Make no mistake: This is a man accustomed to meting out punishment and, when necessary, absorbing it.
In the last four years, though, it's Stevie Johnston's luggage that's taken the real beating. Since winning a twelve-round decision in his native Denver over Mark Fernandez on February 18, 1996, the WBC lightweight champion of the world, now 29-1 with fourteen knockouts, has fought an even dozen bouts. But he hasn't had a sniff of combat in the Mile High City. Among other adventures, the tough, artistic little southpaw has knocked out Julian Romero in balmy Honolulu, earned his first title by decisioning Jean-Baptise Mendy in romantic Paris, lost it to (six-foot-one-inch) Cesar Bazan in hostile El Paso, won the belt back from Bazan in sultry Miami and, last November 29, gave Englishman Billy Schwer a gruesome thumping in foggy London.
Las Vegas? That's where Johnson trains, in the Top Rank gym, and he's fought there so often the one-armed bandits wave hello.
Since beating Fernandez in 1996, "Li'l But Bad" has developed into the best lightweight (135 pounds) on the planet -- a status most accurately affirmed by his current number-one ranking in all three major boxing magazines, The Ring, K.O. and Boxing Digest. He's also listed, pound for pound, among the world's top-ten fighters. But only now is this road-weary champ finally getting what he's always wanted: a title defense in his hometown. On March 17 in the Ritchie Center on the University of Denver campus, Johnston will face Mexico City's Julio Alvarez. Tickets: $25, $50 and $100. Co-promotion by an old hand: Denver rock promoter Barry Fey. A Friday Night Fight broadcast on ESPN2. Another payday of $150,000-plus. Most important, it's a chance -- finally -- to show the homefolks what a champion is made of. Suddenly, Stevie Johnston is happier than George Foreman in a roomful of cheeseburgers.
"Awesome," Johnston says. "I can't wait. I just can't wait until March 17. I been fighting in everybody else's backyard, and now they gotta come to mine. We've worked hard for this. We've been waiting a long time."
"We" would be the fighter himself, Vivian, his wife of three years, and his uncle, Montbello's Richard Johnston, who's long served Stevie in the crucial roles of trainer, manager, surrogate father and worldly advisor. Immediately after Tuesday's press conference announcing the fight, the Johnstons set out for Las Vegas, where they checked in at Budget Suites, far from hometown friends and hometown distractions, and prepared to do battle.
"We go into the gym in Las Vegas," the elder Johnston said late last week, his voice edged with the steely resolve of a drill sergeant. "There we get away from everything. No one banging on the front door saying, 'C'mon, champ, let's go out.' No one calling up for free tickets. No nothing. Just work. Five-thirty in the morning, he runs. Three miles on the days he spars, five miles on the days he doesn't spar. On sparring days, four rounds shadow boxing, four rounds sparring. Fifteen minutes jumping rope. Speed bag. Exercises. Then we're back in the room watching movies, being bored to death."
How bad is it? "Some days in Vegas I won't even go eat with him, I'm so pissed off about his performance," Uncle Richard says. "When he gets mule-headed. When he's a knucklehead."
Sitting at the gleaming mahogany dining table in his modest northwest Denver home, "Li'l But Bad" suddenly doesn't look very bad at all. He simply looks exhausted by the prospect of his uncle's rigors before they even resume. "Oh, he can be a hardass," the fighter allows. "When I do good, he's a pussycat, but he can be a hardass."
This fight will make it all worthwhile, though. This fight will be in front of hometown friends and family. This fight will be just reward for all the dues he's paid. Not just the grueling Vegas training rituals, but the raucous border crowd backing Bazan in El Paso. The raw fish in Yokohama, where Stevie barely escaped with a split decision over Hiroyuki Sakamoto. The bloody head butts he endured while beating Mendy and Demetrio Ceballos and Saul Duran and Angel Manfredy. The startling shot Billy Schwer hit him with in bleary London, laying open his eye again, while the partisan British crowd chanted: "Bill-EEE! Bill-EEE! Bill-EEE!"