Heartache of a Champion

Sugar Ray Leonard saw a ghost.

He cursed and grabbed his son's arm in disbelief.

"Look, that's Quick!"

It was early evening at the Tulsa Charity Fight Night in April. Fifteen years had passed since most had seen James "Quick" Tillis in public. Half the boxing world thought that he was dead.

But there was Tillis, wearing a cowboy hat and a wide grin, shaking hands in a crowd. Tillis lumbered over. "Man! Where you been?" Leonard said. They riffed back and forth, posing for pictures, laughing.

Tillis belonged there with all the other boxing legends in attendance that night: Bert Sugar, Rubin "Hurricane" Carter, Earnie Shavers, Sugar Ray. Tillis had fought titans in the ring. He even made it in Hollywood, playing Oprah Winfrey's boyfriend in the movie "The Color Purple."

But it had been years since he had held the spotlight. An article on a prominent boxing website about the Fight Night event had to set the record straight. The headline read "Quick Tillis is not dead."

Here he had a seat at the celebrity table. A line of young blondes in evening gowns formed in front of him, boxing gloves dangling from their arms in hopes of an autograph. The announcer called Tillis a "heavyweight who fought 'em all," as he entered the ring to be recognized.

It was supposed to look this way.

"There's no guide to deal with life after you almost make it. It's a hard fall," Leonard said. "Guys like Tillis are no different.

"Boxing is a poor man's sport."

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Back up 24 years. Glens Falls, N.Y. Nineteen-year-old Mike Tyson had knocked out every single fighter he'd ever faced. Tillis, 28 and sturdy, bounced up and down in the ring. His white silk robe swayed. Patched black letters arced across the back. James Tillis, The Fighting Cowboy. Tyson entered the ring with no robe to a standing ovation. Announcers focused on his chance at the heavyweight title. "But first, he must get through this fight against James 'Quick' Tillis," they said.

The bell rang. Tyson threw the first punch. Tillis dodged easily. He looked good, in control. "This might be why Tillis is different," the announcers said.

Round two. Round three. Round four. Tyson had a reputation of knocking people out in early rounds. Tillis had a reputation of getting tired.

Round seven. Round eight. Round nine. Tyson committed to his left-handed stance, something he hadn't done since his fourth professional fight. "It means he's a little confused, a little frustrated," the announcers said.

Round 10. The bell rings. The two fighters threw late blows as the referee flailed in between them. The fight was over. Tillis had done it. A decent boxer, a contender, a poor boy from North Tulsa, had surprised everyone by standing toe to toe with the deadliest young fighter in boxing.

"I'm supposed to be in my grave right now," Tillis said, remembering that fight. "But the Good Lord blessed me. I might never be sharp no more, but that evening I was sharp as a razor."

The fact that Tillis lost the fight by decision didn't matter. Tyson's record was tarnished: 20 wins, 19 knockouts. And Tillis held a place in history.

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The white silk robe with patched black letters hangs on the wall now. It's covered in plastic to keep the dust off. Tillis' apartment in Tulsa is dark and smells like firewood. There's no place for a guest to sit. Paths to the bathroom, bedroom and kitchen are worn like deer trails in tall grass around piles of what Tillis calls "cowboy stuff." Ropes, western movies and a cowhide hat cover the couch and dinner table. A feed bucket filled with grain rests by the door.

Under the bed he built himself with 2x4s and plywood, three suitcases hold photographs and newspaper clippings from his career, each one laminated with contact paper and pasted on cardboard.

Tillis retired in 2001 with 44 wins, 22 losses and one draw. He'd fought in South Africa, England, Italy and Australia, sometimes earning more than $200,000 for a single fight. "The man made an enormous amount of money when he was in the boxing world," said Sharon Sixkiller, a friend and temporary marketing manager.

"He told me he's probably made around $10 million," said Joyce Perkins, another friend. "But he doesn't have anything to show."

Over the years, food stamps took the place of five-course meals for the 53 year old. Now, a $674 social security check pays the bills for a one-bedroom apartment instead of a five-star hotel. Boxing isn't like other sports. In football, baseball and basketball, athletes are brought up through college, trained with a team and given advice along the way. In boxing, a 22-year-old McLain High School graduate turns into a millionaire overnight.

"A lot of these times, uneducated kids walk into a lot of money with no guidance, and the wolves are all over them," said Tony Holden, a former boxing promoter from Tulsa. "The families would come, the heartache stories would come, the buddy with the investment was the biggest flaw for every fighter I've ever seen."

"Then when the money is gone ... they're left stranded. It happens all the time and it's very, very sad."

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At his peak he fought Tyson and Holyfield, two of the most recognized names in boxing. The brunt of Tillis' earnings, he said, went to family, ex-wives — he married six times — and a shady boxing manager.

"He was there to buy people cars, houses, to take care of family," Perkins said.

In 1997, Tillis' homecoming wasn't heroic. By then, the money was gone. He spent a month in the Tulsa County Jail for failure to pay child support. He shoed horses at the fairgrounds for money.

Perkins says his personality landed him in this situation. People knew how to take advantage of him. No one ever taught Tillis about money.

A few months ago, Perkins took Tillis to the Social Security office in hopes of getting him full disability status. She doubted he could hold a regular job. Tillis was denied.

He tried rebuilding a fan base by appearing at a Big Daddy's barbecue restaurant in Tulsa every Wednesday and handing out 3-by-5 note cards with his signature. For marketing, he hired Sixkiller, who quit six months later.

A summer boxing program fell through. A documentary stalled. A lawyer tied up a royalties dispute. And a movie script about Tillis' life sits unfinished on a computer. Its title: "It's a Dirty Game."

Last year, he created the James "Quick" Tillis Foundation. Its goals include helping wayward youth and establishing Tillis as a motivational speaker. It also hopes to provide him with retirement and a ranch.

"That he may live out his years in a manner worthy of a hero," reads a line from its purpose statement.

"When their fame is gone, it's really too late," Holden said. "There's not a lot you can do for them at that point."

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Tillis grabs the feed bucket by the door, steps out, and drops it in the trunk of a 1995 Lexus that he wishes was a pickup truck. All he's ever wanted was a place to shoe his horses and be outside, he says. Tillis loved cowboying first. Boxing came second.

He drives the eight miles to the Tulsa Feed Co., pops the trunk, and wills himself with a grunt out of the drivers seat. He's lucky, he says, that he has never been hurt in the ring. But the head and body shots that he has taken in stride have taken their toll, and the nickname "Quick" no longer seems to fit.

"Put it in this side, longways," he says to a young man gripping a hay bale. The man clears a space and forces the rectangular hay bale into the rounded space in the trunk, and closes the lid halfway.

Ten miles later, Tillis disappears down a white gravel road, rocks thud against the plastic silver rims on his wheels. He's got a hay bale to deliver, and Butterfly is getting hungry. A farmer lets him keep his horse in a barn in northwest Tulsa. Conditions aren't great, Tillis says, but they're free.