Death of a fighter: Patrick Day loved boxing, but it killed him
“When the time came to say goodbye, I told Pat I loved him and I appreciated him,” Patrick Aristhene says as he remembers the moment before the machines were switched off and his best friend, the boxer Patrick Day, slipped away into death. Four days earlier, on 12 October 2019, Day had been knocked out in the last round of his 22nd professional fight, against Charles Conwell, in Chicago. He fell into a coma and the doctors soon knew they could not save him.
On a beautiful late December afternoon in Rockville Centre, near New York, with a low winter sun as gentle as the subject of our interview is hard, Aristhene recalls his final words in hospital. “I told Pat, ‘Hold it down that side and watch over everybody. I’ll hold it down this side till I see you again.’ I believe I’ll see Pat again. I believe the human spirit is powerful and, when we die, it goes on a journey. The Egyptians said it: ‘Death is only the beginning.’”
Many fighters have died in the ring, and there have been five boxing fatalities this year, but the death of 27year-old Patrick Day resonates. He was not impoverished or desperate. Boxing, far from being his only hope, was his choice out of many options. His father was a doctor and his mother an editorial assistant at the UN. Day was college educated and his intelligence was matched by his eloquence, charm and dedication to boxing as a super-welterweight (154lb) who had been ranked in the world’s top 10 by the IBF and WBC.
“Pat didn’t waste a moment of his life,” says Aristhene, a former Golden Gloves champion, “and he did everything with good intentions. We lived on the same block in Freeport [Long Island, New York] our whole lives and, as a kid, I could run to his house in seven seconds. Our parents are from Haiti and they put us together as babies. He was born in August 1992 and I was born that October. We both majored in food and nutrition and bounced most decisions off each other.
“Patrick was pure-hearted. He would ask me to take a second look at people I didn’t trust. Patrick would say: ‘Look at their heart.’ He encouraged me to give them another chance. There were times I’d say: ‘Pat, this guy is taking advantage of you,’ and he’d agree. I was the realist, he was the optimist. We balanced each other. Our last messages are right here.”
Aristhene opens his phone. “Here we go. Saturday October 12.”
We read the stream of messages that fateful day as they texted each other from Freeport and Chicago. After Aristhene wished him good luck against Conwell, Day wrote these words to his oldest friend: “Appreciate you and love you, my brother. Tonight I’m going to do my thang out there.”
Aristhene responded: “Love you man. I’m excited for the world to see what you got.”
He still felt a secret foreboding. “I was anxious because I had a dream the night before that somebody was going to get hurt bad. In the dream I was in Chicago at the fight. I’m trying to get through the crowd, saying: ‘Who won?’ A voice tells me: ‘Someone got knocked out bad.’ In the dream I couldn’t tell who it was. So on the night of the fight I had such pain in my stomach. I didn’t care who won. I just wanted Pat to be safe.”
The two Patricks fell for boxing as teenagers. The Days lived across the street from Joe Higgins, a former marine and firefighter who ran the local boxing gym. Higgins kept his garage doors open so the boys could see a heavy bag dangling from the rafters. He knew they would be curious and sure enough, when he was a skinny 14-yearold, Day crossed Buchanan Street and began hitting the bag. Higgins chided him – but only because he was slapping rather than punching. It was not long before Day and Aristhene joined Higgins at his Freeport PAL gym. The trainer promised Day’s mother, Lyssa, her son would learn many good habits through boxing.
Lyssa disliked boxing, but she knew Higgins was a good man. He was respected throughout Freeport. Apart from the hope he spread through boxing, he and his brother Tim had been among the first firemen who went into the burning Twin Towers on 9/11. Tim died, after saving many lives. Joe survived – but he carries the darkness of that terrible day in hidden corners of his mind.
Aristhene smiles when I ask if he and Day were intimidated by Higgins. “Coach Joe is only intimidating in the sense of discipline. When he was around, you didn’t say a curse word. You minded your p’s and q’s. To have him in the neighbourhood was good.”
Did he and Day realise Higgins was haunted by 9/11? “Pat and me would get a lift to the gym with Coach Joe. During those car rides, we began to understand the demons he’s still battling with. But it was only when Pat and I became men that we understood the trauma.”
Aristhene and Day revered Seanie Monaghan – a professional fighter from Long Island who was 11 years older than them. Monaghan was Higgins’s star boxer. He came to boxing late but reeled off 28 successive wins in front of a vociferous following. The light-heavyweight retired last April with a 29-3 record and his reputation as New York’s most popular fighter intact. “Seanie’s our big brother,” Aristhene says. “Pat loved going to the Long Beach boardwalk where you felt Seanie’s clout. If we told anyone there we boxed with Sean Monaghan they’d say: ‘Whatever you want is free.’ At clubs you just had to say Seanie’s name and you were in. Sean was a hero – and our friend.”
Monaghan, who is now 38, picks me up from Freeport station on a cold afternoon. His warmth fills the car and, despite his grief for Day, Monaghan makes our meeting feel natural. He only pauses when holding the keys to Higgins’s gym – a small blue brick building in the middle of a Freeport park. “I’ve not been inside since we lost Pat,” he says. “Coach Joe closed it for a few weeks and I’ve not been able to face coming back.”
Old posters, featuring some of Monaghan’s greatest nights in the ring and Day’s past fights, line the walls. The blue ring is empty. But, rather than being an ominous symbol of the place where Day lost his life, it feels like home. We sit on the ring apron as
Monaghan remembers his friend.
“Patrick walked in here around 2005,” he says. “I was 25 and he was this skinny kid. He always had a smile, very humble, a really pleasant kid. When Patrick first came to the track where Coach Joe made us run, I lapped him. Then, when he got older, I couldn’t keep up with him. He was smoking that track. Patrick fought at 154 to 160 [lb] and I was 175, but we sparred a lot. He was tough. I sparred beasts like Artur Beterbiev [the world’s most ferocious light-heavyweight] but Patrick was so competitive. He always tried to get me and he was fast.
“In the summer we opened the steel doors and people watched me and Patrick put on some shows. I sparred more with Patrick than anyone else. We ran the track together, did our gym work together, did everything together. He was a wonderful person who had such heart.”
Aristhene says something similar. “Pat had more determination than anyone I’ve met. He wasn’t good at sports like basketball. But his determination made him good at defence. He was so tenacious he always found a way to do well. At school his nickname was ‘Straight A Day’. He got straight A’s in everything. He wrote that nickname on his headgear and shoes.
“Pat was the golden child but I’d get into fights at school. I’d get suspended. Pat said: ‘You should think about boxing.’ But he lost his first three amateur fights. I’ll never forget we were in his kitchen making pancakes. He said: ‘Man, if I lose the next fight, I’m done.’ But he won, and won again. When Pat won the Golden Gloves I was like: ‘I got to get mine.’ How many Golden Gloves champions live on the same block like Pat and me? That’s testament to Coach Joe.”
Our reflections are interrupted by the arrival of Higgins. A strapping man, with a cap covering his bald head, he sounds exactly like a tough New York firefighter. But, as the man who introduced Patrick to boxing and worked the corner in every one of his amateur and professional fights, Higgins is grieving. He explains how, after he reopened the gym last month, he could not bear the thought of it being associated with boxing. Higgins resolved to turn it into a fitness centre. But, as the weeks pass and young men ask him to help them box, and even fight in next year’s Golden Gloves, Higgins has felt torn. He knows Patrick would want him to continue, and he reiterates how dark the park seemed when the gym was closed, but he still lives across the street from the Day family. It breaks his heart every time he sees Pat’s mother, knowing how much she hated boxing. How can he go on?
Did boxing help him to deal with the torment of 9/11? “There’s no doubt,” Higgins says. “I was diagnosed with everything. But I was a high-profile fire guy, a marine. You don’t admit that stuff. I know it’s stupid and today I counsel people – ‘Go get help.’ But going for help made me feel worse. Coming here every day is what helped me. The gym is a family but I’m closest to Sean and Patrick. Sean came here a few months after 9/11 when I was still dazed. Remember, Seanie?”
Monaghan nods. “You were in and out for a while …”
“I wasn’t always here,” Higgins agrees, “but Seanie kept showing up. I could tell he was serious about boxing and that helped me.”
Higgins smiles. “Then Patrick showed up. Seanie had such a positive impact on Pat because he is really kind. They sparred a thousand rounds together over the years. Patrick changed me too because I felt he would look at me differently if I got too angry and cursed. So I don’t curse no more. Seanie and Patrick were raised right, and they gave me a healing force with boxing.”
Patrick did not need to be healed. He was happy and full of light and hope. “Pat had no intention of going pro,” Aristhene remembers. “But the longer he stayed in the game, and kept winning, the competitor in him said: ‘I need to face the best in the world.’”
Did Patrick love boxing because it’s the ultimate test physically, emotionally and psychologically? “Exactly. That fact drew him in. In other sports you can shove the responsibility on to a team mate. But, with boxing, it’s all on you. You need discipline. You can’t be with your lady friends the way you want. You can’t eat the food you want. Early to bed. Wake up at dawn to run. That discipline is addictive.”
I travel across Long Island to interview Lou DiBella, Day’s promoter, at home in Sea Cliff. DiBella, a Harvard Law School graduate, has been in boxing for over 30 years – but Day’s death shook him. Ten weeks since the tragic fight between two boxers he promoted, he still looks stricken. “I met Pat