By Norm Frauenheim
From the batter’s box to the finish line to the ring, there’s been a lot of good, bad and ugly over the last fifty years. Pete Rose’s ban, Mike Tyson’s prison sentence, Evander Holyfield’s ear and so much more are all there.
Somewhere on that historical list, there’s Victor Conte.
I’m not sure where. But he’s there, a personality hard to know, yet with an influence impossible to separate from the turmoil and triumph, shock and awe, the cream and the clear.
Conte’s gone, dead at 75 last Monday after a five-month battle with pancreatic cancer.
In the many obits, there is always a mention of major-league baseball’s so-called Steroid Era, almost as if Conte created it.
He didn’t.
To be sure, Conte was there, a man with a potion that enabled Barry Bonds to finish his career in 2007 with 762 homers, more than Henry Aaron’s record (755).
But the substance had already been around for at least a couple of decades in old East German, Soviet and Chinese labs populated by mad scientists who created swimmers, sprinters, shot putters and weightlifters who dominated the Olympic medal count in the 1970s and ‘80s.
Conte simply imported the potion, added a mineral here and there for what has been called “designer” steroids — a good fit for every pair of athletic genes.
It got Conte and his BALCO venture a lot of attention, most of it notorious enough to land him in prison for four months. But Conte was never the evil genius that some of the obits suggest. He was a salesman, who sold himself, first and foremost.
He also was shrewd and cynical. He understood his market, which is populated by ambitious, single-minded athletes who will do almost anything to get an advantage, especially if it can’t be detected, at least for awhile.
It’s fair to assume that gladiators entered the Roman Colosseum armed with more than shields and an arsenal of cruel weapons. Modern archeologists are finding evidence that was more in their cooking oil than just olives.
I swam competitively in college for four years, 1967 through 1971 — the Mark Spitz and pre-goggle era. At a dinner hosted by Conte in Vegas a couple of years ago, I told him cryptically that I was glad that he wasn’t around during my time in the pool. I would have taken just about anything to get to the Olympics.
Conte looked at me and just smiled, in retrospect a knowing smile.
I recall talking to late Arizona Senator John McCain in an interview for The Arizona Republic before the 2004 Athens Olympics. The conversation turned to steroids. McCain, who boxed and wrestled for the Naval Academy, looked at me and – without hesitation — said:
“Hell, I would have asked where can I get some and when can I get some more. I’d have been taking that stuff by the handfuls.’’
From Rome to now, athletes are always looking for an advantage — fair or not, artificial or not. There’s always been a Conte to fill that demand.
My first experience with Conte was after he had left prison and entered the inevitable: Boxing.
Then, he had taken on the role of reformer. For the media, he was the go-to source in a counter argument to the fighters who were contesting a positive test. He also had formed his own company, SNAC, an acronym for the supplements and advice he offered.
At the time of Conte’s death, Terence Crawford was on his SNAC client list. Conte was unable to attend Crawford’s masterful upset of Canelo Alvarez in mid-September in front of an Allegiant Stadium crowd of more than 70,000 and a reported Netflix audience of more than 42 million. Reportedly, his worsening condition prevented him from attending a fight he surely wanted to see in person.
Always, he had openly bragged about how he had worked with some of the sport’s best, including Olympic gold medalist Claressa Shields and emerging pound-for-contender Jesse “Bam” Rodriguez. He also had worked with Andre Ward and others.
But his prison time, relationship with Bonds, work with Olympic gold-medalist track star Marion Jones and former 100-meter dash world-record holder Tim Montgomery turned him into an easy target, especially in boxing.
That was never more evident than in Rodriguez’ fight against Sunny Edwards at Desert Diamond Arena for the flyweight title in Glendale, AZ nearly two years ago. Edwards, never shy, had seen the SNAC on Rodriguez’ shorts and jersey.
Edwards attacked, calling out Conte and suggesting that Rodriguez was a PED user throughout the days before opening bell. Rodriguez, who has never tested positive and had never even been questioned about it, responded to the pointed, noisy allegations with stone-faced silence.
That left it up to the media to get a response. I called Conte. He was quick to defend Rodriguez as a fighter who had as much integrity as any in the notorious sport. For the next two days, Conte sustained a loud attack on Edwards. Then, Rodriguez finished the job with a punishing stoppage. Two fights later, Edwards retired, saying he just didn’t have any desire to fight on.
In effect, Rodriguez, who let his hands do his talking, finished him. He also let Conte do all the talking.
No matter what Edwards or anybody else believed, Conte was good on stage and in the bully pulpit. It was a talent he learned, perhaps in his days in 1970 when he was the bass guitarist for a Bay-area R&B band, The Tower Of Power, a name and perhaps a pretty good metaphor for what opposing pitchers saw in Bonds when he came to the plate.
Conte, according to Wikipedia, also played for a band named Pure Food and Drug Act. Sunny Edwards isn’t surprised.
Rest-In-Peace, Victor Conte
Major card back in PHX plans
It looks as if a major card is headed back to the Phoenix area, a go-to city until Saudi money began to dominate the business.
Top Rank has plans for Emanuel Navarrete (39-2-1,32 KOs) against fellow Mexican Eduardo “Sugar” Nunez (29-1, 27 KOs) on March 7 on the Suns home floor. It’s a junior-lightweight unification fight. Navarrete has the WBO belt; Nunez the IBF.
Names have changed since the last major card has been staged in Phoenix. The downtown arena was called Footprint Center. Now, it’s the Mortgage Market Center.