Ishe Smith's story is as much about making a living with his fists as about making it through life via faith. There it is again. That word. Faith. Midway through a conversation at a Starbucks in North Las Vegas and he's dropped it a half-dozen times, the word peppering his vocabulary the same way "like" dominates teenage vernacular. Dressed in basketball shorts that droop past the knees, athletic T-shirt, tennis shoes and backwards cap, he looks more college point guard than world-class prizefighter and even less like a devoted churchgoer who ushers the 8 a.m. and 11 a.m. services each Sunday.
"My faith in God brought me here," Smith says, as his 2-year-old son, Ishe Jr., mounts a chair to listen in.
For the 26-year-old Durango High graduate, everything cycles back to God and his faith.
Who else but God, he asks, could've resurrected a promising boxing career—state, regional and national titles, stellar amateur record—nearly pissed away in a fit of partying and running the streets? Who else could've spared him from premature death that day in the park when a man put a gun to his head, demanding money. Who but God could've rescued him from depression, bankruptcy and assaults on his reputation as a fighter and a businessman?
"My faith is a big part of my life," he says.
No way he becomes a top prospect (once rated in the top 10) without faith, he says. No way he meets his wife, who's sacrificed to help him pursue his goals, paying the bills when his pro career lagged. No way he lands a spot on the boxing reality show The Contender without faith, and no way, after all he's been through, does he still have the chance to fulfill his life's dream—becoming the first Las Vegan to win a pro boxing world championship.
"We've seen Ishe numerous times at the Friday Nite Fights at the Orleans. He's a good boxer, not a big power puncher. From what we've seen so far, with cautious matchmaking, he could be maneuvered into the top 10 of junior middleweights and possibly a junior middleweight title shot. The junior middleweight division is really opening up. With Winky Wright moving up to middleweight, and Shane Mosley moving down to welterweight, there's room for a good young fighter to sneak in and maybe make some money against Kassim Ouma. But so far, Ishe hasn't shown the guns to suggest he could threaten a Kassim Ouma in any way. Of course, it would help if he wins The Contender. But the gossip is that he doesn't make the final two."
—Lawrence Hidaka, writer for lvboxing.com
Ah, yes, The Contender. Created by Sylvester Stallone and executive-produced by Mark Burnett (NBC's The Apprentice and CBS' Survivor) and DreamWorks SKG co-owner Jeffrey Katzenberg, the reality show follows 16 pro boxers as they train and compete for $1 million and a promotional contract. Think of it as Survivor meets The Real World meets Rocky III. Split into two teams (West Coast and East Coast), the contestants engage in (sometimes inane) team-building missions (racing to the Hollywood Hills sign carrying logs, playing dodgeball), their interplay culminating in actual bouts.
As fate—or faith—would have it, Smith was at home when producers called last summer. Says it was God's will for him to be on The Contender, the show coming at a time when he needed some good news.
Months earlier, Smith had filed bankruptcy to sever ties from Gary Shaw Promotions, complaining his pay wasn't commensurate with his rapidly rising profile—fights on ESPN and Showtime (he headlined one ShowBox card). Now a free agent, he had choices, but also reputation-killing baggage, having been lumped with Antonio Tarver and Jamey Toney as fighters who declared bankruptcy solely to void their contracts. Shaw attempted a knockout blow in a story on fightnews.com, claiming any money woes Smith had were of his own making. Shaw alleging that Smith turned down four potentially lucrative fights.
"After the (Randall) Bailey fight he won't take any of my calls," Shaw told fightnews.com. "He won't take any calls from Shelly Finkel, the co-manager, who also loaned him, I believe, about $35,000. He hasn't spoken to his trainer Danny Smith since we offered the Zab Judah fight. And how can you get off of the Zab Judah fight on HBO pay-per-view? Or the opening fight on Showtime against [Diosbelys] Hurtado—these are large amounts of money ... Zero correspondence. Zero communication. Zero. All I do is get a form from bankruptcy court [that] he's bankrupt ... There's not a writer out there that could say that I did this kid wrong. Not a writer out there. I've never made a penny off the kid. It's only been good for him. It's only been TV for him, belts, exposure and rankings. So there's something radically wrong here."
Smith declines to return fire, saying simply that it was a parting of ways. "I owe a lot to Gary Shaw because he took a chance on me when he didn't have to. He came and got me from The Orleans (where he began his pro career). I've got nothing bad to say. God put us together. He helped me grow as a fighter ... The Contender came about at a good time ... when I was searching for my next move."
Having heard scuttlebutt about The Contender and figuring it'd be as irredeemable as The Next Great Champ, Fox's much-hyped but short-lived boxing reality show, Smith initially dismissed the overtures. Thought he had too much experience—14 fights. Didn't matter. Producers wanted him. "His (God's) will was being done," he says of his selection.
Besides, the premise seemed intriguing enough, even if it deviated little from the gazillion other reality shows. Competing teams of fighters would live in frat-house environs, go on mini-adventures (manufactured drama) and compete in a round-robin elimination tourney for the right to fight in the May 24 finale at Caesars Palace, the winner receiving $1 million, a contract and leg up on becoming boxing's next, er, contender.
From August to October, the fighters roughed it in Pasadena, California, their interactions, idiosyncrasies and interests, foibles and fights (in and out of the ring) chronicled by the camera's all-seeing eye. Stallone's is a Trumpian role, omniscient and omnipotent; he's sidekicked by the legendary Sugar Ray Leonard, whom Smith was most impressed with.
"It's one thing to play a boxer," Smith says, "and another to live the life, and Leonard has done that."
And the actual fights? They can be compelling, but you don't really know if the action was as heated as it appeared, edited for maximum effect, or both. And it's a bit of a stretch to think all the celebrities who attend the fights (Hey, there's Sharon Stone!) would do so if the show wasn't televised or backed by Rocky.
Like most un-reality shows, The Contender's story lines evolve from structured interplay (put people in awkward positions, sit back and watch the fireworks). The first episode exposes a beef between Smith and Ahmed Khaddour: the solemn Christian versus the brash Muslim, a clash that has overarching implications in this post-9/11 world (West vs. Middle East. Conservatism vs. Fundamentalism. Alleged Good vs. Suspected Evil). The rivals clashed in Episode No. 3, Smith slugging out a decision. "We were just bombing away at each other," says Smith, noting that he actually liked Khaddour.
Since filming has been wrapped for months, I ask Smith about The Contender's outcome.
He bobs and weaves, noting that he's contractually bound to keep zipped lips.
"What about your next fight?"
"June, probably."
Putting two and two together: "Aren't you in the finals, which are May 24?"
Silence.
"I am still undefeated," he says.
Smith is more effusive about The Contender itself. Given his druthers, he'd not let fighters who lost be voted back—Peter Manfredo Jr. lost in the first episode and was allowed to replace an ill fighter. Adds too much American Idol-esqe frivolity. But he's content with the finished project and the prospect that it'll create new boxing fans.
Some folks in boxing circles think the opposite is true, saying the show has been as well received as a low blow. The ratings are middling.
"Everything about The Contender bouts smacks of manufactured ambiance," writes Jason Probst of maxboxing.com. "The crowd noises are dubbed in. The punches are given sound effects. The viewer is treated to repetitive shots of Sly Stallone standing up and hollering, with all the stylistic nuance he showed in the climax of First Blood, when he unleashed his M-60 into the roof of the sporting goods store, and let loose a cry that could be heard from Hanoi to Haight-Ashbury."
Adds Danny Williams of secondsout.com: "Unlike most reality shows, The Contender has the potential to impact enormously on the real jobs of its contestants. If a truck driver goes to the South Pacific for some Survivor fun and games, his old life is there for him when the show is over. Fighters who appear on The Contender will benefit from the attendant publicity. But they're precluded by contract from plying their trade outside the confines of the show for almost a year. And even then, they're bound by the show's promotional entity."
Hidaka, of lvboxing.com, has a dissertation-like diss: "I'd like to see more of the boxers' histories. I'd like to see their childhood pictures. I'd like to hear from their childhood teachers, know what kind of kids they were. I'd like to know exactly what brought them to boxing. I'd like to know what forces turned these kids into professional fighters. There are so many great stories of how fighters were introduced to boxing: (Muhammad) Ali had his bike stolen and complained to a cop who ran a gym; (George) Foreman learned boxing in the Job Corps, which rescued him from a life of crime; our own Melinda Cooper wandered into Richard Steele's gym one day and was mistaken for a boy. Surely there are some great stories like these among The Contender fighters."
And why, Hidaka asks, are professional boxers being asked to pull trucks and open padlocks and solve word puzzles as a team?
"I'd like to see who can do the most sit-ups, who can hit speed bag the longest, who can run the fastest over short and long distances, who can lift the most weight, and how these factors relate to their performance in the ring. For God's sake, you have Rocky right there. Let's see who can do the most one-armed push-ups, or have them race across Philadelphia to the top of the museum steps, or sprint on the beach, or catch the chicken, or have them hit that Russian machine that measures how hard your punch is."
Even Smith hasn't been spared from jabs. This from James Hughes of rabbitpunchboxing.com: "Ishe Smith came to the conclusion that he will battle his arch rival Baby Face (Khaddour). I was so happy to hear that. This was the fight that I wanted to see and it was finally going to happen. I must apologize to Ishe Smith for questioning the contents of his sack because he earned his berries back this week."
"Smart, tall and fast with significant pop in his punches, the young prospect is still learning and gaining experience. He has received notoriety for being a sparring partner for both Oscar De La Hoya and Fernando Vargas. Strengths: overall natural talent and boxing ability, speed, mobility and punching power. Weaknesses: quality of opposition, experience, notoriety."
Aficionados call boxing the "sweet science." But it can be hard to see what's inherently sweet or overly scientific about a right hook to the temple. Smith has heard the criticism before. How can you be both pious and a pugilist?
"Sometimes Christians can be the biggest critics," Smith says. "But my salvation doesn't lie in their hands. God graced me with the ability to fight."
Sunday mornings at 8 a.m., you'll find Smith at Mountaintop Faith Ministries, on Lindell and Edna. He's the bald, light-skinned guy directing parishioners to their seats, passing out fans and bags into which believers will toss in their tithes and offerings. Ushering is an extension of his faith. James 2:26 says faith without works is dead. Jesus Christ died to absolve him of his sins, Smith says. Serving is part of the way he expresses thanks. Asked to rank his priorities, it's God, family, boxing.
If you'd asked him what was important in the fall of 1996, he'd probably have said partying, running the streets, having fun. The other didn't matter.
His plans were to turn pro after the 1996 Atlanta Olympics. God had a different agenda. Smith failed to advance past the semifinals of the Olympic Trials in Oakland, losing to current undisputed welterweight champion Zab Judah. Having gone to Oakland as one-fourth of what was perhaps the best group of amateurs the city's ever produced—along with Augie Sanchez, Charles Shufford and Limme Young—and returned home empty-handed, Smith fell into a funk, quitting the sport he took up as a skinny, 85-pound 11-year-old who was tired of being picked on. The sport that gave him confidence, the sport he'd excelled in—100-17 amateur record, 10 consecutive state Golden Gloves titles, four regional crowns and the 1995 national junior welterweight title—had lost its luster. "Kicking it" replaced training.
"I was only 17," he says. "I'd never had the chance to be a kid. I had no desire to train anymore. I took 2 12 years off. I basically ran the streets and partied. It was all new to me. I had big fun."
Trouble wasn't far behind. Senior ditch day in 1997 found him in City View park on Cheyenne and 5th Street shooting dice with guys he shouldn't have. Down $300, he decided to cut further losses, grabbing his money and attempting to walk away. That's when the gun came out. (Smith's wife, LaToya, still can't bear to hear the specifics. "I don't even want to think about life without him.")
"The guy put the gun to my head and asked, 'Where's the rest of the money?'" Smith says. "There was fear going through my mind. It happened so fast. Afterward, there was shock. I could've been killed. God spared me."
Smith says God intervened months later. His mom was out of town, so he took the car. Driving on Spring Mountain and Rainbow, the brakes gave out.
"I didn't know what to do, so I hit a hard turn and nearly hit the people waiting to make a left turn. I busted the tires on the median and came to a stop. I didn't get any scratches."
Somehow, Smith says, the cop intuitively knew the car wasn't insured (it wasn't). What he didn't know was that Smith didn't have a driver's license and that he could've injured or killed himself and his passenger, as well as other motorists. The cop told him to move the car out of the street and left. That was that.
"Again, God spared me," he says. "I wanted to get my life back on track."
Meantime, guys he'd fought as an amateur—Judah, Demarcus Corley (who would go on to become WBO junior welterweight champion) and Hector Camacho (he'd fought him in the amateurs, barely losing)—were winning titles. Time to turn pro.
"I wanted to use my God-given talents," he says.
"He's the most physically talented fighter on [The Contender]. The problem with him in the show is that they had him fighting in the wrong division. He's not a middleweight. He's not really a junior middle fight (154 pounds). I think he's a world-class welterweight. I think he can win some big fights at the welterweight class."
From 2000 to 2004 (before The Contender), Smith amassed a 14-0 record, starching Jose Meraz with a third-round knockout in his July 29 pro debut and blasting Steve Verdin out in the first round on September 9.
Outside the ring, life was throwing its own punches. Smith parted ways with his first manager, who happened to be his mother, because of the combustible mix of family and business. The two don't mix, he says. With bills piling up and a baby on the way, Smith wanted bigger fights ($1,500 per wasn't cutting it) and bigger paydays.
Signing with Shaw Promotions figured to be his big break. In some ways, it was. Televised fights. Heightened exposure. Requested by A-list fighters De La Hoya (current undisputed junior welterweight champ), Winky Wright and former junior welterweight title-holder Fernando Vargas as a sparring partner. (His assessment of them: DLH is the smartest, Wright the craftiest and Vargas the strongest). By 2004, Smith cracked top-10 rankings in the four major sanctioning bodies—World Boxing Council, World Boxing Association, International Boxing Federation and World Boxing Organization. And still no big paydays.
Bankruptcy became the option: "The Shaw relationship had run its course. It was a good relationship, a great relationship."
The Contender's first episode established that Smith wears his faith on his sleeve, particularly doting on his friendship with fellow Christian Brent Cooper. (The fighters that pray together, stay together!) So when Anthony Bonsanto used Cooper's face for target practice in the sixth episode, eventually knocking him out, Smith was irate. Throughout the fight, the camera panned Smith pleading for the referee to stop the bout, the microphones catching the him saying afterweard that Bonsanto has a "target on his back."
In Sunday's episode Smith is shown throwing things. He says he was mad at what happened to his friend.
I tell Smith the tirades have soured some opinions of him and cast him as an individualist, not a team player.
"I have to disagree," he bristles. "For me, it wasn't about looking for easy matches for your team, it was about being fair. I can't want fairness for my team and not the other team. What you didn't see on TV was that Anthony went up to Jimmy (Ciliniski) and agreed to fight him. Then he does just the opposite and fights Brent. I rooted for Brent because it wasn't fair what Anthony did. He (Cooper) took unnecessary punishment from a coward. I wanted the fight stopped. Many tears were shed over that fight. I grew very close to Cooper. His faith was big part of his life. I have the utmost respect for him. I'm close to Christian guys and you pray with them and, at that time, I didn't care about team.
"I am a team player," he continues. "The only person I rooted against was (teammate) Jesse (Brinkley). Is that so bad? I don't like him and he doesn't like me. It's a war that's ready to happen ... Look, I ran up the Hollywood Hill by myself to win for our team. Joey was happy when I won in episode three. None of us disliked each other. I talked to guys all the time from both sides. This isn't like Survivor.
"I went into this being taken advantage of and seeing guys taken advantage of. I wanted to be fair and wanted everybody to have a fair chance," he says. "It was not about myself. If I have to change the person I am, then it's not worth $1 million. I wasn't going to be a part of someone with 20 pro fights matching up with some folks who had five fights."
"He's on the threshold of being a top contender. He's had some management issues and promotional problems and things of that nature, which is kind of par for the course in boxing. Is he going to be a superstar? I don't know. That division (154 pounds) has a lot of good fighters. He's a good, talented fighter that belongs in the top 10. Could he win a championship? Definitely. Would he beat Winky Wright? Probably not."
Johnny Tocco's Gym could be a museum. It's one of the few things in this implosion-happy, build-it-in-hopes-that-they-will-come-and-spend town that can be considered old-school. The 50-year-old house of pain on Main Street and Charleston is what boxing gyms used to be—spartan, rugged, with minimalist trappings. Nothing but rings, speed and heavy bags, and exercise equipment that don't measure heart rate, miles run or calories burned.
"When I'm home I'm training here," he says, loosening up. It's the first time he's been back since The Contender wrapped shooting. "This is my home. This is my gym."
If only the walls could talk. A photos of "Marvelous Marvin" Hagler training in 1995 is a body length away from a picture of Evander Holyfield training in 1998. Old posters announcing fights look they've been colored by Crayola-wielding kids. Tocco's mug is everywhere on the northeastern wall. With middleweight great Jake LaMotta. Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini. Legendary trainer Angelo Dundee. Mr. T. Tex Cobb. And Sugar Ray Robinson, universally regarded as the greatest fighter of all time. The canvas in the first ring (there's another in a back room accessible for a workout room that has speed and heavy bags) is sweat-soaked and dirty, some spots as black as a parking lot.
None of the nostalgia is lost on Smith. Between winging punches and ripping uppercuts at an imaginary foe, he gives the place a once-around.
"This place is home to all the greats," Smith says.
A guy in a striped red-and-white shirt walks in, here to fix something. He recognizes Smith, heaping on the platitudes. Thinks he's the best. Hopes he wins the tournament. Says his son is the world's biggest Ishe Smith fan and wants to be just like him when he grows up. Smith smiles, appearing half-humbled, half-incredulous. "Thanks," he says.
"This guy, Ishe Smith, is definitely as fast as (De La Hoya) and probably faster. He's going to be a great fighter, and he gave me such great work. He has all those moves that (trainer Floyd) Mayweather is trying to teach (De La Hoya), but it's all natural for him. Oscar has worked with Mayweather for two fights and is trying to learn these moves which I know, too. But Ishe Smith has all that naturally, and he gave me such good work that I gave him a damn good bonus."
Win or lose, Hidaka says, The Contender will help Smith because he's good-looking and has a strong personality.
Smith perks up when I ask about a fight with Kassim Ouma, a volume-punching Nigerian who's the class of the 154-pound weight division. It's a fight he wants, likely his most lucrative bout because De La Hoya has decamped to the 147-pound division and Vargas is plying his trade at 160 pounds.
"Only God knows where he's about to take Ishe," says Latoya Smith, who got nearly as much air time as her husband did on episode three, cameras flashing back and forth from her husband's clash with Khaddour to her nervous pacing and shouts of encouragement.
What she loved about the show is how producers involved the families and treated them as partners in the endeavor; they set her up with free sessions with a personal trainer. It was the first time in 15 years that she didn't work. As the graveyard-shift assistant manager at Bellagio's front desk, she often was too tired to bond with her son. And she dared not quit, since her husband wasn't bringing in a lot of money. Dealing with irate customers, demanding bosses and employees taught her how to take criticism.
"No one took up for us when promoters bashed Ishe," she says. "If not for God, we would've bashed back."
Smith says his wife has been a blessing from God, a product of his faith in God's plan for his life.
That word, again. Faith.
Everything in the Smiths' lives cycles back to it. She's now an administrative assistant to the chief of staff at Mountaintop, where her husband ushers. If they come off on television as ultra-religious, she says it wasn't intentional. "We love the Lord because that's what we know," she says. "If people think Ishe believing in God is a bad thing, that's their thing."
Despite being a boxer's wife, Latoya admits knowing little about the sport or, for that matter, how far her husband can go in it.
But of this, she's sure: "With God, the sky's the limit."