The CBZ Newswire

by Jason Keidel

In the basement of the Hard Rock Café, in the belly of Times Square, Richard Schaefer and Golden Boy Promotions hosted a press conference announcing the eternally anticipated rematch between Bernard Hopkins and Roy Jones Jr. on April 3 in Las Vegas.

The press sat under faux chandeliers as a large movie screen repeated flashes of the fighters’ greatest hits to the beat of James Brown’s classic, “The Big Payback.”

Lost in the loop, however, was Jones’s latest knockout loss to Danny Green. It’s understandable if you don’t know Green, because you never will. Also absent from the reel was the reality of biology. Jones is 41; Hopkins is 45.

Even at his age, Hopkins (50-5-1, 32 KO’s) has defied logic, gravity, and time. He puts those of us who just breeched 40 to shame, leaving us to timidly assess our love handles. In a land that preaches second chances to a largely ignorant populous, he slugged his way from ex-con to boxing immortal. He doesn’t drink, smoke, slap women, or any other thing that garners bold ink from Page Six. Simply, he deserves everything he has.

Jones (54-6, 40 KO’s) has fallen earlier and faster. Once a middleweight with Matrix maneuvers and the power of a heavyweight, he has lost all resemblance of his former brilliance. Word is that he’s not hurting for money, so it must be the addiction to flashbulbs and nostalgia that keeps him around.

Hopkins was a classic (what you may call boring) fighter – hands always up, an impenetrable defense, a little rough stuff on the inside, patient as a leopard. Bill Parcells keenly said that you are what your record says you are. By that dictum, Hopkins is arguably the best middleweight in history. This fight won’t change that, no matter the result.

These men are authentic legends. They’ve had the talent and the belts to ensure their bronze busts in varied Halls of Fame. What they either don’t understand or don’t care about is the world’s collective frustration over this bout not occurring a decade ago.

Jones won their lone fight in 1993, and they haven’t fought since. They blamed each other for that and everything short of global warming.

The press conference was billed as a debate between the men, with Melvina Lathan (chairwoman of the New York State Athletic Commission) and ring referee Wayne Kelly acting as mediators. Jones and Hopkins answered scripted questions with largely scripted answers.

Jones burst into amateur rap – a career he once tried without similar success. He addressed Hopkins as “Big Head” for the duration of the event.

“Big Head got it in his mind,
That his career is better than mine.”

Asked what this fight would be like, Jones said, “It’s like those jeans you tried on twenty years ago and the still fit. Mine fit even better now.”

”Those pants are outdated,” Hopkins retorted. “Bellbottoms with pinstripes. This is 2010. We don’t wear those now.”

After the debate the media jackals jumped the stage, clawing for quotes. I asked Jones why, in this woeful economy, should we dig deeper into our thinning wallets to buy this fight on pay-per-view. “Ever wait 17 years for something?” he asked. I said that I hadn’t. “Floyd Mayweather got a million buys in a recession when he fought that Mexican kid. This fight is bigger than that.”

I then asked him if he indeed knocks out Hopkins would he retire. “I don’t think I’ll retire, but I’m definitely knocking him out.”

I could have asked Hopkins the same questions and gotten the same lies. I respect the man too much and walked out. But not before talking to Bon Vivant himself – Bert Sugar. He didn’t know me, and he didn’t care. He just loves to talk boxing.

I asked him if anyone pimping this fight understood the fan’s frustration. “They (Hopkins and Jones) are selling their names,” he said, his iconic cigar dangling from his right hand. “People will want to be a part of that. Just as people went to Shea Stadium to see Willie Mays stumble in the outfield. It’s still an event.” Sugar is a breathing boxing archive, so he’s probably right.

A weathered 1974 Moto Guzzi motorcycle sags under two lights just outside the auditorium. The bike, once owned by Billy Joel, is one of many relics promoted by the Hard Rock Café. It is Golden Boy’s job to sell you two more this April for $49.95.

Two lovely young ladies in tight stretch pants and cut-off “Tecate” t-shirts sauntered about. They circled the press every few moments, perhaps to distract us from the dim realities of two middle-aged men living on reputation. Perhaps the girls, like the combatants, were trying to feel important for one more hour.