The Ghost of Johnny Tapia. Paul Zanon

who you are!” Everybody knew who Johnny was. I then said, “Let's exchange numbers. It would be great to go to the fights together.” We exchanged numbers and he'd call all the time. Even at 4 a.m. “Hey brother. What's happening? You ain't giving me no love. I ain't heard from you for like a week.” He was always joking around, and you couldn't help but just love the guy.

Every time I'd meet with Johnny, there'd be a story to tell after. One time, I'm in Vegas, staying in a hotel and we're going to go to a fight together. I'm waiting in the lobby looking at my watch thinking, “Is he ever turning up?” About an hour later, his wife Teresa walks over and says, “We were here on time, but as Johnny was waiting in the lobby for you, some guy was giving the lady behind the desk some shit and Johnny went up to him and said, ‘Hey man. Stop being rude to the lady,’ and the guy said, ‘Fuck you.’ Johnny knocked the guy out in the lobby and his buddy took off running. Johnny took after him, then the cops arrived. So Johnny was late because he was filling out papers for the cops.” You had to love him for that.

      Then in 2002, Johnny gave me the opportunity to do something I could have only dreamed of: working his corner. Not just any old corner though. I was alongside Freddie Roach, and Johnny was fighting the incredible Marco Antonio Barrera. When he asked me, I said, “Sure. But I don't know how to work a corner!” He said, “Don't worry about that, man.” I asked Freddie Roach what to do and he said, “Yeah. Don't worry. You just put the stool in there. You're gonna be the stool guy. You put it through the ropes, right before he comes over at the end of each round.” He gave me a little bit of coaching on how to do it and I thought, “Fuck it. Yeah. I'll work the corner.”

      The problem was, Johnny wanted me there as a motivation guy to give him a pep talk in between rounds, because I'm high energy. I go to the dressing room where they are warming up for the fight and Freddie takes me aside and says, “Listen. Nobody says anything in the corner but me. You understand?” and I say, “Sure.” Johnny sees what's going on and loves winding Freddie up and says to me, “Sammy. When I'm in that corner, I need you to get me all pumped up.” Freddie's looking at me shaking his head saying, “I do all the talking.”

      Johnny now starts his warm-up and is throwing his left hooks on the mitts. It was exhilarating to witness how fast and hard Johnny would throw those punches and how quick his feet were. I was like, “Holy shit.” I've been in a few dressing rooms before but I'd never seen anybody warming up like that. All of a sudden, bang, he dislocates his shoulder. Completely pops out of the socket. I'm thinking, “This fight is over.” Johnny moves his arm around, pops it back in. A minute later, it pops out again and Johnny once again pops it back in like it's a normal thing to do. I'm thinking, “This is crazy. I've never seen anything like this before.” I was so nervous and scared for him.

We then walk out into the crowd, which was incredible. The fight starts, and every time he came back to the corner he kept saying, “Sammy baby. You ain't showing me no love, man. I ain't feeling the love Sammy!” I'm looking at Freddie and then turned to Johnny a bit hesitant and said, “Go get him Johnny!” The truth is, I was thinking, “I really can't help this guy.” When you listened to one of the best trainers in the world in Freddie Roach and what he was saying, I just didn't feel I belonged there. My band was sitting ringside right behind me and I kept looking at them saying, “Oh fuck!” It's different being in the corner. Everything looks different than when you're spectating as a fan.

      Back in the early days, in 1974, I opened with Montrose for The Who at Wembley Stadium, London, in front of about eighty thousand people. That was less nerve-wracking than being in the corner for Johnny. I've got goose bumps on my arms just talking about it right now. What an experience and what a privilege to have shared that time with Johnny.

      • • •

      The last time I ever spoke with Johnny was in 2009, when he was in the hospital in a coma from one of his binges. Teresa would call and put me on the phone to him, to see if he'd wake up. They'd even brought in a priest who was reading him his last rights, basically saying, “Yup. This is it. He's not going to pull out of it this time.” The doctors were ready to pull the plug, then about ten days into the coma, I'm chatting to him and he screamed, “I Can't Drive 55!” and he came out of his coma. That was the last time I spoke to Johnny, and that kind of summed up the man he was.

      Johnny had incredible heart, was such a sweet man, but was also tormented. He had two sides to him. The sweetest, nicest guy, but then the other side that could probably kill you. He was tortured with his addictions, but Johnny was always pure emotion in that ring. In his heyday, with his speed and skill, he was one of the greatest bantamweight champs ever.

       Sammy HagarSan Francisco, CaliforniaJanuary 2019

      Prelude

      D.O.A.

      “The only difference between a genius and insanity, is that insanity has no limits.”

      —Albert Einstein

      The first time I met Johnny was at a daytime barbeque, and two weeks later, here we were at Wells Park Community Center in Albuquerque getting married.

      As soon as we said our vows, he turned to me and said, “Now you can never leave me.”

      Those were shocking words to me. “What do you mean?” I replied.

      Straight after the ceremony, everyone left and headed to my mom's house for the party reception, which was news to me and my mom! Johnny and his friends, however, knew all about it and couldn't wait to get into the cases of beer.

      We show up at my mom's house and I wasn't feeling well. I had a bad cold, felt feverish, had a cough and sore throat. I wasn't in the party spirit. All I wanted to do was relax, but instead I was sitting there watching Johnny run around with tons of people in the house. What I didn't realize was that Johnny had already been on a binge all week. Not an alcohol binge though.

Next thing, Johnny disappeared, and one of his friends said, “Do you know what you've married?”

      “What do you mean?” I replied.

      “Go to the bathroom and take a peek at what you've married.”

      I walked to the bathroom and when I opened the door, Johnny was in there with another guy, who had a needle in Johnny's arm. I was blown away. I had never, ever witnessed that kind of drug abuse. Johnny slammed the door on me and locked it, but I kicked it down. By this stage it was too late. He'd already shot up. I was shouting at him, “Oh my God! How could you do this? Why are you doing this?” He was oblivious though as he was now high. He just walked out of the bathroom, straight past me as if I wasn't there, and partied some more. I felt mad, betrayed, upset, disgusted, and devastated.

      Before I could even let that shock set in, suddenly there were police everywhere. Johnny was fighting in the street against someone and the police were going to arrest him. My mom is the one who saved him. She explained that we'd just got married and that I'd be responsible for him. You have to remember that the police at this time were not fans of Johnny because he came with a bad reputation—one I wasn't fully acquainted with.

      The police let Johnny go on the condition that he left the house straightaway. So we got our luggage, put it in the car, and told everyone goodbye. Johnny was upset, as he didn't want to leave the party. The police made me drive as he sat next to me in the passenger seat, high and drunk. When we got a few blocks away, he had me stop the car, jumped over, and got into the driver's seat.

      Friends of the family had given Johnny and me a really nice suite for our honeymoon at one of the best hotels in The Heights, which would normally go for a thousand dollars a night. I noticed we weren't going in the direction of the hotel and asked, “What are you doing? Where are we going?”

Johnny said, “I don't want to go there.” Instead, he drove us to this dumpy fleabag motel called “The French Quarters,” which was known for drug use