A Boxing Memory: Nicolino Locche

A Boxing Memory: Nicolino Locche

By Garry White

If ever there was a man to side-step accepted logic, then it was Nicolino Locche. There can never have been a boxer who could conceivably have looked less than the sum of his parts than the Argentine. Famously, he was so elusive that hardly anyone could hit him. Yet, outstandingly, he was able to do this whilst seemingly lacking the classical quicksilver movement of the Sugar Ray’s or ‘Prince’ Naseem. When casting even a casual eye over that trio, you could easily see their dancing shoes without the necessity of them actually putting them on. Everything about their demeanour and physique screamed fleet-footed flair. These were men crammed full of the kind of fast-twitch muscle fibres that allowed them to move with dizzying balletic grace and land pulverising punches, drilled straight from arm socket to chin. 

But anyone taking even a sideways glance at Locche in his late-60s and early 70s heyday wouldn’t be able to deduce any of these things. Rather than moving like a spiteful Nureyev, he was instead more reminiscent of a matador after a heavy lunch and a cheap bottle of Malbec. His thinning hair and slightly fleshy middle were mixed with a prematurely aged, world-weary demeanour that screamed Mañana. Throughout his career, he looked more like your middle-aged neighbour ambling out to wash his car on a quiet Sunday morning than a famed champion of the world. 

Outside of the ring, you half expected to find Locche in a dirty vest hunched over a frying pan in your local greasy spoon. Undoubtedly, he would be smoking a cigarette that was ninety per cent ash, taking care not to let its contents crumble into your fried eggs. I bet you’d also see him rubbing the grease on his vest and waving a metal spatula at any ungrateful patrons. Sometimes he’d play the radio and quietly mutter tunes to himself. Maybe late in the day, he’d let out the odd uproarious laugh after a cheeky bottle or two of Quilmes. It is the incongruousness of Locche that elicits these faintly fanciful notions in a way that they wouldn’t for other fighters of equal stature.

In the real world, it is noted that Locche loved a cigarette as well. Legend has it that he’d have a quiet puff between rounds, his Argentinian version of B&H hidden only by the artistic flair of his cornerman’s towel. It could just be another urban myth, like the ’60s minor contender Greatest Crawford who allegedly smoked so much that when he was hit to the midriff, he would exhale cigarette smoke – it would be easy not to believe either story, but I prefer to live in a world where `both these tales are unquestionably true. 

Locche couldn’t punch, at least not in the concussive sense. In a phenomenal 14-year career that included 135 fights, he tasted victory a staggering 117 times (losing only four), but with just a mere 14 of these wins recorded inside the distance. For a man who had a Sponge Bob punch that would make even ‘Slapsie’ Maxie Rosenblum blush and, on the street, moved like a labourer after a ten-hour shift carrying bricks, it must have been hard to countenance that he had anything going for him in the ring at all. Even at his peak, he exuded the look of a wisened York Hall journeyman; the kind that throws little and tucks their chin and elbows in from first till last. Anyway, those guys typically get hit liberally, just not often where it counts, and they certainly don’t become world champions. So elusive was the man nicknamed ‘El Intocable’ [translated as ‘The Untouchable’] that many of his opponents would have given anything just to connect even with his forearms, let alone his jaw.

Famously, Locche hated training and was rarely seen in the gym. To help keep his weight down and manage his appetite, he opted instead for the unconventional tactic of smoking 50 ciggies a day. Quite how an individual could manage a career as a professional athlete, outside of Darts and Snooker, with such appalling habits only further adds to the mystery and lore of Locche. 

By the time ‘El Intocable’ fought Japan’s Paul Takeshi Fuji for the WBA and Lineal 135 lbs title, he had fought 95 times and was 29 years old, but looked much older. He had already won the Argentine and South American titles, making a name for himself in his native Latin America for his unconventional style. 

Fighting in front of a home crowd in Tokyo, the dynamite-punching Fuji must have fancied his chances of getting the powder-puff Argentine out of there quickly. The champion was famed for coming on like a Bullet Train, planting his feet and delivering howitzer punches from both hands. He had a formidable and concussive 27 knockouts, most of them early, in 31 appearances and is considered by many observers as one of the hardest punching 135 lb fighters in history. It is unlikely that Fuji would have seen much camera footage of Locche; he’d no doubt heard the stories, but casting an eye over the seemingly middle-aged, heavy-smoker at weigh-in, he must have thought he was in for an easy night’s work.

Yet from the first bell, Locche taunted him. Not in a Ben Whittaker vs. a PE Teacher/Bricklayer kind of way, but in the sheer effortlessness of his ability to evade his punches. Fuji would plant his feet and transfer his weight, yet by the time he expected it to thud off the Argentine’s chin, he was gone. Often, he would miss by millimetres, other times by miles, but whatever he tried, he couldn’t land anything of note. Locche bobbed under the hooks that were delivered with every ounce of Fuji’s frame. Sometimes, he would unload with both hands, but they would always sail over Locche’s head. One minute, the Argentine was there, and the next he was gone. Even when he was seemingly trapped on the ropes, he would find a way out. The figure in front of Fuji looked lumbering and slow; it hardly seemed to move at all, yet whatever he tried, Fuji couldn’t catch it.

The frustration was etched on his face as he surged forward in ever more hopeless Banzai charges, his wild punches wrenching at his arm sockets and rapidly emptying his tank. All the while, Locche relied on his soft, snapping jab to rack up points and rounds. At one point, Locche stands in centre ring, his hands resting on his knees. By this point, an utterly spent Fuji throws tired shots straight down the pipe as Locche nonchalantly rocks from left to right, dipping his head by barely a centimetre. All the punches miss by an even smaller distance; such was the Argentine’s mastery of distance and timing. 

By the end of the ninth, the once formidable champion, who had banged out his last eight opponents in a combined total of just 19 rounds, had had enough. His hands were dangling loose, with the energy absolutely dissipated in the unrequited quest to nail something, anything, on his opponent. He walked back to his corner and didn’t answer the bell. The official record states that Locche won by ‘RTD in 10’. But the reality is that on that night in Tokyo, the old champion lost via a broken heart. After all, how do you beat an opponent who won’t fight and can’t be hit? As far as world title fights go, this was an early prototype for Leonard Vs Duran’s ‘No Mas’ a decade later. 

Locche went on to defend his title six times. Old-timers will still remember those golden days at Buenos Aires’ Luna Park, where his reflexes and all-around elusiveness would leave the crowd in rapture. Of all things, El Intocable epitomised the old axiom of ‘Boxing: the manly art of self-defence’.

Eventually, he lost his belts when Panamanian Alfonso Frazer outpointed him over the championship distance in his first title defence outside of Argentina in early 1972. 12 months later, he fought Frazer’s conqueror, Antonio Cervantes, whom he had previously defeated in a successful title defence at Luna Park. In a last tilt at regaining his title, he was forced to retire in the tenth round due to a nasty cut above his left eye. It was to be the only time in Locche’s storied career that he failed to hear the final bell. But it was no surprise at all that he went out on his feet.