Shot on location at TITLE Boxing Club Trexlertown
It's a Monday night in November, and there's a flurry of activity at the Larry Holmes homestead. Family, friends and supporters are trickling in through the front door. Some are carrying food, others are bringing supplies for the main event: a meeting of the minds for the planning and execution of an upcoming New Year's Eve party put on by Heart of a Legend, a nonprofit run by Holmes' wife, Diane, that raises money for a number of local charities and organizations. All the while, Larry Holmes himself is holding court, perched at a large table within view of the entrance. He has a greeting, a joke or a good-natured putdown for everyone who comes into his home. “Did you bring me money?” he asks one of them. “Did you bring me something to eat?” he inquires of another. They respond with quips of their own, a pat on the back or a handshake. It's clear there's a lot of love for the man dubbed “The Easton Assassin,” and for the mini empire he has built in his adopted hometown.
It all began, of course, with a pair of boxing gloves, and with a young man who had something to prove. One of 12 children, Holmes was born to John and Flossie Holmes in Cuthbert, Georgia, in 1949. The family headed north to the Lehigh Valley when Larry was around seven years old. “When I came to Easton, we had nothing,” he recalls. What they did have was running water and a toilet that flushed—both a thrill to the young Holmes. “We didn't have to go outside to go to the bathroom,” he says.
Holmes dropped out of school in the seventh grade. He says he was frequently picked on by the other students, and often got into scraps that didn't endear him to his teachers. “It was either get out or get thrown out,” Holmes explains. He started working odd jobs to help support his family—washing cars for a dollar an hour, and shining shoes. It was also around that time when he saw one of his brothers try his hand at boxing. “I wanted to do that, too,” he says. At the time, though, he had no premonitions of future greatness. “I was just doing it to get a trophy,” Holmes says.
Holmes began boxing in the Police Athletic League as a teenager, and realized the sport could be more than just a hobby or a means to some athletic hardware. “I wanted to give it my best shot,” he says. Early in his amateur career, he was hired as a sparring partner for boxing greats like Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali; the latter, Holmes says, gave him a black eye. But Holmes wasn't mad about it. “[Ali] gave me a job,” he explains. “He treated me like a gentleman.” The two remained friends until Ali's death in 2016, despite Holmes dominating and defeating Ali during a fight in 1980, when Ali's career was on the decline.
But all of that was still years in the future, when, following a tough loss in the 1972 Olympic trials (he was disqualified for excessive holding), Holmes decided to turn pro. He began to make a name for himself as a serious contender when he bested Earnie Shavers in an upset win in 1978. That would set up the fight that would thrust Holmes into the international spotlight. “One day I'll remember until the day I die is June 9, 1978,” he says. “The day I won the title.” It was a 15-round slugfest with World Boxing Council Heavyweight Champion Ken Norton in Las Vegas. Many sports enthusiasts consider the final, decisive round one of the greatest in boxing history. For Holmes, the victory was vindication. “I beat the odds,” he says. “So many people said I couldn't do it.” The city of Easton celebrated its native son with a parade down Northampton Street.
Holmes would go on to defend his title successfully for several years, until he was dethroned by Michael Spinks in 1985. He was in and out of retirement before taking one last shot at regaining the title in 1995, but Holmes lost the bout to Oliver McCall in a close 12-round decision. Holmes finally hung up his gloves for good—professionally, at least—in 2002, following a win over Eric “Butterbean” Esch.
In retirement, Larry Holmes the boxer became Larry Holmes the businessman, opening two restaurants, a nightclub, a training facility, a bingo hall and an office complex. He sold his two-story building on the street that bears his name in Easton for $1.7 million back in 2014. Now Holmes stays busy making appearances, filming his talk show, What the Heck Were They Thinking?, for Service Electric TV2 and spending time with his family.
He married Diane Robinson in 1979, not long after his title-clinching bout with Ken Norton. By that time, Diane already had been in his corner for many years, long before he became a household name. They began dating while she was still a student at Liberty High School, and Larry was full of bravado and big dreams. A few years after tying the knot, they moved into their sprawling Palmer Township home, where they still reside today, and which Larry says is modeled after the late entertainer Liberace's home, where he used to stay in Las Vegas. They had two children together—Kandy and Larry Jr.—and Larry also has three daughters from previous relationships. These days, he also relishes playing the role of grandpa. “It's ‘Pop Pop' this, and ‘Pop Pop' that,” he says with a smile. His brood now includes five grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.
Regrets? Holmes says he doesn't like hurting people; he's referring to the trash talking that was part of his profession—both in and out of the ring—for so many years. But perhaps he means it in the literal sense, too, especially when it comes to the time he had to use his legendary left jab on his idol. Holmes was in tears after his pummeling of Muhammad Ali in 1980, telling sportscaster Howard Cosell that he was upset because he respected Ali so much. Holmes displays a clip of that interview on his namesake website to this day. He points to Ali as one of the reasons why he continues to indulge autograph-seeking fans who clamor for his attention when he's out and about. “I did the same thing with Ali when I was coming up,” says Holmes.
Ask Holmes to name his greatest achievements, and he doesn't hesitate: family and career. Even now, he relishes being able to silence naysayers. “I'm a seventh-grade dropout, but I have a PhD in common sense,” he says. He also has a 19,000-pound reminder of his status as one of Easton's most prominent success stories. In 2015, the city unveiled a (some might say long overdue) statue of Holmes in Scott Park. It depicts Holmes in his fighter's stance, throwing a punch. The dedication drew hundreds of people, and included speeches and tributes from friends, local leaders and even a few of his former adversaries in the ring. But amidst the celebration and jubilation, Holmes remembers taking a quiet moment for himself to think of his mother, who passed away in 2001. “I told my mom, ‘We did it. Nobody thought we were gonna do it, but we did it.'”
