Life, despite its beauty, can be devastatingly cruel.  First the world lost my acquaintance Steve McNair and now I’ve lost my dear friend Arturo.  I know that no one is supposed to be here forever and we all knew that Arturo had been through far too many wars to live until 100 but, I certainly never expected this.

Arturo was not like other big time athletes.  He did not roll with an ever changing and expanding entourage or crew.  His small staff was considered family not employees.

Pat Lynch’s title was manager, but he was really the big brother.  Pat oversaw many important business matters, but most of all looked out for his little brother.  Because of Pat we all knew that Arturo would never end up broke and alone like so many past champions.

Jolene Mizzone directed logistics for his promoter, Main Events, but that was the least of her involvement.  Jo was the overprotective little sister that was suspicious of anyone trying to get too ‘close’ to Arturo.  If Jo thought that you may be a parasite, you weren’t around Arturo… period.   

Teddy Cruz was officially Arturo’s strength and conditioning coach, but he was so much more than that.  He was Arturo’s right hand and little brother.  They might fight like cats and dogs but at the end of the day there was Teddy driving and Arturo riding shotgun still waiting for his license to be reinstated.

Mikey Redd was the little cousin that adored Arturo.  He did all of those things that were not glamorous but very necessary.  If some guy showed up that Arturo didn’t recognize he would purse his lips and glance at the guy and telepathically Mikey Redd was on it, as only a cousin that loved you would.  If Arturo was working out in the stifling Florida heat and humidity in a surfer’s neoprene wet suit it was Mikey Redd or Teddy peeling that hot, ungodly sweaty, nasty-ass thing off him, so that he could get in one more round of sparring.

Joe Souza was the miraculous cut man in the corner.  There were always 3 things that you could count on in an Arturo Gatti fight.  Arturo was going to fight his heart out.  Arturo was going to get cut and bleed profusely.  But most of all, Joe Souza would be in that corner to work his 60 seconds of magic so Arturo could answer that bell.

Buddy McGirt was simply coach, the phenomenal trainer and prior champion that had been there and done that.  During training camp, Buddy would say “champ do this”, Arturo always replied ‘yeah coach’ and immediately executed and then like clock work would follow the Buddy McGirt, patented seal of approval ‘R-i-g-h-t’!

And I was merely “Doc”.

Day after day, round after round and fight after fight, we sat in that oppressively hot and humid, un-air-conditioned, sweaty gym (affectionately known as the dungeon) stuck to plastic patio furniture and watched a little guy without great speed or power and no Olympic games’ pedigree fight his heart out.

That was the essence of Arturo.  He was just a tough but lovable kid from Italy, by way of Montreal, fighting out of Jersey City.  He was a regular guy with an enormous heart.  He gave you everything he had both in the ring and as a friend.

Arturo Gatti took what he had and became the best in the world.  Fortunately, that will never change.