Brothers for Life; As Told by Michael Bentt

Brothers for Life; As Told by Michael Bentt

By Michael Bentt (as told to Sean Newman) (Oct 4, 2006)

Twelve and a half years ago in 1994, Michael Bentt, the WBO Heavyweight Champion of the World who had knocked Tommy Morrison out in one round, was set to defend his title for the first time against undefeated Herbie Hide. Prior to the fight, Bentt and Hide engaged in a non-sanctioned battle of fisticuffs outside a London hotel, a practice which, while relatively infrequent at the time, has since almost become the norm in boxing. What follows is Bentt’s recollection of the events that transpired on that day, and the touching and ultimately tragic story of the friendship that developed between Bentt and Hide’s little brother, Alan.

Ahh, the famous, or infamous feud with Herbie Hide...that’s a nice way of putting it. Here’s the skinny: During the press announcement for the fight that took place at some ritzy-ditzy London hotel, Herbie and I were doing the customary and boring “why I'm gonna win” shtick. Looking back, I sure was quite the cool and dapper picture of decorum if I do say so myself (ha ha). But, I digress. During our tit-for-tat, quite frankly, Herbie was no match for me verbally and I could see him getting frustrated, particularly because of the stammer he had. I empathized with him because, for years, I suffered with a stutter as a result of not being able to voice the deepest parts of myself, because it simply hurt way too much. Anyway, after giving our respective assessments of the upcoming debacle, Herbie and I were asked to step onto the hotel patio for various photo ops, etcetera. Our match was being held at Millwall Soccer Stadium, so our fight was attracting some attention.

As you know I had captured the WBO belt from Morrison two or three months prior to become only the third British

born champion of the century (okay, a little bit of self praise but my mother also said that self praise is no recommendation so we'll compromise and leave in her disclaimer) plus, (an underlying piece of drama) I'd recently embraced the Nation of Islam to further add to the back story (I'll get back to that in a moment). As part of the media campaign I was given a hat embroidered with the Millwall soccer team logo. As Herbie and I get outside, the photographers request that we stand back to back. Not a problem. After positioning ourselves accordingly I put the hat on. After a few snaps of the cameras, the hat suddenly flies off my head and onto the ground. "Hmm, that’s some strange sh*t,” I’m thinking. The wind didn't appear to be that strong, then again we are high up above the city and a gust could've carried it off.

It wasn't until I heard a gasp and then a snicker that I realize what happened. As I turned around to face Herbie, he had a look on his face that clearly queried "whatcha gonna do about it?” Up until then, I thought we were cordial and sportsmanlike, but looking at him only confirmed my deepest fear at that moment: “THIS MUTHAF*CKER F*CKED AROUND AND SLAPPED THE HAT OFF MY HEAD?!”

No real ‘fighter’ looks forward to having to assert him or herself outside the ring. If he or she has a modicum of success they do not want to have to unleash those demons, because whether he or she is defending themselves or not striking someone as a civilian will either put them on trial for battery, homicide or get said fighter killed. Nine times out of ten times the only way to end a confrontation with a fighter is to brandish and use a firearm (case in point Mike “The Bounty” Hunter...R.I.P.).

So I wasn't looking for that lively an interaction with Herbie, least of all not at the press conference. The bottom line was, you can do all the trash talking you please, but why do you think it’s okay to put your hands on me? Sure, it may have been good for tickets sales, whatever, but that wasn't the image I wanted people to have of me.

Now my brain is going 90 miles per hour, and I'm rationalizing, “nah, this brother wouldn't do some dumb sh*t like that. Had to be the wind.” But the smirk on his face said, “Yeah, I did that dumb sh*t, so what?!”

"Ahh, f*ck, Herbie!" "Did you have to try and draw first blood here?!" "God damn!" "I have family here, man." "My mom is going to here about this sh*t." "Why would you do that?" "You’re really not relating to me, Herb." These were just a few of the thoughts that were colliding into each other.

In between my non-linear ping-pong, I smacked the sh*t out of him. Not once, but twice. The interesting and surreal thing was, that after I smacked him, he just kind of stood there in bewilderment.

Within moments a look of adolescent shame and pain crossed his face. It was as if he had he let down and disappointed his best friend. I felt sorry for him because I knew all he was trying to do was make a name for himself; to make himself appear worthy of the attention and platform that fighting for the championship presented to him. The conflict was that he was doing it at my expense. The only thing of ‘value’ my father ever bequeathed me was a fury that rivaled Othello and his foolish pride. Both were on full display as my empathy for Herbie was outweighed by my ego. So I smacked him again.

The London branch of the Nation of Islam sent a cadre of 'brothers' (FOI) to oversee and act as my security for the press conference. I’m certain you've seen some of these brothers. Some of them are serious men, indeed.

After the second smack, Herbie grabbed me and wrestled me to the ground where he threw a few glancing blows that were deflected by my arms and by the people trying to break us up. When we were finally separated, I saw that Herbie was crying. Still, I was so enraged I went after him again, this time with a litany of Jamaican patois that shames my mother to say day. It wasn't pretty.

When I got back to my hotel across town about an hour or two later, the phone was ringing in my room. On the other end was Shawn, my childhood friend from Queens, New York. He was damn near in hysterics and I couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying. He says to me, "Mike you are gone (crazy)! Only my brother (me) would go England and get into a fight and have the brothers from the badass Nation of Islam sidestep the beef.”

Huh?

"Man, it’s all over the news over here. CNN is running the footage every half hour!”

Oh, sh*t, I thought. The Nation didn't need that kind of press coverage and Minister Farrakhan was already denied entry into the UK. Hopefully this won't provide more ammo for the Nation’s detractors. Maybe I was inflating my own importance, but maybe not. I hung up with Shawn and flipped on the telly, and sure enough there it was clear as day on CNN Europe: WBO heavyweight champion Michael Bentt engages in a 'street brawl' with his upcoming opponent Herbie Hide. The footage also shows the look on the faces of the brothers from the Nation who were standing a few feet from me prior to the first slap being rendered, the shock and apprehension on their faces as they tiptoed out of frame (kind of like the black secret service agent that sidestepped the bullet from John Hinckley’s revolver that struck President Reagan). I guess they figured nowhere in the Nation’s mission statement does it instruct them to stop two raging professional heavyweight fighters from accosting each other. Can’t say I blame them.

That’s the story of the Bentt/Hide pre-fight brouhaha, but it doesn't end there. After I was soundly beaten by Herbie, I became pen pals with his younger brother Alan. He was beautiful little boy of maybe eight or nine when I met him before or after our fight, I don't recall, but to Alan, Herbie was a God.

I didn't put two and two together until years later as to why Herbie was crying at the press conference. Maybe Alan was there and witnessed his hero being slapped and fighting in the rain.

Alan was battling leukemia. I saw him twice. The last time was in Las Vegas after Riddick Bowe fought his brother "to return the WBO title to Bed-Stuy Boxing Club for my man Mike Bentt." That was the gym that Riddick and I trained in together as amateurs. Riddick actually said that in his post fight interview as I sat there doing the blow by blow for BBC radio. It was surreal.

In the few times I've had the courage to watch the footage of the Hide fight, the part that warms my heart to this day is when I walk over to congratulate the Hide family, and Herbie is holding Alan in his arms. The tape shows me reaching out and kissing Alan on his cherub cheek. That boy’s smile could have lit up London. I'm not saying that out of politeness. He was a handsome and charismatic young fella.

I would stay in touch with Alan by letters and phone calls throughout the two or three years after I retired from boxing and entered into the abyss of “what’s next?” I remember speaking with him and he told me how excited he was to be turning nine or ten. Herbie and his mom were planning a party for him. My life at that time was in the midst of a tumultuous tailspin: not knowing where to put the passion and energy that occupied and defined me for so long. As a birthday present for Alan, I managed to go into the Kingstown, New York mall and purchase a Native American dream catcher. Funny how I remember all that. I walked into a children toy shop and asked the clerk if she had any ideas on what to get a nine or ten year old boy. I told her about my little pen pal in London and the challenges he's faced and she walked me over to a section and invited me to pick one out.

Dream catchers are to be hung over the crib or bed of children to catch the bad dreams they may have. I thought it was exotic, fun and appropriate and wished that it would serve my little buddy in warding off his scariest thoughts about the unknown. I sent it to him and called him about a week later to see how he liked it. He didn't know what it was. So I told him what it was used for and he promised to hang it over his bed and not be afraid.

“It’s okay to be afraid, Alan,” I said. I remember having butterflies in my stomach. I told him “so long,” because I don't believe in goodbyes, and that we'll talk again, and he giggled.

My downward spiral continued. I moved to upstate New York to where Stan Hoffman had a training camp. I was 'employed' as a kind of 'aide de camp' and trainer of a fighter from Holland, Don Diego Poder. I also had duties as a technical advisor to some of Hoffman’s fighters: Lucia Rijker, James Toney, Rogelio Tuur, and I was terrible at it, I might add. Some people are good at playing second banana, stroking egos and living vicariously through a group of prima donnas. I didn't have the stomach for it. It was at the camp in Kerhonson, New York that I received the phone call from Freddie Burcome, who is a British boxing reporter that covered me a lot during the latter part of my pro career. He also knew about my friendship with Alan, and he called to ask me if I would like to make a comment about the news of Alan succumbing to leukemia.

What?

All I could say was "goddamn.” How do you respond to that kind of news? He said that Herbie and his mom were distraught. “Wow,” I said. “He was a beautiful kid.”

I think that me having a 17-month-old son that I am absolutely in love with has widened my awareness and appreciation for Alan. Looking back, and not to get sentimental, he really was an easy child to love. We obviously met at a really complex time in both our lives and the lives of those around us. Life, with its complexities, can beat out of us the optimism that we come into the world with. I have a chance to see the optimism that my son came into the world with on display everyday through the hugs and kisses that my wife and I smother him with. I also see the tears roll down his perfect little face when I have to rock him to sleep and he's trying with all his 24 pounds of might to fight me and the Sandman because he's afraid he'll miss something. I think we have to be open to meeting people like the Alan Hides. Here was someone that I had nothing common with; not age, no common interests. The only common denominator was that his brother graphically battered and dominated me in the ring.

Under ‘normal circumstances’, a fighter and his ego do not ever want to be confronted by his conqueror. Ever. Good sportsmanship after a knockout defeat? Please! There is too much humiliation attached to the video of your KO playing over and over again in your head. A fighter wants to get as far away from those memories as possible. Still, I was compelled to this befriend this child.

Fighters are obsessed with being a success. The way to succeed in the ring is to put your valor, put your heart on exhibition. Talent counts, but the average fan and television network executive is more preoccupied with the question of "can this fighter make my heart beat like I've had numerous cups of espresso while igniting every fiber in my soul?"

The problem for fighters is that they're so obsessed with proving that they are worthy that they've forgotten that they have souls.

Alan Hide reminded me I have one.

Epilogue: Michael Bentt would not stay down for long. His inspiring story continues, as can be read in the links that follow. Mike is an engaging, charismatic gentleman with a big heart; and as if this story were not enough evidence, I can attest to that personally as he has been there with support, advice and encouragement for me with personal difficulties I have experienced in the past few months. This, for someone he has never met in person and barely knew at all. For that, I am eternally grateful and would like to use this space to thank him personally. Thanks so much, Mike. PEACE!

TWO-PART INTERVIEW WITH MICHAEL BENTT:

http://www.doghouseboxing.com/Newman/Newman112305.htm

http://www.doghouseboxing.com/Newman/Newman112405.htm.