The hardest thing is not becoming champion, the hardest thing is staying champion
(estimated 12 minute reading time)
We sat down with former cruiserweight world champion, Johnny Nelson, and spoke about his incredible boxing career.
With a journey that took him from the streets of Sheffield to international stardom, Johnny Nelson has become a revered figure in the world of boxing. Anyone who’s witnessed Nelson in the ring, for instance, at London’s iconic Wembley Stadium, can attest to his physical prowess. This interview delves into his reflections on the sport, his experiences as a champion, and the dedication required to succeed at the highest level. Join us as we explore the mind of a true boxing icon and what it takes to stay at the top.
The Green Room – Taking you back to your early days, what was it about boxing that made you think ‘yes – this is what I want to commit myself to’?
Johnny Nelson – The one thing that got my attention about boxing was that it felt like family. I think I walked into the gym, Brendan Ingle MBE, God rest his soul, was an amazing coach. Brendan said, “Listen to me, you’re a mummy’s boy. Stick at it, you’ll end up being a world champion.” I just thought he was mad. I thought, ‘Are you crazy? I’m rubbish.’ I went to the gym because my friends were there, that’s why. Me being a world champion? I’m seeing everybody on television, not me.
I stuck at it, I started to win, and I’m like, ‘Wow.’ But I used to think upside down. When I won, I didn’t think I was good, I just thought they were bad. I’d think upside down. I used to mistake nerves for fear, so when I was nervous, I didn’t realise I was nervous, I thought I was scared. So I believed the narrative when people said, “Nelson’s a coward, he can’t fight,” I thought I was scared.
My Eureka moment was when I was sparring with a former world light heavyweight champion, Fabrice Tiozzo, in Lyon. I was out there for three months; I spent six years on the circuit in Europe as a sparring partner. That’s when they pay you to be beaten up, you’ve got to survive. I was sparring with a world light heavyweight champion, me! And I just always fell short at that point when it counted because I never thought I was good, I just thought they were bad. I was in the gym sparring with Fabrice and I beat him up every day, and I’m thinking, ‘This isn’t right, he’s the world champion, I’m like a piece of meat, I shouldn’t be doing this to him.’
It was a cloudy day, I walked out of the gym, I’d just had another session, I’d been there three months. There was a stretch limousine outside, a white stretch limousine, with a beautiful lady in the front seat with a little white poodle, stroking it. Chauffeur driven. I stood there, been there three months, thought ‘Ay ay,’ and nodded. Behind me, I got a, “I’ll see you tomorrow Johnny,” turned behind me and it was Fabrice. Fabrice jumped into the chauffeur-driven limousine, with the beautiful woman in the front with the little white poodle, and drove off into the sunset and I was like, ‘What?’
The clouds opened, BOOM, it started raining. I stood there on the side of the street. I’ve been in Lyon for about probably three months now, back and forth to the gym. I’m staying in a dirty little bedsit. The guy I’m beating up, who’s champion, has just driven off in a chauffeur-driven limousine and I’m living in a bedsit. I looked at the car as it drove off into the distance, looked up into the sky and it was pouring down and I just sort of shook my head. I said, “Johnny, you’re an idiot. The only difference between you and him is he can perform in public,” that was the only difference.
I decided on that day, that was my Eureka moment, I said, “I am never going to lose again, because you’re an idiot, you’ve done everything right Johnny, you’ve prepped right, you’ve had the ups, you’ve had the downs. What is it about it? You can beat that guy up in the gym, why can’t you do it in a fight?” From that day on, I never lost a fight, I ended up becoming the world champion. When I became world champion, I made a record of defences, I made 13 defences for the world cruiserweight title. I never lost it in the ring, I retired as champion.
To me, I always say to people, “It’s not just about training the body, it’s about training the mind, believing you’re special.” Brendan got me, he said, “You don’t have the confidence to match your ability.” But once it came together, I was unbeatable.
TGR – Where do you think that passion came from and was there anything particularly that inspired you?
JN – If you want it enough and you’re ready, you’ll achieve it. You’ve got to be that passionate and you know what, you’ve got to be selfish, but you’ve got to be honest with yourself. If you cheat, you only cheat yourself. And you know there’s that little corner of your mind saying if I’d have just done this, if I’d just done that.
I had to learn by experience, but it had to be a good and bad experience, that’s the only way you get wisdom. The hardest thing is not becoming champion, the hardest thing is staying champion because once you reach the top of the mountain, that reason for getting up at stupid o’clock in the morning, that reason for going that extra mile, that reason for doing things you wouldn’t do, has gone because you’ve achieved. You’re at the top of the mountain. So now the problem’s this, why are you going to get up at stupid o’clock in the morning because what are you chasing, you’re the one being chased.
TGR – Do you think it’s essential to have that love and passion for the sport to be a top boxer?
JN – Once I became champion because I knew I’d been through all the good and bad, the highs and lows of fighting to get to that point, there was no way in a million years I was going to lose it from a mistake because I’ve made all the mistakes. So once I became champion and I was ‘the hunted,’ I then knew if you’re going to hunt me, you better be on your A game. Because if you’re a world champion, there’s only a handful of champions in the world that believe they are the best fighter in the world and that takes a degree of arrogance and there’s only a handful of champions out there that believe that they are done.
I thought I was the best fighter in the world, I thought nobody would beat me. I had to have that arrogance, so when it came to defending my title, I had the arrogance and the self-belief that I’d done everything. I did that 13 times. I knew my time was nigh after my 12th defence because I was in bed. I used to get up in the morning at 3:00 am to run because I thought if I got up at 3:00 am, my opponent was still in bed. Then I’d go to the gym at 7:00 am, I can remember in my 12th fight, I was tired. My alarm clock went off and it woke me up. Usually, if I set the alarm for 3:00 am, I got up at 2:55 am and I thought ‘Yes, I’m on it.’ This time it was the alarm clock that woke me up.
I could hear the rain pouring outside, I thought ‘Nah’ and covered myself up, and I didn’t feel guilty staying in bed. When I got up in the morning, I knew my days were numbered because I felt comfortable and had no guilt about cutting a piece of my training. So I thought in my head, I’ve probably got one or two fights left and that’s it, I’m going to walk away from this game, I’m going to retire from this game. This game is not going to retire me.
Who would have thought someone like Nigel Benn ‘The Dark Destroyer’ who was knocking everybody out cold, would ever retire mid-fight? Remember when he did it against Steve Collins? Retired in the ring. Nigel Benn, ‘The Dark Destroyer,’ the baddest man, was on it. Because when the fight has gone in you, it’s gone! And you’ve got to be honest with yourself and make that decision. Nigel had to make that decision mid-fight, in front of the world and that must have been very hard because he was a very proud man, he was ‘The Dark Destroyer.’ I saw fighters like Nigel, I saw fighters like Lennox Lewis retire from the sport, not make the sport retire them. So when it was my time I said, “I’m done, I’m out of here, I’ve done it,” and I felt comfortable because as I said, you know if I can stay in bed and feel comfortable not running, there’s a problem. So you’ve got to want it enough and once you stop wanting it enough, that’s where the problem starts.
TGR – For all those people who will never experience what it’s like, can you describe the feeling of coming out to box in your hometown at Sheffield Arena or at a venue so iconic as the Royal Albert Hall or Mandalay Bay in Vegas?
AND Did the pressure to perform, pressure to win and defend that title ever dampen your passion or spirit for the sport?
JN – It’s addictive, it’s an addictive sensation when you walk out and the fans are cheering or even booing you. It’s an addictive sensation because nothing else matches up to it, there’s no job, and there’s no entertainment that matches it. When the adulation’s there, when they’re either booing you or cheering, nothing matches it. So when you go out there if you are faint-hearted and you’re getting booed, the last sport you want to be in is boxing. If you’re a fighter that needs the cheers of the crowd to lift you and make you a better fighter, that’s alright when you’re fighting at home but when you box away from home, you’ve got a problem.
This is a gift, an experience you can’t buy, you can’t borrow, you can’t pretend to have when you walk out into the ring and you’re being booed. I can remember fighting in Rome against Vincenzo Cantatore, defending my world title. They were booing me, I could hear them hissing and booing. I was the champion so he was in the ring first. I put on a track, ‘Funkin’ for Jamaica’ and stood there in the entrance before I had to come out and the Italians, even though they hated me, were bopping to the song. There’s a sea of my fans over there, everybody’s bopping and I had that arrogance when I walked out and I looked at them, sneered at them, smiled at them, they were booing. The more they booed, I thought ‘I want this from you because this is what’s given me so much strength’ and the more they booed, the more they screamed, and the more they tried to throw things at me, one woman threw a belt at me, one woman threw a bottle at me. The music’s playing and I was bouncing and I thought ‘I love this, I will never ever experience that experience ever again.’
It was the best feeling ever and I thought, ‘I love my job, I love this sport.’ We stood in the ring, the national anthem was on, the Italian national anthem came on, and I dropped down into the box splits. I was a peacock, I was an arrogant peacock and the Italians loved it but hated it. They loved the show, they loved the villain and I was happy to play the villain. Cantatore was a handful, a former world champion, but I thought, ‘Not in a million years are you going to beat me, I’m king of the world.’ I had that arrogance, I owned my special. I beat Cantatore, a good fight, tough guy. The Italians hated me through the fight, they loved me after the fight. It’s the best feeling, a feeling you can’t buy, borrow, or pretend to have.
That’s what boxing does to you, nothing compares to it. Boxing trains you for what, to be a doorman on a job or a coach and that’s it. So when you retire and you’re 36 years old, you’re like a 36-year-old school leaver. It’s unprecedented, nothing’s like it at all.
TGR – Since retiring have you missed that feeling and do you still get your gloves on?
JN – Since retiring, I’m always asked, “Would you do it again?” The YouTubers are coming out and the YouTubers are doing an amazing job, they’re promoting themselves where they’re getting kids, who would never even leave the computer, out to watch the boxing and they’re investing themselves. They’re becoming their own business and this is what traditional fighters need to learn about themselves and move with the times. A YouTuber can go in and you know more about him than a world champion on the undercard. The YouTubers are doing something right. When offered the opportunity, if offered the opportunity to do it, it’s not just me, most of us think we can still do it. In our head, we’re still 25 years old kicking ass. In reality, our body says “You can go, I’m staying here.” When you get into training camp, it’s really hard. When you were young, you could just fight through the hard times and the injuries. Now I’m 56 years old, I do three rounds and I’m thinking, ‘Oh my God’ but I think I can still do it.
When I see these young guys that are fighting and people say, “I bet you hate it,” it’s hard and unfair to make that comparison because my day is done. I love boxing, I love talking about boxing, but the reality is I can’t do what I did. The ones that fool themselves to think they can do it, they’re doing it for the money and I understand money is a big motivator. If I was asked to do it again at 56 years old, no chance, my daughters would ruin me. I’m a granddad but I look like I can fight, I talk like I can fight, I think like I can fight, I know what I’d do to beat a fighter if I was still their age. In reality, I’m at peace with myself and it makes me smile because I’m still vain enough to try and keep myself in condition.
I still look at a fight and think, ‘I’d do this, I’d do that’ but these are young bucks. I’d get in the ring with a lot of kids, I’d have more experience than them, but the problem is I’ve not got the pace, I’ve not got the youth. All they’d have to do is be consistent for three minutes of every round, round after round after round, I’d be shattered after four rounds. Then I’m getting beaten by somebody that should never beat me and then I’m really upset because I’m thinking, ‘This kid’s crap, I’m better than that.’ I don’t want you to remember me for that, I want you to remember me for being a world champion.
The nicest thing is when I do my commentary on Sky and I get comments saying, ‘What do you know?’, I laugh because it means I’ve been successful in two lives. I was a world champion to the point where people forgot I boxed. It’s like Gary Lineker, people forget he was an England captain because he does such a good job now. So I like the fact when people say, “What do you know?” I love it but in reality, do I think I can do it? Yes, of course, I think I can still do it. Would I do it? Oh hell no, I wouldn’t do it.
