Me and Iran
“So you take this part and hook it on your pocket. Then run the mic up through your shirt.” But instead of doing it himself, Iran has me reach inside, into the space between his shirt and skin and do the miking. With his droopy eye and goofy grin, this guy might look slow, but he’s quicker than I’d thought. His name is Iran Barkley, a middleweight who achieved a measure of fame in the ‘80s — no Mike Tyson, but big enough that a pre-teen girl from the Jersey suburbs knew of him. Now he’s being miked while training for a comeback. At 50. I pull down the collar of Iran’s shirt and see patches of gray hairs on his chest.
Typical story: Iran came from the projects, made millions, had about 100 kids, lost all his money, and until recently was living on the 6 train. Now, for some reason, an Italian-American named Al from Queens is managing him. Al calls Iran “Champ,” and swears he’ll be ready for prime time in a couple months. “A real story I got here. You wanna tell it?”
Tempting, to be sure, even as Iran informs me, “I’m gonna be your boyfriend. You don’t have no other boyfriends but me,” he grins. I imagine what it would be like to bring him home: “Mom, this is Iran, he lives on the subway …”
Today I’m at the Morris Park Gym in the Bronx, filming Al’s boxers. Most are from Italy, and wear white sweatshirts with an Italian flag spray-painted on the back, and “Team Italia”…
