In memory of "Big" Steve Felton coach of the Renegade Boxing Club
I have heard of « Big » Steve Felton’s untimely death, yesterday morning (Western European time) when Denzel Suitt got in touch with me for one of his literary endeavors. Denzel, that I had met at Steve’s house was a strong character who struck me for two reasons. In the basement, he pounded the bags like a man possessed and was hard to spar with. On the other hand, allow me the pun, Denzel was smart as hell. He had written an entire novel, which he showed me, that was clearly inspired by “Game of Thrones” but that you couldn’t dismiss as a mere imitation. The characters were intricate, the intrigue was elaborate, the style and vocabulary superb, there was a keen understanding of what the state power is. How did it come to this wandering kid — at times homeless, with little or no education as far as I knew — was a mystery. There was an impregnable fortress inside the guy, you couldn’t help but admire that. I had told Steve that reading the novel, I had been amazed by Denzel’s imagination and intelligence. Though ignorant of literary matters, Steve wasn’t surprised — Coach Steve had this street sense, or maybe sixth sense, of knowing on the spot who he was dealing with. He knew his fighters. Moreover, he knew who was smart and who was dumb within five miles.
Hearing of Steve’s death, I was shocked. This larger-than-life character seemed eternal. Hard to imagine Warner Avenue without him, his rumbling voice and wisecracks. And he was younger than me.
I had met him at a party in J.C. NJ, where I knew next to nobody, being a newcomer in the hood. There was this wide-shouldered guy with wild hair, but people in the vicinity constantly fussed with their hair, dreadlocked one day, braided the next, shaven skull the third, you name it, the hairstyle was considered an integral part of elegance in those streets. I noticed, however, another crucial detail about him. The top of his hands was covered with some kind of thick black leather, more of a rhino hide if you ask me, than human skin. I think my first line was: “You got a license for that?” He laughed and we struck a conversation. As I had guessed, he had been an amateur and a professional boxer. We exchanged boxing stories. In my youth I had gone to a boxing gym, after kicking heroin, in an effort to rebuild my health, strength and self-confidence. I was no champion at all, but my long arms often allowed me to stay away from trouble and counterpunch. The legacy was a passion for boxing that I shared with my pals, particularly for the boxing that the American Black has refined to another level from what was originally given to him by the British colonial power — sweet science indeed or even an art form, as dangerous as it is. My generation idolized Hagler-Hearns-Duran-Leonard. We also knew about the great ancestry: Sugar Ray Robinson, Monzon, Ali… It was a whole culture and a mild shock for Steve to talk to this white dude from another continent who reveled in it. Over the course of the conversation, he mentioned his basement, where he trained young amateur fighters. I asked him where it was.
A week or so later, I went down there. I had looked at a map and thought, well, take MLK, walk straight on for a while and then make a left. It was late fall, night came in early. I was back from working at the downtown library, black jacket, blue shirt, grey slacks, in perfect nerd fashion, on top of which I carried my computer in its case. Walked along all sorts of groups for a long time, thinking I’m not walking back, or else someone is going to figure I got lost. You don’t want that. A while later, I finally hit the basement. Walked down a flight of steps to bump into a tall heavyweight named Prince that I befriended later, who was quite taken aback seeing me. I explained my purpose and he called Steve who came over. The Coach sized me up, not hiding his surprise, and asked: “How did you come here?”, I answered that I walked it. He looked at me with a stone cold stare and said: “Don’t you ever do that again. From now on you take the bus, you hear me?” He wasn’t joking either, and I did what I was told. I took the bus and climbed down at the stop next to the graveyard on the other side of Warner, to walk down the street, where, I believe, good old Steve had put in a word for me: “This white dude comes to my house”. As generous as he was, nobody messed with him.
From then on, a strong friendship developed between me and him and the rest of the lads, as we hit the bags together three nights a week at least. Anyone of them could have kicked my ass, I was wide aware of it, but it wasn’t the point. Steve didn’t allow me to spar with his fighters, afraid for my brittle cracker bones. Occasionally, he sparred with me, gentle enough to let me work, constantly slipping punches, dodging, ducking, feinting, cutting me short, making almost impossible for all my range, and counterpunches to hit the target, in spite of his large frame. A couple of times, he threw a little one in my ribcage. Each time I was limping for a week.
However, Steve noticed that I religiously did my exercises after each nine -round session on the bags. He soon ordered the fighters to do it with me and I became the informal conditioning coach of the legendary basement of the Renegade Boxing Club. Few titles could have made me prouder. Push-ups and abs to strengthen them, stretching and flexibility to limber them up. Then he asked me to help him in the corner on fight night. Over time, I developed a strong bond not only with him, but with the fighters who trusted me, saw me as Uncle Thierry working alongside Daddy Steve. I think it was a measure of his generosity to me as well as his care for his fighters. They constantly had weight problems, unable to resist any greasy food, asking me about diet. I think Steve sensed that building a rapport with these younger dudes filled a vacuum in me, childless man, and it did — right up to Denzel and his novel. Each boxer was a work in progress for Steve and me, we’d discuss it endlessly. That’s what set him apart in a rough environment, generosity and smarts. He wanted first and foremost to keep these guys away from the street and teach them to work, not to repeat the same mistakes he had made in his troubled youth. He didn’t look for glory, being a modest man in his own way. I listened to his war stories, thinking damn, I would have died.
For all his simple language, Steve was a very intelligent man, he caught on quickly anything I would say, curious about life abroad, France, England, Russia. He was an astute chess player, sitting hours on end before his computer until Marilyn, his sweet as an angel and tough as nails wife, would complain: “Steve, join the party!” Coach Steve assured me that one day he would beat the computer. I don’t know if it happened, but I wouldn’t put it past him, he had brains.
Since it was his home, I also forged a bond with his family. Everyone was used to see me coming and going. I remember one night I was in the kitchen, with Marilyn and her friend, a woman named Michelle, who left her kid there for daycare. I was staying away from them, all sweaty and funky after the workout, and we made small talk for about ten minutes. Going out into the street afterwards, I felt enraptured to the point where I asked myself “What’s happening to me after ten minutes of a banal conversation?” Well, in a mostly male environment, they provided the female vibe that was lacking everywhere else at that time. The soft-spoken Marilyn, nobody to mess with, was always nice and caring.
Then there was Steve Jr. with whom I got particularly close, after a Golden Gloves night, where I had noticed him vomiting in a trash can in some corner of the room. Overwhelming pre-fight tension. I just came over, gave him some water, and opened a window so he could breathe deeply. He went on to fight and knockout a much taller guy with a couple of booming rights, in which you could see the unmistakable Steve Sr. style. At a time when they had a feud, the sly old Steve would use me to communicate with his son. To some extent, it worked. When I later mentioned it to an old African friend, the late writer Alfred Dogbe from Niger, he told me: “Of course Thierry, when I want to talk to my father, I talk to his friends!”
At the time Coach Steve died last November, I hadn’t seen him in years, yet still thought of him and the people around him and the fabulous adventure it had all been for me. His teachings had saved me from a couple of bad encounters at night in other parts of the world. I had no news, had vainly tried to reach out a few years ago after hearing about a shootout on MLK avenue not far from their home. But their numbers had changed and I had no email for them. I spent the entire fall of 2024 in Russia, working on a journalistic book published in June 2025. I had spent a stint near the border, close to the war, where I learned what is an aerial bombardment. I would think of Steve in such situations, and a memory suddenly hit me at the time. Fifteen years earlier, as I was in Ukraine this time, I had called Steve from the headquarters of the Kiev’s Narcotics Anonymous, basically to say hello to an old friend. Right away, he wanted to make sure I was all right and offered immediately to send me a few hundred dollars. Of course, I said no, but that was the kind of man he was, always ready to help. Today we are all grieving. For all his sins, this was a great man, and we’ll miss him forever.
Rest in peace, pal.
Thierry Marignac, September 2025.
