Steve Springer - Hard Luck

Thank you to George Foreman for being so classy and modest. You are a true gentleman. I know Jerry is looking down from heaven with a smile on his face.

Thank you to Jerrys mom, Arwanda, who passed away as this book went to print. Your loving recollections of Quarry history contributed significantly to this book being a part of Jerrys legacy. Rest in peace, lovely lady.

Thank you to Jerrys sister, Wilma Quarry Pearson. You had the courage to tell it like you saw it, and we admire that. Thanks also to Jerrys sister, Janet Quarry, and Jerrys brother, Robert Quarry, for putting things in context.

An extra special thanks to my colleague, Frank Valenzuela, of Bakersfield, California. Without your contributions and unique acquisition skills this project may never have left the ground.

We absolutely must thank the professional and warm Bill ONeill. You are a masterful historian of boxing in general, and the Quarry boxing family in particular. Many thanks for sharing your collection of Quarry photos for this book.

Thanks to the many larger than life boxing characters who contributed, including Smokin Joe Frazier and Angelo Dundee.

We are grateful to the regal Barbara Eden for sharing memories of Jerry. Thanks also to Robert Conrad and Quarry family friend Claude Sutherland.

We wish to thank Jerrys first wife, Kathy Maugher, whose contributions were tasteful and considerate, and Tina Quarry, Jerrys third wife, whose candor was refreshing.

Thanks to two of Jerrys biggest fans, Harold Lederman and Mickey Rourke, for their invaluable input.

We are forever beholden to Keith Wallman, our editor at Lyons Press. Keith had a precise vision of what this book should be and worked tirelessly with us to achieve it. Thanks for taking a chance on us, Keith. Thanks also to Kristen Mellitt, the project editor on the book, for being so understanding and professional. We are also grateful to the copy editor, Josh Rosenberg, who edited with confidence and precision.

Many thanks to our dynamic agent, Bob Diforio, of D4EO Agency, who got the ball rolling and made the journey a wonderful experience for us.

Finally, we wish to thank the late great Jerry Quarry himself and all of his fans, who reminded us at every turn of just how special he was. We hope we did you proud, Jerry.

The mans musculature was awesome, sinewy and powerful. Biceps bulged and pectorals bowed taut as he stretched and flexed. Hermes had blessed this giant with the most precious of giftsspeed. The perspiration clung to his caramel skin, glistening. Though his complexion was light, at that point in history, he was considered the blackest man on the planet.

Across the hall, a strikingly handsome slab of chiseled granite stretched and flexed. A full head of long dark hair wandered down his bull-like neck, which tapered grudgingly to shoulders born of Atlas. His piercing blue eyes stung with sweat. Adrenaline coursed madly through his veins. Though from a Black Irish heritage, at that point in history, he was considered the whitest man on the planet.

Irish Jerry Quarry, the number one ranked heavyweight in the world, was lathered up on this fateful October night in Atlanta, preparing for the biggest moment of his life.

His opponent was a living quasar, the greatest fighter in history, Muhammad Ali. The arena was packed to the rafters. The fight had drawn the most potent concentration of black money and black power ever assembled. They screamed for Quarrys scalp.

Jesse Jackson, Jim Brown, Sidney Poitier, Julian Bond, Hank Aaron, Bill Cosby, and Diana Ross spearheaded the support apparatus for Ali on that storied occasion, his legendary bout marking his return from exile. The atmosphere was absolutely electric, surreal. The gladiators were poised for battle.

Quarry paced his dressing room. He came upon an official fight poster plastered on a concrete wall. The promoters had commissioned star sports artist LeRoy Neiman to design the historic notice. He didnt disappoint, producing a vivid color-splashed masterpiece.

Fight time approached. The anticipation was palpable. Megastar Superfly Curtis Mayfield was in the ring gearing up for his rendition of the National Anthem. The audience was frenzied and apoplectic.

In his minds eye Quarry reflected on his origins, trying to apply some context to the momentous occasion. He struggled to comprehend the divine providence that had brought him to the cusp of immortality. The world had come to demand he engage in combat with comparative goliaths. Ali was nearly four inches taller and outweighed Quarry by twenty pounds.

Whether the superhumans Quarry engaged were descendants of the biblical Nephilim mattered not at that moment. Quarry knew only what his fans forever demanded of him. Slay the giant.

Quarry took a great gulp of air and exhaled evenly. He then locked eyes with the person he held most dear in life, his mother, Arwanda. He greeted her as he always greeted her, by grabbing her at the waist and lifting her high over his head. The reciprocal warmth was evident as Arwanda beamed with pride. Jerry gently swung Arwanda down into a cotton candy landing. She fervently embraced her son. Were here Momma, he whispered. Everybody said wed never make it. She stifled a sob. It was a long, hard time a-comin.