Reporting From ... The 82nd Annual Golden Gloves

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The Fullmer family celebrating Gene's win over Sugar Ray in 1957.

While America's best amateurs boxed for the national Golden Gloves title, a seasoned fighter went about his own business. His nose was flat from 104 pro fights, his left ear a twisted knot. Standing 6'1" behind a folding table, the 33-year-old signed autographs and pitched gym memberships. Jeremy Horn has never boxed, but the MMA legend's booth was the first thing you saw when you walked in the door—if you could find the door.

The 82nd annual Golden Gloves National Tournament of Champions culminated this weekend in Salt Lake City, far from the sport's control centers. The only piece of signage that would have given it away was a small poster at the main entrance of the Salt Palace Convention Center, pointing down a hallway past the Spanish-language evangelical revival and about 18 miles of carpeted silence. Boxing once dominated Utah's sports scene, but that was literally 100 years ago. This weekend, few locals bothered with the commute.

"I didn't realize there would be so many out-of-towners," Horn said on Friday night, shrugging. Few attended his local MMA show, Jeremy Horn's Elite Fight Night. "But that's okay. I like to support anybody who's fighting." Horn's presence helped finance the event. Several of his own sponsors—like the Utah National Guard and "Get Some" Guns & Ammo—had banners along the wall. Another, called Against The Fence, offered MMA-themed shirts in the booth next-door.

Horn watched a few of the fights on Friday. The competition was anything but rousing. All week, four-round bouts had run concurrently in two rings, paring 267 competitors down to 22 finalists in 11 weight classes. Most of the smaller fighters, who often make the most exciting fights, appeared listless and drained. Bigger kids with more muscle to burn seemed to have more stamina, but few combined enough power, polish, speed and enthusiasm to give fans hope for the future of boxing (one exception, a hyperactive Swedish national of Albanian origin named Naim Terbunja who is already 25-years-old). The PA announcer even chided the crowd: "Come on folks, we're not in church here!"

While Horn didn't return for the title fights Saturday night, all eyes were on the single ring, where Nevada's Jose Benavidez fired combinations at Jamal James of Minneapolis. Between rounds, the announcer introduced another old fighter in attendance, praising his 55-6-3 professional record, including 2-1-1 in title fights against Sugar Ray Robinson. Gene Fullmer stood in the VIP section, no longer 5'8". With white hair and a gray suit, he raised both hands and grinned, still playing the champ.

Boxing in Utah is a family affair—specifically, the Fullmer family. Brothers Gene, Don and Jay learned to box in a neighbor's basement in rural Salt Lake County. Gene became two-time world middleweight champ and Don challenged Nino Benvenuti for the same title. Nerve damage forced Jay to retire after 27 welterweight fights. Saturday, they sat together while their progeny ran the show. Larry was lead organizer. Hud dealt with the press. Troy, Chet and Cody refereed, while Kevin judged. About 30 of 80 volunteers were related to the Fullmers.

I first interviewed the brothers at their gym in 2003, in a borrowed loading dock that reeked of diesel fuel (shortly before they moved into permanent digs). They riffed on the good old days, when boxers were real men who didn't need contracts or limousines and fights aired on network TV. That tradition was doomed once Benny "Kid" Paret died following a televised fight with Emile Griffith. Three months before, Fullmer had KO'd Paret in the 10th round. "I did more killin' than Emile," Gene said, ruefully.

Like old timers in a barber shop, they poked fun at Robinson, lauded Joe Louis and reminisced about the kids they first saw as amateurs: Evander Holyfield, Roy Jones, Mike Tyson. None was tougher than Gene, who in 1968 jabbed through the last four rounds of a title defense against Florentino Fernandez while hiding a broken right elbow from the ref. So I asked what he thought of mixed martial arts, which Jay kept calling tough-guy contests. "That ultimate fighting's the biggest phoniest deal goin'," Gene said. "Somebody's gonna get killed playing that game. It ain't even a sport. It's a crucifix [sic.]."

That interview kept coming to mind as I surveyed the scene in Salt Lake. Larry Fullmer brought the Golden Gloves to Utah for the first time since 1968, to raise money and give the local boxing movement some juice. But most spectators seemed to be fighters, coaches, family, friends or local boxing characters (like the man with pointy, patent leather boots, embroidered jeans, and black leather jacket who shouted instructions in Spanish to certain fighters from his VIP seat). Donors watched from tables and a handful of smart-ass locals shouted "use the back door" and "take his ear!"

After Kansas City's Lenroy Thompson beat Bryant Jannings of Pennsylvania to win the 201+ pound belt, I waded through the exit-bound crowd. Gene Fullmer was busy posing for photos, holding up his right fist then faking a jab at a fan's toddler son. I found Jay signing posters and official Golden Gloves baseball caps. After reminding him about our last interview, I asked how it felt to have MMA paying boxing's bills. Under wavy gray hair, his eyes went blank for a second, then barreled in on my own. "You support who you need to support," he said, hinting at a smile. "That doesn't mean you get involved in it."

The PA announcer's voice boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention at the center of the ring!" I looked around the room, but place was already empty.

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