kerrypharr.com

Dueling Head Butts

On May 5, 1992, my boxer, Tim “Scrap Iron” Johnson, was fighting David Bates, a rugged, awkward boxer from Odessa, Texas, in the main event of a boxing show, at the New Daisy Theatre on Beale Street in Memphis, Tennessee. Bates accidentally had struck Johnson with a head butt. Johnson was steaming mad when he sat down on his stool in our corner between rounds.
“Kerry, he just hit me with a head butt,” Johnson said.
“It was probably an accident, but be careful and don’t get cut,” I replied.
“I’m going to get him back.” Johnson responded.
As the bell sounded for the next round to begin, Johnson rushed across the ring and like a battering ram smashed his head into Bates’ forehead, opening a huge gash on Johnson’s own head. After the show that evening, Johnson and I spent the rest of the night in a hospital emergency room having staples put into his skull to close the wound he had inflicted on himself.
Such was the life and times of Timmy Johnson. His parents had deserted Timmy in a laundromat as a child. He ended up in The Tennessee Baptist Children’s home as an orphan. When he was 13, Tommy and Pat Johnson, adopted him. They were a wonderful Christian couple who had three children of their own to raise but had given their lives to the care and nurturing of other children as well. Timmy was their first adopted child and he took on the family name.
I began teaching Johnson how to box when he was 18 years old. He was a very handsome young man with great charisma. I remember a time while we were eating dinner the night before he was to compete as an amateur boxer in the Southern Golden Gloves tournament in Knoxville, Tennessee. A waitress walked over to our table and asked him,
“Do you have a girlfriend?” and before he had time to reply she said, “Would you like one?”
I knew that he had a rough time growing up before meeting his adoptive parents. I could see from the way he acted that there had been some trauma in his life. He could be the nicest person in the world one minute, and then something would set him off and he would erupt into a rage. Although I was constantly in a battle with him, I grew to love the kid and the family as well. He reminded me so much of myself when I was younger. He was wounded, angry, bitter, and carrying a chip on his shoulder just like I had been for many years of my life. He could also pass as my own cousin Timmy Pharr’s twin.
Johnson was a tough guy, cocky and a brawler. He was such a scrapper that we nicknamed him “Scrap Iron.” We also referred to him as T.J. He liked the verbal confrontations as much as the physical ones. He emulated Muhammad Ali and engaged in trash talking with his opponent and others who wanted to join in on the verbal sparring.