The final flight of the unbeatable Rocky Marciano

They called him: “The Brockton Blockbuster”, the Brockton bomber. In Ripa Teatina, a charming village in the province of Chieti from which Quirino Marchegiano departed to seek his fortune in America (and his first stroke of luck there was meeting his future wife, Pasqualina Picciuto, who was born in the Benevento area, in San Bartolomeo in Galdo), they have chosen to commemorate him with a beautiful sculpture that immortalises his unbeatable record: 49 wins in 49 fights. The town also pays tribute to him through the annual “Rocky Marciano Festival”, organised by the local council and directed by the talented Dario Ricci.

On 31 August, 57 years ago, the man who had once been the undefeated champion had a commitment in Iowa. He was due to attend an event organised by a friend’s son. Afterwards, he was due to attend a party to celebrate his upcoming birthday. Indeed, the champion had been born on the first day of September 1923. The following day, 1 September, he would therefore have turned 46. He boarded a small Cessna alongside his friend Frankie Farrell. The pilot was Glenn Belz. Unfortunately, bad weather, poor visibility and the pilot’s limited experience led to the tragedy. Rocky Marciano died on 31 August 1969, aged 45, just a few hours before his 46th birthday.

The small light aircraft was a Cessna 172H, registration N3149X. The aircraft had taken off from Chicago Midway Airport at around 6 pm, bound for Des Moines, in the state of Iowa. In French, ‘Des Moines’ literally means ‘of the monks’. The name derives from an ancient local river, named by the French: ‘La Rivière des Moines’, in honour of the Trappist monks who lived in the area. Today, it refers to the capital and largest city of the state of Iowa, in the United States. The champion (whose birth name in Brockton was Rocco Francis Marchegiano), although he had not held the title since 30 November 1956 – when Floyd Patterson had beaten Archie Moore to claim the vacant crown – was unanimously known by that name. And he could not have been called anything else, given that no one had ever been able to beat him. He had decided to retire from boxing on 21 September 1955 after defeating Archie Moore (once again) in New York. The decision was not a difficult one; Rocky wished to dedicate more time to his family and his financial position was secure. For at least four years, he never considered a comeback—something almost taken for granted when it comes to boxers. He kept himself busy with a variety of pursuits, all of which brought him satisfaction.

One day, in late June 1959, he saw Johansson beat Patterson and felt the seed of doubt take root. “If this is really the standard of the best,” he must have thought, “then I could put my gloves back on and go well beyond 50 consecutive wins.” He returned, in the utmost secrecy, to the gym. He stayed there for a month. It would have been the comeback of the century; television networks and promoters would have showered him with gold. Instead, he decided not to jeopardise the immaculateness of his record. And he carried on with the life he had chosen to live after boxing. A few months before that fateful 31 August 1969, he had been the subject of an experiment which, thanks to AI, we would now consider routine. But in 1969, it was revolutionary. Marciano and Muhammad Ali – who, having served his ban for refusing to be conscripted into the army, was looking for a chance to reclaim the world title – took part in a film project called The Superfight. It was an exciting idea: to pit the undefeated ‘Greatest of All Time’ virtually against the champion of the new generation. It would be as if a trailer were to propose a showdown between Ayrton Senna and Kimi Antonelli (which wouldn’t even make the news today…).

The two were filmed sparring for a few rounds, after which a computer would simulate the outcome of a hypothetical bout. That was one of the last images of Rocky Marciano that we have. Let’s go back to 31 August 1969. Weather conditions along the route were deteriorating. It was not simply a cloudy night: a storm system was developing in the Des Moines area and visibility was severely reduced. At 8:50 p.m., give or take a minute, pilot Belz contacted Des Moines air traffic control. He reported that he was in the vicinity of the city but could not make out the runway due to poor visibility. The air traffic controller provided him with a radar position to help him determine his location. At that very moment, Belz spotted a visual reference: the lights of Newton, a small town east of Des Moines. He therefore reported that he would head for Newton and land there.

He was looking for an alternative airport because he was unable to orientate himself visually. The problem, however, was the pilot, not the aircraft. The investigation following the air crash established that Belz had a total of around 231 flying hours, but only 35 hours of night flying, and, crucially, he did not hold an instrument rating. This means that his training was not adequate for what he was facing that night. A witness named Coleen Swarts reported seeing the Cessna emerge from the clouds at an altitude of approximately 30 metres above the ground. The pilot then appeared to pull the aircraft back up, causing it to climb back into the clouds. The aircraft reappeared shortly thereafter, this time turning and nosediving toward the ground. Moments later, it struck a large oak tree standing alone in a pasture. The investigation into the disaster established that, in the final moments, the pilot had lost his spatial orientation; he had undertaken a manoeuvre beyond his level of experience and ability, had continued the flight in adverse weather conditions, and had lost his spatial orientation in the final moments. The Cessna struck the oak tree with tremendous force. On impact, one wing was torn off. The wreckage continued to bounce and slide until it came to rest in a stream bed. There was no fire. But the impact was so violent that everyone on board died instantly. Marciano was still only 45 years old; by today’s standards, he would have been little more than a young man.