“IT is his tragedy that he found himself articulate in such a dangerous language.”
– Hughie McIlvanney.
We all know the famous words, the final punch and the awful death of Johnny Owen, the Matchstick Man from Merthyr Tydfil.
It was that wild night at the Olympic Auditorium in the part of Los Angeles known as Little Mexico, and the man breaking our hearts was Lupe Pintor. We all know that; we know the fight facts from the night in 1980 when Owen dared to be great and went to Los Angeles to win the WBC bantamweight title. The great Hughie insisted that the venue had “the atmosphere of a Guadalajara cockfight, multiplied a hundred times.” That is some image.
Well, Lupe also broke his own heart that ferocious night when his fists cut, beat, bruised and dropped Owen for the last time in his boxing life. Owen was done at 2:25 of the 12th and he was instantly fighting a losing battle for life once he collapsed to that blood-soaked canvas. It is the most disturbing knockout I can ever remember, and there is really no need to view the sickening end; there is every need to never forget the last night of the Matchstick Man.
There is a new documentary out now about Owen and that fight. The filmmakers went to Mexico and sat down with Pintor. It is harrowing and brilliant stuff. No other sport does what we do in boxing with our extremes. In 2002, a film was made where Johnny’s devoted and broken father, Dick, went to Mexico City and met with Pintor. It was unbearable at times, exceptional and just raw. Sad, so sad.
Johnny Owen’s life and that fight deserve every single bit of exposure they can get; we turn away too easily from the men we loved, adored and cheered in previous decades. Some move amongst still, often stumbling, mumbling and looking for a bit of care. There is no point glossing over our dirty truth; the recent stories about Repton fighter and ABA champion, Tony Cesay, are alarming. We leave too many of our lost idols invisible.
Owen belongs to a time that appears to be so far removed from the modern game that it seems like it was 100 years ago and not 40. The new film captures that time, that long, often grim time in our business. Some of the colour photographs look black and white, the business was gray. It was unrecognisable.
Owen was just 24 when his life was officially over. It was early November at the Lutheran Church on Hope Street in Los Angeles. He had been taken to the hospital after the fight finished and the wild celebrations started at the end of the fight on 19th September 1980. It was a hopeless situation from the first night in care, but Johnny was an extraordinary athlete. He could run like no other man in the boxing business, setting a relentless pace in the Welsh hills and against the Welsh weather. His fighting heart took a little longer to leave this world.
Inside the Olympic Auditorium, as Pintor raised his hands to celebrate, the men in poor Johnny’s corner climbed through the ropes to try and save their boy. He was in a still and disturbing heap. Somebody tried smelling salts. A stretcher was found, the body was placed on it, and it was carried high from the ring.
Dick had one corner, and he had his pocket picked. He lost 300 dollars as the stretcher bearers ran a gauntlet of hate and flying piss. If it had been a gritty scene in a Rocky movie, people would doubt the authenticity, doubt the callousness and brutality of the 10,000 packed inside the venue.
Less than an hour earlier, Johnny Owen, the British bantamweight champion, had walked through the cauldron of fury in style. He was the calmest man in his group – he was on a mission to win the world title. “Johnny had no nerves,” remembered Dick, his father. “I was a very proud man.” He may have been calm, relaxed even, but the task was enormous, Pintor was a great fighter. He is often overlooked when people casually produce lazy lists of Mexico’s finest boxers.
Owen had a badly gashed lip from the fifth and he slowly sprayed the canvas with his blood. He was dropped in the ninth and dropped heavily. He survived and was still in the fight, still battling a living Mexican idol in front of sport’s most hostile crowd. Owen was trailing on all three scorecards going into the 12th round, but his stamina was immense. It is a tough business, there are no apologies for sending Johnny our for what would hopefully be the last four rounds.
Owen was dropped again, got up again and then it finished with the last sickening punch. Pintor cries now at the memory and what his fists did. He looks like an old man battling demons that he will never beat. He is still a living legend, still spars rounds. Still looks like the great fighter he was.
There are tears now, but this business is cold; Pintor was in Las Vegas defending his WBC bantamweight world title six weeks after Johnny Owen died. I must be honest, and far from condemning him, I praise him for his single-minded devotion to the sport that changed his life. It also changed Johnny’s life. It might cause outrage now, but back then it was the inevitable boxing way. What a business.
Pintor and Owen made their history, and this film will help us all remember that. Both winner and loser deserve that.
Legends of Welsh Sport: Johnny Owen – The Matchstick Man. Available now on BBC iPlayer.
