If someone were to ask me today who the best boxing coach in Italy is, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second: Bartolomeo Gordini. I believe many others would give the same answer. No offense to the many excellent trainers out there, but I don’t think anyone embodies this role better than “Meo.” He truly is one of those Coaches with a capital C—someone who doesn’t just teach, but inspires and leaves a mark on everyone who meets him.
A man of deep respect, gifted not only with great technical knowledge but also with remarkable humanity. A Maestro Benemerito (honored coach), with fifty-five years of teaching behind him—twenty-five of which spent in his famous gym “Casa di Carta,” a place that has always welcomed and supported everyone equally, both in sport and in life.
Fortunately, I’ve had the pleasure of crossing paths with him on several occasions over the years. If I’m opening this new Boxe-Punch column, “The Coach’s Voice,” with his story and his voice, it’s because I believe that this boxing world—now overcrowded, alas, with trainers and fighters of every kind—needs to start over, going back to its origins, to competence and merit.
Where does Meo’s story in boxing begin?
Meo’s story begins in those community centers that used to exist and have now disappeared. I used to go to the parish youth center, where a priest made us play soccer, ping-pong, and all sorts of sports. I used to argue with everyone—I was a bit aggressive—and he noticed it. He saw that there was this aggression, this energy inside me that needed to be channeled somehow. So, since he was a big sports enthusiast and also followed boxing, he advised me to join a boxing gym. I was only fourteen years old.
The gym in Lugo was closed for renovation, so I went to Faenza every day by bicycle. After about three months, just as I was starting to understand how to throw punches properly, the coach had to close the gym because he had gone blind due to a virus. I didn’t know where to go, but I managed to find Coach Romano Cumali in Lugo, who, during that time, while his own gym was closed, was training his boys in a garage. That’s where it all began—with Cumali. Sometimes he would take me to the gym in Ravenna, which was a branch of Edera. They told me, “You’re good! We’ll pay your membership so you can keep coming here.” So I started training with the best, with professionals. Every day I’d take the train at a quarter to six and return home at ten in the evening—until I had to do my military service.
Then I was supposed to go to Orvieto, to the SMEF [Military School of Physical Education], but I ended up in the hospital with a severe gastric hemorrhage, and that’s when they discovered I had stomach cancer. I underwent many surgeries and spent a long time like that—six hundred and thirty-two days in the hospital. When I was finally discharged, the doctors said I would never be able to practice sports again…
So how and when did your desire to teach begin?
After what happened, I went through a long period of suffering. I felt terrible—I didn’t even want to hear about boxing, let alone watch it on TV. It was a time when I didn’t know what would become of my life, whether the illness would return, whether I would develop metastases… I lived in hope, because back then, few survived. So I threw myself into distractions: I went to races, soccer games, dance halls—anything to keep my mind occupied.
Then one day, I went to get a suit made at a tailor shop that used to sponsor Cumali’s gym. They told me, “You know, Romano has a lot of kids now—two or three of them really talented—and he could use a hand. Why don’t you go help him?” But I didn’t want to. They convinced me to stop by just to say hello. When I walked into that old barn he had turned into a gym, something clicked inside me—something chemical, I guess—and I couldn’t stay away anymore. When he asked me when I’d come back, I said, “Tomorrow I’ll be here!”
I stayed there for a year, then opened a club in Cotignola. After that, I spent thirty years with Edera in Ravenna, and in 2000 I opened my own gym, “Casa di Carta”—the Gordini Boxe.
Is being a good boxer enough to become a good coach? Conversely, can someone who has never fought become a good trainer in your opinion?
Well, many great champions haven’t been good trainers, because they had it all inside but couldn’t transmit it. I think boxing is like a nervous tic—some things just come naturally because Mother Nature made you that way. I believe that those who have boxed have an extra gear in terms of sensitivity and understanding of pain thresholds. Those who have boxed know the experience firsthand—and that can be an advantage. But I’m not prejudiced against those who haven’t.
Take Angelo Dundee, for example—he never boxed, and yet he was a great trainer! It’s also a matter of natural inclination. I knew Steve Klaus very well—we spent a lot of time together in the 1970s. I took my exams with him, and he cared a lot about me. He had fought five matches—and lost all five! He used to say: “They helped me understand that I wasn’t a fighter, but that I loved this sport and had the ability to develop attention by watching others, by emulating. My mirror neurons were very active—they helped me understand how to teach and explain boxing.”
I believe passion must be at the foundation. A coach must have empathy, the ability to attract and also to learn from those he trains—because what he learns from them will help him teach better. And above all, he must believe in what he’s doing—because, as in any relationship, there must be mutual respect. I believe love is believing.
Having reached this point in your career, do you think boxing holds no more secrets for you, or do you believe one never stops learning?
(Laughs) I’ve been in boxing all my life, and I’ll probably die in the gym, precisely because there’s no end — it’s an open map. You never reach the point of knowing everything. Knowing it all doesn’t exist. Every evening you’re dealing with different people, and at the center of it all is the human being — and the discovery of so many stories helps you understand your own better. That, yes. Experience can help you recognize the many situations you’ve already faced, but boxing is a sport where you must constantly train your mind to deal with new and unpredictable events. I believe no one can truly say, “I’m good, I’ve learned everything,” but rather, “I’m giving my best, and things are working out.” Nothing has ever come easy in my life; I’ve always had to chase after things. That’s why I could never claim to have learned it all.
What’s the part of your work as a coach that you enjoy the most, and what do you enjoy the least?
What I enjoy the most is being in the gym, the role of a coach inside the gym — I love everything about that. When someone puts their trust in me, they don’t come to be judged, but to be helped, and I help them. I stand behind everyone. I could never say, “Tonight I left the gym without giving attention to someone.”
What I enjoy the least — and it might sound contradictory — is traveling with the fighters, because you always bear a heavy responsibility, sometimes exhausting. When you travel with young boxers, some win, some lose, and you must always be up to everything: talking, motivating, managing the emotions on the way back.
I always stay close to everyone, especially to those who lose — sometimes I even go talk to their opponents. I never contest decisions because I believe performance is the foundation of a fighter’s growth. One shouldn’t make excuses. I’m always honest because excuses don’t help athletes. In a sport where you constantly face pain, you must be emotionally strong. If you’re strong, nature has already given you the chemistry to face pain as well.
Has anyone ever disappointed you?
Oh yes, many have… Because, you see, I always tell my colleagues: there are ten Cassius Clays walking through every gym who never actually become boxers! Some think I’m crazy, but sometimes great talents come along and never commit to the sport because they lack discipline — the consistency to nurture their own talent. You have to train every day to maintain it.
I had an endless friendship with Nino Benvenuti, and he trained constantly. He genuinely enjoyed training — that’s what true talent is. He’d even train at night, always perfecting that left hook that brought him so much success. He treated it like a huge investment. It was no coincidence he threw it so naturally and precisely in the ring. He understood that if you don’t keep something alive, if you don’t feed it, you lose it. Like love, technique needs care. It takes vocation. I’ve discovered that many natural talents don’t want to discipline or sacrifice themselves. But in boxing, continuous discipline is essential — and once you have motivation, you have everything!
Is there a boxer who has remained especially close to your heart, and why?
There are many boxers I’ve loved — above all, Robinson, whom I also saw fight live, as well as Arguello, and then Nino, Parisi, and Hagler, whom I even had in the gym. Hagler impressed me the most because of the devotion he had for his trainer. Even though he was so great, he constantly wanted to learn and seek approval — every time he did something, he would ask his trainer if he had done it well.
A few decades ago, boxing was one of the most popular sports in Italy. What does boxing lack today that it had back then?
Back then, fights were held with smaller gloves, and they were more real, more engaging. The rules were less strict, and the matches more brutal. The audience wanted to see real fights — they knew the stronger man would win, and they wanted to identify with him. In the ’70s and ’80s, I saw crowds completely involved — they went home with the same adrenaline the fighter had, unable to sleep at night. Today we’ve become a bit too “soft.” We’ve made too many wrong experiments and don’t allow fighters to box freely. And there’s something serious, in my opinion: physical conditioning has gone too far — it’s considered more important than technique. That creates a lot of confusion, even in scoring. Before, the more scientific boxer would win; today, the aggressor wins — judges reward whoever sets a faster pace and keeps attacking, while tactical intelligence goes unnoticed. Someone like Oliva would struggle to win today, even though his victories were well-deserved. Boxing used to be easier to read, and since it was followed more in person, people understood it better. Nowadays gyms are full of amateurs, but most wouldn’t attend a boxing event even if it were held across the street. To bring boxing back into the spotlight, we need funding, economic support, sponsors, and especially public visibility. You can see it — our TV audiences are extremely low, though we’re recovering a little.
What would you say to young people today, those often caught up in the rush to have everything right away?
It’s true — today they want everything instantly. I’d tell them they need patience. In boxing, you can’t have everything right away — it’s a contact sport, a tough one. It takes time, dedication, and commitment. You must stay focused to learn — especially in sports, that’s essential. And you must form a team, not a pack, because you can learn something from everyone. Inside the gym, you have everything you need if you stay focused — not judging others, but helping them. If you pay attention to what you’re doing and do it well, you’ll realize fatigue doesn’t exist. It’s just a human invention to avoid reaching your goals. A boxer cannot be tired; tiredness exists only in those who lack motivation.
Looking at the future of Italian boxing, do you feel more optimistic or pessimistic?
Neither. I’m a realistic man, and I think change must come — it will depend on what people decide to do. We should invest less in things that don’t matter and more in what brings visibility and quality — in professional boxing. There used to be more following, more income, and therefore more money for everything: from events to purses.
Thank you for your time and kindness — we wish you to keep sharing your invaluable knowledge for many more years to come!