While doing his Sharkey-Fitzsimmons research, Shelton uncovered a letter that Earp wrote in 1909 to old Tombstone pal Bat Masterson —another legendary Wild West figure who improbably spent the final three decades of his life as a sportswriter. Earp insisted that he never would have thrown the San Francisco fight for money because he was flush at the time.
"At the time of the Fitzsimmons-Sharkey fight, I owned and raced a stable of thoroughbreds on the tracks at Oakland and Ingleside," Earp told his old associate. "Take my tip, Bat, and never referee a prizefight. It's a thankless job, and you're sure to make enemies no matter how fairly and honestly you may act."
Jamie Peachey
Shelton with Queenie, a black Lab
he considers a dear friend.
Jamie Peachey
The controversial 1896 San Francisco prizefight that involved Wild West legend Wyatt Earp has captivated Chris Shelton.
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Shadow Dwellers: A Series
What's the one image you took away from the Tucson shootings? We thought so. That mugshot of Jared Loughner is haunting. And for the world, it has become the face of mental illness in Arizona. Here, we know that's not true. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but the story of what it's like to be mentally ill in this place cannot be told in a single photograph.
Tens of thousands of seriously mentally ill people live in Arizona. Some of them look just like you.
Other stories in the series:
Tucson's Cafe 54 Is the Real Face of Mental Illness in Arizona, Not Jared Lougher, by Amy Silverman
Phoenix's Most At-Risk Homeless Find Their Way, Thanks to a Team of "Navigators", by Paul Rubin
Meet Raven, a Homeless Man with More Community Than Many of Us Have, by Paul Rubin
Why Did the Arizona Department of Corrections Put a Mentally Ill Man in Cell with a Convicted Killer?, by Paul Rubin
Jan Brewer's Response to Jared Loughner: Slash More Than 35 Million in Services from an Already Beleaguered Mental Health System, by Paul Rubin and Amy Silverman
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Chris Shelton doesn't buy it.
Dennis Taylor of ringsideboxingshow.com says he holds Shelton's research abilities in high esteem.
"His passion and obvious enthusiasm for history makes it entertaining for us and for the audience," Taylor says. "With boxing stories, you hear them a million times, and you tend to accept them as true. Christopher doesn't take anything at face value, which makes him somewhat unique as a boxing historian. Unique is actually a good word to use to describe him as a person, and I mean that in a good way."
This is not the story of a man who "beat" serious mental illness.
Yes, Chris Shelton has found an unlikely niche in this life by immersing himself in the nuances of boxing antiquity.
But Shelton's substantial day-to-day problems are not about to vanish because of vigorous intellectual activity and attention to minute historical detail.
He has to check in regularly with his caseworkers at Magellan Health Services, the firm that contracts with Maricopa County to provide behavioral-health services for thousands of local residents. He goes on and off psychotropic drugs, saying, "I don't like being a zombie — being numb to things — the weight gain, the sleep problems. It's not a win-win situation for me."
Shelton tries to make do on about $600 a month in disability income provided by the state of Arizona. The government pays two-thirds of his rent because of his mental disabilities, and he remits the remaining $192, which leaves him with about $100 a week to cover the rest of his needs.
He eats many of his meals for free at a nonprofit day center called CHEEERS (yes, with three Es). Near 19th Avenue and Indian School Road, the center also provides the seriously mentally ill with a safe haven, self-help programs, a computer with a working web connection, and a nice pool table.
CHEEERS is funded mostly by a contract with Magellan.
Shelton lives in disarray at a west Phoenix apartment complex that won't be featured in Better Homes and Gardens. Actually, his funky second-floor unit would be a better fit on an episode of Hoarders.
Shelton spends hours there squatting in front of his laptop computer (a gift from friends) on his living-room floor. The Internet connection at the complex is sporadic, which frustrates him endlessly.
Several large cardboard boxes that are overflowing with his boxing research, books, and memorabilia dominate the living-room décor.
The word "messy" is a gross understatement, yet Shelton's apartment is devoid of furniture, other than one rickety lawn chair. He sleeps (though not much, he says) on a floor mat in what passes as a bedroom.
"This isn't exactly living the good life," Shelton says, "but it's my life."
He is a gracious host, happy for the company and the opportunity to discuss boxing history.
"It's what keeps me going," he says. "This thought has grown in me that you have to have a goal and a dream, and that sometimes it takes years to get there."
Those precise goals and dreams are difficult for Shelton to define.
"You remember The Truman Show?" he asks, referring to the existential Jim Carrey movie about an ordinary guy who discovers that he's a prop in a popular reality-TV show, and subsequently tries to escape into the "real" world.
"I can relate to the Carrey character, who wants to open that door and sneak out and face a real future, no matter what it brings. I am more than just some diagnosis. I can have a life, too."
Shelton is quietly proud that he has turned himself into a legitimate boxing historian — a contender, if you will — with a sense of purpose that had eluded him for a lifetime.
Still, his day-to-day struggle remains lonely and difficult.
Chris Shelton answers directly when asked whom he counts on most in his life.
"I have the most interesting support system you can imagine," he says. "I have people out there who want the best for me. I know that."
First, he names a young woman he describes as his "sister," a medical student from Turkey named Ceren Sultan Altay, whom he befriended on Facebook several years ago.
(Ceren seems to be a real person. She sent New Times an e-mail, writing, "I never accept 'friend' requests from strangers, but Chris had sent me a kind message and asked me about Turkish rock groups. Then, we started to talk about Turkish rock singers, bands. I realized that Chris knows lots of things, and I wanted to benefit his experiences. We shared many things with each other. We know our lives deeply. We have never seen each other, but he is the biggest supporter of me. When I am about to give up, he immediately makes me refocus on the things I have to do. When I go into some difficulties, I just share [them] with Chris because he also shares some points of his life and says, 'Tomorrow, you start again. Never give up!' I'm a strong girl standing on her feet, but sometimes I need a stronger person to be supported by . . . Chris is a saver and supporter for me.")