A blind dog in a meat house is exactly what Wilson classified his money maker - Milford, a heavy weight monster plundering the body and head of his bewildered opponent. Nonetheless Milford was bloody and worn from the interchange at the bell. He was glad the twelfth round was over as he dropped heavily on the stool; his breathing lumbered, and his right eye, a baseball size blot, purple and inflamed; a small cut just below his other eye was not deep enough to bring concern. As soon as Milford sank into his seat, Wilson, his trainer, started his routine of commands - bring up your elbow, bend your knees more.... Wilson pointed out all the weaknesses in the opponents stance and, just before the opening bell sounded, Wilson gave Milton some encouraging word as he maintained a frown of assured confidence.
Milford listened to Wilson for the simple reason that during Wilson’s hey days, the man was crowned not once, not twice, but three times as champion in his weight class. But as with anything else in life, father time striped him from his majestic, yet brutal, craft of boxing. In the end, Wilson found refuge in teaching prospects, potential somebodies with a healthy dose of pearls and demanding training regiments.
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