly twelve thousand at Detroit’s Olympia Stadium that Sugar never heard the count.

  It had been a while since Sugar had performed in Detroit, where the boxing cognoscenti included Emanuel Steward, a promising bantamweight and future trainer; vocalist Jackie Wilson, once a Golden Gloves champion in the city and at that time lead singer with the Dominoes; and Berry Gordy, who’d boxed on the undercard of a Joe Louis bout as a featherweight in 1950 but was now dreaming of owning his own record company. “Friends drove us over to Canada, where Sugar had been invited to be a guest at the ice hockey match,” Edna Mae remembered. “He was introduced and cheered enthusiastically by the crowd…he was given a hockey stick and a puck by the team’s captain. This was what Sugar missed—being loved by the crowd.”

  Still, Sugar was not exactly pleased with his performances against Burton and Rindone. There was evident rust that needed to be brushed away, and not until Joe Glaser told him everything was going to be all right, that he was making progress, was Sugar reasonably assured. “He had been in retirement for a couple of years, and in boxing it takes a while to get your timing back,” said the Reverend Dino Woodard, who had joined Sugar’s stable of sparring partners during the early days of his comeback. “I was brought into Sugar Ray’s camp by Harry Wiley, his trainer, who was also my manager. I was there to help Sugar prepare for his fights against Gene Fullmer, Carmen Basilio, and others. I never feared him while I was sparring with him and getting him ready, but I was aware that I was in the ring with one of the greatest fighters of all time. My job was to get him ready, make him miss, make him learn from his mistakes…Sugar hired other sparring partners from time to time, but during the last years of his career I was the main one.”