The history of boxing is a history of broken dreams. Young men, mostly black and Hispanic, start with nothing and appreciate anything. They’re told when, where and how much, and they never look closely at the money generated by their sweat and risk. They accept what’s offered because they are beholden to those doing the offering. It’s an enterprise fueled by paternalism: I was there for you when you had nothing. The most successful live well for a short period before ending up broke and befuddled, their money taken by unscrupulous managers and unchecked spending, their brains taken by the rigors of the sport. Their lives travel a road from subservience to dependence before they can identify either one.
“I was in that position at one time,” says Mayweather. “Not anymore. Now they” — meaning the promoters who have long dominated the sport — “don’t like Floyd Mayweather to enlighten a fighter. I don’t like it when they take a third from a fighter, then he has to pay his trainer 10%. After Uncle Sam, the man putting his body on the line gets less than 50 percent.”
MONEY IS IMPORTANT, its outward manifestations even more so. Along with gaudy possessions and unlimited subservience comes something far more vital: self-justification. It’s wealth as affirmation. A case filled with more than $5 million in watches is not a mere collection; it is a statement.
Mayweather grew up in a boxing family in Grand Rapids, Mich. His father, Floyd Sr., fought 35 pro fights, including one against Sugar Ray Leonard. His uncle and trainer, Roger Mayweather, was the family’s first champion. Floyd Sr., known around boxing as Big Floyd, spent five years in prison for selling drugs, and he’s had a soap opera relationship with his son after training him through much of his professional career. Mayweather’s mother was a drug addict, since recovered. Asked to describe his childhood, he grows defiant. “My father was a drug dealer,” he says. “We didn’t have nothing.”
Echoes of Grand Rapids are in every six-figure bet, every exorbitant purchase, every angry defense of his place in boxing history. He’s determined to shatter the paradigm of the ignorant, servile pugilist. His ability not only to understand but to capitalize on his value is unrivaled in the sport, an expansion of the models established by pioneers Sugar Ray Leonard and Oscar De La Hoya. In a sport that historically — and, at times, criminally — takes advantage of its performers, Mayweather uses the power that comes with being boxing’s most valuable commodity to control the industry. It helps, of course, not only to be 42-0 and a five-weight-class world champion but to exhibit an unapologetic brazenness that incites allegiance and disgust in equal measure. Indifference, as any promoter will attest, is hell on sales
“Love him or hate him, he’s the bank vault,” says Leonard Ellerbe, Mayweather’s adviser and CEO of Mayweather Promotions. “Love him or hate him, he’s going to make the bank drop.” He is a one-man conglomerate, with a net worth — not counting cars, jewelry and houses — estimated at $100 million. Unlike manager- and promoter-dependent fighters, Mayweather dictates his share of fight revenue and his opponent’s. He controls the gate receipts by setting ticket prices at the MGM Grand; for his May 5 light middleweight title fight against Miguel Cotto, they range from $200 to $1,500. He negotiates directly with HBO to set the price for the pay-per-view broadcast. HBO is advertising the fight for a “suggested” retail price of $59.95. (The Victor Ortiz fight, for which Mayweather earned $40 million, generated 1.25 million buys despite being pricey, at $59.95 for standard definition and $69.95 in hi-def.)
Mayweather resurrected the idea of renting movie theaters to show his fights live, and the Cotto fight is being aired in 440 theaters, most of which will charge about $20 per person. He helped HBO develop the idea for its 24/7 franchise, a documentary-style preview show that debuted for his 2007 fight with De La Hoya. The show is now a huge hit and standard fare for major fights.