Pernell “Sweet Pea” Whitaker was one of the sport’s pound-for-pound best fighters for around a decade, and during that time, persistent trouble made his career a beautiful mess.

Some styles of fighting leave nothing to the imagination. There is no disguising crunching, tearing, grinding and smashing, and a lot of those fighters wouldn’t want to hide their style anyway, because intimidation only makes their job easier.

The variety of styles is one of the things that makes boxing what it is, however. The most physical and taxing styles can often be undone with speed and precision in a sport where outcomes lean heavily toward those who have done their homework.

Whitaker fought with a unique style built on frustrating opponents. Late trainer and manager Angelo Dundee said of Whitaker: “[He] has a peculiar style. I’ve never seen a left-hander fight like he does.”

Early in Whitaker’s career, gym mates gave him the nickname “Pete.” His ability to befuddle foes with his strange movement and snipe them with his strange southpaw angles led to cheers of Pete being one sweet fighter. Cheers of “sweet Pete” were misunderstood at some point, and his nickname became Sweet Pea.

Well before he turned professional, Whitaker immediately polarized crowds, forcing half to ooh and ahh as the other half howled in disgust. He won more than 200 amateur contests and became a national Amateur Athletic Union champion, but Cuban amateur great Ángel Herrera handed him a defeat on the international stage, at the 1982 Amateur World Championships. One of Whitaker’s first major victories and the first time he earned serious attention was by avenging the loss to Herrera and earning gold in the '83 Pan-Am Games.

Whitaker was one of the obvious picks to win gold in the 1984 Olympics, albeit in part due to Cuba’s decision to keep out of the Games. The Norfolk, Virginia, stylist nevertheless confirmed the odds and captured a gold medal, which drew the attention of Main Events, one of boxing’s leading promotional companies.

Perhaps inspired by the outcome of the 1976 Olympics, during which a stellar U.S. Olympic boxing team experienced profound success, trainer and manager Lou Duva formed Main Events with his son Dan in 1977 and quickly began holding fight cards at the Ice Palace in New Jersey.

The Duvas took aim at the 1984 team’s standouts like Evander Holyfield, Mark Breland and Whitaker, all of whom medaled. They turned professional as a team in late '84 on a Madison Square Garden card dubbed “Night of Gold,” and within three years Whitaker held a minor title at lightweight.

Unfortunately for Whitaker, weighing in under the welterweight limit compounded his salesmanship problems. Historically, crowds care less about fights the lighter they scale in, and lack of a serious knockout punch just made it worse for Sweet Pea. Main Events responded by stacking their cards, often featuring multiple stars and having the ones who weren’t fighting still attend.

Main Events also hooked Whitaker up with Hall of Fame trainer George Benton, a 1950s and '60s Philadelphia middleweight who trained alongside great fighters and knew how to spot and nurture talent.

Whitaker never seemed to care about anything behind the scenes. He believed in his incredible skills and knew few in the world could actually get their gloves on him. And he rode his belief all the way to unifying the lightweight title and winning world titles in three other divisions.

In his first 12 years as a professional, Whitaker forced his way onto the pound-for-pound lists of even the most reluctant pundits by persevering through bad decisions that favored opponents while fighting an establishment that actively pushed against any appeal to Black Americans. He even plowed forth as his team crumbled around him amid discord, first between Benton and Lou Duva, then among different wings of the Duva family. The tragic climax of the drama was the painful death of Dan, Lou’s son, in 1996.

At 37-1-1, Whitaker could have easily been undefeated. An early loss to Jose Luis Ramírez was outright criminal robbery, and the draw came against Julio César Chávez in a fight nearly everyone thought Whitaker clearly won. He did struggle, though, especially when he decided to campaign against visibly larger welterweights in the early 1990s. The quick feet slowed down with weight and age, and Whitaker was forced to trade more often.

In April of 1996, Whitaker tangled with undefeated Wilfredo Rivera in front of an exclusive crowd of about 1,000 at a casino on the Caribbean island of St. Martin and barely kept his WBC welterweight title by split decision. The champion claimed a case of the flu dragged him down, and writers naturally questioned how much longer Whitaker could fend off welterweights at the age of 32, particularly with Benton long gone and replaced by Lou Duva and Ronnie Shields.

Nobody expects a fighter to admit to ducking an opponent, but not every claim of being willing to fight anyone carries the same weight. Consistently taking on the biggest challenges while fighting above his natural weight with little punching power made Whitaker believable. Agreeing to rematch Rivera with stars like Oscar De La Hoya and Felix Trinidad standing by only added to Whitaker’s folk hero status.

Dino Duva, younger brother of the late Dan, led Duva Boxing during this time and signed the Whitaker-Rivera rematch for the James Knight Convention Center in Miami on September 20, 1996, 30 years ago today. Future world champions Joel Casamayor, Zab Judah, Randall Bailey, and Diosbelyes Hurtado were also slated to appear on the card, plus hard left-hooking heavyweight David Tua.

The primary danger behind not being able to hurt an opponent is the immediate one, where keeping a fighter from punching you is simply tougher with less deterrent. But even some of the greatest fighters’ work can be undone by observers who simply do not appreciate nuance. A bunk knockdown derailed Whitaker’s early momentum when he stumbled over Rivera’s feet.

Whitaker usually angled around his prey and poked holes in their guard, and he had more difficulty doing that against Rivera. But one of the most underrated aspects of Whitaker’s game was his body punching. He caught numerous opponents off-guard to the bread basket, and against Rivera it guided the Puerto Rican challenger toward vengeance via low blows.

In round 6, Rivera lost a point for repeatedly targeting Whitaker’s nether regions before a stiff left hand to the mouth sent Rivera down hard, making for a 10-7 round. Whitaker also went right back to work dismantling the challenger, coasting to what should have been a wide decision. Instead, the judges all scored the fight close enough in rounds that it would have been another split decision without a big sixth round for Sweet Pea.

Rivera told reporters another decision slipped through his fingers, though writers were firmly on Whitaker’s side this time. The champion ignored the scores, saying: “I don’t even know what the scores were, but I knew I dominated the fight ... and it will go down as one of my best performances.”

Dino Duva and Lou Duva sang Whitaker’s praises to the press, even though more familial trouble loomed and the fighter stood on the edge of a career precipice. There wasn’t much more for Sweet Pea to either give nor prove, and within two years his reputation as a pound-for-pound fighter would be in pieces.

Maybe Whitaker knew what awaited him as he acknowledged his own greatness in what would end up being his second-to-last career win. He’d used up most of his stardom, and there were personal demons and welterweight monsters around the corner.