The kid never had a chance. Not really. Buster Mathis Jr. was born into boxing royalty, but an old pretender like Otto von Habsburg will tell you that royalty doesn't always get crowned. Buster’s taller, stronger old man was a contender, fought the greats—Ali, Frazier. But Junior, he was just a chubby kid from Grand Rapids trying to follow in dad's footsteps. Problem is, those size 14s were some mighty big shoes to fill.
Buster Jr. started out a 300-pound teenager who couldn't hack it in football or basketball. Boxing was the only sport that'd take him. His dad didn't want him to fight. Figured the kid would quit like he quit everything else. But Buster Jr. stuck with it. Dropped 100 pounds and started winning. Won the Michigan Golden Gloves. Turned pro in '91 and ran off 12 straight wins.
He wasn't a puncher though. Only three KOs in those first dozen fights. But he was slick, had good head movement. Learned from his old man. Both of them trained in the Cus D'Amato style—peek-a-boo defense, bob and weave. It worked for a while. Buster Jr. even won the USBA heavyweight belt in '94, beating Olympic champ Tyrell Biggs.
But you could see the writing on the wall. Buster Jr. was small for a heavyweight, only about 220 pounds when he was in good condition, not that he always was. And he couldn't crack an egg. In boxing, if you can't punch, you better be able to take one. Buster could slip and slide with the best of them, but sooner or later, they all get hit.
The beginning of the end came in '94 against Riddick Bowe. Buster was doing alright, bobbing and weaving, making the big man miss. But in the fourth, Bowe caught him and Buster took a knee. While he was down, Bowe hit him again. Should've been a DQ win for Buster. But the ref and commission let it slide. Fight was ruled a no contest. That's boxing for you. The rules only matter when they want them to.
Buster kept plugging away. Defended his USBA belt. Set himself up for a shot at the big time—Mike Tyson. This was Tyson's second fight after getting out of the slammer for rape. Buster knew what he was getting into. Said in Ted Kluck’s excellent book Facing Tyson that he'd been planning for it his whole career. Get in, fight Tyson, make some money, get out. Smart plan. Boxing isn't a career, it's a means to an end.
But life doesn't always cooperate with your plans. A few weeks before the Tyson fight, Buster's old man passed away. Diabetes and kidney problems—he was taller than his son but really thick around the middle, too. They were close, Buster and his dad. Best friends. Used to train together before the gym opened, spend hours talking strategy. Now the kid was on his own.
The fight got pushed back. Tyson's camp claimed a hand injury. Some say they used Shaq's X-rays to sell it. Who knows. Boxing's always been more theater than sport. Eventually they set a new date—December 16, 1995 in Philadelphia. Night before the fight, Buster went to Tyson's hotel room. Just to chat, see how he was doing. Two fighters, no entourages. Tyson was cool about it. Wished Buster luck, told him to enjoy himself. Different guy when the cameras weren't rolling.
Fight night came. Buster slipped and slid, making Tyson miss. Relaxed in there, not scared like Bruce Seldon, Frank Bruno, and the other tomato cans Don King lined up for Iron Mike to knock down. He even had Tyson a little frustrated. But you can only avoid the monster for so long. In the third, Tyson caught him with an uppercut. Lights out.
After the fight, Tyson hugged Buster, whispered "You know, we're still brothers." Brothers? Maybe he meant it, maybe he didn't. But that's boxing for you. Beat a man senseless, then hug it out after. All part of the show. Better to be it than see it, I guess.
That was pretty much it for Buster Mathis Jr. He had one more fight and lost his USBA belt to good-looking, no-talent white hope Lou Savarese, who was built up for his own world title shot. Then Buster hung up the gloves. Twenty-six years old, 21-2 record, three no-contests. Got out with his wits and some of his health. Smarter than most in this racket.
Looking back, maybe Buster never had a real shot. He was good, but not great. Skilled, but not special. In boxing, that isn't enough. You need to be exceptional in all areas to make it to the top, like reigning world champ Oleksandr Usyk. Or you need to be able to take a punch like nobody's business, the way Ray Mercer or James Toney could. Buster was neither. Just a kid trying to live up to his old man's name.
But give the guy credit—he knew when to walk away. So many fighters hang on too long, take too many punches. End up punch-drunk, broke, or both. Not Buster. He got his education, got his degree. Says he does youth outreach now, tries to keep kids off the streets. Uses boxing to teach discipline and self-respect. The sport giveth and the sport taketh away. Tide goes in, tide goes out.
You wonder sometimes, what might've been. If Buster's old man had lived, if he'd been there in his corner against Tyson. If Buster had a little more pop in his punch. If he'd come up in a different era, when technique mattered more than raw power. But that's boxing. No use dwelling on what-ifs.
Buster Mathis Jr. was a throwback. Learned the old-school way, the D'Amato method. Slip and slide, make them miss, then score your points. It's a dying art now. Every heavyweight wants to be a slugger, stand in the pocket and trade bombs. Buster was trying to keep the sweet science alive in an age of brute force. He was a famously weak hitter—Butterbean, a friend of his, brought up Buster when I asked him about great fighters who lacked a signature skill—though even Bean conceded he had everything else going for him.
Those pillow fists are why he never quite made it to the top. Boxing was changing, and Buster was a man out of time. He fought smart, fought clean. Didn't have the killer instinct you need these days. When he lost, he took it hard. Bawled in the locker room. Felt like he let people down. That isn't how fighters are supposed to be anymore. Now you’ve got to drive engagement with the phony trash talk and mean mugging on social media. Act like you don't care, even when you do.
You look at Buster's career, and it's hard not to see the shadows of what came before. His old man fought the greats, but never quite got there himself. Junior followed the same path but stopped a little ways earlier. Good, but not quite good enough. That's okay. Not everyone's cut out to be champ. Some guys are destined to be contenders, to push the greats to be greater. Without the Buster Mathises of the world, how would we know how special the real champions are?
Buster's out of the game now. Doesn't like to dwell on it much. Says if he dies, he doesn't want to be known as the guy who fought Tyson. Wants to be remembered for something else. Building a skyscraper. Running for Congress. He hasn’t done either of those things. Dreams big, Buster does. Always has.
But for those of us who remember, Buster Mathis Jr. will always be a fighter. Not the greatest, not the worst. Just a skilled guy who stepped into the ring and gave it his all whether he was a svelte 220 pounds or a portly 280. A punch-the-clock second-generation kid who carried on his father's legacy, who tried to keep the sweet science alive in an age of brawlers.
In the end, that's all any of us can do. Carry on what came before. Try to add our own little chapter to the stories our moms and dads wrote. Buster did that. He may not have been a champ, but he was a contender. In boxing, sometimes that's enough. Sometimes it has to be.