Front page story taken from The Hartford Courant on Mother's Day - May 1996
The downstairs den in John Scully's house is a shrine of boxing memorabilia. Scores of posters and photos, including Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard and Mike Tyson in poses with Scully, are plastered on every inch of the walls. A table to one side is covered with trophies, medals and gloves commemorating conquests. There is no mistaking it, this is the home of a fighter. A few steps up to the living room, Carol Scully lies propped up in a hospital bed. Beneath the covers, her thin torso barely creates a rumple. Both legs have been amputated from just above the knees. Moving her head side to side is difficult and, at times, painful, from surgery to remove a cancerous growth on her neck. There is an IV in her left arm dripping antibodies to combat infection. She is hooked up to a catheter, permanently. There is no mistaking this is the home of someone locked in conflict with serious illness. "Pound for pound, the toughest fighter in the world," John Scully said.
Carol Scully will not be in Leipzig, Germany, May 25 when the younger of her two sons will fight Henry Maske, the International Boxing Federation light heavyweight champion. This is no different than any of his fights. She never goes. She loves him too much. Carol Scully will wait for the videotape and for the souvenir miniature bell her Johnny always brings back from his trips. "He's a good son," she said. "Everybody should be so lucky. I've never heard anybody say a bad word about John. That pleases me." Pausing to find the breath to continue, she added, "He gets it from his mother."
Scully, 28, lives at home with his mother and his brother, Jerry Jr. Carol and Jerry Sr. have been divorced for years, but he moved back in to help care for her when she became ill nearly a year-and-a-half ago. A nurse comes in every day for two hours to help. But it has been John who has kept a vigil throughout her ordeal. It was he who carried her into the emergency room when she woke up one morning and couldn't get out of bed. It was he who bought her a television set for her convalescence. It is he who brings home ice cream sundaes for her after he finishes training at the gym. The only time Scully is not home with his mother is when he's at the gym or, away for a fight, as he is now.
Scully left May 5 to train in Tampa, Fla., before heading to Germany May 16. Whenever he leaves town, he makes arrangements to ensure his mother is properly attended. "I couldn't have made it without him," she said. "I'd fall apart." The Scully home also includes four dogs and the occasional visitor. Andy Sarkozy, a fighter from Bethlehem, Pa., stayed there recently. He also accompanied Scully to Tampa and Germany. "John is an unbelievably special kid," said Zarkozy, 25. "His mother has problems -- it doesn't take a genius to figure that out -- and he's here with his mother. That's amazing. He's got kind of celebrity status, and he could be living on his own having a blast. Instead he's living here with his mother. His mother needs him, and there he is. It's rare to say -- especially for a fighter -- but it's rare to see a kid like John. He's got this heart of gold."
Scully said his mother's resilience has kept the situation from becoming depressing. "My mother is a real strong person," he said. "She's never complained once. I try to make it as comfortable for her as possible. She's not sad and crying all the time," Scully said. "She's always, `What's happening? What are you doing today?' You wouldn't know she's bedridden. You just think she's there watching TV. Her being that way makes it kind of easy. I don't leave the house, `Man, look at her, she's miserable.' I leave the house, she's like, `Talk to you later.' She's made the transition so smooth, it's not something you think about. It's almost like you don't even notice it. It's like she had a tooth pulled. I go; she can't. It sounds like a regular thing. But that's something she can never do again for the rest of her life."
Scully remembers the day his mother started having problems. It was Jan. 11, 1995. He was leaving for Detroit that day to spar with James Toney. That morning his mother awoke at 7 a.m. to prepare for work at The Travelers. But she couldn't get up; her legs refused to work. Scully took her to the hospital, but the people in the emergency room couldn't find anything wrong. So he carried his mother home again, and took a later flight. He figured she'd be OK in a day or so. But late that night she had to be taken back to the hospital. The next morning, Scully called home and learned his mother had had surgery on her neck to remove the cancer that had invaded her spine and caused paralysis in her legs. Carol Scully spent the next seven weeks at Hartford Hospital with her head held in place by a 'halo.' Then she was moved to a nursing home, where she spent six months. She had to be rushed back to the hospital at least twice, once when she developed pneumonia and once when she stopped breathing because of a problem with her medication. After she left the nursing home -- actually, she fled with the help of her family -- Carol Scully developed gangrene in her left leg. It was removed just before Christmas. A month later, the same thing happened to her right leg.
"There were a lot of times it seemed like it was `it,' " John said. "But they pulled her through, and she pulled herself through." Carol Scully has spent precious little time feeling sorry for herself. "You always say, `Why me?' I was always very healthy, active, on the go. But the cards were dealt this way." She's even been able to appreciate the humor in her travails. The episode at the nursing home was like some scene from a movie. The Scully family -- all four of them -- attended a meeting with the nursing staff to discuss her release. The home argued the family would not be able to provide for all her needs. The Scullys said they could. About two minutes into the meeting, John's older brother, who is the black sheep of the family, banged the table, jumped up and said he'd heard enough. He took his mother in her wheelchair and rolled her out of the room, out of the building and into the parking lot, all the while the staff of the home followed behind, protesting, "But sir. But sir."
The Scullys never looked back. Nor do they look too far ahead. If there is a long-term prognosis for Carol Scully, she either hasn't heard it, refuses to believe it, or isn't saying. "What comes, comes," she said. Although his mother's illness has come as his boxing career is approaching a zenith, Scully has shown no sign it is affecting him professionally. If anything, he's performed better. He earned the shot against Maske because of an impressive performance, albeit a losing one, against Michael Nunn last December. Scully, who has a ring record of 36-5 with 19 knockouts, admits fighting Maske in his homeland will be tough. He'd like to bring back the International Boxing Federation belt and maybe he will. His mother would like that, but it's not very important to her. She just wants her son to come home safely. And Carol Scully wants one more thing from him: ``Don't forget my bell from Germany."
"The wait in the dressing room before a boxing match - that last hour - could be enough to strip a man that never boxed before of whatever pride, desire and heart he thought he had."
- John Scully, April 2002
