The champ answers his flip phone and can't figure out where he is. All he knows is it's a motel room.
"Don't hang up, don't hang up," he tells the caller. They're supposed to meet.
He bolts from the room's stale air and across the hallway, anxiously asking other guests, "Where's this hotel at?"
Now frantic, he plods down a set of stairs, finds the reception clerk and gets the address. It's the Howard Johnson Express Inn on Boston Road in The Bronx.
He has nowhere else to go.
Iran "The Blade" Barkley -- once a legendary ring warrior with a half-dozen championship belts -- is homeless.
It's a stunning fall from his pinnacle of glory, a night in 1988 when the sweat-lacquered Barkley pummeled another fearsome puncher, Tommy Hearns, winning one of the biggest upsets in boxing history.
He stood at the edge of the ropes that night in Las Vegas, broadly grinning after brawling his way to the WBC middleweight championship in three fierce rounds.
He went on to fight another epic battle, against Roberto Duran, in 1989 but lost in 12. Three years later he beat Hearns again, winning the WBA light heavyweight championship. Altogether he went 43-19-1 and won six titles, including the heavyweight belt when he beat Gerrie Coetzee in 1997.
With success came for tune. Barkley's $5 million in career earnings afforded all the finer things in life: a custom Mer cedes, shiny ***elry and fur coats. He rented a pad in Hackensack and put money down on a house for himself and his family in Nyack.
"I had $40,000 cash in the closet," he recalled.
"I used to keep money in the house. That's the way I am. I hate to go to banks and get money."
Barkley, 50, steps into the dim hotel lobby wearing his hopelessness. He's dressed in faded, baggy jeans and a fraying sweater. A wool hat covers his head. Gray stubble covers his unshaven face.
Over breakfast of eggs and grits, he caustically relates that a niece tossed him out of their three-bedroom apartment in the Patterson Houses project on Third Avenue and 142nd Street in The Bronx, where his mother, Georgia, raised him.
"If someone got in trouble or they didn't have a place to stay, they always came there," he said. "My mother's door was always open."
Unable to contribute to the household for months, Barkley came home last week to find his niece had changed the locks.
With nowhere to turn, he slept on the No. 6 train that night as it rattled between Pelham Bay Park and the City Hall station. He rose when a man recognized him. Barkley reached into his pocket and pulled out a boxing card featuring a younger, muscular version of himself.
"Don't hang up, don't hang up," he tells the caller. They're supposed to meet.
He bolts from the room's stale air and across the hallway, anxiously asking other guests, "Where's this hotel at?"
Now frantic, he plods down a set of stairs, finds the reception clerk and gets the address. It's the Howard Johnson Express Inn on Boston Road in The Bronx.
He has nowhere else to go.
Iran "The Blade" Barkley -- once a legendary ring warrior with a half-dozen championship belts -- is homeless.
It's a stunning fall from his pinnacle of glory, a night in 1988 when the sweat-lacquered Barkley pummeled another fearsome puncher, Tommy Hearns, winning one of the biggest upsets in boxing history.
He stood at the edge of the ropes that night in Las Vegas, broadly grinning after brawling his way to the WBC middleweight championship in three fierce rounds.
He went on to fight another epic battle, against Roberto Duran, in 1989 but lost in 12. Three years later he beat Hearns again, winning the WBA light heavyweight championship. Altogether he went 43-19-1 and won six titles, including the heavyweight belt when he beat Gerrie Coetzee in 1997.
With success came for tune. Barkley's $5 million in career earnings afforded all the finer things in life: a custom Mer cedes, shiny ***elry and fur coats. He rented a pad in Hackensack and put money down on a house for himself and his family in Nyack.
"I had $40,000 cash in the closet," he recalled.
"I used to keep money in the house. That's the way I am. I hate to go to banks and get money."
Barkley, 50, steps into the dim hotel lobby wearing his hopelessness. He's dressed in faded, baggy jeans and a fraying sweater. A wool hat covers his head. Gray stubble covers his unshaven face.
Over breakfast of eggs and grits, he caustically relates that a niece tossed him out of their three-bedroom apartment in the Patterson Houses project on Third Avenue and 142nd Street in The Bronx, where his mother, Georgia, raised him.
"If someone got in trouble or they didn't have a place to stay, they always came there," he said. "My mother's door was always open."
Unable to contribute to the household for months, Barkley came home last week to find his niece had changed the locks.
With nowhere to turn, he slept on the No. 6 train that night as it rattled between Pelham Bay Park and the City Hall station. He rose when a man recognized him. Barkley reached into his pocket and pulled out a boxing card featuring a younger, muscular version of himself.
Comment