Thursday, Oct. 17, 2002 | 9:44 a.m.
He admits to being a mischievous kid.
"I was maybe eight or nine years old and I had my own gang," Doc Broadus says. "Back in those days they still had horse-drawn wagons that delivered milk door to door, and one day a week the people would leave their money for the milkman.
"We'd sneak around and take it."
There's a gleam in his eyes as he tells the tale, not that he's proud to have been a petty thief in the 1920s in Berkeley, Calif. But he is proud to be able to relay the story in the same manner he has lived his life: and that's without pulling any punches.
Whether deadly serious or merely conversational, Broadus has always spoken his mind. The result is a man who turns 83 years old Friday who wouldn't think of second-guessing his past or sidestepping an issue.
Few, if any, in the boxing community in Las Vegas are held in equitable esteem.
"I've never had a setback in my life," he said this week outside his long-time lair, the Golden Gloves Gym. "I've also never had to punch a clock or had a real job."
Yet don't confuse him with a maligner or a slouch. Broadus has worked in a number of capacities -- almost all of which were for the public's benefit -- and he continues to put in five days a week at the gym as a volunteer coach for amateurs and troubled youths.
He's simply a free spirit who's unencumbered by restraints.
"My primary purpose at this age is to get kids off the street," he said in his typical matter-of-fact style. "I do my best to make them feel wanted -- which a lot of them aren't, for whatever reason.
"I get them to set goals for themselves. I help them try to make something of themselves.
"When they come through the door, they belong to me."
He tackles these chores with workmanlike efficiency, bolstered by the knowledge he can make a difference.
Just ask George Foreman.
Broadus was working in the Job Corps near Fresno, Calif., in 1965 when he first came across Foreman.
"He was a big guy but he didn't seem to care about anything," Broadus said. "He was always getting into trouble and he was either going to get sent to the penitentiary, which was right across the street, or home (to Texas). I said to him, 'Why don't you pick on someone your own size?'
"Then I grabbed his arm and said, 'Let's walk and talk.' I never had a problem with him from that minute to this day."
Broadus introduced Foreman to boxing.
"He didn't show up for his first tournament, but then he finally got around to it," Broadus said. "He said, 'I'll give it a shot' and the rest is history."
By 1968 Foreman was an American hero, defeating Russia's Iones Chepulis for the Olympic gold medal in Mexico City and waving a tiny U.S. flag during the ceremony. He was on his way to becoming a heavyweight champion, en route to a number of memorable fights that reached a crescendo with a stunning 10th-round knockout victory over Michael Moorer Nov. 5, 1994, at the MGM in Las Vegas.
Whether as a trainer or simply as a friend carrying a water bucket, Broadus was always part of Foreman's slight entourage.
"I knew what I was doing with him," Broadus said. "He won all his amateur championships without any sparring at all, but right before the Olympic Trials I had a chance to get him some sparring with Sonny Liston.
"Liston's man said, 'If it gets too rough for him, we can always stop it,' but George handled himself fine that first day. But I made it a point to not say anything afterward, and I let George make the decision on whether he wanted to continue or not.
"He did, and he stayed four or five weeks. It was a good sign."
Good signs have followed Broadus throughout his life.
His father sent him to the corner gym when he complained, at age 8, that he was the smallest kid on the block and, therefore, subjected to ridicule and bullying.
Two years later, in 1929, he had his first look at Las Vegas, traveling by train "by myself, with no sign of discrimination" -- from California to North Carolina, where he would live. He would be back in Las Vegas, for good, 40 years later.
In the interim he fought professionally, building a 19-1 record as a welterweight before tiring of being an active participant and turning to coaching.
"Chappy Blackmon (who trained Joe Louis) once told me, 'Son, watch what I do,' and I learned a lot from him," Broadus said. "Same thing, a little later, with Eddie Futch.
"Those two men -- and another one who taught me judo and karate -- is where I got all my inspiration."
Charles Broadus, as he was born in 1919, was well into his trainer's role when he picked up his now ever-present nickname. Tending to a fighter who had an ugly blister on a thumb, Broadus grabbed a scalpel and lanced it for his startled patient.
Despite a lack of formal medical training, he was "Doc" from that day on.
"Boxing's one of the greatest sports in the world, and it's one of the most rotten sports in the world," he says. "Just look how poorly the sport's run, or how most trainers don't know the proper fundamentals or how to treat a fighter.
"I'm involved in boxing because I want to do it and because I want to make a difference in some young peoples' lives. It's my calling.
"I'm proud to say I trained a gold-medal winner and that I took him off the streets to do it. It allows me to stick my chest out."
He enjoys having a birthday and promises there will be many others.
"Maybe I can find another George Foreman," he said. "One thing about it, I'm going to be here trying. I'm not going anywhere for a long time."
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