THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 25, 1994 TAG: 9409250157
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY STEVE CARLSON, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: JERSEY CITY, N.J. LENGTH: Long : 171 lines
In his tailor shop, located under an Italian restaurant, Al Certo steam-presses a dress. He is sweating profusely and shirtless, revealing a rather expansive girth as well as Jockey briefs that show above his trousers.
``Look at me, big-time (flipping) boxing manager,'' Certo says, wiping away the sweat.
A pair of boxing gloves dangle from a rack next to a row of freshly pressed slacks. They are the sparring tools of James ``Buddy'' McGirt, a tailor-made big-time boxer. It was here that McGirt learned ring strategy and philosophy at the knees of old-time greats such as Willie Pep, Jersey Joe Walcott, Jake LaMotta and Floyd Patterson. They all frequented the tailor shop and often held tutorial sessions in the sweet science.
McGirt even comes equipped with a seam, but it was made by a scalpel, not a needle. The 7-inch scar on his left shoulder is from rotator-cuff surgery McGirt underwent after losing his World Boxing Council welterweight title to Pernell ``Sweetpea'' Whitaker almost 19 months ago.
McGirt (64-3-1, 44 knockouts) was a one-armed fighter that night. Now, he's fully armed and ready to take on Virginia Beach's Whitaker again Saturday at Scope.
When the former two-time world champion overcame the final obstacle to earning the rematch with Whitaker in August, he cried like a baby.
McGirt had just won a split decision over Pat Coleman in his fifth fight since the shoulder surgery. A Whitaker rematch had been made, contingent upon McGirt beating Coleman.
Certo walked into the dressing room to find McGirt sobbing, his face buried in a towel.
``Oh no, he reinjured the shoulder. It's all over,'' Certo thought.
McGirt shook his head. He had been told he wouldn't fight again, and he did.
People doubted whether he could effectively use his vaunted left hook again, but in the latter rounds, he peppered Coleman with it.
And now he had another shot at Whitaker.
He was overcome with joy - and relief.
``The last time I cried was when my father died, man,'' McGirt said as Certo wrapped his hands for sparring. ``That was 12 years ago.
``It was really weird. Just a lot of pressure was off me. It was just an opportunity to tell everyone who doubted me and turned their backs on me to kiss my ass.''
McGirt and his manager/trainer Certo are preparing for a workout at Bufano's Gym.
It's a short drive from Certo's tailor shop in Secaucus to Bufano's in Jersey City, but the trip takes you about 50 years back in time.
Among the row houses on the corner of Beacon Avenue and Oakland Street in hardscrabble Jersey City is a ``Bufano's Gym'' sign, barely larger than a legal pad, over a door. Behind the door is a dark, creaky wooden staircase - the kind characters in horror movies always foolishly climb.
In the miniscule light at the top of the stairs is a pool room/dressing room, with a couple of ratty-looking pool tables complete with the old-fashioned lights above them. Willie Mosconi, Jackie Gleason and a youthful Paul Newman shot pool on those tables during the making of ``The Hustler,'' one of several movies filmed in part at Bufano's.
In a corner, sitting at a round table, is octogenarian Dom Bufano, who opened the joint in 1946 and hasn't updated it since - except for the gym area in the next room. It was gutted by a fire a few years back when the roof caved in. It got a new roof and a fresh coat of paint. Everything else in the place looks like original equipment.
Including the ring. The faded aqua-blue canvas is splattered with bloodstains - perhaps droplets from the sparring partners of Sonny Liston or Jersey Joe Walcott, onetime Bufano's regulars. The ring ropes are held together with duct tape and electrical tape. The whole floor shakes as the fighters bounce and move in the ring.
A large black-and-white picture of McGirt hangs above the ring, and the stench of sweat hangs in the air. Signs on the walls read: ``Train at your own risk,'' ``Only fighters, managers and trainers are allowed in gym,'' and ``Please don't make a mess.''
``Atmosphere - I love it,'' McGirt says with a smile.
McGirt has trained here since 1983, a place that is the complete antithesis of the swank Virginia Beach health club where Whitaker trains. It's an old-time boxing gym still run by the oldtimer who opens that door at the bottom of the stairs every day.
Once you walk through the door, leave your sensitivity at the bottom of the stairs. McGirt and Certo take vulgarity to dizzying heights. They are particularly fond of a certain profanity - we'll use ``flip'' as a euphemism - which they use as a verb, noun, adjective, adverb and interjection.
When the talk turns to McGirt's surgically repaired shoulder, Certo tugs at McGirt's rubber suit to reveal the scar that runs from the top of the shoulder to his armpit. Here's the reason McGirt lost to Whitaker in Madison Square Garden in 1993, Certo says. He asks how Whitaker can possibly beat a two-armed McGirt when he struggled with a one-armed man that night.
The shoulder is a sore subject for McGirt, who was told by a doctor he had tendinitis and was healthy enough to fight Whitaker. Rotator-cuff surgery came nine days later, after which surgeon Dr. David Altchek said it ``looked like there was an explosion'' inside McGirt's shoulder. Almost eight months of rehabilitation followed before McGirt could fight again. It still bothers McGirt if he sleeps on it wrong, or if it's a rainy day.
``Considering the significant damage of the shoulder, I'd say he made medical history,'' says Patti Castle, the physical therapist who worked with McGirt six days a week for two hours at a time. ``Dr. Altchek doubted whether he'd ever fight again.''
McGirt wasn't expected to for at least a year. He beat Whitaker sparring partner Nick Rupa 7 1/2 months after surgery.
The two doctors who advised McGirt to go ahead with the first Whitaker fight had the gall to send a bill for services rendered.
``I wanted to kick him in the (groin),'' McGirt says. ``They didn't give a (flip) about me, as long as they got their money.''
McGirt still seethes about this, hinting that a lawsuit may be forthcoming. He was belittled by critics who said he took the $1 million payday for fighting Whitaker and ran, knowing he had a damaged wing. After the surgery, guys on the street back home on Long Island asked him, ``What are you going to do now that your career is over?''
McGirt can't forgive the doctor whose faulty advice almost ended it.
``If I had a chance to be with him in a room alone, I'd kill him,'' McGirt says, steely eyed. ``He didn't give a (flip) about me by telling me I'm OK to fight, why should I give a (flip) about him? They put my career on the line, which is my life.''
Up in the battered ring, McGirt is now battering sparring partner Kenny Gould, who also sparred with Whitaker's last opponent, Santos Cardona. McGirt doesn't let go of the hook much, if at all, in training. Certo had said in the spring, when McGirt fought on the undercard of Whitaker-Cardona at Scope, ``Without his left hook, he ain't gonna beat no Whitaker.''
``He can bust Whitaker up with the jab, too, but the hook is the coup de grace,'' Certo says.
Certo is dissatisfied with McGirt's showing in the first round of sparring. He climbs onto the ring apron and says, ``You can do a little better than that.''
After four rounds, some situps and other exercises, McGirt puts a cold pack on his left shoulder for several minutes. He says it doesn't hurt him, but those close to him seldom know.
``I ask him every day, `Buddy, how's the arm?' because he didn't tell anybody his arm was hurting him before,'' says Gina Mendez.
Mendez and McGirt live together in Central Islip, Long Island, with their 3-year-old daughter Chantel and McGirt's 12-year-old son, James. James and Chantel are the oldest and youngest of McGirt's six children, born to four different women. ``I support them all,'' McGirt says.
Mendez saw McGirt agonize over being unable to pick up Chantel after the surgery. Now the tyke picks dad up by saying, ``My daddy's going to kick Whitaker's ass.''
Back at Certo's tailor shop after the workout, McGirt sits at a table under autographed pictures of Pep, LaMotta, Joey Giardello and Sugar Ray Robinson. He estimates his shoulder is 90 percent recovered and insists he has no doubts about the hook.
He hasn't forgotten the doubts people had about him, though.
``Before the first Whitaker fight, everyone was on my jockstrap, the doctor was patting me on the back and everyone was saying `You'll be OK, you're the champ,' '' McGirt says. ``After the fight - nobody. Everybody just vacated and said, `That's it for Buddy McGirt.' ''
Regardless of what happens Saturday, in a sense McGirt already has a victory. He overcame potential career-ending surgery and worked his way back into contention for the title.
Saturday, he has a chance to avenge his only loss in the last six years against a fighter regarded as the world's best, pound-for-pound.
It's a script that is seemingly tailor-made. ILLUSTRATION: CHRISTOPHER REDDICK/Staff color photos
When James ``Buddy'' McGirt met Pernell ``Sweetpea'' Whitaker in
1993, McGirt was a one-armed fighter because of a shoulder injury
that required rotator-cuff surgery. Saturday at Scope, McGirt hopes
to get his WBC welterweight title back.
Since 1983, McGirt has trained at timeworn Bufano's Gym in Jersey
City, N.J. ``Atmosphere - I love it,'' he says.
Graphic
WHITAKER vs. MCGIRT
[For complete graphic, please see microfilm]
KEYWORDS: PROFILE BIOGRAPHY BOXING by CNB