Boxer’s Death Staggers Father Who Taught, Nurtured Him

William (Murf) Murphy, owner of a popular downtown boxing gym, has been down on the canvas before. Looking back on a career that included more than 200 professional fights during the 1940s and 1950s, he is the first to admit, “I was never a great fighter.”

But somehow, “Irish Billy” Murphy--as he was known in his fighting days--always managed to get back on his feet and clinch or backpedal to survive the round, if not the fight. Murphy has not fought in decades, but today finds himself reeling from a blow delivered harder than any he received from the dozens of forgotten opponents he faced in the ring.

Murphy, 62, would gladly relive the awful whipping he got from former middleweight champion Rocky Graziano more than 40 years ago, if someone could erase Oct. 23, 1988, from the annals of time. The old man’s eyes filled with grief, and his voice choked as he told a visitor about that Sunday two months ago, when he carried the limp body of his 28-year-old son from the gym’s dressing room to a rubdown table.

Thomas (Spud) Murphy, a popular club fighter with the heart of a lion, collapsed from an aneurysm after a workout and lingered for 27 hours before his wife, Mary, gave doctors permission to pull the plug on the machine that was keeping him alive. Doctors told the family that Spud was brain-dead.

Moments before collapsing into unconsciousness, the kid walked out of the dressing room, complaining of a headache and begged his father, “Dad, take it away.”

“Those were his last words. There was nothing I could do,” said Murphy. The tone of his voice reflected his helplessness.

Local boxing aficionados lament that Spud Murphy’s ring career lasted less than two years. His professional lifetime record is listed as an unimpressive 7 wins, 6 losses and 1 draw, but that does not reflect his fierce dedication to the sport.

Stripped of License

Although he had not fought since 1979, when the state boxing commission stripped him of his license, the mention of his name stirs memories in the minds of fans who remember the quiet Irish kid who used to sell out the old Coliseum at 15th and E streets. Spud was a crowd pleaser, a fighter willing to wade in and trade punches with an opponent until one or the other quit or dropped.

His second fight with Sammy Meza was a typical brawl. After winning a decision over Meza on Oct. 21, 1977, the appreciative crowd showered the ring with more than $1,000 in coins, which was split between the two fighters. That bout was picked as the fight of the year by local sportswriters.

Spud Murphy’s fighting style was remembered by the San Diego Tribune, which reported a few days after his death that he lost his license because “he was the type of fighter who took so many punches while landing his own.” People may have questioned his ring tactics, but nobody ever questioned his courage.

Ringside physician Thomas Lundeen and Rob Lynch, director of the California Boxing Commission, said the aneurysm that killed young Murphy was not caused by any injuries he may have received in the ring. Lundeen reported to the commission that the aneurysm was caused by a congenital disorder.

“To this day I don’t believe that Spud’s gone,” said Murf. “Whenever I hear the (gym) door slam shut, I listen to the footsteps coming up the stairs. I always look to see who it is, and I still expect to see Spud standing at the top of the stairs, smiling at me.”

The gym is at the corner of 11th Avenue and Broadway, on the second floor of a building that houses a rundown bar on the bottom floor and a nationally known billiards hall across the hallway from the gym. The approximately 2 dozen fighters and others who train there in the evenings have to run a gauntlet of pimps, hookers, junkies and hustlers on the sidewalk before walking up the two flights of stairs.

A small, hand-lettered sign on the door lists Spud Murphy as the gym’s “assistant trainer.” But Murf has already made plans to tear it down. The old man has renamed the place the “Spud Murphy Boxing Gym.”

Spud Turned Pro in 1977

Spud Murphy won his share of amateur titles in the early 1970s, fighting throughout the United States, before Murphy moved his family to San Diego, where Spud turned pro in 1977. Spud fought as a professional featherweight while he was still in high school.

“My dad, father-in-law and I would pay money to go see him fight. . . . He used to sell out the Coliseum when he was still in high school,” said Rey (Cherokee) Inchaurregui. “Everybody looked up to the kid because he was so young and a pro.”

Inchaurregui, an ironworker who works out at the gym, turned out to be one of Spud Murphy’s best friends.

Murf nurtured Spud and guided his career, convinced that he was some day going to earn a title shot. In and out of the ring, the two were inseparable. Preston Easley, a local attorney and boxing fan, said the two shared a bond that went beyond that of a normal father-son relationship.

“If you were looking for Spud, you’d ask where the old man was at that particular moment. One was an appendage of the other. The same was true if you were looking for Murf. You’d might as well look for Spud, and you’d find the old man,” said Easley.

Inchaurregui echoed Easley’s comments.

“You look at the old man, and you can tell he’s hurting bad. Sometimes, when I’m working out I see him standing near the stairs, listening for the door to open. Just for a moment you can see him look quickly at the stairs, waiting for Spud to come running up. . . . If I had the power to do one miracle, believe me, I’d bring the kid back . . . for the old man’s sake,” said Inchaurregui.

By all accounts, Spud Murphy’s life outside the ring was a complete contradiction of a boxer’s life. The family is devoutly Catholic, and Murf remembers a church retreat that he and Spud participated in when they were living in Colorado.

“We were buddies. We went on a five-day retreat with the church at a monastery located in the hills of Colorado. Spud served as an altar boy at Mass every morning. . . . He was a good kid. He went to church,” said Murphy.

After the state stripped him of his license, Spud Murphy appealed to the boxing commission three times, in 1983, 1985 and earlier this year, commission officials said. The appeals were denied each time.

“We retired him in 1979 because he collapsed in his dressing room after his last fight with David Madrid. He was flat unconscious,” said Lynch. “Once you start blacking out, we don’t want you licensed.”

Friends say that Murf told them that Spud collapsed from exhaustion.

Never Gave Up Hope

Despite the setbacks, father and son never gave up hope that Spud would one day be able to climb back into the ring. Anticipating that, he trained and kept in shape, with Murf supervising every move.

“He worked out every day, ran 5 or 6 miles in the morning at Fiesta Island. I used to pick him up at 4 a.m. and drive him out there so he could do roadwork. Then I’d bring him back and take him to work,” said Murf.

“I want my boy back,” he continued. “. . . I’ll be driving down the highway, and I find myself talking to him. I drive by the cemetery just to say ‘hello.’ I drive that Cadillac slowly by the cemetery and look at him. His grave sits on a hill. . . . Spud and I were inseparable,” said Murphy.

After Spud’s death, the family agreed to donate his organs. The kid’s heart is now ticking inside a father of five.

When Spud died, he left a young widow and three young daughters, ages 8, 6 and 1, and a 6-month-old son, Thomas Jr., or TJ. After his brother’s death, Rocky Murphy, a noted amateur boxer in his own right, moved to San Diego from Denver to be Murf’s assistant trainer. Rocky, 23, was named after Murf’s old nemesis, Rocky Graziano.

Mary Murphy, the matriarch of the family, manages the gym and is known as “Mom” in local boxing circles.

“My wife was the strong one during the funeral. . . . She’s the one that kept the family together. But, since we buried Spud, she hasn’t visited the cemetery. She hasn’t brought herself to accept the idea that he’s dead,” said Murf.