A Champion Forged by Fire

By Bill Botham
Photography by Rob Forbes

Mid night . He awoke with a start. Saw nothing. Heard nothing. Yet, he sensed something and that something was not right. Just 20 years old and considering himself the man of the house for the past eight years, Ray got out of bed to check on his brother, sister and the two foster children his mother and step-father (both working the night shift) had left in Ray’s care that evening. Warily – not knowing if it were a something or a someone - he stepped softly through the darkened house, senses heightened, heart racing, breathing hushed; still hearing nothing, but knowing that it was there and it did not belong in their home. Working his way down the hall, the first place Ray checked was the boys’ room. Peeking around the doorway, Ray first saw it. And instantly knew it wasn’t good. Fire. His little brother’s bed was on fire – empty, but on fire - and the flames were lapping up the wall towards the curtains. Without taking the time to turn on a light, Ray raced to the kitchen where he saw the two foster children filling a pot with water to try to douse the growing flames. Ray joined them and quickly the water was thrown onto the fire, but that only seemed to enrage it. Ray sprinted back to the kitchen to retrieve the fire extinguisher, but it wasn’t where it belonged. Quickly, he made a mad dash to the den where his younger brother, Eric, was still sleeping on the couch. Ray woke him with impassioned, but decisive instructions, “Go wake your little sister, take her and the boys and get out of the house. Hurry! I’m going to fight the fire while you do.” Ray continued to throw water on the fire to little avail and eventually located the family’s small fire extinguisher. It spat pathetically at the blaze and the fire raced upward from the top bunk and into the attic. Suddenly, everything went dark except for the dancing flames. The power was out in the house and Ray was surrounded by darkness, billowing smoke and an angry, growing fire. Vision was minimal. Heat and smoke were not. Ray’s lungs began to sear with the heat. Sensing the battle with the blaze was lost and knowing he had already sent the others to safety, he retreated to his own escape out a side door. In the home’s driveway, Ray found his brother and the foster children. But not his younger sister. “Where is she?” he implored! “I… I couldn’t get her,” came the reply from Eric. Ray’s mind raced. He had to go back into the house. But he couldn’t go back into the house. He couldn’t go back in because by the time he had escaped earlier he was already unable to breathe inside. The smoke was too heavy. It would only be worse now. He was a finely tuned athlete at the top of his game and if he couldn’t breathe in there… there was no way his baby sister could. He couldn’t go in, but he had to go in. It was a dilemma that seemed to take forever to play out in his mind, but in reality took only seconds. Thoughts of his mother trumped every other conflicting bit of logic in his mind. How could he possibly explain to her that he had left her baby girl in a burning building? There was no decision to be made; he had to go back in. Back into the fire. Back into the smoke where he knew he wouldn’t be able to breathe. Back for his little sister. With his mother’s voice in the back of his mind, Ray pushed back into the smoke-filled house. Naturally, the little girl had chosen to go to sleep in her mother’s bed, the master bedroom… at the far end of the hall. As Ray slipped into the hazy den he heard the first scream. It was not his mother in the back of his mind this time. It was his sister at the other end of the hall. She had looked out, seen the smoke and the flames intermittently shooting o u t of other doorways along the hall and, terrified, slammed the bedroom door shut. She continued to scream, her voice like a beacon to Ray. He was at one end of the hall and she was at the other. Between them, a lot of smoke and fire. The flames were darting in and out of open doorways, so, taking as few breaths as possible, Ray “played dodgeball” down the hallway to his mother’s bedroom. He called to his sister, opened the door and quickly grabbed her around the waist, tucking her under his arm, football-style. With the instincts of a boxer slipping punches, Ray dodged and picked his way through the fire, back down the hallway with his prize. He could see the finish line: the door to outside that he’d left open when he re-entered the house, but he was out of breath, unable to breathe. He couldn’t make it. He’d been in the smoke too long and somewhere in the living room he collapsed to his hands and knees. As he did so, he pushed his sister towards the open door, “go… run… get out.” Now his brother, his sister and the foster children were all safe. Ray had one more life to save – his own. Seconds seemed like hours and each breath seemed to set his very lungs on fire, but Ray crawled, dragging himself towards the door.

Today, more than seven years later, Rayonta “Stingray” Whitfield recalls vividly what he thought and felt as he crawled across that threshold to the front yard and safety. “It was the best fresh air I ever breathed in my life.” What he doesn’t recall, though, is how he finally got out of the house. He was belly-crawling across the floor, feeling weaker and weaker, believing he was going to die. He didn’t die though; he did make it out and now he can even laugh a little with everybody who asks the routine first question: “Why didn’t you just open a window and climb out with your sister?” Whitfield has an answer for them: “There’s not a lot of time for analysis and thinking in the fire; it’s all instinct. Just react and stay alive.” He knew he had made it in one way and instinct took him back out that same way. Sure, the window seems logical now…

If that was the toughest battle of Ray Whitfield’s life, it wasn’t the only one. In fact, less than a week later he would find himself tested by another kind of battle as other men fired punches at him, hoping to take away his dream. Ray is a boxer; one of the best. And “The Fire” couldn’t have come at a worse time. It was June of 2002, just a couple of days before Ray was scheduled to fly to Denver to compete for a National Golden Gloves Championship. The previous year, he had been the runner-up, losing in the final bout. He’d worked and trained tirelessly during the ensuing year for a shot at redemption, a chance at that final, elusive rung on the Golden Gloves ladder. Perhaps his conditioning – he was in peak shape only days before the tournament – played a part in keeping Ray and his family alive that devastating night. In return, however, the fire – and specifically the smoke inhalation – had likely ruined his shot at the title. He had been evaluated at the hospital and was told to “take it easy” for a few days. As a rule, “taking it easy” because of diminished lung capacity and function does not include: 1. Training for 3 or 4 fights in the next seven days; 2. Climbing aboard a jet; 3. Sitting in the pressurized cabin for three and a half hours; 4. Taking up temporary residence in Denver - the Mile High City – with its inherent high-altitude thin air and 5. Squaring off against the very best amateur boxers in America in the Golden Gloves Tournament of Champions. Yet, with his mother’s urging – “We’ll take care of things here; you go do what you’ve been training to do” – that’s what Ray did; except he was forced to cut back on the training portion of the non-take-it-easy formula because of his inability to catch his breath while working out. That, of course, is the cardinal sin for a boxer… not training during the days immediately prior to a big fight, or in this case, fights. With all of that aligned against him, fate had one more surprise for Ray. After landing in Denver just two days removed from the fire, he and his coach, Tom Moraetes, were headed from the airport to their hotel when they saw a sign. It was not a symbolic sign; it was a very real roadside sign and it cautioned, “Beware of Fires.” Yes, 2002 was the summer of wildfires in Denver and a smoky haze hung over the entire area. It was so bad, that at the same time Ray was battling his own blaze in Hephzibah, 40,000 residents had been evacuated from the Denver area. He had literally stepped from the fire into… well, more fire. It was not what his lungs, still suffering from the smoke inhalation a couple of days before, needed. He began to question the wisdom of his decision, thinking to himself, “I went from a house that was on fire to a whole city that’s on fire!” He could smell the smoke the instant he stepped off the plane and it took him back; filling his head with the unforgettable smell, his stomach with nausea and his mind with the all-too-fresh memories.

Ray’s first bout of the competition was in 48 hours and, with Coach Moraetes, they decided to try a little light training each day. Even if they had wanted to try more, Ray physically couldn’t. Not surprisingly, when the bell rang for the first round of his opening bout, Ray “didn’t have it.” He started slowly, consciously worried about pushing himself against the doctors’ recommendations. He worried that if he went all-out, he would be out of wind before the threeround fight was over. Admittedly, he wasn’t himself. In the second round, pride began to push to the forefront and Ray fought back, maybe even surging ahead. In the third, he took control. And when the bell rang to signify the end of the bout, the first thing Ray did was… throw up. Right there in the ring. In front of everybody. He’d held it in as long and as painfully as he could, but no longer. The smoke had won, but so had Ray. He would win his next bout a couple of days later and, regaining strength and form with each passing day, went on to win the finals. Rayonta Whitfield, in one of the most gratifying victories of his boxing career, was the 2002 Golden Gloves Light Flyweight (106 lbs.) National Champion. The house fire had destroyed his collection of boxing trophies, but he had the biggest and best one out there with which to start his new collection. “I strapped it into the seat beside me on the airplane flight home,” Whitfield recalls. “While we were in the air, the pilot made an announcement that the champ was on the plane and all the passengers burst into applause. It was worth everything I went through.”

More than seven years later, Whitfield has been through still more. He is, after all, a boxer. And a boxer’s life, by its very nature, is filled with a lot of ups and downs. He has turned professional, has fought and won (23 times); fought and lost (once.) The lone loss was in a fight he should never have taken, but he was offered a shot at the champ… on the champ’s turf and terms. The fight was in Argentina, where they don’t have a boxing commission. The referee and officials were selected by the champion’s camp. “It was stacked against us from the moment we got there; we just didn’t know in advance,” Whitfield recalls. “Never should have taken that fight with those terms,” offered Moraetes. The referee inexplicably stopped the fight in the tenth round and sent Whitfield back to his corner, a loser for the only time in his professional career. “Most of boxing’s lessons are learned inside the ring,” Whitfield explains reflectively. “But some of the biggest actually come outside of it. We’ll know better next time… we won’t be desperate for a shot at the champion. It will be the right place and the right time.” Coming off an October win in Houston, Whitfield and his promoters are looking at 2010, and possibly Augusta, for a world championship bout. The pay television services like Showtime and HBO have Whitfield on their radar, too. He is a flyweight now, fighting at 112 pounds. Most of the champions and top-ranked contenders at that weight are from Mexico or Asia, so the possibility of a marketable American champion is appealing to the networks.

And make no mistake, Whitfield is marketable. He is a quiet, thoughtful and polite family man. “Yeah, I hear the people say ‘he’s so nice’ or ‘he sure is low-key’ and they’re right. I pretty much am always the same.” He has two children of his own now and lives, naturally, just around the corner from his mother (they rebuilt her home on the same lot) in Hephzibah. “As long as my family and I are happy, I’m alright.” He is as unpretentious as a champ can be. He drives himself to interviews, training sessions and, yes, the grocery store. There are no posses for Whitfield. “It doesn’t take all that.” There is no bling adorning his wrists or fingers. “You don’t have to show off.” Only a single gold chain with – no surprise here – a golden glove hangs around his neck. Though the boxing spotlight shines brightest in Las Vegas, Atlantic City and other casino towns, Whitfield chooses to live in Hephzibah and train at the Augusta Boxing Club. “I love the CSRA. This is my home; my family’s home. It’s the right pace of life for me and my family. I can keep my focus and perspective here.” How much of a family man is Whitfield? When asked about his goals, he spoke only of “putting my kids in good schools, building a nice home and getting married one day.” He had to be prodded to speak of his goals in the sport of boxing; after all, that’s his job; family is his life. He is an unassuming “regular guy.” Whitfield’s hobbies include restoring old cars – he’s finished several – and fishing. His primary fishing buddy is Mike Tyler, co-host of the “Kicks Morning Wake Up Krew” on WKXC radio in Augusta. The pro boxer and the country music deejay have gone deep sea fishing together half a dozen times and more frequently locally. When talking about the experiences, Whitfield seems almost as proud of his fishing exploits (just get him started talking about the 15-pounder!) as he is of his ring successes.

Boxing has given Ray Whitfield a lot and he recognizes it. He makes a good living. His family is well cared for. He’s been able to travel extensively. For instance he has fought in the aforementioned Argentina, along with Brazil, Ireland, Turks & Caicos, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico (more than a dozen times) and throughout the United States. So he wants to give back. He knows that boxing allows him to indulge his hobbies with old cars and deep sea fishing trips. So, while he is nowhere near finished in boxing – he’s only 28 - he wants to give back to the sport and community that have benefited him. He supports several local charities and philanthropic endeavors. His favorite is the CSRA Humane Society – “I love my dogs; all dogs…all animals.” He’s their favorite, too. He has posed with his pets for their charity calendar and has served as a judge several times for their annual pet costume contest. But his most regular way to pay back his sport, and those who trained him, is in the ring. Ray is a champion with a world title challenge on the horizon, yet he spends his afternoons training the young boxers at the Augusta Boxing Club on Walton Way. Remember that 5:00 a.m. wake-up mentioned earlier? (4:30 if he’s in the final weeks before a fight.) That’s so that he can get his own training and conditioning done before the children start coming into the gym after school. That’s when Whitfield transforms into “Coach Ray.” He coaches advanced, intermediate and beginner classes four afternoons and evenings a week. Coaching came naturally for Whitfield, even in the midst of his own very active boxing career. “I’ve been doing it (coaching) so long,” he explained. “I was 18 years old and just wanted to share with my teammates what I had learned when I was at Nationals (competitions.) So it was really just natural to help the kids. I relate to what they’re going through; I’m still young and competing.” While the students get the benefit of learning from a master craftsman who doesn’t just tell them “this is how I used to do it,” Whitfield gets as much from them. “I love to train kids… I know how coaches feel, win or lose; he did something that you taught him. That’s all a coach can ask for and it’s so rewarding. If he just slips a punch like we practiced, he’s a winner no matter what. Right now, at their ages, the important thing is that we’re keeping them active, off the streets and out of trouble even if they don’t turn pro.” Whitfield knows most won’t turn pro. Similarly, he recognizes that some don’t have the patience or work ethic to train and wait for their shot. The challenge, he says, is to teach a lesson, but not break a youngster’s confidence. Regardless of where they fall on the boxing ability scale, they all like to listen to Coach Ray, especially when he’s telling stories of his travels, his opponents and his victories. They miss him when he’s away at training camp in the final weeks before a fight. “Sure, they miss me,” he laughs. “I know it by the number of emails and text messages that I get. They tell me everything that goes on in the gym – good or bad. And I know that they’re in good hands. There are other great coaches and several dads looking after them, teaching them. And, of course, Tom (Moraetes) is always around and it’s his gym. He’s the disciplinarian. I’m the nice guy. I tell the kids to keep building, keep moving forward… you’ll win.”

Whitfield’s advice for the younger boxers sounds like a lesson that he has taken to heart, himself. From the potentially devastating summer of 2002, he has kept building. His boxing skills and talents. His home life and family. His experiences and friendships. His investments back into young people and the community. He’s kept moving forward. Upward through the boxing rankings, climbing the challengers’ list until he topped it. Then he took a small step back in Argentina. Instead, though, he looks at that as a stumble forward because of all he learned from it. He’s better in and out of the ring because of it. He became the NABO champion and now he continues to train for, and to dream of, a world title opportunity. Yes, following his own advice he keeps building, keeps moving forward. And, just like the culmination of his own advice, he’ll win. In fact, he’s already won. He’s a genuinely nice guy in boxing – a sport that sorely needs one - and that alone makes him a winner. But to truly grasp what kind of a winner Ray Whitfield is, ask his mother, his brother, the foster kids, his own children and family, his coaches and trainers, his fishing buddies, the people and pets at the Humane Society and all of the young boxers in his classes at the Augusta Boxing Club. Or better yet, ask his baby sister. Oh, yes, he’s a winner by any measure. You see, Stingray has already been tested by the fire; now just bring on the champ.