BY JOHN RYKHUS, JR.
Ukrainian heavyweight boxer Oleksandr Usyk recently was named the undisputed champion of the world, the first person to hold all four of the major professional boxing associations’ respective titles since Lennox Lewis in 1999. But one has to wonder about the timing of this achievement given the war in Ukraine. Russia has its former world judo champion in President Vladimir Putin, and now it seems that Ukraine has their own native son in Usyk to answer, in case you were keeping score on the propaganda front.
Having had firsthand experience in the pro boxing world, I can personally attest to some of the hijinks that occur in the sport. Thirty-odd years ago, when I was 29 or 30, I was in peak condition and was known in certain circles of Minneapolis as Johnny “Roundhouse” Rykhus. I was managed by the legendary Ray Whebbe, who I knew from my work in social services, and who hooked me up with some of the best trainers in the Twin Cities. We had permission to set up a gym in the basement of an old brownstone church on South 26th Street where we had a small ring, punching bags, the works.
Whebbe was one of the most colorful characters I ever met, and it seemed like every other person he passed on the street knew him and greeted him by name. He ran a little conservative newspaper downtown, and he promoted boxing and pro “rassling” events, such as the annual “Rock and Wrestle for the Homeless” at the Native American Center on Franklin, where I was once the keynote speaker. He could have been considered what Bob Dylan described as a “Damon Runyon-type character” in Dylan’s reference to record producer John Hammond. A finger in many different pies and always looking out for the next hustle. Through him I was able to get to know such rassling legends as “The Sheik,” who was a huge man with a very small grocery in Loring Park, Maurice “Mad Dog” Vachon, who had a wonderful smile, however short on teeth it was, and my favorite name in sports, Baron Von Raschke, being reminiscent of Boris Badenov or Nathasha Fatale of the old Cold War-era “Rocky and Bullwinkle” cartoons. Von Raschke had a signature move called “The Claw,” placing his big mitt on somebody’s head and squeezing. His opponent would flail around, and the crowd would howl in delight. It was great fun.
For my supposed first professional boxing bout, Whebbe had me on the card to fight the Chinese national light-heavyweight champion on the island of Macao, China’s version of Las Vegas. It was a goodwill exhibition event hoping to help diffuse tensions between China and the United States. Whebbe gave me very specific instructions, to wit, “Don’t you dare try to beat him, John. Just try to stay with him three or four rounds and then I advise you to have ‘Hi Mom!’ written on the bottom of your shoes.”
Things began to unravel when our outfit ran short of cash. We had five boxers on the card so Whebbe apologized to me and said that he could only afford to bring four, and I was the rawest and least experienced. I was disappointed not going, but not nearly as disappointed as the Chinese ended up being. Our gang arrived in Macao and the Chinese asked Whebbe where was his light-heavyweight? They were furious. Didn’t he know that this was the headline matchup?
Undaunted, Whebbe decided that he would fulfill the contract and put on the trunks and gloves himself. Now, Ray Whebbe was always a fat man, and he had a section of his intestine removed to lose weight, a procedure that normally never ends well for anybody. And yes, that double entendre was intended. He also had a broken neck from when he was pushed down some stairs while working at a homeless shelter. So here is this middle-aged bald man with peg legs, shaped like a pear with skin hanging from his arms, stepping into the ring to fight China’s national champion. Whebbe told me later that the fight was over in three seconds.
“He hit me on the top of the head, and I just started seeing tweety birds,” he said. The crowd was rightfully angry as all get-out and feeling cheated. Whebbe said they had to be whisked out of the country by the Communist Party under heavy security so as not to be torn to pieces or eaten alive.
Patrick Reusse of the Star Tribune did a write-up on the fiasco and concluded that, “Ray Whebbe has single-handedly ruined American boxing in China for at least 10 years.” Meanwhile, I was given an ultimatum by my fiancée at the time that I either leave boxing behind or she would leave me. She didn’t want me breaking any bones. So I left boxing. She left me anyway, breaking my heart, so I learned that romance can be more dangerous than boxing. But that’s a different story.
A couple of years later I was walking on Nicollet Avenue downtown with a bus transfer and heard a loud “Hey, John, how’s it going?” It was Whebbe. He said, “John, you’re not going to believe it, but I got another card lined up in Macao!”
I didn’t believe it. But I know that it was true. And war has so far been averted.
John Rykhus, Jr. is a longtime editor, poet, social worker and journalist, including a stint with Southside Pride in the late ‘90s. He can be reached at [email protected].
