James Toney: ‘I’m delighted that someone is writing a book about Paddy. His story needs to be told.’

James Toney: ‘I’m delighted that someone is writing a book about Paddy. His story needs to be told.’

By Lee Simpson

‘Have a Lights Out Day, Baby!’—August 2019

‘James?’ I say tentatively, unsure of how I am supposed to address a member of what most people would consider boxing royalty.

‘Yeah, hello sir,’ comes the reply.

James Toney has just called me sir?

My heart is screaming, ‘Shit! This is James Toney!’ And my head is telling me to pull myself together and just ask him the damn questions because I can remember most of them.

And I might never get the chance again.

That’s when I realise that I need to make sure I’m not interrupted as my child is expecting me to come upstairs and bathe her in a few minutes, not conduct an interview with a world champion.

I am aware of how British I sound when I say, ‘James, could you possibly excuse me for a moment while I make sure I have the quiet to really hear what you are going to say?’

Why am I talking like this? I never sound like this normally — like I’m some jumped-up butler in Downton Abbey.

‘Sure,’ says James, and I wonder what he is thinking of me.

I cover the part of my mobile which picks up my voice in order to muffle it.

I didn’t dare put James Toney on hold.

I walk to the bottom of the stairs and shout of my wife. When she arrives at the top of the stairs I say, ‘Could you do bedtime? I’ve got world champion James Toney on the phone and I need to talk to him now.’

She nods and says, ‘The James Toney?’

I nod back and go and sit down at my dining room table to begin the interview that I thought I was calling to organise.

But that’s boxing, I suppose. One of the things we love about the sport is its unpredictability and that’s what’s happened here. So I just jump straight in with feigned confidence. I am conscious that I don’t want to come across as rude. So I ask James how he is and what he’s doing now?

‘I’m good, Teach. I’m in California with the weather and my kids and I’m loving it. I’m in the gym too. I love the gym, and being around the people in the gym, you know?’

James Toney has a very interesting accent. It is very US, a little like Marlon Brando as Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. Sometimes he is exceptionally clear. At other times, when he speaks more quickly, he can be hard to follow.

I know that the tag question at the end of his last sentence requires a response to show that I am in the conversation with him. And I do know what he means about the gym as in my own, admittedly very small, way I feel the same about Paddy’s gym too.

I ask him where he met Paddy?

‘We met at the Wildcard Gym when I was training with Freddie Roach. Paddy was a very cool guy — a delightful man.’

Paddy told me that you used to have a specific nickname for him at the gym. What was it?

‘There were a lot,’ he says. ‘But I remember that I used to call him Patti Duke. It was from a TV show. I used to shout right across the gym at him, “Hey! Patti The Duke!”’

I say to James I have spoken to several fighters Paddy has coached or trained and they talk about how analytical and technical he was about boxing. What was your experience of Paddy as a trainer?

James tells me that he valued Paddy’s honesty and integrity. ‘He very much forces himself on you and makes you believe in what you do. I appreciate him 100 per cent, no 1,000 per cent. I loved having him in my corner.

‘Teach, boxing is about camaraderie and relationships too, you know. I knew I could trust him. Paddy’s a great dude, 100 per cent. A great trainer. He knows the ins and outs of the boxing game. He’s very smart and knowledgeable — that’s why I had him in my corner. He just loves boxing. Boxing is his obsession.’

I think for a split second about the comment ‘that’s why I had him in my corner.’ It’s what is not said here that matters. That there would have been no chance of working with a champion like James Toney if Paddy had not been up to scratch — period.

I’m feeling more comfortable in the interview now, and like a boxer adjusting his angle of attack, I change the angle of my questions and ask James, ‘Did you know that Paddy felt that it was the confidence that working with you gave him that allowed him to go on and succeed in the way he has?’

‘I appreciate that,’ he says humbly. ‘He would have succeeded with or without me, though. I truly believe that. He’s good at what he does.’

I don’t want to come across as only interested in Paddy, because I am not. James Toney is one of my favourite fighters. So I ask James if he knows that he fought a lot more than some of the all-time greats like Jack Dempsey and Rocky Marciano? I also ask him if he knows that his record, especially covering the period 1991–1994, actually resembles the records of those greats, fighting high-calibre opposition every six to eight weeks or so.

It’s something you can’t imagine modern fighters like Joshua, Fury, Wilder, Canelo, Lomachenko, or Usyk doing. ‘Thanks, I appreciate that,’ is what he says, and keeps saying, throughout our conversation. I feel humbled by how humble his responses are.

I hadn’t expected that. Exactly what had I expected? I’m not sure. I have read a lot about James Toney. And I’ve watched his fights and his interviews. I know what he can do and what he is capable of saying.

But that’s in a fight context.

In our conversation, James Toney was engaging, honest, enthusiastic, friendly — and very easy to talk to. I am humbled and impressed by this from a man who has achieved so much. I take the conversation back to Paddy and ask whether James can remember any funny stories from their time working together?

‘There are so many,’ he says. ‘We used to play jokes on each other.’

I remember Paddy had told me that James had a sense of humour where he enjoyed practical-type jokes.

‘As I and Paddy got close,’ he continues, ‘we played jokes on each other. We had water gun fights and threw raw eggs at each other in the gym.’

What? During training for really significant fights, I ask him?

‘Hey Teach, you can’t be a bull head in training all the time. You must relax too.’

I get that. I imagine that maintaining the intensity of the ‘Lights Out’ persona must take huge strength. Anyone would need a break from that.

‘Oh, and Paddy has those hats too, man.’ James bursts out laughing. ‘He was obsessed with them!’

I take the opportunity to tell James that we are calling the book Hats, Handwraps and Headaches at this point.

‘Good call. Good title.’

James Toney likes our title.

Though it seems like a lot less, I’ve already been talking to James for ten minutes and I’ve asked all of my questions. Those I can remember, anyway.

‘I’m delighted that someone is writing a book about Paddy,’ James says without a prompt from me. ‘His story needs to be told.’

I thank James for giving me his time and then tell him that at the main school where I work, I do boxing training with the students and that one of the main fighters I get them to study is James Toney.

‘You do?’ he says.

‘Yes — as a defensive master and devastating counter-puncher,’ I tell him. ‘The kids are always impressed because at first, they are all like “Canelo and AJ and Fury”, but when they watch James Toney they are a like, wow, “Lights Out!”’

‘I appreciate that,’ he says. ‘That’s cool.’

The conversation ends with me thanking James again.

Then, full of enthusiasm and optimism, he says, ‘Hey Teach, have a Lights Out day, baby!’

James ‘Lights Out Toney’ — an all-time great.

An excerpt from the book Hats, Handwraps and Headaches, a book on the life and times of Paddy Fitzpatrick by Lee Simpson. Available now.