The opponent - losers in boxing

Men's Fitness, Nov, 1998 by Marc Gerald

Call him a tomato can, a tanker or any other cheap sobriquet that comes to mind, but without this loser in the ring, there would be no champions to idolize

Ask a hundred guys in the fight game who's the worst active boxer and you'll hear a hundred different names. Ask who's the worst boxer of the past 25 years and you'll probably hear only one: Bruce "The Mouse" Strauss.

Now 48 and living in Omaha, Strauss is able to laugh about his dubious career in the ring. "I hold three boxing records that I am especially proud of," he says. "I've been knocked out on every continent except the North Pole. I have been knocked out more than any other fighter. And I am the losing participant in the world's shortest fight - 11 seconds, counting the 10-count."

A true-blue American original, Mouse is the most famous example of what are known in boxing parlance as Opponents, fighters who are paid to take, rather than administer, a beating. Sometimes they are called less-charitable names - stiffs, tomato cans, bums, lunch meat, cannon fodder, journeymen - but for my money, the term Opponent has always best described what they are: disposable and anonymous.

Nobody dreams of being an Opponent. Nobody laces up gloves for the first time hoping to see pinwheels and black lights courtesy of the next Mike Tyson. Nobody dreams of soaking up punishment in lonely arenas at firesale prices.

An Opponent is what a boxer becomes when he loses more than he wins. An Opponent is like a laboratory animal - a barometer against whom prospects are tested and future greatness is measured. An Opponent is little more than a paid punching bag.

Every Opponent has a reason - or better yet, an excuse - for his sorry-ass predicament. Most never know fame. They never had skills. They never had game. Take Spartansburg, South Carolina's own "Dangerous" Danny Wofford. He's won 14 fights but lost 100. Many of today's best, young heavyweights have laid the hurt on him on their way up the ranks. Still, he continues plugging away - another day, another dollar. Others, like Darryl Pickney, rehash "I-could-a-been-a-contenda" stories. After losing his first 10 starts, Pickney has battled back with 20 wins. But despite having upset several top-notch fighters, his middling record has kept him from rising above Opponent status. Finally, there are those like Raz-I Bramble, who once had the goods but lost it. Poor Raz-I: In 1984, the former lightweight champion slashed Ray Mancini to ribbons, then ended Boom Boom's career in a rematch. The unfortunate reality these days is that he's lost nearly 20 consecutive fights.

Nevertheless, there's always been a curious mystique surrounding Opponents. Like strange, modern-day desperadoes, they take to the roads. armed and ready for battle, challenging any and all. Even in defeat, there is a melancholy courage to these patron saints of hurt. They walk alone, sacrificing everything for our twisted pleasure, laying down their bodies and souls for our crimes.

At least, that's what I used to think. Spend time in a loser's locker room and you start to wonder. I have seen plenty - a kid receiving 38 stitches over his swollen eyelid while getting handed a $244 check; a pudgy Midwestern heavy sobbing in a cramped stall with a face that looked like it was bandaged in barbed wire; a Mexican journeyman hurrying to catch the Greyhound home from L.A. to Durango with pocket money and a broken jaw.

You would think a boxer who'd gone to battle almost 300 times might be hardened to the casual brutality, but these days, even Mouse claims he has seen just about enough. He says that while he still consults with a few boxers, he doesn't go to the fights much anymore because it's tough to see people he knows and likes take a righteous beating. Listen: "It's kind of sad, really. The thing that gets me is that 99 percent of these guys don't know they're Opponents and that they're getting taken advantage of."

If the Mouse is a different animal from most opponents, perhaps it's because he has never dreamed big, has never dreamed of becoming a champion. His career was born in the back seat of a buddy's station wagon after a night of serious drinking.

"I woke up outside this little club in Oklahoma City bleary-eyed and hung over," Mouse recalls. "My buddy was fighting on the card that night, and the promoter told him he was desperate; he needed to replace a fighter who'd called in sick at the last minute. 'Never mind that you've never set foot in a ring before; just take a physical and give it a shot,' my friend said. 'I'm no fighter,' I told him. He shot back, 'There's a guy in there with $200 that says you are.'"

The details of that inaugural fight aren't important, save one: Mouse, smitten with the smoky atmosphere, knew he had found his calling. There was plenty of work to be had in those days if you didn't mind midnight drives to nowhere places, and getting the shit kicked out of you on a regular basis. It was the mid-'70s and, thanks to ABC's Wide World of Sports, the Montreal Olympics (where the Americans cleaned up), Muhammad All and Rocky, every town was promoting shows back then.