Father and son, fighter and coach: The difficult double lives of boxing’s closest partnerships

Before he marched to the ring to self-discipline Antonio Margarito in January 2009, “Sugar” Shane Mosley first checked the temperature of his son, Shane Jr., in an effort to settle both his own nerves and his boy’s. 

“Do you see my eyes?” Mosley said that night time. 

“Yeah, Dad, I see you,” replied Shane Jr.

“Good. This is the way you’re supposed to look when you walk to the ring. I’m going to knock him out. Watch this …”

With that, Mosley turned on his heel, leaving his son with just an ellipsis. There would be no goodbye and no affectionate kiss on the head, nor did Shane Jr. expect one. He knew, after all, that the man who had just spoken to him was, in that second, not a father but a fighter. He already knew, at age 18, how fast the swap could occur. Like any good son, he also did as he was advised. He stayed back. He watched.

Now, nearly 18 years later, it is the father who watches the son. Now, forward of a middleweight battle against Denzel Bentley in London on Saturday, it is Shane Jr. who will attempt to pacify Senior, a three-weight world champion, and settle his nerves. Then, as his father once did, Shane Jr. will flip and stroll away to create distance between them. A healthy distance, they will say. The variety of distance a fighter likes to keep between himself and an opponent; enough of one to prolong a jab, maneuver, think. It is with this distance Junior, at the age of 35, can now breathe and really feel a little more in control. Also, trusted. It signifies, above all, that two males who were inseparable at the begin of the youthful’s profession have not so much grown aside as grown up — collectively. 

“At the start, he was everything — my trainer, manager, promoter,” Shane Jr. advised Uncrowned. “If I wanted to be my own man, I had to mature and change that. If he’s constantly there, I can’t help people from thinking, ‘Oh, he’s living off his dad’s name.’

“So, to keep away from all that, this is the manner it has to be. He is just a colleague, someone else who also did this, and I’m doing it now. We’re separating issues now — not disrespectfully. He’s my dad, I love him, I think he’s great. He was a great fighter, too. But I have to step apart and say, ‘This is me.’ That’s why I’ve never used ‘Sugar’ Shane Mosley Jr. [as a nickname] or anything of that nature. I attempt to keep it about me.”

It’s a matter of proximity, that’s all. At the start of his career, Shane Jr. would spend almost every day alongside his father in the gym, and on fight night would return to him in the minute rest between rounds. After the fight, when his hand was raised by a referee, Shane Jr. would then flash a winning smile, while his father could be seen wearing the same smile in the background, just out of focus. The resemblance was uncanny. It could not be ignored. 

“I like retaining my dad, to the best of my capability, as my dad,” explained Shane Jr. “Obviously, he’s always going to be ‘Sugar’ Shane. Any time we go anywhere in the boxing world, he’s going to be seen and observed. In a certain manner he outshines me. So, the best factor I can do for myself, in my opinion, is just step to the aspect. Rather than attempt to stand up to him, just transfer over so people can see me.

“The best way to do that is to not always have him in the corner with me — or as my trainer. If people want to talk to him about me, or my fights, cool. But outside of that, I just have to keep him as my dad. If ever he wants to come down and watch training or sparring, he is welcome. But that’s the extent of it. I have to keep him as my dad. If I look at him as ‘Sugar’ Shane, I’ll never amount to anything. I have to continuously build up fights, wins, momentum, and maybe later on, down the line, I’ll measure up. But the goal is not that now. The goal is to leave my mark.”

As nicely as acknowledging the execs and cons of having a well-known fighter for a father, Shane Jr. acknowledges he is not alone. In reality, without any prompting he proceeded to namecheck the likes of Chris Eubank Jr., Conor Benn, Campbell Hatton, and the Tszyu brothers, Tim and Nikita, as latest examples of fighters who have gone through the very same push and pull. He even takes a degree of consolation from watching their development, he said, and now accepts that the profession of a boxer with a well-known fighter for a father is seldom linear or clean. In Mosley’s case, that means a skilled file of 23 wins and 5 defeats, all of which taught him something. It means boxing, in the finish, has become a journey of self-discovery.

In 2013, I watched Chris Eubank watch his son, Chris Jr., in a sparring session with George Groves beneath a railway arch in London. For the first three minutes of the spar, Eubank counted his son’s jabs loud enough for everyone in the fitness center to hear. Then, when the first spherical ended, the two-weight world champion smiled, perhaps understanding he was being watched. 

Meanwhile, in Eubank Jr.’s nook, Ronnie Davies, coach to two generations of Eubanks, advised Chris Jr. to “suck it up,” only for Chris Jr. to reject the advice and refuse a sip of water. “That doesn’t mean anything,” the fighter moaned, edging away from the man tasked with cornering him. 

This left Davies, the coach, now exasperated. He rolled his eyes; he threw up his arms. He then turned to the boy’s father and said, “Tell him, Eubank!” Yet Eubank, the father, said nothing. Rather than admonish his son, or instruct him to behave, he just continued to smile until the second had handed.

Of course, this energy battle within Team Eubank was nothing new. In precise reality, it was something we had seen play out practically every time Chris Jr. boxed as a skilled. Often, between rounds, he would sit or stand in the nook, with Davies lurking over the prime rope, bottle of water in hand, while his father, the former world champion, slipped through the ropes in a swimsuit and winklepickers to stand before his son and do no more than admire him; his unblemished face, his regular respiratory, his composed disposition. Most of the time, Eubank was content material to just watch. And why not? The fights were so straightforward at the begin, his boy needed only his approval. That and the consideration he introduced. 

Eventually, once the fights grew to become more taxing, Eubank took a bigger position at ringside. Some by then even had the audacity to say he had no place in the fitness center, or in the nook, and that Eubank Jr., if he was to succeed, would be higher off without him. He had given him his identify, his genetics and his stable chin — wasn’t that enough? 

“My son comes out of the womb of his mother; I am the first to hold him,” Eubank said in his protection. “We go home and we make a plan to bring the child up. We love the child first and foremost in every way possible. We work and we fight and we worry. While they are sleeping, we watch them sometimes. We do all this. We put them through school. We fight for money, whether physically or by going out to work. We bring our children up. We go to their sports day, we check their grades, we check no one is bullying them. We teach them as they grow to make sure they don’t bully others and to protect those who are being bullied. This constant love is being given to them.

“Then they become youngsters; they have needs. I did not understand my son had been watching the love and respect that I have always got. He’s always been watching that. This is what must have impressed him to need a little bit of what his dad has.

“I steer him to become the best fighter he can be, so I give him nothing but hardship. I give him tasks supposed to break him. He comes through those tasks, but I’m building. It’s not just the money, it’s the thought process. It’s really being tough on them because I know that’s the only way I’ll make them good. That’s a severe type of love. Get them hurt so that nobody else can hurt them in the ring. If I can get them beaten up by heavyweights and they can accept it, I know they’ll be OK with these normal fighters.”

Eubank continued: “After all of that, I’m supposed to hand him over to [promoter] Eddie Hearn? Am I supposed to hand him over to [promoter] Frank Warren? After I’ve done all of this. Never mind the money, the love, the worry. Am I supposed to hand him over? I should do all this work and give him to you? If you have your child and you work with your child and put them through school, you don’t give your child away. If I sound edgy, it’s baffling that anyone should say to me ‘step aside.’

“If I settle for everything you say and I should step back, would you give me someone more certified than me, so they can really look after Junior? Please discover someone more certified than me and I will step apart. That’s the world in which I dwell. You criticize me and yet you can’t give me anyone who is more certified than me. Your bigotry is inhumane. It is nonsense. It is idiotic.”

It is true that Chris Eubank never wanted his boy to box. However, it might also be said that his initial resistance — the result of knowing the sport’s dangers — only made Eubank all the more protective when realizing his son was in fact, like him, predisposed to taking risks and challenging authority. This, in turn, led to a career defined by contradictions, with Eubank on the one hand wanting his son to stand on his own two feet — for example, sending him off to Las Vegas to live at the age of 17, and making him spar heavyweights as a middleweight — while, on the other hand, always remaining just close enough to tell him how it should be done.

When I once asked Eubank if there was such a thing as being too supportive, he appeared flummoxed, as though the concept had never before crossed his mind. “Too supportive?” he said. “How can I be too supportive? I am his father. He is me. You become your father as you get older. We’re making an attempt to be extraordinary.”

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I asked him then if his son had ever told him to ease off, or requested space, and Eubank just frowned. “I’ll depart you with this,” he said. “I need you to discover the clip of me talking to Gary Newbon [an English television sports presenter] after the first [Nigel Benn] battle. My backside lip quivers and I’ve accomplished it — I’ve advised my father I love him. I’ve said to my brother, he said I could not do it, but I’ve accomplished it …’ He proudly nodded; raised a finger. ‘I need you to look at the people in the image …’ He paused again. Now his eyes had began to nicely up and his voice cracked as he said, ‘Where was my daddy? Where were my brothers? Where were my childhood buddies? I had no one around.”

“I see,” I said. 

“I’ll never do that to my boy,” Eubank stressed. “I don’t desire him to ever say, ‘Dad, where were you? Was there someone more certified than you, Dad?’ 

“My dad’s gone. He died in 2000. It took me years to realize that when I won that world championship, he must have been a man of 5-foot-3 walking 10-foot tall. He wouldn’t have been able to buy a drink in Peckham or Brixton. ‘Eubank the champion, that’s the man’s son,’ they’d say. He should have been in my pictures. So, when they say I’m stealing my son’s limelight, you’re g***amn right.”

Remove the well-known surname and instantly there is not as much limelight to steal and the dynamic has modified. Take someone like Dalton Smith, for instance. His father, Grant, is at this time thought of one of the best coaches in Great Britain and has accomplished some nice work with Dalton on their manner to successful and defending the WBC tremendous light-weight title. So far, nobody has accused Grant Smith of being too close to his son, much less a destructive affect.

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“My dad’s not one for the limelight. He doesn’t like the cameras,” said Dalton last week, just days after his win against Alberto Puello. “But people are giving him his flowers for what he has done and the hard work he has put in. It’s great to see that. You see a lot of fathers wanting their own piece of the limelight, and I think a lot of coaches are like that in general. But he tries to detach himself from that a little bit. We know that boxing is a business and you’ve got to be in the media and stuff, but I think if I saw my dad doing stuff out of character on camera, I’d be having a word with him.”

For the most half, the phrases Dalton Smith and his father share are constructive and congratulatory, particularly of late. Together, they have now orchestrated 20 skilled wins and have come to use their skilled relationship as an excuse to spend time with one another and talk in a language of their own. While some may look to create distance, the reverse is true of the Smiths. 

“We don’t really show our emotions that much,” said Dalton. “We’ve never really been like that. But I’ve always said that the only time me and my dad show any emotion towards each other is after a fight, or on fight night for those split moments. That’s why, as hard as it is at times, it all becomes worth it in those moments. I feel like that is the time when we can share our emotions with each other. This is all we know.”

Similarly, one wonders where Daniel Dubois, the present WBO heavyweight champion, would be without the affect of his father, Dave. Though never in the nook on battle night time, his dad is typically the first particular person Daniel will thank following a victory and is someone whose voice Daniel hears above the noise. Indeed, Don Charles, Dubois’ head coach, has even credited Daniel’s dad for serving to Daniel rise from latest knockdowns and experience out the odd disaster. Just listening to his voice from ringside was enough, apparently: “Get up, Daniel! Come on, Daniel!” Whatever is said, it normally works. 

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Such is the connection between a father and son, sometimes that’s all it requires — a phrase, a look. When, for occasion, Joe Calzaghe was on the verge of withdrawing from what ended up being a career-defining battle against Jeff Lacy in 2006, all he actually needed was for his father to discuss to him the manner only a father can. 

“Joe rings me up a week before the fight and I was at the bookies in Newbridge just laying down some bets,” Enzo Calzaghe advised me before his passing in 2018. “I step outside, take his call and he goes, ‘Dad, just so you know, I’m not going to fight.’

“I thought he was joking at first, so I got him to repeat it. After he repeated it, I said, ‘What? Don’t discuss garbage. What time are we coaching?’ He replied, ‘I’m not joking, Dad. I’m not coaching and I’m not going to battle.’

“I had heard enough by now. I was outside the bookies screaming and shouting down the phone at him. He was doing the same. Then I shouted, ‘You f***ing chicken! You f***ing chicken! You f***ing chicken!’ I told him to f*** off a few times and then hung up.”

It’s value noting at this level that en route to a WBO title protection against Charles Brewer in 2002, the Calzaghes had bickered in the car so ferociously that Joe determined to exit the car and stroll to the venue on his own. And yet, 4 years later, Enzo was now the particular person solely accountable for convincing Joe, fearful about an injured hand, to go through with a life-changing unification battle. 

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“After I put the phone down, I realized it was out of order,” Enzo admitted. “How could I tell my son to f*** off like that?”

Within just two minutes, Enzo called him back. 

“Joe was now nearly in tears,” said Enzo. “He was asking me why I told him to f*** off and reminding me that he was my son and all that kind of stuff. Really laying it on thick. I then said he was the one who told me to f*** off, not the other way around, and we started up again — arguing, shouting. It was a f***ing beauty of a row.

“Then Joe said, ‘OK, Dad, inform me one factor: Why do you think I can beat Lacy?’ I said, ‘It’s the best battle you’ll ever have. If you throw 5 punches and transfer once, you’ll beat the crap out of him.'”

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Which, on the night of March 4, 2006, is exactly what Calzaghe did. 

“He was spot on,” said Joe. “This man, my dad, who’d never boxed before, figured something out that every so-called boxing knowledgeable had apparently missed. They all thought I’d get knocked out. They did not have a f***ing clue.”

In March 2004, Shane Mosley announced to the world that he was “firing” his own father, Jack, and would no longer be working with the man who had trained him since the age of 8. He said, in a prepared statement:

“I am going to miss working with my father,” and then added: “Together, we scaled many mountains and I would never have had the success I have had if he had not been there to information and train me every step of the manner. He is, without query, one of the all-time great trainers. More importantly, he has been a great father who I love very much.

“However, the time has come for my father and I to sever our professional relationship so that I can try some new avenues designed to give my fans the ‘Sugar’ Shane Mosley they deserve.”

No totally different than any other boxer, Mosley had at the time lost three of his previous 4 fights and felt he needed a change. The only twist, in this situation, was that a “change” required cutting ties, at least professionally, with the man who introduced him into this world. 

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“Part of being a good parent is knowing when to let your children go,” Jack Mosley said in his own assertion. “Shane and I have had a wonderful professional relationship over the years that complemented our love for each other as father and son.

“I perceive and settle for his resolution that the time has come for him to be out there on his own. I will still be there for him, as I always have, as his father. He will always be in a position to call on me for advice and support. To be sure, I will be there, collectively with the complete Mosley clan, to rejoice with Shane when he regains his belts.”

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Twenty-two years on, Jack’s grandson, Shane Jr., remembers that period in the Mosley boxing dynasty well. “I saw what that was like,” he said. “I saw when it was good and when it was not. But when you place too much of the relationship on the sport, or on this common denominator, if that breaks up, or messes up, what does that do to the relationship? You’ve got to keep those issues separate. If we can’t agree on coaching, what occurs at home? I’ve had those issues. I was always with my dad. We have a dangerous day of coaching and it’s bleeding into everything else. I don’t desire that anymore. I just need my dad. Hopefully we can determine out stuff to discuss about or do outside of [boxing]. We both love boxing, and it has given us everything in life, but we have to break out of that. Because boxing is not everything in life, and boxing can destroy relationships, too.”

For Shane Jr. to fully understand his relationship with his father, as well as his father’s relationship with his father, perhaps all it will take is going through the same push-and-pull process with a child of his own. 

“So my oldest son, who is 13, does box,” he revealed. “I have taken a very sturdy stance on making an attempt to keep out of it. He clearly comes to the fitness center with me nearly every day, he works out with me, but I do not practice him. 

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“If he wants me to train him, we can have that conversation. But I’d rather someone else did it and he figures out his own thing; his own style. My dad did it, my grandfather did it, I’ll probably do it, but I don’t want to say to him, ‘You’ve got to do it like this because I did it like this.’ It’s very easy to go down that route. 

“If he needs me to be his coach, I would need to have a dialog about how I can support him. If not, I can help him as a supervisor or just give him advice. We’ve got to determine that out because he’s really a actually good expertise. I think he’d be great, actually. But I have always had this resistance. I used to inform my spouse, ‘No, I don’t desire him combating.’ I’d say to him, ‘Yeah, you can come to the fitness center with me, but I’m not coaching you.’ 

“But what am I accomplishing with that? Nothing. If he loves this, why not nurture that? Why not support him and make him feel that he has backing and someone to help him? This sport is difficult and lonely enough as it is. If he chooses it, why let him be lonely? Why not be there for him as best I can?

“I actually had this realization just two or three days in the past. It’s going to take a lot of growth for me.”

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To highlight his growth, or merely the passing of time, I now took the opportunity to tell Shane Jr. what his father once told me regarding the conversation he had with his son prior to beating Antonio Margarito in 2009. I wasn’t sure, all these years later, whether he would remember the exchange. However, the way his face lit up suggested otherwise. 

“He completely said that to me!” said Shane Jr., stealing his old man’s smile. “You reminding me of that has actually given me the chills. Wow. I’ll never overlook that second. He regarded at me sternly and said, ‘Look at me. This is what a champion appears to be like like; this is what a killer appears to be like like.’ Then he just walks to the ring. That was it. He was like, ‘I’m about to go kill.’ Watch this.'” 

Only Shane Jr. did not just watch. He adopted. Then he discovered.