Ex-champ Leon Spinks cleans up in Columbus
BY STEVEN M. SIPPLE / Lincoln Journal Star
COLUMBUS — He does volunteer work in an after-school program three days a week. On weekends, he cleans locker rooms and bathrooms at the Columbus Family YMCA. He spends many nights watching movies, favoring westerns and gangster and horror flicks. Sometimes, he says, he feels bored and restless. Asked what's become of the millions he earned in the 1970s, Leon Spinks chuckles and says, "That's my business, not yours."
On a recent Friday, the 51-year-old Spinks emerges from a friend's SUV. The broad shoulders, thick neck and overall athletic build are enough to convince one that he indeed could have once been the world's heavyweight boxing champion, the fighter who shocked the sporting world with his 1978 victory over Muhammad Ali on national television.
Spinks is wearing a Chicago White Sox ball cap, blue jeans and a black jacket. His handshake is firm, his demeanor no-nonsense.
Judging from the way he shuffles into the Village Inn for dinner, boxing and hard living have taken their toll.
Many residents are surprised to see him around town, says Bob Lauterbach, executive director of the YMCA. Some people still don't think he really lives here, that he really is the Leon Spinks, although he'd been visiting a friend here periodically during the past four years and has lived in an apartment on the west end of town since January.
Spinks generally maintains a low profile, locals say.
"He kind of likes the idea of people not knowing who he is, and I think people here are respectful of his privacy," says Marla Kurtenbach, one of the coordinators of the after-school program.
Adds Lauterbach, "He's never said a word to me about his fighting career."
Spinks, a St. Louis native, captured the light heavyweight crown at the 1976 Olympics in Montreal. Two years later, in his eighth professional bout, he captured a 15-round decision over Ali in Las Vegas. Toward the end of a glorious era for heavyweight boxers, Spinks suddenly became top dog, his infectious gap-toothed grin making him one of the nation's most recognizable athletes.
Nevertheless, Spinks' presence isn't necessarily big news to everyone in this town of 21,000 on the Loup River. Heck, a whole generation of people don't even recognize his name. To many townsfolk, Leon's just Leon.
"I needed some help and he was available," Lauterbach says. "My custodial supervisor says he's doing a good job."
Spinks works three-hour shifts Saturdays and Sundays at the YMCA. The supervisor writes out a list of tasks so the ex-champ doesn't forget anything.
"You can really tell Leon wants to do a good job," Lauterbach says. "I think what he's become is very humble."
The champ sits at a cafeteria-style table in the Emerson Elementary School gymnasium in the heart of town, waiting for the fun to commence.
Brady Ligenza, a third-grader, is itching for action.
"Hey, Leon, you want to play dodge ball?" asks Ligenza, almost nose-to-nose with Spinks. "It'll be me and Zack against you, since you're the famous world-champion boxer."
So, here we go. Spinks moves gingerly on the gym's tile floor as the kids — two of them, then four, then a few more — zoom around him in every direction, like mosquitoes buzzing around a porch lamp. He turns his ball cap backward and smiles that famous smile.
In 1973, Spinks says, he was in the Marine Corps, getting a routine checkup when a dentist pulled his top front teeth "because they were going bad."
"Most of the time, he's just one of the kids," says Lisa Kaslon, who helps oversee the after-school program.
Spinks has been volunteering in the program three days a week for the past month. Kaslon says officials of the federally funded program are considering hiring him.
"Right away, the kids really warmed up to him."
On this afternoon, Spinks and second-grader Chelsey Wyatt spend nearly 30 minutes playing a "Pop-o-Matic" board game called "Trouble." It's just Spinks and the slender, bespectacled girl sitting at a table. Spinks ultimately prevails and raises a fist in jubilation as Chelsey's shoulders slump.
"On the days Leon isn't here, the kids ask, ‘Isn't Leon coming today?'" says Stacey Whiting, who works in the program.
Says Spinks, "I'm a kid myself. I know what they like to do. It takes me back to my childhood."
Spinks grew up in the St. Louis projects. His dad wasn't around much, he says, and he got little attention from grownups.
He hopes to stay involved in boxing and help kids. The gist of his message to them: Stay in school. Keep God in your life and treat others the way you want to be treated.
Nearly two hours pass, and only a few kids remain in the Emerson gym. Spinks waits for a ride home from his friend as first-grader Molly Lovell jumps rope, all the while sing-songing one of those peculiar jump-rope ditties.
"Fudge, fudge, call the judge, someone's going to have a newborn baby …"
"I love this," he says, smiling. "It makes me sweat and stretch out my muscles. Being with the kids, it makes me want to get back into the gym."
Spinks is comfortable in Columbus.
Yes, the pace is slower than the world of heavyweight champion boxing. It's certainly slower than the ride he enjoyed during his prime.
"Maybe too slow sometimes," Spinks says. "But it's fun. I have a good time. I meet a lot of people."
People here generally treat him well, he says, "except for that son of a ***** who stole my hat."
A few months ago, Spinks was playing a computer card game at a bar/pool hall a stone's throw from Main Street. He enjoys the game immensely, almost transfixed as he surveys the screen, oblivious to everything around him.
The front of his ball cap — a gift from one of his three grown sons — read, "Leon Spinks, World Champ, 1978."
A patron from the other end of the bar swooped toward Spinks, grabbed the cap and bolted out the back door and into the cold night.
Becky Oppliger, owner of the establishment, says she had never seen the thief before that night and hasn't seen him since.
"I still think there was a car waiting for him outside," she says.
Adds Spinks, "I'd still like to catch the son of a *****."
He grinned from the cover of Sports Illustrated and hired Mr. T. as his bodyguard. He was a worldwide celebrity.
But Spinks will never be regarded as one of the great heavyweight champions, says Bert Sugar, former editor-in-chief of The Ring magazine and noted boxing historian.
"He was almost an accidental heavyweight champion," Sugar says.
In February 1978, Ali — his glorious career on the downslide — underestimated Spinks, Sugar says. And Spinks was relentless the night he fought his idol.
"By the 15th round, Ali was exhausted — he could barely stand up — and Leon kept throwing punches. He kept coming," Sugar says. "Every dog, and every underdog, has his night, and that was Leon's night. And nobody can take that away from him, no matter where he lives or where he works."
As he waited for the opening bell that night, Spinks recalls, he couldn't believe he was even standing in the same ring with Ali.
"I just figured, ‘It's his ass or mine.'"
Seven months later, the two stood before 70,000 spectators at the Superdome in New Orleans for Ali-Spinks II seven months later. Ali earned a unanimous 15-round decision, although Spinks still thinks it should've been his.
Sugar disagrees.
"It wasn't a great fight. Leon didn't have anything that night. He won about four or five rounds. It just wasn't the Leon we'd seen the February before."
Spinks, who earned $3.75 million for the second Ali fight, went on to a rather ordinary professional career, retiring in 1994 with a record of 26 wins, 17 losses and three draws.
In recent years, he's made sporadic appearances as a "personality." He signs autographs, shakes hands, mingles and smiles that famous smile.
He'll be a special guest at the Midwest Golden Gloves April 16 in Omaha.
"Great guy? Yes," Sugar says. "Great fighter? No."
Great guy?
Well, that must be why Spinks couldn't walk three steps without someone wanting to take his picture when he went back to St. Louis in February for son Cory's defense of his three welterweight championship belts. (The younger Spinks was knocked out in the ninth round by Zab Judah before a crowd of 22,370.)
Leon Spinks' popularity explains why the International Boxing Hall of Fame in Canastota, N.Y., foots the bill each summer for his appearance at its Hall of Fame weekend, highlighted by induction ceremonies. Spinks hasn't been inducted.
"He's always one of the most popular people there," Sugar says. "You can't give Leon a lot of points as a fighter, but you can give him a lot of points for personality.
"He's like a little doggie you like to scratch behind the ears."
This summer, Spinks' trip to Canastota will originate in Columbus, of all places.
"Leon's a wonderful, fun person who enjoys being anywhere he is," Sugar says. "He's a great story in life.
"P.S., he was a boxer."
Reach Steven M. Sipple at 473-7440 or [email="ssipple@journalstar.com"]ssipple@journalstar.com[/email].
BY STEVEN M. SIPPLE / Lincoln Journal Star
COLUMBUS — He does volunteer work in an after-school program three days a week. On weekends, he cleans locker rooms and bathrooms at the Columbus Family YMCA. He spends many nights watching movies, favoring westerns and gangster and horror flicks. Sometimes, he says, he feels bored and restless. Asked what's become of the millions he earned in the 1970s, Leon Spinks chuckles and says, "That's my business, not yours."
On a recent Friday, the 51-year-old Spinks emerges from a friend's SUV. The broad shoulders, thick neck and overall athletic build are enough to convince one that he indeed could have once been the world's heavyweight boxing champion, the fighter who shocked the sporting world with his 1978 victory over Muhammad Ali on national television.
Spinks is wearing a Chicago White Sox ball cap, blue jeans and a black jacket. His handshake is firm, his demeanor no-nonsense.
Judging from the way he shuffles into the Village Inn for dinner, boxing and hard living have taken their toll.
Many residents are surprised to see him around town, says Bob Lauterbach, executive director of the YMCA. Some people still don't think he really lives here, that he really is the Leon Spinks, although he'd been visiting a friend here periodically during the past four years and has lived in an apartment on the west end of town since January.
Spinks generally maintains a low profile, locals say.
"He kind of likes the idea of people not knowing who he is, and I think people here are respectful of his privacy," says Marla Kurtenbach, one of the coordinators of the after-school program.
Adds Lauterbach, "He's never said a word to me about his fighting career."
Spinks, a St. Louis native, captured the light heavyweight crown at the 1976 Olympics in Montreal. Two years later, in his eighth professional bout, he captured a 15-round decision over Ali in Las Vegas. Toward the end of a glorious era for heavyweight boxers, Spinks suddenly became top dog, his infectious gap-toothed grin making him one of the nation's most recognizable athletes.
Nevertheless, Spinks' presence isn't necessarily big news to everyone in this town of 21,000 on the Loup River. Heck, a whole generation of people don't even recognize his name. To many townsfolk, Leon's just Leon.
"I needed some help and he was available," Lauterbach says. "My custodial supervisor says he's doing a good job."
Spinks works three-hour shifts Saturdays and Sundays at the YMCA. The supervisor writes out a list of tasks so the ex-champ doesn't forget anything.
"You can really tell Leon wants to do a good job," Lauterbach says. "I think what he's become is very humble."
The champ sits at a cafeteria-style table in the Emerson Elementary School gymnasium in the heart of town, waiting for the fun to commence.
Brady Ligenza, a third-grader, is itching for action.
"Hey, Leon, you want to play dodge ball?" asks Ligenza, almost nose-to-nose with Spinks. "It'll be me and Zack against you, since you're the famous world-champion boxer."
So, here we go. Spinks moves gingerly on the gym's tile floor as the kids — two of them, then four, then a few more — zoom around him in every direction, like mosquitoes buzzing around a porch lamp. He turns his ball cap backward and smiles that famous smile.
In 1973, Spinks says, he was in the Marine Corps, getting a routine checkup when a dentist pulled his top front teeth "because they were going bad."
"Most of the time, he's just one of the kids," says Lisa Kaslon, who helps oversee the after-school program.
Spinks has been volunteering in the program three days a week for the past month. Kaslon says officials of the federally funded program are considering hiring him.
"Right away, the kids really warmed up to him."
On this afternoon, Spinks and second-grader Chelsey Wyatt spend nearly 30 minutes playing a "Pop-o-Matic" board game called "Trouble." It's just Spinks and the slender, bespectacled girl sitting at a table. Spinks ultimately prevails and raises a fist in jubilation as Chelsey's shoulders slump.
"On the days Leon isn't here, the kids ask, ‘Isn't Leon coming today?'" says Stacey Whiting, who works in the program.
Says Spinks, "I'm a kid myself. I know what they like to do. It takes me back to my childhood."
Spinks grew up in the St. Louis projects. His dad wasn't around much, he says, and he got little attention from grownups.
He hopes to stay involved in boxing and help kids. The gist of his message to them: Stay in school. Keep God in your life and treat others the way you want to be treated.
Nearly two hours pass, and only a few kids remain in the Emerson gym. Spinks waits for a ride home from his friend as first-grader Molly Lovell jumps rope, all the while sing-songing one of those peculiar jump-rope ditties.
"Fudge, fudge, call the judge, someone's going to have a newborn baby …"
"I love this," he says, smiling. "It makes me sweat and stretch out my muscles. Being with the kids, it makes me want to get back into the gym."
Spinks is comfortable in Columbus.
Yes, the pace is slower than the world of heavyweight champion boxing. It's certainly slower than the ride he enjoyed during his prime.
"Maybe too slow sometimes," Spinks says. "But it's fun. I have a good time. I meet a lot of people."
People here generally treat him well, he says, "except for that son of a ***** who stole my hat."
A few months ago, Spinks was playing a computer card game at a bar/pool hall a stone's throw from Main Street. He enjoys the game immensely, almost transfixed as he surveys the screen, oblivious to everything around him.
The front of his ball cap — a gift from one of his three grown sons — read, "Leon Spinks, World Champ, 1978."
A patron from the other end of the bar swooped toward Spinks, grabbed the cap and bolted out the back door and into the cold night.
Becky Oppliger, owner of the establishment, says she had never seen the thief before that night and hasn't seen him since.
"I still think there was a car waiting for him outside," she says.
Adds Spinks, "I'd still like to catch the son of a *****."
He grinned from the cover of Sports Illustrated and hired Mr. T. as his bodyguard. He was a worldwide celebrity.
But Spinks will never be regarded as one of the great heavyweight champions, says Bert Sugar, former editor-in-chief of The Ring magazine and noted boxing historian.
"He was almost an accidental heavyweight champion," Sugar says.
In February 1978, Ali — his glorious career on the downslide — underestimated Spinks, Sugar says. And Spinks was relentless the night he fought his idol.
"By the 15th round, Ali was exhausted — he could barely stand up — and Leon kept throwing punches. He kept coming," Sugar says. "Every dog, and every underdog, has his night, and that was Leon's night. And nobody can take that away from him, no matter where he lives or where he works."
As he waited for the opening bell that night, Spinks recalls, he couldn't believe he was even standing in the same ring with Ali.
"I just figured, ‘It's his ass or mine.'"
Seven months later, the two stood before 70,000 spectators at the Superdome in New Orleans for Ali-Spinks II seven months later. Ali earned a unanimous 15-round decision, although Spinks still thinks it should've been his.
Sugar disagrees.
"It wasn't a great fight. Leon didn't have anything that night. He won about four or five rounds. It just wasn't the Leon we'd seen the February before."
Spinks, who earned $3.75 million for the second Ali fight, went on to a rather ordinary professional career, retiring in 1994 with a record of 26 wins, 17 losses and three draws.
In recent years, he's made sporadic appearances as a "personality." He signs autographs, shakes hands, mingles and smiles that famous smile.
He'll be a special guest at the Midwest Golden Gloves April 16 in Omaha.
"Great guy? Yes," Sugar says. "Great fighter? No."
Great guy?
Well, that must be why Spinks couldn't walk three steps without someone wanting to take his picture when he went back to St. Louis in February for son Cory's defense of his three welterweight championship belts. (The younger Spinks was knocked out in the ninth round by Zab Judah before a crowd of 22,370.)
Leon Spinks' popularity explains why the International Boxing Hall of Fame in Canastota, N.Y., foots the bill each summer for his appearance at its Hall of Fame weekend, highlighted by induction ceremonies. Spinks hasn't been inducted.
"He's always one of the most popular people there," Sugar says. "You can't give Leon a lot of points as a fighter, but you can give him a lot of points for personality.
"He's like a little doggie you like to scratch behind the ears."
This summer, Spinks' trip to Canastota will originate in Columbus, of all places.
"Leon's a wonderful, fun person who enjoys being anywhere he is," Sugar says. "He's a great story in life.
"P.S., he was a boxer."
Reach Steven M. Sipple at 473-7440 or [email="ssipple@journalstar.com"]ssipple@journalstar.com[/email].
