Playboy Magazine South Africa November 2013 November 2013 | Page 82

FEATURE IT'S MACHO TIME

the mechanics of a George Foreman uppercut or
a Twyla Tharp arabesque, a listener walks away
from the conversation illuminated. Which is
why I pay special attention when Atlas uses the
terms “genius” and “pioneer” to describe Héctor
Camacho’s boxing prowess.
First there was Macho’s ungodly ring speed and
quickness, he says. “A guy with pure speed can
intimidate. You’re afraid of pure speed. Afraid
of the timing. Afraid to do things you normally
would do. Camacho’s mobility, his confidence
and obviously his technique – he could put
punches together – were there. But it was all
predicated on his great speed.
“Also, he had a great chin. He was on the
floor, what, three times in 88 fights? And never
knocked out. He never gets credit for his chin.”
Now Atlas is into the subject, a physicist lost in
a reverie of string theory. That speed, he says, that
chin – combine them with Macho’s “signature
move, his trip-hammer jab.”
Quick as a mongoose Atlas leaps from the
kitchen chair and throws one. His knuckles
brush my right cheekbone. Most fighters, he says,
“have the jab where they turn it over, the fist
rotates counterclockwise. That’s the conventional,
traditional way. But if you look at Camacho, he
would just drop the jab like this.”
Aims another at my face, this time no rotational
torque. Downbeat of an ax. “It got there maybe
a millisecond quicker. Whatever tenth of a
second he bought by doing that allowed him
to discombobulate the guy, to throw the guy’s
rhythm off. It was his own little mark of what
separated him, his own little genius. I don’t use
that word lightly.”
This “first Camacho,” Atlas says, “fought on his
terms.” Rose to the top on “aggressiveness. He
always thought he was the boss.”
Then came Rosario. Atlas gives a sad shake of
his head. “He gets caught with that left hook and
he gets hurt good. He moves and he grabs, and
the new Camacho showed up. We didn’t know
that at the time. But he never fought with that
confidence anymore, with that bravado. He still
had the speed, but he didn’t have that aggressive
mind-set. He didn’t have that confidence. His
world was thrown off its axis.”
Macho stepped into the ring 59 more times
after the Rosario bout. Fought into his late 40s,
taking another legitimate title as his physique
inevitably grew thick. No one ever knocked
him out – an accomplishment about which he
often boasted. Yet he was never the same. “Still
talented,” says Atlas. “But for the rest of that time
he was just gonna survive.”
A long night. Time to go. “I liked Macho,”
Atlas says. “There was a sensitivity to him. No
maliciousness, no mean-spiritedness. He was
a knucklehead. But considering everything, I
think he wasn’t a bad kid inside. Maybe a kid
that was hiding things, insecurities that maybe
he was never able to deal with. So the way he
dealt with them was to talk and to be real fast
with his hands and to be a champion. But that

Then there was the
cocaine. Shelly didn’t
like it and didn’t like
Macho doing it. But
she couldn’t help
herself. By then she
was hooked. On his
beautiful body. On his
blithe persona. On
his generous spirit.
didn’t mean those doubts were taken away.
Doesn’t mean that the money and the Corvettes
and the machismo and the skirts that he wore
and his outrageous behavior took away those
inadequacies.”
This last hangs in the air as I rise from the
kitchen table. Atlas stands too, hesitates, motions
– wait. Walks to his living room, returns with a
scrapbook. “Wasn’t sure to mention this.”
Flips to a page, a yellowed newspaper clipping.
The sportswriter Dick Young’s column in the New
York Post. Small item reporting that the 30-yearold trainer Teddy Atlas and the lightweight boxing
champion of the world Héctor Camacho threw
down in Gleason’s Gym. A week before the
Rosario fight. “He got the gist of it right,” Atlas
says. “Not all the particulars.”
Tells the story. Training one of his fighters, paid
for the ring time. Macho and his entourage roll
into the gym. Macho wants the ring. Gets in,
won’t leave. Atlas politely asks him to get out.
Macho: “It’s Macho time!” Atlas, not so politely
now, tells him to go fuck himself. And then they
went at it. Bare knuckles.
“He’s flicking that jab. Landing a few. Not
hurting me. But I know I can’t let this go on too
long. I got maybe 20 pounds on him. I lunge
for him, try to get him in a headlock. But he’s so
lathered up in baby oil he slips out of my hold.
Now he’s doin’ all that Macho shit. Taunting,
jabbing, dancing. I think he drew a little blood
over my eye. I fake a jab and lunge again. This
time I get him by the hair with both hands. Pull
him into my body.
“I got him in a headlock. I hit him two solid
uppercuts, lefts, then two more, still holdin’ on
to his hair with my right hand. I bring my knee
up and drive it into his gut. Do it again. I heard
later that some of his posse tried to get in the
ring, break it up. My guys kept ’em out. I knee
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