Making the Days Count: The Third Wind of Steve 'The Legend' Ward
The world's oldest living boxer teaches us to never underestimate our seniors.
“Don't count the days, make the days count.” - Muhammad Ali
On the 10th of October, while everyone else was talking about the astounding 11-round trilogy fight between Tyson Fury and Deontay Wilder, I was reflecting on the August 6 cruiserweight match between Steve 'The Legend' Ward and Adrian Parlogea.
Sure, the Fury vs. Wilder fight was one for the books, a gnarly endurance test that resulted in Fury reigning triumphant and Wilder mashing his metacarpals into minced meat. But boxing is about more than sheer brutalism. It's also about grace and strategy.
If we go on the evidence of a Superstar Speakers interview with Steve Ward, which was conducted in the lead-up to the Ward vs. Parlogea fight, the Legend had a definite strategy in mind.
“This guy [Romanian challenger Adrean Parlogea], I don't know anything about him and honestly, I don't want to. Normally, I wanna find out everything about my opponent. Everything. This time, I don't want to know anything.
“This is the last fight you'll ever see Steve Ward in. I want to learn him [in] the first round. Because the second rounds onwards, look out … Do not blink, because I'm chucking the bombs. Now, I never say that … This time I'm serious. I am going to knock this guy out … He'll wonder what he got himself into … The World Championship belt is coming home with me, not him.”
Somewhere between the interview chair and the ring, Steve's strategy changed considerably.
It was a soggy, rotten evening in Mansfield, the kind of night that prompts old men to curse under their breath and leads locals to mutter things like, “Intitt koad?”
When barometric pressure drops to 29.7 or lower, the risk of heart attack increases exponentially. High pressure affects everything—blood vessels contract like the hard metal maw of a Vise grip, ears balloon with pressure, arthritic joints cramp up, and migraine headaches convince teetotalers that they've been dosed.
The pressure on the evening of 6 August was hovering around 28.8 as spectators began filing into the Mansfield Rugby Union Club, a venue that was jerry rigged on nine acres of derelict land off Eakring Road and now seats one thousand patrons.
It was the kind of night that persuades workaholics to retire and drives old men into the arms of young women with ample bosoms. For Steve 'The Legend' Ward, it was a night to prove the world wrong.
Age-related discrimination has always run rampant and it continues to run rampant to this very day. The 2020s have seen many marginalized individuals championed by human rights organizations, but the old have not been among them. On the contrary, mainstream society has consistently expressed apathy or repulsion toward its elderly population.
Seniors were left in the dust by the digital scheduling systems used to vaccinate Americans. They were also excluded from clinical trials for drugs that were designed to help people in their age group.
M Night Shymalan, Hollywood's unofficial pimp of twists, returned to cinema screens with a film that portrays advanced age as the most horrifying fate that can befall human beings.
The very medical community we trust to care for us as we age are also the ones most responsible for our decompensation. According to analysis of a National Health and Retirement study, one in five adults over the age of 50 are faced with age-related discrimination.
Elder mistreatment has been on the rise in the UK, with one poll finding that one in five older people have been abused in the island nation. It would seem that the modern world no longer values the people who made it what it is … if, indeed, it ever did.
In 2020, the governor of Texas even suggested that old people should have voluntarily exposed themselves to the risk of COVID-related death if it meant eliminating social distancing and recovering the US economy for younger generations.
If slippery weasel-faced little shit heels like Greg Abbot had their way, the old would be restricted to hospice beds or family plots. But if there is one person that wouldn't take that kind of rubbish lying down it's Steve 'The Legend' Ward.
While the rest of the sexagenarians were reaching for the nearest tube of Voltarol, Steve was taking to the ring at Mansfield Rugby Union Club and steeling his sinewy 65-year-old body for the possibility of a good walloping.
If Steve got papped out that night it likely wouldn't have added much to his list of losses. The man had spent most of the last 45 years in a gym, winning 137 out of 152 fights, and gaining and regaining the Guinness World record for “oldest living boxer.” Not only is Steve the oldest active professional boxer; he may well have been the world's youngest.
Steven was nine years old the first time he set foot inside a ring. Constant schoolyard torment led him to the canvas.
“There was never a day that passed without me ending up being hit by the school bullies,” Steve confesses. “It was a certain three or four boys, and they made schooling hell for me.”
Steve's childhood bullies have surely bought the farm by now or, at least, come close. Some probably drank themselves to death, while others may be living in one of those moldering crotch-rot states of stagnation that hooligans find themselves in after peaking too early - forty years or so of watching their beauty and talent fade away from the crapulent comfort of a Morris chair.
Still, one can well imagine the liquid shit running down the legs of those cowards were they to encounter Steve today. The fear would be enough to divorce their lower extremities from their torsos.
“Because I was going home in tears all the time, my dad decided to take me to the local boxing club.”
It was at the Nottingham School of Boxing that he learned the craft despite himself.
“I had no interest in it at all, but what Dad said, Steve done. In them days, you didn't get a choice, you were just told.”
Nowadays, Steve has a definite say in what he does or doesn't do, which made his return to the ring that much more profound. No one was forcing the man to engage in an exhibition fight in his sixties. On his 64th year and 359th day on earth, the Legend made up his own mind.
The singular goal: take home the World Champion belt at the Inaugural WLC Cruiserweight Championship.
He had been in the gym for the better part of the year, denying himself the pleasure of a visit to a chip shop and pushing his hulking form to the limits in an effort to maintain proper cruiser weight. The discipline had paid off—Steve was lean, mean, and ready to kick out the jams.
Whether someone of his age and build could take such a bout was another matter, one that he'd yet to prove, to himself or to the spectators at the Mansfield Rugby Club.
Everything Steve said in that pre-game interview went out the window as soon as he entered the ring. Chock it up to the unpredictability of the elderly, if you like. I'll bet 50 pounds you won't say it to Steve's face.
Perhaps sheer zeal supplanted the desire to learn his opponent in that first round. Whatever it was, Steve was scrapping just as soon as that first bell rang. As the evening's high humidity clung to the crowd like a course of leeches, Steve went wild.
“I came down second to the music,” he remembers.
Four ladies wearing Union Jack swimsuits led Steve to the ring with all flags flying—Union Jack, Mansfield, and Nottingham—and John Cafferty snarled, “Strong desire rages deep within. Hearts on fire, fever's rising high.”
The moment of truth drew near.
“We were both announced by the emcee, then we stood for both National anthems to be played. Then to the ref pep talk, and back to corners awaiting the bell to go for round one.”
The bell went and Steve came out of his corner like a cheetah, making it impossible for his opponent to get a rhythm going. A new strategy had been minted on the fly in a move that would make Muhammad Ali proud.
“I was hitting him consistently to the head and the body. A lot of the shots were hard and any one could have been a knockout shot. After one minute, I hit him and he went down to the ground.”
Parlogea hit up to signal that he could continue. The ref asked him if he was okay.
“Yes, I am,” he responded curtly.
The two men boxed on and again, Steve went straight at the young lad in front of him (Parlogea was 50 at the time of the fight). Hooks thundered down on Parlogea's head and body, with many straight punches delivered to the Romanian's dome.
“I didn't want him to recover from the first knockdown,” Steve says.
Around two minutes passed before Parlogea flopped to the canvas like a flounder on hot pavement; once again, he hit up and the count continued to eight. The ref repeated his question from moments before.
The answer came more tentatively this time, but no less irritably.
“Yes, I am.”
The two were told to box on and Steve did as he was told. His arms shot out, his chest thrust out, and he drove forward with the force of a lifetime in the pugilist's sport.
Parlogea backed up to the ropes like a cornered animal. And that's when one of the weirdest things happened.
“I hit him with a tight hook to the body,” Steve remembers. “... I was going in with a big left hook when he leaned back on the ropes. My left hand kissed him, but my forearm caught his chest. Not hard, but enough to overbalance him, and he went over the second rope, landing on one of the judges' tables.”
Parlogea crashed down with a nauseating crack and his legs stuck straight up in the air. It was a scene worthy of a Tex Avery cartoon, but in the atmosphere of the Mansfield Rugby Club it must have looked about as anachronistic as a bow-tied man-child dancing the “Tequila” on a biker bar.
The judge pushed Parlogea back and the ref gave him an assist, but the moment of truth had struck.
“He was asked if he was okay to continue. His answer was, 'I am alright, I fight.'
Parlogea put both gloves up to his chin and the two were told to box on. Steve didn't waste a second. He hammered the Romanian with several punches.
“He was punching back, but mine had the more telling power, sending him to the ground again from the big hooks to the body and head.”
Parlogea got back to his feet on the count of six, but the ref carried on counting as the young man's eyes wandered around like two school bullies who'd missed the bus home.
The ref waved the fight as over.
“Adrian didn't know where he was.”
This was two minutes and 59 seconds into the first round and the Legend had gotten what he came for—the win that no millennial Briton would have thought him capable of.
It was the biggest moment in his long and storied boxing career, as his late father, Mr. Bernard James Ward, always said that one day he would be a world champion.
“He even went to the extent when I was born of having a photo took and putting it on his shop counter with that statement under it: 'This boy will be a world champion.' It was my dad who put me to boxing and he was my total push power in boxing. For me to finally achieve the goal which he said I would was totally and utterly awesome.”
Steve has been down to his father's graveside since winning the title and he's shown his old man the champion belt.
It was an orgiastic experience for Steve, who cites the death of his father with the worst stretch of his professional boxing career.
“When I turned pro in 1977, my push power was still there, but not for long.”
Bernard James Ward passed in 1978, less than a year after his son achieved professional designation.
“When he died, all the push power went with him. Not only wasn't I bothered about boxing, but I wasn't bothered about life itself. I was turning up for fights where I'd not seen a gym ...
“I was doing everything wrong. I lost fights I should have won and I had fights that I shouldn't have fought. The interest and hunger had died along with my dad.”
Due to an irreconcilable mixture of grief and politics, Steve decided to retire from the sport in 1987. It's a choice that he now regrets.
“If I could change anything it would have been to … carry on training hard without my dad, as I had when he was alive. The only person I was fooling was myself and, of course, the people who followed and believed in me.”
Over the ensuing years, Steve made a family of his own and learned much from past mistakes. Today, he is taking a page from one of his personal heroes, Muhammad Ali, and making the days count.
He goes to the fights, presents trophies to up-and-coming boxers at local shows, and has run many marathons. He is also an avid swimmer and cyclist.
“You could say I'm an all-around sports person. I'm a big believer in, 'Kip fit, stay healthy, and live longer.'”
Most importantly, he is a proponent of fighters' rights. In an industry that takes as much as it gives, Steve understands the cost that fighting comes at.
“Before turning pro, young up-and-coming boxers should know their rights,” he says.
Steve describes the professional realm as a whole new world, which he says is far different from that of amateur boxing.
He urges novices to read the entire thing from the boxer's side as well as the manager's side, adding that they should get their hands on every rule book they can grab.
“First of all,” he says. “Get all the fules of the BBBOC or whichever federation you're going to fight for. Read it all and be in full knowledge of your rights.
“There are good managers out there and I am going to be careful how I word this, so I don't get myself in any trouble … there are good managers out there and there's some not-so-good managers out there, and then there are managers to stay clear of. A good trainer that you have faith in and can trust is 100 percent needed.”
He stresses the expenses that a new boxer can expect going into the sport.
“Broken fingers, hands, dislocated shoulders, broken ribs, concussion. For the new pro fighter, who is also holding a normal day job to make ends meet, it could prove dear for any time off work and, also, it can put his job in jeopardy.”
Steve has a lot of life lessons to share with those who are just getting into the sport. Based on our talks, I can safely assume these lessons were hard-won.
“I've fought in America, Mexico, and other places,” Steve tells me. “But my big ones were when I went around the world fighting bare knuckle … I fought in some nice places and some very not nice places … one that sticks in my memory was when I was fighting an [Asian] kick-boxer near Kenya.
“I will add he was quite a bit smaller than me, but it didn't stop him from jumping up and doing spinning kicks that were bouncing off my head. They might have seemed to some that they wasn't hurting, but trust me, they were off-balancing me.”
It wasn't just the kick-boxer's power but his speed that had the Legend flummoxed. The lesson here? Never underestimate your opponent, regardless of their size.
Still, this humbling episode is classic Steve, insofar as humility gave way to perseverance and perseverance paid off.
“I was so glad when he did a kick to my ribs. As the kick was coming, I went away from it, taking the sting out of it, and I caught his leg with one arm flush, hitting him in the chin with my other hand. He went down like a sack of shit.
“I came out winning the fight, but it was no easy victory and I was bruised so badly that the right side of my body looked like an overripe peach and I couldn't stand to touch it.”
The Legend's story underscores the importance of being humble in an increasingly bombastic world. It also demonstrates the value of a reliable emotional outlet.
“Boxing has seen me through much of my life,” Steve says, reflecting on the ups and downs and fuck-awful turmoil that he's had to go weather. “[Boxing]'s been there and helped in every one. If you have got a bad bit of aggression on your mind, there is nothing like going up to the gym and knocking the hell out of the punching bag. The aggression will go.”
There is another element of boxing that is often overlooked in the sensationalist coverage that follows a major boxing match—camaraderie. Steve frequently poses with up-and-coming fighters and assures them of the bond they can expect to develop with their fellow fighters.
“The friends that you get in boxing are not just friends for that day, they are friends for life. People you can talk to, who can relate if you have a problem, good listeners. Sometimes that's all it takes: a good listener. The boxing and box fraternity have hit me through many tight situations.”
When I ask him what boxing represents to him, Steve takes some time in pondering the admittedly broad question.
“Boxing represents the chance for a kid to take a right path in life and not go down like so many kids do,” he says. “It's a chance to achieve something in life, to set your goals alongside those guys you look up to and respect so much … you don't need A levels (the British equivalent of Advanced Placement exam) … all you need is true heart.”
It would seem that Steve cares about the young and aimless more than the young care for the old and infirm. Maybe it's because a part of Steve will forever be that kid who had his first sparring session at 10 years old, the child who held his own against giants a foot taller and three years older.
For a man who was six days shy of his 65th birthday on the evening of his World Championship victory, Steve might as well be a pre-teen sneaking his first peep at some tail. When you get him talking about his childhood or his wins, a boyish grin belies his otherwise demure features and the lanterns begin to glow from the windows of his face.
It's fitting that he should possess these boyish qualities, because Steve 'The Legend' Ward is the kind of guy Hollywood frequently makes movies about. Except in the Hollywood version, Steve would be played by Daniel Craig, his character would be 15 years younger, and he wouldn't have that Nottinghamshire accent. Perhaps most alarmingly, he would be portrayed as a savage, some barbaric mash-up of Rocky Balboa and Frankenstein's monster whose life is governed by dysfunction and violence.
In reality, Steve 'The Legend' Ward is like all mortal legends - a complex, multifaceted and, ultimately, vulnerable human being whose skills at sport precede him.
Steve the Legend's awe-inspiring track record in the ring takes on the trappings of your Ivan Drago or Adonis Creed, a well-earned reputation of outsize proportions. What is missing from the mythos, however, is the man's true character - Steve Ward is, first and foremost, a gentleman.
If you're looking for an ironic bent to this story, you'll find it in his humane demeanor; odds are good that Steve would show those geezers who bullied him some undeserved mercy.
When you hear about a dude who's been mashing people's faces into sticky pudding for more than a semi-centennial, you don't expect him to have self-restraint or self-awareness, but Steve has both. And the man's heart may be far larger than his hands … which is really saying something.
Steve attributes much of his success to training hard and eating clean.
“Getting close to a fight, six weeks before, you eat very clean, drink right, train regular. No alcohol. It is very boring, but this is a test of a boxer wanting to be successful.”
It's 4:19 AM in Nottingham as I write this. The lights may not have come on yet in Mansfield, but the lanterns continue to glow, and Steve hasn't lost that smile since August.
“In boxing, everyone has an equal starting point,” he tells me. “It's up to you where it ends.”