Paul Spadafora: The rebirth, the regrets, the hopes, and the dreams

Paul Spadafora’s life spiralled so far out of control that he died. 

Five times.

The former IBF lightweight champion has been brought back from beyond the brink – his life almost abruptly curtailed by the alcohol-drugs mixer he has been fending off with more success in recent years.

“The Pittsburgh Kid” now lives in Las Vegas.

There are too many scars back home and the mud has stuck. High achievers in sporting towns are often celebrated and adored – able to dine out on their fame for the rest of their days. Not Spadafora. 

Spadafora still loves the Steel City – his people and his old haunts – but a magnetic and nigh-on irresistible temptation lurks among both people and places. 

It was there where the wheels fell off so cataclysmically in his life more than two decades ago. 

Today, Spadafora is 48 years old. In 2003 he was 28 when he was charged with the attempted murder of his still-partner Nadine after a gun went off in his Hummer. It wasn’t the first indiscretion of Spadafora’s life but it was, by some distance, the most serious. He went to prison, but by then he had spent years battling demons and addictions, and by the time he came out of jail he was unwelcome in Pittsburgh.

He visited “home” five months ago, and it’s always a triumph when he returns to Las Vegas unscathed. 

“Yeah, it was good to be back, but I’m happy I’m here,” he told BoxingScene. “I’d just rather be here. People notice you in Pittsburgh a lot. It’s a small town. People say, ‘Oh Paul, what’s up?’”

“In a good way? Are you a hero there?”

“I wouldn’t say I was a hero in Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh’s a town, it’s like this…”

With that Spadafora leaps up from the breakfast-bar stool at his home and disappears into another room, re-emerging with a picture of a road sign, and he begins to describe how it has changed.

“This is Pittsburgh, this is my city where I’m from,” he begins with a shake of the head. “Welcome to McKees Rocks. McKees Rocks. Home of Paul Spadafora, International Boxing Federation [champion].” 

He turns and smiles at me, and then clucks: “But soon as that shit jumped off, they took that down.”

“That shit” was the shooting. Paul and Nadine remain together. Their unscripted but dramatic story is beyond Hollywood. In fact, just spending time with them in Las Vegas feels like being part of a Netflix documentary. 

Their love endures. Whatever Spadafora did, she has forgiven him, but clearly not everyone else has.

“Do you want to redeem yourself in Pittsburgh?” I ask. 

“I don’t feel like I gotta redeem myself at all, just do the right thing,” he responds. “I know. As long as I’m doing me – being a good person – I’m not worried about what the world thinks. Everybody has their own opinions. You could be, ‘This guy was an asshole’. ‘Well, I can’t help who I am. This is who I am.’”

This is not the Spadafora of a quarter of a century ago – a champion in turmoil; one haunted by his past; who overdosed several times; whose father died of an overdose; who has been shot and stabbed and whose mother has fought similar demons.

The slippery slope awaits, ready to whisk Spadafora off and into a familiar abyss, but he’s still fighting, even though many still view him through the prism of his past.

“Then they need help,” he quickly replies. “Do you know how many lessons you learn in 20 years? No, I’m not the same person. No, no, no. I’m not gonna go buy that Hummer. You can blast through as much money as you want… you can’t take it with you.” 

Spadafora now trains budding fighters in the gym he has built in his garage. The ex-champion is an eager coach. It is easy to see how someone with his incredible gifts – and who clearly possesses good boxing knowledge – could become frustrated by those who can’t do what he could.

He was a gifted southpaw – slick; quick; tricky – who could fight at range and in the pocket. When he retired in 2014 he was 49-1-1 (19 KOs), which is a shiny record by anyone’s standards.Despite the admirable statistics, for Spadafora it might have been so much more.

“Yeah, it’s more of a case of shoulda, woulda, coulda,” he says, wistfully raising his eyebrows and leaning in.

“I look at it like this… but I didn’t fight Stevie Johnston. I didn’t fight Cesar Bazan. I didn’t fight Floyd Mayweather; Diego Corrales. I didn’t fight them guys. Why didn’t I fight them guys? Why’s all my title defenses against… I fought Angel Manfredy; Leonard Dorin, he’s a great fighter. I don’t take nothing away from him, he was a WBA champion; bronze medallist; two-time Olympian; but he can’t fight. He can’t beat me.”

Dorin and Spadafora drew an IBF and WBA unification fight in Pittsburgh, in what amounted to Spadafora’s eighth bout as the champion. It was a thriller – an often-forgotten classic. Both fighters, cut under both eyes, had their moments. It was arguably the defining bout of Spadafora’s career. Dorin contemplated retirement but Spadafora wanted more big names.

Arturo Gatti was one of them.

“They wouldn’t – they turned me down,” Spadafora sighed. And he couldn’t get Doring again, either. 

“As soon as I went to jail, he [Dorin] came out of retirement,” he said. “Did you know that me and him was supposed to fight? Did you know that? We had a rematch clause and we were just gonna fight.

“I want to tell you a story real quick. My brother Harry, he said to me, ‘You better box this guy [Dorin]’. I said, ‘Why would I box him? He can’t take it to the body’. If you go back and watch the fight, I’m ripping shots to his body that would put a horse down. And he’s making these noises, and I knew and that’s what made me stand there and what happens? What happens? He comes out of retirement and Gatti knocks him out with a body shot. 

“And I’m gonna be honest – Gatti could punch. I ain’t taking nothing away from Gatti because he’s a great fighter. But he’d have a better chance of hitting the moon with a BB gun than beating me. Styles make fights, bro. It don’t make sense.

“I’m tall; long; I can box. I know how to move. I can counter-punch. I’m different. I know how to walk away. All you got to do is watch the Manfredy fight. Watch him [Gatti] and Manfredy [Manfredy beat Gatti on cuts but lost to Spadafora].”

Having won the title against Israel Cardona, Spadafora defended it against the likes of Renato Cornett, Victoriano Sosa, Mike Griffith, Billy Irwin, Joel Perez, and Dennis Holbaek Pedersen. 

It is sad he feels there is much he didn’t get to show. Perhaps in part that is what is driving him – to find and work with a fighter who can do what he missed out on, and create the openings and career opportunities that he was never afforded. It was being kept on ice in his native Pittsburgh that he felt ultimately cost him the big nights his then-promoter Mike Acri should have landed him – with Gatti, with Corrales and Jose Luis Castillo, and, yes, with Floyd Mayweather, who he shared with one of the most well-storied sparring sessions of all. If he could have landed just one of those, which was the one that got away?  

“Floyd – that’s a dummy question,” he answered. 

“Is it? Okay.” 

We spend some time talking about what the others brought to the table, and how Gatti – at the time – might have brought more fame.

“What does that mean? Fame? What the fuck does that mean? Fame? 

“Look how Floyd beat Gatti. If you know boxing, Floyd and Gatti, that’s not even… Imagine what Corrales would have did to Gatti.”

For Spadafora it was not just about the challenge but the opportunity to present himself and his skills to the world and on the biggest stage. Instead, he played his hits at nondescript venues in Pittsburgh, and he even had a couple of non-title outings at Chester’s Mountaineer Casino Racetrack and Resort. It’s hardly MSG or the MGM Grand – and that in itself was a source of enormous frustration as Spadafora recorded title defenses.

Aside from the now-famous Mayweather spar, Spadafora didn’t get to tangle even in the gym with Gatti or Corrales. He didn’t party with them either, for those wondering how that would have gone.

But Spadafora has a helluva story and he’s told it in a new book Fighting Till The End. Some find the recounting of old traumas therapeutic, but Spadafora has had enough therapy over the years, and his appetite for dredging up the past is all but gone.

“They came at me wanting to write a book and I was like, ‘Okay’,” he said. “I told them what it was. You know, it’s hard to go over and really read about it. You know what I mean, because of the shit that’s in the book.” 

“The trauma?” 

“Yeah. It brings you back to the bad. The shit you don’t want to go over. I’m trying to get past that life.”

*

“Whap, like you’re hitting him right in his face,” Spadafora snarls to one of his students.

SNAP, and the jab goes out. “Don’t come off that leg. Two, right hand. Step back. There you go. One-two,” he continues instructing. “Stay relaxed. Slow the fuck up. There you go.”

Spadafora works with kids from all over Sin City. He might not need his redemption, but the lessons he has learned over the years makes his a wise head. Coaches like Tom Yankello and Jesse Reid have had a significant influence on him, as well as his first coach, P.K. Percora.

P.K. is one of many people Spadafora had been close to who has died. That was in 1997, when the 68-year-old suffered a stroke and never recovered. 

The initials PK are printed on the center of the ring in Spadafora’s garage – an intimate setting with a low ceiling but a plentiful supply of bags and equipment. The color-theme is black and yellow; the bags; the ring ropes; turnbuckles.

Despite the restlessness about his fighting career, his passion for the sport clearly remains. Whether anyone he coaches will be able to realise the potential he once had and possibly even his own dreams or destiny remains to be seen, but he will regardless enjoy the ride.

“Think about it,” he states. “I love boxing. I love shooting basketball… boxing is boxing. It’s what I love. Yeah, that’s my love. It never goes away. I could do boxing all day.”

As we sit and talk, there are occasional triggers related to Spadafora’s past, but there are also constant reminders about the direction he chooses to follow today. His mantra, ‘Do the right thing’ can be seen on his clothing and on bumper stickers on his car.

“I think it’s a great thing to ‘Do the right thing’,” he smiles. “Look, listen, and keep everything… you can’t take anything with you.”

If anyone knows about what can be snatched from you and how quickly, it is him. 

“It could be over in any second,” he continues. “That’s how I feel – as long as I’m grounded and doing the right thing today and not… I think it’s one day at a time. If anybody should have been gone it definitely should have been me. I don’t know how I made it past like this. Yeah, dear God. 

“I believe God knows good people. I believe your heart. And our actions speak for what we are and who we are. Sometimes we make choices that are bad choices. But I never made a bad choice.”

He stops to consider that.

“I’m not saying never. But nine times out of 10, if I made a bad choice, I was under the influence.”

“When was the last time you were under the influence? Anything?”

“A while ago. I’m doing good. I feel good.”

I joke that Spadafora is like Benjamin Button, and looks better each time I’ve visited him in Vegas.

We laughed at that.

But make no mistake, I still wouldn’t want to get on his bad side. He is charming company, but there’s a switch that could likely be flicked by the wrong person at the wrong time. And let’s not forget, he could really fight.

“I’ve never been in the ring with anybody that did down [like he did] on middleweights, light heavyweights – they come at me and they’d get a good one,” he smiles. “They get a good beating is what they get.” 

He is also not naïve enough to say that there are no regrets – that everything has happened for a reason, was meant to be, or that life is now a sing-song around a campfire. There must be a stack of regrets, but one stands out.

“I definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely would never have picked a drink up,” he says. “You know what I mean? Never fucked around with no drugs and I probably would have had no choice but to leave my promoter. I love Mike, but I would have had no choice because he didn’t give me the fights that I needed. It made me turn into the person that I was. Without them fights, without them fights. It turned me…

“Bro, I never in my life did drugs in my life. In my life. I was a basketball player; football player. I mean, touchdown runner. I mean, like [scoring] 30 on any point guard. I can play… a good boxer. In boxing I made it to the title, so fuck it, why not fight the best? I just didn’t understand it. I couldn’t understand it. But now and then I look back, but [Acri] didn’t even tell me [what the career strategy was]. He didn’t even do like this, and I love Mike, but he didn’t sit down with me and say, ‘This is what we’re gonna do. This is the plan. We’re gonna build you up. And then…’ You know what I mean?

“But every time I’m like, ‘Why am I fighting this guy?’”

So many excellent fighters never did what Spadafora did – they didn’t accomplish what he did and they couldn’t do what he could. In part, he is proud of his accomplishments. Sure, shoulda, woulda, coulda are legitimate thoughts he still regularly confronts, but he also knows he did some good things against the less satisfactory and the less savoury.

“You gotta remember – I’m from nothing, bro. I mean, that’s a lot of hard work to be a world champion. That’s a lot of hard work to just do it. I did. Get up. Life in prison. You know what I mean? That ain’t no joke. That’s suffering right there. So yes, I’m proud. I’m proud of a lot of stuff. But I wish I would have got the fights because everybody would have known exactly what type of motherfucker I am.”