Mr. Kelcie Banks Mr. Mix " # 1" (One of the people who inspired our company)
Mr. Kelcie Banks Mr. Mix " # 1" (One of the people who
inspired our company)
Click here: If you would like to train with Mr. Mix "#1" call him @ 702-403-5912
Ex Olympic boxer Kelcie Banks takes on his toughest opponent: life out of the ring Boxing Record
BY KEVIN CAPP
PHOTOS BY BILL HUGHES
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He stands before me in the cramped downtown motel room he calls home on a cold January night, propping up a 15-year-old poster.
"They didn't even have my picture on that thing," he says, staring at the poster and rubbing his square chin.
I'm seated on the edge of one of two beds covered in clothes, video tapes and other junk, waiting for him to give me details, to explain the story behind the poster. He continues to regard it thoughtfully. He's shirtless, exposing a lump next to his right shoulder and a stomach that retains only the slightest hint of a six-pack. While he's not overweight, his frame hints at a lack of fitness. It's as if he can't remember the story -- which, frankly, wouldn't be surprising given all the damage his head sustained.
But that may not be it. It may be that ex-Olympic boxer Kelci Banks is simlpy reliving his first 10-round professional fight announced on the poster in bold, black letters: "Kelci Banks vs. Ben Lopez, Dec. 20, 1990."
That evening, Banks pounded Lopez at Bally's in one of his 27 professional fights. Though Lopez repeatedly head-butted Banks during the bout, leaving him with a cut above the eye, Banks managed -- like so many other obstacles in his life -- to overcome the injury and ravage his opponent.
By the end of the fight, Banks had Lopez's blood all over his signature white trunks emblazoned with his nickname, "Mr Mix." When describing the fight, Banks crouches and lightly punches my shoulder to simulate the beating he gave Lopez. The punches don't hurt, but it's likely that his concrete fist, if thrown with more velocity, could break my arm. And even though the blood poured from Lopez's battered face to the point that Banks could literally smell it, he couldn't knock Lopez out.
 After less than 30 fights, Banks' pro career was over. |
"That guy wouldn't go," says Banks who won the fight by decision, in his typically terse fashion.
A little more than an hour after our first meeting in his motel room, Banks and I are walking downtown, battling the January wind on our way to Tony Roma's for dinner, the Fremont Street Experience's neon explosion looming less than 100 feet ahead. He's wearing a black and gold T-shirt emblazoned, just like his old boxing trunks, with his nickname "Mr. Mix." He carries a backpack stuffed with photos and news clippings that he intends to show me during our meal.
Banks struts down the sidewalk, head bowed and eyes focused downward, as if he were training for a bout. It seems that the past, whether it's the clothes he wears or the way he walks, is always with him.
We come across a fire hydrant smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk; I go around it one way; Banks goes around it the other. When he notices I've taken the opposite route, he grabs me by the shoulder and maneuvers me around the same side he took. For a second, I'm frightened. Then, perhaps noticing my fear, he laughs and pats me on the shoulder.
"You can't split the poles, man," he says, the smile still plastered across his face. Apparently, "splitting the poles" brings bad luck. I'd violated an old superstition from the South, where Banks grew up.
 Banks' National Golden Gloves trophy sits atop a table in his motel room. |
Born in Chicago in 1965, Banks moved to Gulfport, Miss., to live with his grandmother before entering his teens. (Whenever he talks about his part Cherokee, part Blackfoot grandmother, whom he considers "the most inspiring person" in his life, the normally gregarious Banks lowers his voice.) In Mississippi, with the help of his boyhood friend Dwayne Cooper, Banks became interested in boxing.
Like most of Banks' friends, Cooper haunted the Gulfport Boxing Club. As Cooper tells it, Banks' gravitation toward boxing was only a matter of time -- as all of his friends were doing it.
But Banks didn't really take to boxing at first. Although you'd never know it by the number of amateur championships Banks won during his career, boxing didn't come naturally.
"Believe it or not," he says, "I wasn't one of those guys that had natural, God-given ability. But what I had was the ability to learn. I caught on to things fast."
Cooper paints a slightly different picture of Banks' initial foray into the sport. His tall and gangly best friend, Cooper says with a chuckle, didn't really like getting socked in the face. Nevertheless, he agrees with Banks on at least one point: The more Banks boxed, the more he grew to love it.
 Contender Banks, back in the day |
"He wasn't one of the tougher kids in the neighborhood," Cooper says. "He wasn't used to taking punches. But he stayed with it. He got hooked on it."
The Gulfport Boxing Club soon became Banks' second home. He'd go there virtually every day, punching the bags, jumping rope and challenging the other kids to spar with him. For a boy from rural Mississippi, the gym was like heaven.
Warren Migues, one of Banks' first coaches and the club's co-owner, saw something in the young Banks.
These days the club isn't nearly as big, says Migues, who still helps train fighters there. But back then it was teeming with wannabe world champions. And, out of all the youngsters frequenting the club, Migues says Banks showed the most potential.
"This is the only kid that loved this sport," he says in a sugary Southern twang. "He lived and breathed boxing. He took it up real fast."
While money was scarce, Migues and his partner, Robert Williams (the man Banks credits with teaching him the basics), managed to put enough scratch together to take the boys around Mississippi, Tennessee and Louisiana to fight in tournaments. With money from their own pockets, and money raised holding cookouts, Migues and Williams would load the young fighters into a van, and off they'd go. The boys would sleep 10 to a motel room -- but, for most of them, that didn't matter. They were poor kids from Mississippi who, in most cases, had never even ventured out of their neighborhood, let alone traveled to another state.
Migues recalls that on one trip they drove by a cotton field in northern Mississippi. The boys begged Migues to pull over, so they could have a closer look. Migues says the boys "ran out of the bus and cried, 'This is what our forefathers picked.'" Migues laughs, and then continues: "They'd never even seen cotton."
On these trips, Banks would sometimes fight twice in a single night -- something no longer allowed under current U.S.A. boxing guidelines because of the danger it poses. But in those days that was nothing. Banks says he once fought a 10-year-old from Louisiana who already had 60 fights under his belt.
Out of all the Southern cities Banks fought in, he says New Orleans had the toughest fighters. "In New Orleans them boys bad, man," he says. "Very seldom did you find a slouch in New Orleans."
The lack of slouches in New Orleans, or any other city, didn't stop Banks from demolishing the competition. Unfortunately, that didn't always matter to the judges. According to Migues, the youngster he nicknamed "The Rabbit" because of his quickness, lost due to "bad, biased decisions." The reason was simple: The hometown fighters won the decisions made by the hometown judges.
One fight in Louisiana, Migues says, Banks lost because of a particularly bad decision. In fact, Migues says the decision was so obviously biased that "even the Louisiana crowd was booing. That really hurt Kelcie."
Because of that decision and others, Banks decided he'd had enough. He'd had enough of being ripped off by bad decisions. He'd had enough of paying to lose in tournaments because of nepotistic judges. In short, he'd had enough of the South.
 Florence Griffith Joyner and Banks |
Shortly after he graduated from high school in 1983, Banks and his grandmother were watching a boxing match on television. He turned to his grandmother and said, "I know I can beat those guys. I know it. I just gotta get there.' And she said, 'All right, Mr.-Know-It-All, you think you're so bad. OK ... you go to Chicago and live with your dad. You go into boxing and see what you can do.'"
I'm seated across from Banks at Tony Roma's in the Fremont Hotel, rifling through some old photos he pulled from his backpack. The place is jammed, and it's sometimes difficult to hear Banks -- partly because of the noise and partly because of the fact that, every now and then, his speech is slurred.
The speech impediment is something I'm just starting to notice about Banks. When I first met him he talked so quickly and with such authority that I didn't have time to listen, really listen. Now that he's warmed up to me, however, it's starting to come out.
One of the photos shows a much younger Banks posing for the camera with his gloves on and wearing American flag trunks. Another features Banks with his arm around track star and fellow Olympian Florence Griffith Joyner, a.k.a. Flo Jo. Yet another shows him standing in the middle of a ring, his index finger pointed upward in victory, a mob of people around him.
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The waitress brings our food shortly after I'm done looking at the photos. Banks ordered a chicken sandwich, fries, a side of baked beans and a baked potato. An hour later, his plate is clean.
"Did you eat like that when you were boxing?" I ask.
"That would've been totally out of bounds," he answers.
"So, I take it you maintained a healthy diet. Did you enjoy it?"
"I didn't really want it. But I knew I gotta have it."
By the time Banks left his grandmother's house in Gulfport and arrived at his father's in Chicago, he was on a strict dietary regimen. He only ate pasta, seafood and baked goods, and absolutely nothing fried. And what he did allow himself to eat, he didn't eat much of: Banks had to keep his weight at 125 pounds, so he could fight as a featherweight.
Journalist Lincoln Steffens once said of the Windy City, "Chicago will give you a chance. The sporting spirit is the spirit of Chicago." Banks' father wanted to give his 18-year-old son such a chance. He took his son around the city to spar at gyms and fight in tournaments, all in an effort to get him to the Olympics.
"We couldn't get him to the Olympic trials down in Gulfport," says Mr. Banks, who now calls Gulfport home. "I didn't think he'd have any problem [in Chicago]."
Soon enough, an opportunity presented itself. An application arrived in the mail for a tournament in Albuquerque. Banks filled out the application, then called up his grandmother and asked her to send a check so he could purchase a bus ticket. She immediately mailed him approximately $300 dollars.
Armed with a suitcase, a round-trip bus ticket and 2 1/2 pounds of grapes (they were the only thing he allowed himself to eat), Banks took the 36-hour bus ride to Albuquerque -- alone.
 Banks trains an aspiring fighter at the Las Vegas Boxing gym. |
"I met some crazy-ass people on that bus ride," he says, citing the fact that -- when the bus stopped so people could use the restroom -- some of his fellow riders stole baggage and ran off. Of course, nobody stole the wiry and tough young boxer's bags.
"Can't play no playa, jack," Banks says.
Over a five-day period in Albuquerque, Banks fought his way to the championship bout. But it wasn't easy. During one fight, Banks threw a wild right hook at his opponent, and -- because he failed to connect -- tore his rotator cuff. (The lump I noticed near his shoulder during our first meeting marks the injury.) "That really messed me up. I fought the next four fights with one arm, man. With one arm. I had to switch to a right-handed style. And I wasn't an experienced right-handed fighter."
Despite his injury, Banks went on to win the fight -- and the tournament. From there, he traveled everywhere from Wyoming to Indonesia, winning title after title. He was a man on the move, literally and figuratively. He was quickly becoming the darling of amateur boxing.
During the next few years, Banks won an astonishing number of tournaments and major championships. He won the 1985 National Golden Gloves title, the 1985 President's Cup of Indonesia, the 1986-1987 National Amateur title, and the gold medal in the 1986 World Championships. Major newspapers, including the Houston Post, Chicago Tribune and USA Today, began to hail him as the next big thing in boxing.
At 21, Banks was now ready for the Olympics.
Dr. Robert Voy, the man Banks calls his "godfather," first met Banks at the Olympic training center in Colorado Springs, Co. Voy, who practices sports medicine in Las Vegas and was Banks' ringside physician during the 1988 Olympics, recalls the young Banks with an almost fatherly pride.
"Kelcie is a very likable, very positive kid," he says. "Everybody liked him. He had great social skills. I always thought he'd become an actor. He was a cut above the rest."
And Banks knew it. During the build-up to the Olympics, he rarely missed an opportunity to proclaim his greatness. One sportswriter dubbed him "the mouth that never closes." In fact, Banks was so cocky that he met then-Vice President George H.W. Bush wearing a leather tuxedo. When Banks presented the athlete-of-the-year award to archer Denise Parker, he handed her an autographed photo of himself -- unsolicited.
"I was very cocky, 'cause I had dominated for the last three years," he says of his three successive victories in the Olympic Sports Festival in 1985, 1986 and 1987. "I was the big guy in the driver's seat. They had to take it from me now."
Banks was the odds-on favorite to take the gold medal in 1988. When he stepped into the ring to fight his first opponent, a Dutch-African named Regilio Tuur, he thought he was ready. But all the hype, the braggadocio and cocksure swagger didn't prevent Tuur from knocking Banks out in the first round.
Banks' dreams of Olympic glory were dashed in the time it takes to load groceries into the trunk of a car.
Jacob "Stitch" Duran sits across from me in a back office in the Top Rank boxing gym off Industrial Road. From the outside, you'd never suspect that the building serves as a training ground for young boxers. And given his weathered face and his dress -- dark shades, gold dress shirt, olive slacks and brown loafers -- you'd expect Duran to be one of the snakes we all hear prey on young, pro fighters. But he's not.
Duran works as a "cut man." Among other things, he helps boxers gear up before a fight and -- when they sustain a cut -- he tends to the wound. He's also put together a documentary titled Boxer's Nightmare, a devastating critique of the boxing world.
It's obvious Duran has love for the sport; otherwise, he probably wouldn't have made a film illuminating the problems surrounding it. One of the problems the film focuses on is life-after-boxing. Duran says a lot of boxers end up like Banks, impoverished and physically damaged.
Part of the problem, he says, is that many of them have a hard time retiring.
"A lot of fighters have less than a high school diploma. A lot of them come from low-income families," Duran says. "A lot of them are black and Hispanic, and that's their only source of income. It's tough for these guys to give up because they still think they're gonna be world champions."
Banks confronted a similar situation. But, in his typical fashion, he reasoned his way through it. He says when he went pro, he made a deal with himself: If he lost three fights, he'd quit.
Banks -- now a professional lightweight -- was set to fight a 10-round main event against a much bigger opponent. Unlike the fight against Ben Lopez, things didn't go Banks' way. Though he wasn't knocked out, the referee stopped the fight in the first round.
After less than 30 fights, Banks' pro career was over.
Such an inauspicious end wasn't in the plans. After all, Banks fought 546 amateur matches. He went to the Olympics riding a wave of hype overshadowing teammates Roy Jones and Riddick Bowe -- guys who eventually became two of pro boxing's biggest names.
However, unlike his former teammates, Banks didn't really get a chance to live the high life.
His Olympic loss made him a pariah in the pro arena, Banks says. Nobody wanted him to succeed. It resulted in, among other things, his fights being abruptly canceled. And the people he surrounded himself with were beginning to try to manipulate him. Like the South all those years ago, Banks had had enough of the pros.
"The system wouldn't let me go that far. ... All that ability, man," Banks says, clicking his tongue. He later adds, "It was hard to deal with, but I just thank God that I'm a more spiritual person than your average Joe. You always gotta keep a positive attitude."
It's unlikely that many of the fans at Bally's who witnessed Banks pummel Lopez until his face cracked open considered what either fighter would do after the final bell rang. They're not alone. Many fighters themselves don't consider what they'll do when it's time to hang up the gloves.
Voy, who provides Banks with free medical care, says boxing, by its very nature, is a lonely sport. You fight in the ring by yourself, and you leave the ring by yourself.
"Boxing doesn't have the privilege other sports do," Voy says. "Once you're out, you're out. There's no retirement program."
Currently, Banks works as a security guard at two different venues in Las Vegas. He has a 15-year-old daughter in Texas, whom he rarely sees. He takes a bus to both his jobs, leaving him little free time. What free time he does have he spends listening to R&B and hip hop on the radio and watching television in his Crest Budget Inn motel room, equipped only with a bathroom and a kitchenette. In order to get into his room, he has to pass by the outside lobby -- where drug dealers hold court. He still runs to keep fit, and occasionally trains young boxers.
Banks is also associated with a trio of Websites, including Ringboyz Sportzgear-- which helps kids get involved with active sports. But it's still a long way from fulfilling the promise Banks had as a young, up-and-coming boxer.
A week or so after our dinner at Tony Roma's, I'm back at Banks' motel room watching some videos of his fights. It's early evening and Banks has just gotten off work. He wears a pair of black slacks and a white wife-beater T-shirt, and is seated on a chair between the two beds.
I brought my VCR over -- but, because I forgot the audio cord, we're forced to watch the fights in silence. In video after video, the tall and rail-thin Banks towers over his opponents, catching them with upper-cuts and well-placed jabs to the face. As we watch, Banks occasionally mutters directions under his breath -- as if coaching his younger self.
For a while, Banks promised to provide me with a pair of poems he wrote during his boxing days. He kneels down and begins tearing through the clothes and other items on the bed I'm seated on, searching for the poems, but he soon gives up. Instead, he tells me that he can recite them from memory. At first I secretly doubt him. After all, boxing has taken its toll on Banks.
Soon enough, however, Banks -- like the early critics who didn't believe in his boxing ability -- proves me wrong.
He stands between the two beds,
looks up at the ceiling and says:
"As I lived my life day by day,
I continued to pray along the way.
As the future grew near, time passed.
There are moments in my life that will forever last.
No one gave me a thin dime.
So I continued praying step by step and took my time.
With support from my parents and the Lord, I reached the top.
Now you see there's no way that I could ever stop."
Kevin Capp is CityLife's newsroom assistant. He can be reached at 702-871-6780 ext. 396 or
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