SWEET AS EVER
George Gigney discovers how Colin Mcmillan is doing 25 years on from his world title win
NINETEEN-NINETY-TWO was a big year for Colin Mcmillan. In May of that year he outpointed Maurizio Stecca to become WBO featherweight champion of the world. Two weeks later he married his wife, Sue, and shortly afterward they bought a house together in Chadwell Heath, not far from where he grew up in Barking.
It is in that same house, more specifically in the brightly decorated living room with its sliding doors opening out to a lovely garden, which backs on to stables where horses can be seen grazing, where we both sit 25 years later.
I would say that Colin cracks a smile as he watches an intruding bee idly buzz around the room when I bring up his win over Stecca, but the 51-year-old seems to be perpetually smiling or chuckling. He oozes contentment, and rightly so; on that night a quarter of a decade ago he looked phenomenal, befuddling and outclassing the reigning champion.
“It was great because as a kid you always dream of becoming a world champion,” he says.
“With Stecca, it was quite even, a lot of people thought he would win, a lot of people thought I would win. He had a real good record (44-1 at the time), a very good boxer. He was the Olympic champion [in 1984] and he won the Val Barker award for the best boxer of the tournament. My dream had always been to go to the Olympics, like [Sugar Ray] Leonard and [Muhammad] Ali, get the gold medal and go pro. But I lost in the national finals. So when I fought Stecca, it was an opportunity to put that wrong right, to get my Olympic gold medal in a funny kind of way.
“He was very accomplished, I’d seen him fight before, but on the night I was so up for it. I was motivated and felt like it was my big moment. I boxed well and always felt like I was in control.”
Just 26 at the time, Mcmillan found the world at his feet. Big fights against the likes of Paul Hodkinson and Naseem Hamed were touted. He was set to make a lot of money and become a household name – but in the deep waters of top-level boxing, things rarely go to plan.
Colin was matched with Colombia’s Ruben Palacios, a former super-bantamweight title challenger who had 11 losses to his name and was not expected to be too much trouble.
“It was difficult because mentally I wasn’t really up for it. Everything that had happened before, getting married, the world title, buying the house, and I was expected to beat Palacios,” he explains.
“We were also looking at the big fight at the time, which was myself against Paul Hodkinson, who was the WBC champion at the time and he’d beat me in the amateurs so it was a big, big clash. I was fit, but mentally I wasn’t there for that fight.”
After seven rounds Mcmillan was ahead but not impressing. The dazzling skill shown against Stecca was muted, the speed lacking slightly. In the eighth, Colin threw a left hook, ➤
I HAD TO REBUILD AFTER THE INJURY BUT IN RETROSPECT YOU CAN SEE I WAS NEVER THE SAME FIGHTER”
Palacios ducked underneath it and came up fast, wrenching Mcmillan’s shoulder out of the socket. His left arm dangled uselessly by his side and the fight was stopped – he had lost his title.
The loss came in September of 1992, souring what looked like it would be the greatest year of Colin’s life. When he discusses it now, there are no signs of bitterness, no regrets. His relaxed body language doesn’t change and the undeniable joy in his voice – which is endearingly tinged with a slight lisp – is unaffected.
“I had to rebuild my career but in retrospect you can see, I was never the same after the injury,” he muses. “I had a couple of operations on it but it was never the same. It was a psychological thing as well. You know that it’s not 100 per cent, so you can’t afford to miss with the left hook, and at the same time your opponent knows you’ve got a weakness as well.”
I tentatively bring up the remainder of his career, to see if the memory of his immediate loss to Steve Robinson or the stoppage defeat to Paul Ingle in 1997 – which led to Colin’s retirement – dredge up any difficult emotions. After all, when you mention his name in boxing circles the response will usually be something along the lines of: ‘Good fighter. What a shame about the injury, he could have gone on to be special.’
Still nothing. Not even a wistful sigh of reflection over what could have been. That’s not to say the losses didn’t hurt – of course they did – it’s just that Mcmillan doesn’t appear to carry any of the baggage many retired fighters do, especially ones who were hampered by injury.
“The Paul Ingle fight, at the time we were trying to negotiate for the Naseem [Hamed] fight. I wasn’t too worried about Ingle, and I was looking beyond him,” he admits.
“He came in, very hungry, very fit and he was continual pressure. He boxed very well. After that fight – and I still feel it now – I had a lot of ability, but I didn’t have the stomach to go through what I call the jungle. In the jungle, everybody’s there trying to get out, fighting to get out, everyone’s hungry and it’s so hard to mentally go back to that state for little money, putting your body through it. I always said that once I call it a day, that’s it.”
To understand his sereneness, you need to go back to the beginning. He achieved enough A and O Levels to go to university and was taught the importance of independence by his parents. After his exemplary amateur career, he wanted to do things his own way as a pro. “You watch people like Muhammad Ali and then Sugar Ray Leonard – and he was one of the first people I saw. Initially, all you want to do is become champion, you don’t really worry about the money and everything else, it’s just the sport. You want to go out and emulate guys like Leonard and Ali. When you get a bit older, you think ‘OK, this is a business. From that point you start looking at people, like Charlie Magri, Terry Marsh, and I spoke to them and heard about their experiences and that’s when I realised, fighters – even champions – don’t make loads and loads of money. In my head I wanted to make sure I’d have more control. So I looked at what was in my best interest and fortunately Terry Marsh, when I spoke to him, told me to do it and manage myself.” Unfortunately, the British Boxing Board of Control wouldn’t allow a young professional to manage himself for the first year of his career. So, Colin was managed by Marsh for his first four fights before they parted ways and Mcmillan became the captain of his own ship. With his friend Jonathan Rendall, a writer and broadcaster, used as an unofficial adviser, Mcmillan became one of the first British professionals to make a real success of being his own manager.
YOU REALISE FIGHTERS – EVEN CHAMPS – DON’T MAKE LOADS OF MONEY. I WANTED MORE CONTROL”
“As a self-managed fighter, you don’t have to do everything yourself, you’ve still got to be able to delegate and let people do things so you can concentrate on the fight, but ultimately you’ve got to make that final decision and you’ve got to know everything that’s in place,” he says.
“You don’t want to be blaming other people if something goes wrong. Even now, every decision I’ve made I can live with it because it all came down to me.” And there it is; the explanation. Mcmillan called the shots himself, so there is no bitterness and no regrets. He has a beautiful family – complete with Indy, the Labradoodle, who frequently tries to join in on our interview – and achieved great things in the sport, becoming British, Commonwealth and world champion, even if he did have the potential to do more.
He is also the only fighter, retired or otherwise, who asks me more questions than I ask him. He is genuinely interested in my background and story, and my views on certain fights and fighters. He was mightily impressed with Errol Spence against Kell Brook and sickened by the flack Kell received for pulling himself out of the fight due to a broken eye socket. If he were involved in Anthony Joshua’s career, he wouldn’t change a thing and he is a big fan of the Watford giant.
After he retired he helped manage numerous fighters, including Audley Harrison, but has now moved away from that side of the game.
“When I worked with Audley, he perhaps took it a bit too far – wanting to have control and do things on your own. But it’s about trying to control your destiny,” he says. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, but be aware of everything around you and realise you only have one career. Managers, trainers, promoters, have long careers, and we’re just on their conveyor belt.” For the past 10 years he has been delivering boxing programs in schools and five years ago he set up a local boxing academy. He has his own agency, which deals with sponsorship, he helps sort the accounts of his sister’s company and he owns his own portfolio of property investments. He also just launched a new boxing product – Box-weave – a simple, pronged attachment to a heavy-bag which can be attached and detached with ease. The premise is that, when attached, you duck and roll under the prongs as the bag moves, while you’re punching. It’s an idea Colin had around a year ago and after making several prototypes, the product has been finalised and is available online, as well as in Sugar Ray’s equipment store in Brentwood. In short, he’s keeping himself busy. When he first set out, Colin wanted to leave the sport – which so often takes more than it gives – better off than when he entered it. Talking to him in his home, it’s clear he achieved that and more.
“It’s a hard sport. So many champions haven’t done well, but I’ve done alright. I had a great career, met some good people.”
EVERY DECISION I’VE MADE I CAN LIVE WITH IT BECAUSE IT ALL CAME DOWN TO ME”