Aaron Pryor: the unstoppable “Hawk” from Cincinnati

In the pantheon of the noble art, there is a name often forgotten — Aaron Pryor — a man whose story evokes the epic of legendary battles and deep regrets, a constant rollercoaster of emotions. His life was an unending alternation of downfall and redemption, impossible to confine within a few lines.

Aaron was a unique boxer with an unorthodox style. Nicknamed “The Hawk” for the way he swooped down on his opponents, he fought guided by a sort of predatory instinct combined with a dizzying pace made possible by an extraordinary stamina. He possessed uncommon hand speed, great power, and an incredible ability to punch from unusual angles with astonishing ease. A perpetual motion machine — seemingly chaotic — “like a swarm of hornets,” according to Tracey Gilliam of the Detroit Boxing Legends Hall of Fame, as he whirled his arms with no apparent logic, guided only by instinct in a kind of violent catharsis. He stepped into the ring with a near-animal energy, electrified by his unstoppable intensity.

But that was only an illusion, largely fueled by a certain kind of journalism that sought to exaggerate the more brutal aspects of his boxing, the ones that sold best. In reality, Pryor was an exceptionally skilled fighter, with top-level punching ability, excellent footwork, and great coordination. He slipped and countered with blazing speed, moving his torso fluidly and unleashing three-, four-, or even five-punch combinations with astonishing naturalness. He also had a granite chin and the ability to respond immediately with fast counterpunches. A blend of athletic and technical gifts with few equals.

Aaron was born on October 20, 1955, in Over-the-Rhine, a neighborhood in Cincinnati. He was one of seven children of Sara Shelery, a fiery woman unafraid to physically confront the men who came in and out of her life. Born out of wedlock, young Aaron grew up without a father figure and with no guidance:

“I had four brothers and two sisters, but I had a different father from the others. I was the kid nobody paid any attention to. I was neglected and completely lost. Some nights I just said to hell with it and slept in a doorway somewhere. Wasn’t anything at home for me anyway.”

This, also to avoid the corporal punishments — that is, whippings — his mother would inflict on anyone who failed to respect the 9:00 p.m. curfew she had imposed.

He began boxing at the age of 13, almost by chance, out of curiosity, at the Emmanuel Center on Race Street. A gym instructor had seen him fighting in the street and invited him to give boxing a try. There, he discovered a structured world built on discipline and “cleanliness”: everything he lacked at home, where he was surrounded by drugs, alcohol, and chaos.

Thus, young Pryor found in boxing both purpose and release. He had a stellar amateur career, seemingly destined for greatness, compiling a record of 204 wins and 16 losses. Among his victories was one over Thomas Hearns, in the Golden Gloves final.

At 17, he finally learned the identity of his father, Isiah Graves. Aaron had seen him around before, but the man showed no real interest in his life.

In November 1976, Pryor began his professional career for a $400 purse, under contract with Buddy LaRosa, the owner of a pizza chain. He simply needed to work, and at that time he did not attract much attention, unlike Sugar Ray Leonard, who debuted in February 1977 for $40,000, with none other than Angelo Dundee in his corner.

But Pryor was not discouraged. In the following years, he racked up win after win, crushing opponents with relentless aggression and suffocating pressure. His exciting, all-action style earned him fans and increasingly lucrative purses.

A photograph taken on July 9, 1978, captured him training in a Cincinnati gym for his bout against Marion Thomas, sparring at an elite level with Sugar Ray Leonard. After a couple of offers from Leonard’s camp in 1980, both rejected by Aaron for being financially unappealing, the two were supposed to face each other in 1982, and a contract was even signed. However, after Leonard’s retina detachment suffered in the Hearns fight, Ray temporarily retired, and the match fell through.

In 1980 came the first major milestone of Pryor’s career: his bout against veteran Antonio Cervantes for the WBA super lightweight title. Aaron demolished the champion in four rounds, becoming world champion for the first time.

Then came 1982: the first clash with Nicaragua’s idol, Alexis Argüello, a historic rivalry and one of boxing’s all-time pinnacles. Argüello was on the brink of legend, one victory away from claiming a fourth world title in as many weight divisions, something never achieved before. He entered the ring with the aura of a master: his technical precision and grace had captivated fans everywhere.

Pryor didn’t care in the slightest. He seemed to have no plan — he simply did what he did best: attack relentlessly, like a hawk, to wear down and smother his opponent under a storm of punches. But across from him stood an equally incredible fighter, one who withstood blows that could have felled an ox, and who, in the second half of the fight, managed to put Pryor in serious trouble with crisp, powerful shots. Two fighters at the height of their powers gave birth to one of the greatest fights in boxing history.

Like every legendary tale, this fight also carried its share of mystery, embodied in the famous “Panama Lewis bottle,” referring to Pryor’s trainer at the time. After thirteen rounds of punishing intensity, having given everything they had, Pryor and Argüello returned to their corners. It was then that Lewis uttered his now-infamous words to his assistant:

“Give me the other bottle. The one I mixed”

Truth or myth, in that 14th round Pryor drew on unimaginable reserves of energy, unleashing a barrage of punches on an exhausted Arguello, who finally crumbled, defeated and broken.

Pryor’s incredible victory was immediately overshadowed by suspicion. No one ever discovered what was in that bottle, or if there had truly been anything illicit at all. The investigation stalled, and no conclusive evidence was ever found.

The rematch came seven months later. Two weeks before the fight, Pryor called the great Emanuel Steward to his corner. Steward not only trained him but also found the right words to motivate him: “Aaron, this man is coming to take your title. You lose this and you’re nothing but a poor street kid from Cincinnati. You’ve got nothing else going for you.”

It’s hard to imagine what Pryor thought, but Steward’s words surely struck deep, in those dark corners of his mind he tried to avoid. And so, whatever the truth about the first fight, the second left no room for doubt or controversy: Pryor crushed Arguello in 10 rounds, as the referee counted while the Nicaraguan stared blankly from the canvas. Arguello’s dream of winning a world title in a fourth weight class was shattered by Pryor’s blows, and in a sense, that defeat extinguished his career. He never fully recovered, and unable to accept the loss, he found only fleeting relief in whiskey and cocaine, which slowly pulled him into depression.

Paradoxically, a similar fate befell the winner. Success and money form a dangerous combination for any boxer, and for Pryor they were nearly fatal. The joy and euphoria of those historic victories dragged him into the vortex of drug addiction. He became dependent on crack cocaine, which sent him spiraling downward, destroying a career that had once made him one of boxing’s brightest stars.

He surrounded himself with the wrong people—bad investments, exploitative friends, and a girlfriend, Theresa Adams, who in a jealous rage shot him, wounding his forearm. Aaron’s life once again became chaotic and disoriented.

Despite all the abuse, between 1984 and 1985 Pryor won a couple of fights and became IBF super lightweight champion. But his performances were lackluster, mere shadows of what he once was. In 1985 his title was stripped for failure to defend it, and he responded by retiring.

He returned to the ring two and a half years later, on August 8, 1987, against Bobby Joe Young, after a desperate but unsuccessful struggle to free himself from crack addiction. It was his first and only loss, against a fighter he probably would have “devoured” had the crack not already devoured him. Three more minor victories followed, and in 1990 Pryor retired for good with a record that speaks for itself: 39 wins, 35 by knockout, and just one loss.

Deprived of the ring, Aaron fell into free fall, consumed by excess. The drugs reduced him to a ghost of himself, thin, frail, unmotivated, teetering on the edge of ruin.

In 1991, while in rehab, he met the woman who would stand by him for the rest of his life, Frankie Banks. But even she couldn’t immediately stop his descent.

By 1992, Pryor was essentially homeless, living on the streets of Cincinnati, completely enslaved by crack. He thought about ending it all more than once but could never summon the courage. In the words of Sports Illustrated contributor John Ed Bradley: “If you’d taken a city bus through certain areas of Cincinnati, you might have seen him there, standing on a street corner with his hand out. And if you’d visited certain crack houses, you might have spotted him lying on the floor with his face in the grime. His skin was a deathly color. And it wasn’t out of the ordinary to find him staring at the sky, carrying on his own private conversation with God.”

A year after retiring, he was arrested for drug possession and spent six months in jail. Later, he was hospitalized with a severe ulcer. Emergency surgery required forty stitches to close him up. Sitting in his hospital bed, his wife Frankie watched him pray to God to free him from addiction. Released three weeks later, he could barely stand and spent much of his time in bed. One Sunday, he got up, dressed, and went to church. It was the first step toward a new life.

Over time, he managed to break free, fighting his addiction as fiercely as he had fought in the ring, supported by his wife and their three children.

In the following years, Pryor served as a deacon and associate minister at the New Friendship Baptist Church, as well as a boxing trainer. From 1993 onward, he became a familiar figure in the Cincinnati area once again, helping to train young amateur and professional fighters, including a young Adrien Broner. He later received several civic awards from the city of Cincinnati for his work in keeping youth away from drugs and the streets.

In 1996, Aaron Pryor was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame, and three years later he was voted by the Associated Press as the best super lightweight of the 20th century. Aaron Pryor passed away on October 9, 2016, following cardiac arrest.