(6 of 7)
In the first postwar years, still smarting from his Army experiences, Robinson seemed determined to make himself the most unpopular man in the ring. He snapped at sportwriters, took to running out on promoters, got a reputation as a cold, calculating type, with an icy "What's-in-it-for-me?" attitude to everything. But his second marriage (to ex-Cotton Club Chorine Edna Mae) and a growing sense of his new stature as a world champion soon began to smooth off some of the rough edges. The reform of Sugar Ray Robinson reached some sort of climax when he phoned Walter Winchell a year ago and offered to give the Damon Runyon Cancer Fund his cut of the gate in the championship fight with Charley Fusari.
It was a little difficult at first for some to believe that the offer was not just a pressagent's stunt. A New York Times sports columnist summed up the reaction: "Fight for nothing? Who? Sugar Ray Robinson? Oh, no! It can't be. There must be some angle there!" But if there was an angle, Robinson rounded the corner on two wheels, gunned down a new straightaway. He now thoroughly enjoys his new personality as the responsible citizen. He is a big man in Harlem, a political power, who is often on the phone with his good friend Mayor Impellitteri ("I call him Vince"). Walter Winchell buzzes him constantly. Edna Mae (on her way to join Robinson in Paris this week) often has Mrs. Winchell "baby sit" for Ray Robinson Jr., 2½.
"It Gets You." At ease in his Paris suite last week, Sugar Ray was riding th crest of the wave. He is surrounded by an admiring entourage of eleven, including a French midget (for the laughs), a personal golf pro, and a private barber who spends hours touching up Robinson's unscarred good looks with facials and hair-straightening treatments. Unlike many, another boxer, Robinson has invested his ring earnings in a series of profitable businesses: Sugar Ray's Café, a barbershop, a drycleaning establishment.
"You know," Robinson mused philosophically, "it's a funny thing. Those crowds, those autographs, having everybody say, 'Hey, Robinson,' being somebody, it gets you. Some people can't understand that. And you know one day it's got to go. Boxing is a young man's game."
He looked about the room thoughtfully, as if he always wanted to remember this precise minute of this particular day. Then he went on: "Now take Joe Louis. Maybe he needs money. But it's the crowds, it's being the champ he misses. This isn't no easy life. Man, there's temptation. You don't know what temptation. Temptation, it eats away a man's will power. Will power don't last forever, you know." Robinson, using his expressive hands, showed will power going, temptation growing. "That's why you've got to put that money into something. A man can't live off capital, no matter how much he makes."
For a moment Robinson almost sounded like a man getting ready to retire. At 30, he is wise enough to know that one lucky punch could mean the beginning of the end, that "any man with two hands can beat you." But he is nowhere near ready to quit yet. It's too much fun.