He was a burly, compact 5-foot-8 and fought in a low crouch, attacking his opponent’s body in a swarming, relentless style, launching blunt-force punches that seemed to rise from the canvas. He stalked forward in the ring, with “blows bouncing off him like ball bearings off a battleship,” as Associated Press sportswriter Whitney Martin put it, absorbing punches and pain like few fighters before or since. He wore a hooded leopard-print robe into the ring and fought with a stubborn, inelegant fury that led him to be called the Bronx Bull. Brash and glib, ruggedly handsome and charismatic in a dark, dangerous way, he was one of the leading fighters of the 1940s and early ’50s, when boxing was among the nation’s most popular sports. A daughter, Christi LaMotta, announced his death in a Facebook post but did not provide additional details.Įven by the standards of boxing, LaMotta was a rough-hewn specimen, a product of the New York slums who learned his brutal trade on street corners and in reform school. He was 95, according to his family, although some records indicate he may have been a year older.
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