
In the annals of boxing history, the name Monte Masters may not sit alongside icons like Muhammad Ali or Sugar Ray Leonard, but for those familiar with the bizarre, gritty world of 1970s and 1980s regional boxing, Masters is a name that conjures up chaos, charisma, and controversy. From his troubled upbringing to his tangled ties with infamous boxing figure Pat O’Grady and the rogue World Athletic Association (WAA), Masters’ life was a whirlwind of fistfights, hustles, and high drama.
Monte Masters was born in the late 1940s in the rougher parts of Oklahoma, a region known more for wrestling than pugilism. From an early age, Masters gravitated toward fighting. He was a brawler, a natural scrapper who lacked refined technique but had guts, power, and a chip on his shoulder. He turned pro in the early 1970s, often fighting in dusty local venues, barnstorming across the Midwest in small-time cards that paid little but built his reputation as a wildman in the ring.
Unlike more polished fighters, Masters’ approach to boxing was visceral. He swung with reckless abandon, absorbed punishment like a sponge, and was as likely to swing after the bell as before it. His reputation grew not just for wins, but for the mayhem that followed him into every venue—backstage brawls, arguments with promoters, and more than a few drunken tirades.
Masters’ life changed—some would say unraveled—when he met Pat O’Grady in the late 1970s. O’Grady, a boxing promoter with a flair for self-promotion and a tolerance for bending the rules, saw in Masters both a kindred spirit and a promotional opportunity. O’Grady was infamous in boxing circles for his controversial handling of fighters, shady matchmaking tactics, and a loose interpretation of boxing commissions’ rules.
The two men hit it off immediately. Masters was the perfect canvas for O’Grady’s ambitions: a gritty, white-knuckle brawler with no fear of losing and no concern for how it happened. Under O’Grady’s guidance, Masters began to appear in more and more far-flung, questionably sanctioned bouts, often against overmatched or underprepared opponents.
It was also during this time that Masters’ fights increasingly became sideshows—more spectacle than sport. He was billed as a “dangerous outlaw,” and he leaned into the role with gusto. His entrances were theatrical, his post-fight rants unfiltered, and his record, though padded with wins, became more irrelevant than ever.
By the early 1980s, Pat O’Grady had decided that the traditional boxing organizations weren’t giving him or his fighters enough respect. In response, he created the World Athletic Association (WAA)—a self-made boxing sanctioning body with no recognition from legitimate commissions but plenty of ambition.
Masters quickly became one of the WAA’s poster boys.
He was billed as a “WAA Champion,” though who he fought and where these fights took place were often ambiguous. Some bouts had no commission oversight; others were seemingly invented. Yet with O’Grady’s promotional genius and Masters’ willingness to fight anyone anywhere, the illusion was sustained. Belts were handed out, records were inflated, and Monte Masters was, for a time, a world champion—at least according to the WAA.
The WAA’s antics reached a peak when O’Grady tried to secure television exposure and national recognition for his fighters. Masters was trotted out on regional TV broadcasts as a “top contender,” despite his reputation for unpredictable behavior and suspect opponents. Some insiders even claimed that fights were staged or fixed, though proof was never conclusive.
Monte Masters’ lifestyle off the canvas was as wild as his performances inside the ropes. He lived hard—drinking heavily, bouncing from town to town, sometimes disappearing for months. There were arrests, rumored bar fights, and at least one brief stint in jail following a scuffle at a casino boxing event in Reno.
As the 1980s wore on, Masters’ body began to betray him. Years of punishment took a toll, and his once-formidable chin began to crack. The fights got uglier, the crowds smaller, and even O’Grady, whose own career would end in disgrace and legal troubles, started distancing himself from the chaos.
By the late 1980s, both the WAA and Monte Masters had effectively vanished from the boxing landscape. The WAA folded under scrutiny and ridicule, and Masters retired into obscurity. Some say he took up work as a trainer at a small gym in Tulsa. Others claim he wandered the highways, living out of motels and reminiscing about glory days that may or may not have ever happened the way he remembered them.
Monte Masters will never be inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame. His record was padded, his titles unofficial, and his fights often sketchy at best. But his story reflects a certain truth about boxing during its wilder years—a time when regulation was loose, promotions were built on charisma rather than credibility, and fighters like Masters could, through sheer audacity, become something more than journeymen.
His relationship with Pat O’Grady and the WAA stands as a monument to a bizarre era in boxing where imagination often outweighed legitimacy. Together, they carved out a shadow world of belts and bravado, showmanship and sham, and in the middle of it all stood Monte Masters, the outlaw champion of a forgotten federation.
For all his flaws, Masters remains a cult figure—a symbol of what boxing was and could never be again. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly how he wanted it.
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