Jack Boulware

Behind the scenes of Sly Stallone’s boxing reality show The Contender (since cancelled).

Behind the Scenes: The Contender
We become a fly on the wall on the set of Sly Stallone’s new reality-TV that gives young boxers a chance at stardom.

The boxing facility spans half a city block, at a secret location somewhere in Los Angeles. Two practice rings, surrounded by brand-new heavy bags and speed bags, gleaming weights and weight machines, shiny floors and immaculate showers. No better-equipped boxing gym exists in the world. In this parallel boxing universe, the air is free of the usual boxing odors: decades of sweat, blood, flatulence, and despair. The facility bears the aroma, however, of big-budget television. This is the set of The Contender, NBC’s newest reality program, and at $2 million an episode, executive producer Mark Burnett (“Survivor,” “The Apprentice”) can allow his show’s participants some quality living quarters.

Sylvester Stallone and boxing superstar Sugar Ray Leonard stand in one of the two practice rings, talking to five young boxers, with cameras rolling. These five are all that’s left from the show’s original 16 participants. For two months they have lived night and day in this gym-training, fighting, and eliminating opponents in five-round bouts. In a few weeks, two finalists will travel to Caesars Palace in Las Vegas to fight for a $1 million purse. The boxers are jacked up and stressed out. Everyone could use a million bucks.

Sly is telling the group they have only a few weeks left in the show, and to expect the days to get more and more intense. One Hispanic boxer is visibly upset about the show’s upcoming bout schedules. He interrupts Stallone: “We gotta mix up the races.”

The boxer steps up and stands directly in front of Sly, waving his arms, almost shouting: “That’s why the Rocky movies worked. Against the black guy, against the Russian. People can cheer on their race.”

“Yes,” answers Sly. “But we have to be fair.”

Fairness doesn’t matter to the boxer. “You gotta cheer on your race!” he continues. “Hispanics can cheer on the Hispanic fighter—blacks cheer on the black fighter.” He turns to Sugar Ray Leonard. “You know what I’m talking about.”

The six-time world champion nods warily, as one would deal with any excitable young man, and says calmly, “There is some truth to what you say.” He and Sly talk briefly about how to handle the moment.

But unlike Leonard, Stallone is the show’s executive producer, not just its co-host. And his word stands. The meeting breaks and the boxers climb the stairs back to their dorm-style living area.

Sly walks out with Prentiss Byrd, a manager/trainer and consultant to the show. “We gotta be careful,” Byrd advises. “We’re gonna wear it forever. We can’t have two Hispanics fighting each other-it looks rigged.”

“Yes, but you can’t go all those rounds with caved-in ribs, and fight a guy who’s rested,” says Sly. “It’s not fair. We’ll talk about it.” The two go into an office and shut the door to discuss further. Stallone emerges 20 minutes later, lights a cigar, and mutters: “It’s war out there.”

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People buzz in and out of The Contender production offices, a temporary city of workers wheeling in supplies and carrying film equipment. Fed-Ex deliveries stack up in a corner. Assistants restock coffee and trays of snacks. The camera room blasts Guns ‘N Roses. Reality television is a 24-hour job. At any time of the day or night, something could happen. Crews need to be ready to pounce.

“It’s very dramatic now, as the stakes go up,” says Stallone during a break. “The fighters’ insecurities are coming to the surface. And every one of them deals with it differently. My job is to like, draw a line. I just want this thing to be fair. Some guys would like to take a guy and just slaughter him-a weaker fighter. I won’t put those guys together. And sometimes they [the stronger fighters?] get upset.”

Sly doesn’t take the outburst back in the gym personally. It’s nothing more than a moment in the show. Boxers inhabit a world of primary emotions, and their likes and dislikes are crystal clear. “It’s nice to deal with people who do not have a real sophisticated cunning agenda,” says Stallone. “What you see is usually what you get, which is what I like.”

He stands up and walks into the control room to look over footage from a previous day’s shoot. Surveillance-cam monitors show empty rooms, except for one boxer taking a nap in his bed. Sly directs the video tech to rewind a scene one more time. This has been Sly’s job for 30 years; it’s what he does. He puffs on the cigar and says, “We gotta re-shoot it. I don’t want any stationary cameras. We’re gonna match action to action.”

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Besides Sly, Sugar Ray, and the boxers, the rest of the show’s regular characters are a colorful lot. Prentiss Byrd from Detroit’s legendary Kronk Gym, who has managed and trained boxing legends Thomas Hearns and Leon Spinks. Manager Jackie Kallen, whose life was made into a recent film Against the Ropes with Meg Ryan, acts as den mother to the guys. And the old-school trainer Tommy Gallagher, a dapper presence in dark shades, straw hat, and loafers without socks.

This guy definitely reminds me of Dennis Farina in the movie “Get Shorty.” He’s trained many good fighters, from middleweight Tokunbo Olajide, to welterweight Chris “The Mechanic” Smith, former light heavyweight champion Donnie Lalonde, who lost his title to Sugar Ray Leonard, and Sergei Kobozev, a cruiserweight contender in the mid-90s, who was murdered by the Russian Mafia. The crusty New Yorker is the type of character that says things to newspapers like, “They talk about the mob. I’d rather be with the mob than any fuckin’ body. They said you got 20 dollars, you got 20 dollars.” Or the more succinct: “You meet a lotta pieces of shit in this business.”

Fingerprints of Stallone’s co-producer Mark Burnett are all over the show. Contestants advance their status by competing in tug of wars and other “challenges,” all followed by film crews. Many of The Contender staff has worked on Burnett’s programs Survivor and The Apprentice. The primary goal here is to make a successful television show. But according to Stallone, hidden in the program’s template is a sense of justice.

“We wanted to see if we could help make boxing a bit more fair to the boxers and to the fans. And also create fighters that have an image, a personality, so that you know them.” Sly is now standing outside the wardrobe office, sipping a bottle of water. “Like with Ray Leonard. People became icons because they were promoted in a way. Not just in the ring but out of the ring. That’s kinda fallen by the wayside. I don’t know if you could name three champions today out of 16.”

It’s no secret that boxing is an archaic sport ruled by con men and crooks, a mess of conflicting rules and governing bodies. Within the current pro boxing circuit, it’s possible to have three different simultaneous world champions in the same weight class. People routinely abuse the system, in part because it’s so easy to do. But Stallone and The Contender producers believe their show has the potential to actually change the sport.

“We’re showing the human side of the fighter,” Sly says. “That they are really not that different than anyone else, that they have the same wants and dislikes and loves that we all have. Except that they make their living with their fists.”

Stallone leans into the conversation. He made his career on the Rocky boxing films. What he’s about to say is something he wants people to know-the personality change that overcomes a boxer near fight time.

“It’s hard for people in the mainstream to understand. Boxers can get very dark and moody and go into a very insecure place. They call it the ‘Dark Room.’ How do they come out of that Dark Room? Either very, very secure and on top of their fear, using that as fuel, or they come out fearful, and the fear will eventually burn them out, cause their own downfall.”

One might wonder why Sly Stallone, bigshot actor, writer, and director, now chooses to work in reality television. Why is he busting his ass 12 hours a day, hosting and producing a TV program? One lucky boxer will get a million bucks. But what does he get out of it?

“I’m enjoying this,” he says. “I’ve been very fortunate in films, and I like films, but it’s pretty repetitive. You don’t know if you’re really going to be satisfied with it. Or maybe the role doesn’t provide you with enough challenge. Every day is a challenge around here [he says gesturing around the studio]. Because if you don’t bring yourself out, or the other people out, if you don’t make some action happen, then it just lays there. It’s not like someone’s giving you dialogue.”

“You don’t know when it’s gonna happen,” he continues. “All of a sudden, I’ve seen guys here go from one personality to another. It’s betrayals and bonds and relationships disintegrating, women stepping up to support husbands when they really didn’t have the confidence. It’s amazing.”

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The action gathers in the training gym, where a press conference is to be staged for cameras. Behind the table sits Sly, Sugar Ray, Tommy Gallagher, and two boxers who, 24 hours from now, will beat each other senseless in a semi-final bout. A small group faces them, crew members posing as journalists, notepads in laps.

Sly opens up by describing how the boxers have bonded as roommates, by staying up late, talking about their families and kids and ex-wives. Despite this new friendship, both fighters know they must talk smack about the other. It’s all part of boxing, and it will make good television. “I know exactly what he does, how he hits,” says one. His opponent scoffs: “I’m going balls to the walls.”

With a leonine coolness not usually associated with pugilists, Sugar Ray Leonard speaks about the boxers’ similar aggressive styles.

“We have two warriors here,” purrs the champion. “This fight is gonna be decided on who gets the first shot, and maintains in the middle. Who lands the first shot and takes advantage of it.”

Tommy Gallagher grabs the microphone, looks at both fighters, and snarls: “All of this stuff, as far as they’re concerned, is bullshit. They’re gonna step up and try to kill each other.”

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Sly Stallone walks out of the press conference, accompanied by Producer Lisa Hennessey. Stallone is shaking his head. He’s getting more and more attached to the boxers. In a way, they’re like his children. And it’s dawning on him that it’s a mismatch. One of them is going to pulverize the other.

“This is bad news,” mutters Sly.

“But that’s great that you care,” assures Hennessey.

“I know,” says Sly. “But geez.”

The two turn a corner, and continue down a hallway. After a pause Hennessey says, “I almost don’t want to watch it.”

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It’s said that in professional boxing, the ring’s canvas is changed for every fight. But on The Contender set, the competition ring uses the same canvas, fight after fight, week after week. Covered with logos for sponsors like Gatorade and Home Depot, the canvas is also decorated with droplets of blood from previous bouts.

Which is why this afternoon, two guys are crawling around the ring on their hands and knees with scrub brushes, steam vacuum and bottle of Oxy Clean, attempting to lift out the blood spots for tonight’s bout.

“Sometimes cold water works,” says one, scrubbing halfheartedly at the spattered canvas. “But it never comes all the way out.”

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Outside the building’s entrance, the pre-fight crowd gathers in a courtyard-crewmembers, boxers’ relatives, friends of the producers, all chatting and noshing on chicken wings. The invited celebs have yet to arrive. The past few weeks have seen Mark Wahlberg, Nicole Ritchie, several members of the band Linkin Park, Roma Downey, and Sean William Scott. The locker room is off limits. Doors are not yet open. There’s nothing to do except wait.

California boxing official Chuck Hassett sits in a folding chair, sharing an ashtray with fellow smokers. He’ll be a judge for tonight’s bout. He’s talking about how a punch delivered directly to the abdomen, in the location of the liver, is the worst for a boxer. A liver punch is guaranteed to bring you right down. Cheap shot, but it works. “Julio Cesar Chavez must have got 30 knockouts with that,” he grumbles.

The Contender’s in-house chef says he started out making healthy meals for the boxers, like chicken and salmon, but the guys kept asking for cookies and ice cream. He asked Burnett and Stallone what he should do, and the producers said, “give ‘em whatever they want.” So now the boxers get their ice cream. “Otherwise they’d be sneaking into the crafts table at 3 a.m.,” says the chef. “Or going out for a jog and down to Taco Bell, or getting someone on the crew to get it for ‘em.”

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Before the fight, both boxers sit in the locker rooms, percolating with their trainers, going through the mental work, going through the Dark Room. Up a flight of stairs, next to the plasma screen TV lounge, Sugar Ray and Prentiss Byrd quietly shoot pool by themselves. For reasons known only to himself, Sugar Ray wears an Everlast robe. Through the walls waft music from the main arena, muffled riffs of Aerosmith and Run DMC’s “Walk This Way.”

The bleachers are packed with young Hollywood cleavage and hair gel, a few silver-haired retirees, and a grandfatherly physician with a stethoscope sticking out of his suit pocket. Banners for the two boxers hang from the ceiling. Sixteen cameras aim at the ring, some gliding overheard on cranes. AC/DC’s “Back in Black” drowns out all conversation. The energy is enormous and immediate. No plot, no writers, no actors. Loud and fast. This is the purest form of television.

An announcer steps into the ring and introduces tonight’s special guests, sitting ringside: Jeff-rey Kat-zen-berg! Syl-ves-ter Stal-lone! Pro-du-cer Mark Bur-nett! And the trainer of Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard and George Foreman—An-ge-lo Dun-dee! The balding, elderly Dundee rises to his feet and gets a standing ovation.

The boxers enter through an insanely over-lit hallway, climb into the ring, and shed their robes. (In order not to divulge the series’ results, their names are omitted here, as well as the winner.) Ding goes the bell, and right away both are punching and ducking. One gets tied up against the ropes, and suddenly the other does. An uppercut right to the chin, fast body shots, more misses than connects. It looks evenly matched. Could go either way.

The second round opens quickly, with more action, sharp jabs to the forehead, brutal slams to the ribs. A nose gets bloodied, and the second round ends with furious smacking away from both fighters. The crowd roars to its feet, cameras swoop in from all angles like robotic paparazzi. Sugar Ray’s young daughter hides her face in his chest; she can’t watch. A guy in the crowd shouts to his friend, “This is real boxing!”

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(An extremely fawning version of this story appeared in Sly magazine. Which lasted three issues.)