By Eric Jorgensen

Scott LeDoux, "The Fighting Frenchman", was a rough, tough, 6'2", 220 lbs. heavyweight contender in the late 70s and early 80s, who knew his trade, came to fight, and who always gave the fans their money's worth. In a 10-year professional career, he fought the best the heavyweight division had to offer at a time when it was as good as it has ever been, compiling a record of 33-12-4 (21 KOs). That record, impressive enough all by itself, is a bit deceptive, however, as most observers agree that 4 of his "losses" (to Dino Dennis, Johnny Boudreaux, Ron Lyle, and Gordie Racette) were flat-out robberies, as were 2 of his "draws" (with Leon Spinks and Ken Norton).

Recently, I had the opportunity to meet Scott (over the telephone) and to interview him about his career, what he has been doing since he retired from the ring, and his thoughts on the state of boxing generally. As you read the interview, I'm sure you will find, as I did, that Scott is a bright, witty and thoughtful individual with many insights to share concerning the sweet science; a class act all the way around.

Eric: Maybe we could start with your giving me brief overview of how it was you first got started in boxing.

Scott: I was a 17-year-old freshman in college at the University of Minnesota, Duluth, which is a Northern branch of the University. I played football up there and, in those days, football ended in late October.

In November, a guy named Jim DeJarlis asked me to come box with him. He was a big, tall basketball player from Northern Minnesota. I said "I've never boxed", and he said "neither have I, but I've been working out at this gym and I've got no one to box with and I've got a fight coming up in a couple of months." I said I'd give it a try. A basketball player, how tough could he be, you know? So, I went down there and, gosh, he just jabbed my head off, drove me crazy. I got so frustrated that I kept going back every day. I really started to enjoy it; I enjoyed the competitiveness of it, and came to really embrace the challenge of learning the technique of how to slip inside and throw punches and stuff with a guy like that. DeJarlis ended up winning that first fight by a knockout but he never fought again. He retired. It was really very funny -- I thought that probably should have told me something right there. [Laughs]

I ended up having my own first fight about a year later in a tournament, which I ended up winning. It was pretty exciting, but I understood why DeJarlis was so challenged. It was such a rush and there is so much fear prior to a fight, you know -- the unknown, wondering what this guy's got and what he's going to do and the fear of getting hurt. All those things go into it. I don't think fighters like to admit the fear factor very much. You know, they're all "no, I'm okay". Well, I always told people I was afraid and scared to death up until 5 minutes before the bell rang. With about 5 minutes to go, though -- and in most cases I was the main event because I was a heavyweight -- they would knock on the door and say "5 minutes to go!" . . . that's when I lost my fear . . . it was too late, too late to be afraid anymore.

Eric: So did you quit football right away in order to take up boxing full-time?

Scott: No, I stayed with football too. That was my Freshman year and I played two more years. I started as a Junior both ways, played offense and defense. I was a pretty good football player. I enjoyed myself, I really did. But, then I went into the Army in 1969. I didn't box while I was in the Army. I got out of the Army in '71 and went back to the gym that fall and started boxing again as an amateur.

Eric: Where were you stationed while you were in the Army?

Scott: Fort Lee, Virginia. I went in as a new golfer and came out with a 4 handicap. [Laughs]

Eric: No kidding, that's terrific.

Scott: If I had re-enlisted I could have played golf forever. What a great job.

Eric: I never got below a 12 handicap myself, so I'm impressed.

Scott: I have been playing so badly the last few years 'cause I've been so busy with work. You have a job and it just really screws up your golf game. Then, last year, I really got into lifting weights and that made my game even worse. I went from and 11 handicap to a 20 last year. I just played awful. My game -- I describe it as above reproach or beneath contempt.

Eric: Back to your early career, here: How'd your parents take it when you announced you were going to take up boxing full-time?

Scott: [Chuckles.] They were not excited about it. My mom was really not excited about it, and my dad kind of shrugged and said "do whatever you gotta do". Of course, mothers, they don't want to see their kids get hit at all. I don’t think she ever did see me fight. She would come to the fights but she would never watch. She'd be out in the hallway. She couldn't stand it. The only fight I think she watched the last couple rounds of was the Norton fight, and that was only because someone from my family went to get her saying "you've got to come in and watch this, he's kicking Norton's butt!" She watched the last couple of rounds of that one.

Eric: I really thought you were gonna get him in the last round of that fight.

Scott: In actuality, I did get him. If you watch the tape, you can see that he was over the top rope, which is a knockdown, and the referee should have stopped the fight but he didn't. He choked and that's just the way it is. There's nothing you can do about that. But, if you read the rule book, any time the ropes are all that's holding a fighter up, then that constitutes a knockdown. He should have counted Norton out right there. But that’s okay.

Eric: I've got your record here in front of me. You turned pro in 1974.

Scott: February 4, I think it was. Art Pullens wasn’t it?

Eric: That's exactly right; February 4, Art Pullens KO 3. Ran up 12 straight wins and 9 knockouts coming out of the gate.

Scott: There was Floyd Cox, Steve Patterson, Larry Penniger was like the 5th fight. 6th or 7th fight I fought a kid named Tom something from Oklahoma…

Eric: Tom Berry.

Scott: Yeah, Tom Berry. I fought Lou Rogan in there and Ron Draper.

Eric: Then you ran into Cookie Wallace in early '75.

Scott: He caught me with a great head-butt in the first round.

Eric: I remember seeing a picture of that cut in a boxing magazine somewhere. That was a pretty deep gash.

Scott: Right, it was a headbutt in the first round and, in those days, you lost. Today, that fight would be called a no contest or something. If an unintentional head-butt occurs before three rounds, then there's no fight. Today that wouldn't be a "loss" for me, but back then it was. It was pretty frustrating because Wallace would have left early if he had continued to fight, but they didn't allow it because I was cut so badly.

Eric: I remember reading somewhere how hard you tried to get him back in the ring but he didn't want to have anything to do with a rematch.

Scott: No, because he had a "win" over me and that was a real big deal for him. He used that to make some money. They could bill him as the guy who beat Scott LeDoux, who was undefeated up to that point. So they used that for years. We kept trying to get him back but couldn't. He wouldn't do it.

Eric: You fought some pretty tough customers early on -- Rodney Bobick.

Scott: I beat Rodney in a 10 rounder. I also beat him once as an amateur. Then I beat him as a pro. Then I lost to Duane, and there was a period there when I had three losses in a row and everybody was bad mouthing me saying I couldn't fight. I said wait a minute -- these guys got a combined record of like 104-1 and the only loss was Foreman's to Ali. It's not like I'm in bad company here. [Scott was referring to his losses to Duane Bobick, Dino Dennis, and George Foreman.]

Eric: That's for sure. Before we get into that, though, let's stick with your early fights a bit longer. You knocked out this guy who fought Joe Frazier for the Title, Terry Daniels.

Scott: That was a scary fight. I started out hot … I started blasting him the first round and I was blasting him in the second round, and, in the third round his one eye swells shut and I'm still blasting this guy, and I tie him up and I say to the referee "this guy can't see". The referee steps between us and looks at Terry and looks back at me and says "box". I'm like, "what?" When the bell rang I went over in the corner and said "Joe, he can't see me anymore", and Joe says "you gotta knock him out. If he cuts you or butts you, you lose. You gotta take him out of there." So, the bell rang to start the fourth round and I come up off the stool and the doctor stops the fight.

Eric: Joe who? Your trainer?

Scott: Yeah -- Papa Joe Daszkiewicz. [Spells it for me.] And when I can't spell that anymore then I know I've been hit too much.

Eric: Ha ha ha ha. Then you got the other one of those guys who fought Frazier, Ron Stander.

Scott: Ron was a tough kid. He could really take a shot. He had been my sparring partner when I fought Rodney Bobick. I really liked Ronny. He really was a tough guy, and he really could hit.

Eric: He knocked out Earnie Shavers once.

Scott: Yeah he could hit. But, you couldn’t miss him. I remember in the 10th round I hit him with a right hand and he fell into me and I grabbed him. If I had let him go he might have fallen down and never gotten up. I grabbed him when he fell into me you know … what a tough guy, what a character. That was one of those fights when the next day your hands are really hurting, but it was a fun fight.

Eric: Then you boxed a draw with George "Scrap Iron" Johnson.

Scott: Yeah, I had a terrible staff infection in that fight. I was really sick. I think I had been like 217 or 218 and I got down to 207 after that fight, I was so sick. I was sick for a week after that fight. He was a tough guy and he would just maul you -- grab and wrestle you. That was a real learning experience for me. If you look at my career, and if you could go back and look at the records of the guys I fought, when I fought them, they were all good, winning fighters. Larry Penniger was undefeated when I fought him in my 5th fight. Each guy I fought had a winning record when I fought him. I was never given any patsies. I was given guys who could fight. But, you know, my trainer's philosophy was, "you can’t be a journeyman fighter unless you learn your trade". I really learned my trade. It paid off down the road as I fought so many world champions and did very well against all of them.

Eric: That's for sure. So, okay, now we are at April 76 and your first run-in with Duane Bobick.

Scott: He just had my number. His style was not right for me. Styles make fights, and he was way to busy for me, and I was too excited about proving that he couldn't beat me up, couldn't knock me out. I just was out there to prove that he couldn't do that. It was stupid on my part. He had a great style to fight me. Plus, he was a real good fighter anyway.

Eric: He was a good fighter.

Scott: He was a good fighter. You don't have the amateur career that he had and not be a good pro, and he had a good professional career and he did very well. He just had my number. Just one of those things.

Eric: He knocked out Larry Holmes in the Olympic trials, didn't he?

Scott: He did. He also had a win over Teofilo Stephenson. Not too many people have that.

Eric: True enough. With Duane Bobick and you coming out of Minnesota, were there any sort of "grudge match" issues involved?

Scott: There was a lot of heat between the two of us and the fact that I had beaten Rodney twice had caused a lot of heat for him and his family. They did a lot of terrible things, which I won't go into, to try to mess me up in my camp, but it was stuff that was very disgusting, and I'll leave it at that.

Eric: Okay, your next fight was against John "Dino" Dennis. As I recall, you got robbed in that one.

Scott: Big time. I beat him up really bad. Here's the interesting thing: I cut him over both eyes, busted up his nose, busted up his ribs, and, when, the fight was over, on the judges score cards, I did not win a single round! Wait a minute . . . who was hitting him then? Someone better take a look at the referee, 'cause somebody busted this kid up. I busted him up big time. . . never won a round. Talk about getting shut out. Holy smokes!

Eric: That fight was in Providence, RI. Was that Dino's hometown?

Scott: That's where he was from, alright. It was interesting, one of his owners, managers, trainers was a guy named Gus something. His home adjoined Lincoln Downs, a race track. That's where the press conference was, and that's what I remember about it. We knew going in we were fighting in somebody's backyard. You know, you gotta knock him out to get a split decision.

Eric: Your next fight, I guess that was a disaster, huh, Big George Foreman in Utica, NY?

Scott: It actually wasn't. The very first round I had him bleeding out of his nose. I hit him with a left jab and some good right hands to the body. In the second round, I was doing okay, but then he blasted me with a right hand. I mean, there's no "disaster" when you get hit by a guy like George Foreman. Who hasn't he hit that he hasn't taken out, except Ali? I don't know of anybody else.

Eric: No, that guy had about the biggest right hand ever, I would think.

Scott: And, years later, Gil Clancy, who was working George's corner in that fight, told Papa Joe that, after the first two rounds, Foreman was shook up. Clancy said Foreman was upset because his nose was bleeding. Clancy said I hurt him with a body shot and that Clancy was worried about the fight until the third round. Clancy told Papa Joe, "your guy was just coming out". At that time I had no idea what fear was, I was just fighting you know.

Eric: That's interesting. All I have ever seen of that fight is a clip of the third round, but obviously that doesn't tell the story.

Scott: The first two rounds I hit him with some real stiff jabs, I hit him with a right hand to the body that really hurt him. That to me was always my best punch. I called it the right hand swing. I'd throw a little jab to the head and throw a big roundhouse right, right to the rib cage, and I used to kill people with that.

Eric: Yeah, you caught Ron Lyle with some of those.

Scott: I just destroyed Lyle with that punch. He was a mess when I got done with him. He was hurting.

Eric: Shortly after the Foreman fight was the travesty of the United States Tournament and Johnny Boudreaux.

Scott: Yeah, was that really just a joke. I mean really a joke. I mean there wasn't anybody there that didn't think I won the fight. Everyone that saw the fight knew I won it. It was just a real joke.

Eric: I tell you what, I went on the internet the other day asking for anecdotes or stories about Scott LeDoux and I must have received a hundred responses saying that the Scott LeDoux - Johnny Boudreaux fight was the worst decision in the history of boxing.

Scott: Oh gosh really?

Eric: I was surprised how many people who watched that fight remembered it and were still outraged by it. Absolutely.

Scott: Terrible thing, and even worse is that Howard Cosell, the "Mr. Tell-It-Like-It-Is" guy, tried to cover it up.

Eric: He sure did.

Scott: He tried to cover it up, and it was an interesting scene after that. You don’t have the tape where I kicked is toupee off, I do.

Eric: Somebody responded to my internet query with "you know, as I recall, Scott was so mad that he did something, there was some sort of scuffle afterward." Was that what it was? You knocked Cosell's toupee off?

Scott: What happened was, as soon as the fight was over, Cosell called me over to the side of the ring and he said "as soon as they announce the decision come down here." Well, he knew I won. So, I was excited, I thought, you know, here I am, a small town kid from Minnesota, and Cosell is going interview me, this is cool. And then they announced the decision saying Johnny Boudreaux's name and they announced it in such an odd way. I mean it wasn’t like they brought us to the middle of the ring or anything. If you remember, they just said "Johnny Boudreaux wins", trying to shuffle it by. At first, I thought they were just saying "hey, give a hand to Johnny Boudreaux" and I turn around and his arms are up in the air. I'm like "what"? Then I went over to Cosell and started screaming "this is the time, Howard, you have to tell it like it is, you're going to have to tell the truth!".

By this time, he had brought Boudreaux down to interview him and I'm yelling at Cosell "tell it like it is, I beat this chump and you know that!" Then Johnny Boudreaux called me some names, something to do with my mother of course, and that's when I tried to kick him in the mouth. I kicked out at Boudreaux and, when I did, Boudreaux jumped back and got his foot entangled in the head set and Cosell's toupee went right off with the headset. [Laughs a long time] I have it on tape and, when I feel low some nights, I put that on and run it back and forth, back and forth. Then, I feel better.

Eric: That's hilarious.

Scott: He was such a jerk 'cause he would never "tell it like it is". Then, after that fight I fought Lyle in Vegas and it was broadcast by ABC, so Cosell was the interview guy. So, prior to the fight, he interviewed me and asked me some questions and it was cool, we got it done. Then, when I saw the tape, my answers didn't coincide with the questions he asked on air.

Eric: No kidding?

Scott: They did not coincide and I went ballistic. The next time I fought for ABC (when I fought Holmes for the title), Cosell wanted to interview me again. I told him "I'm only going to do this if you will ask the same questions on air as you do to the tape". He said "you can't tell me what to do", and I said "then I'm not doing the interview", and I got up and walked. The producer came and grabbed me and said "no, we'll do it straight". He promised me that they wouldn't do anything funny. I won't put up with that kind of thing, I don’t care who he is.

Eric: You know, Boudreaux pretty much disappeared after that didn't he?

Scott: If you watch my career, the guys I beat up, even when they got the decision, they didn't fight much afterwards. And later on, when I started fighting name guys, they didn't fight much after fighting me either. Look at Johnny Boudreaux, look at Marty Monroe, he disappeared, he disappeared after I fought him. His manager was Marty Cohen and I saw him about 10-12 years later in Miami at a convention, and he came up to me and said "you ruined my fighter". At first, I didn't know who he was talking about. He said "Marty Monroe, he never fought again after you beat him up." I was a body puncher. I banged guys to the body big time. Like Rodney Bobick. I messed up Rodney's ribs so bad. About four months later he had a fight coming up and no one to spar with and they called and asked if I would come box with him. I said sure I'll come box with him, I had no hard feelings and I liked Rodney, he was a good kid. All he said to me was "don't hit me in the ribs".

Eric: Okay, so then there was the "draw" with Leon Spinks, which most people felt you won. They were promoting him for . . .

Scott: He was already signed for the title shot. It was just terrible. You know what they did? That fight was October 22 and they called me October 3 for the fight to sign me. I'm laying in bed sicker then a dog, I have the flu, my trainer called me and said they want you to fight this kid Spinks. I said "make the match. There's not a guy 200 lbs. yet that I can't whip". He said "yeah, but they want it on the 22nd"; I said "make the match, I'll be there". He said "but you're sick", I said "I'll be at the gym tonight". I got out of bed that night and went to the gym and started training. I was sicker than a dog but I got in good shape, went down there. Got to admit, he had a lot of heart, but we beat that kid.

Eric: He had a good first three-four rounds but he . . .

Scott: Very quick early on, but he couldn't take the body shots. I hit him to the body big time and just roughed him up, shoved him around. He wasn’t used to that kind of treatment. Everyone else he had fought before me had names like "Dusty Trucks", "Willie Getup", "Kenny Last", I mean those were the guys he was fighting. Well, I was in there to stay for the 10. You want to go 10 rounds, we're gonna go 10. He wasn't ready for that. He wasn't ready for the body shots and he was still very green -- not educated in fighting. He was an Olympic fighter, but when I got inside I kept hitting him with an elbow, then hitting him with a hook afterwards. He never figured it out for 10 rounds. Kept putting his head over by my right elbow. To me it was like setting the guy up. You lift him up with the elbow and then you hit him with the hook. The referees for some reason never call you for a foul if you follow the foul with a clean punch. They will not call a foul. I don’t know why that is.

Eric: You and Jack Dempsey and Rocky Marciano all figured that one out.

Scott: Oh yeah, if you throw a clean shot after a bad one, they don’t say anything. It was funny. Pat Summerall, I think, did the fight. Anyway, one of the commentators said "if I'm gonna fight in the alley, I want LeDoux with me." Between rounds, they showed me hitting him with that elbow then hitting him with the hook. I always made sure the referee was on the other side. The referee would always go over to your left side and I would hit the guy with the right elbow and the left hook. Gotta be a rocket scientist to figure that out, you know.

You know, about Spinks, it bothered me that Cosell took advantage of him and really ripped into him. Here's a guy who had a degree in law and all this and he's ripping a kid from East St. Louis. Leon never said he was a genius. What he said was "I can fight". One of the things I remember when he won the title, the day after the title fight, they showed a picture in the paper with his wife and he was buying her a ring, you know. It said his money won't last long this way. I thought "what do you care? -- it's his wife".

Hey, when I first made some money, the first thing I did was go out and buy my wife a nice new car. She had stuck with me.

Eric: There you go. So your next outing, I guess, is sort of the stuff of legend. You went into to Chicago and bounced Muhammad Ali around for 5 rounds.

Scott: Yep. We really did. We had a good day. I always remember the 2nd and 3rd round I looked at Ali and he was bleeding out of the nose and the mouth. The rope-a-dope was such a con, you know. I don't think people realize that, what a con that was. He really was getting hit and he was taking punches. But, he would shake his head like he wasn't getting hit.

Eric: He was tough, boy.

Scott: What a shot he could take! He could really take a shot. That's why, when he fought Foreman, I was one of the few who picked him to win. They had selected 12 guys in the Minneapolis paper and asked them who was going to win the fight, and I was one of the three who picked Ali. I said Ali can take a punch, he's just as big and strong as George, but he's faster and he's smarter. That's why I picked him, and he won the fight. George just wasn't prepared to fight that kind of a guy, who was that smart and tough.

Eric: You would never figure you would find someone who could take Foreman's right hand and look right back at him.

Scott: [Laughing] Like – "nice shot kid, is that all you got"? That’s what Ali did to Foreman, it was amazing to me.

Eric: Then you ran off a few more wins and then came the loss to Ron Lyle in Las Vegas – another robbery.

Scott: I had him down in the, I want to say, 3rd round, and I him hurt again, I mean I had him hurt several times during the fight.

Eric: They were trying to set him up to fight Holmes. [Note: that plan came undone when Lyle was upset by Lynn Ball shortly thereafter].

Scott: Right. I knew I something was "up" because, when the fight was over, but before they announced the decision, Don King got in the ring and hugged Ron Lyle. We knew where we were then. Papa Joe looked at me and said "we're in trouble".

Eric: You get the impression Don didn't leave a lot of things up to the judges when it really counted. It's funny because your next fight was the draw with Norton, where you got cheated again. So, you have a loss to Lyle and a draw with Norton back-to-back, but your stock skyrocketed, right? You became a lot more popular because everybody saw you win both those fights on national T.V.

Scott: Correct.

Eric: Next up was Mike Weaver. That was a good fight.

Scott: That was a good fight, a good 12 round fight, but the real story there was they had screwed up the timing on the T.V. thing, so, to kill time, they had a guy go in and sweep all the rosin out of the ring. Now, I was wearing leather-soled shoes and Weaver was wearing rubber-soled shoes. I got in there and I couldn't stand up. It was like I was on skates. Between rounds, I was begging my trainer to do something with my shoes. Take 'em off. Let me fight barefoot. I mean anything! I couldn't dig in at all. I couldn't throw a punch. I had no footing whatsoever. It was terrible. That was not to take anything away from Mike. Mike was a good boxer. He had a good day that day. He boxed very well. Good combinations, he hit hard . People don’t realize, he really hit hard. Just because he didn't knock me out doesn't mean he couldn't hit. In fact, when he fought John Tate, I never counted him out. I was in Vegas watching Holmes fight. He was fighting Leroy Jones. He retired Jones with all the thumbs.

Eric: I'm coming to that.

Scott: Jones never fought again after that fight. If you look in that record book.

Eric: I didn't realize that.

Scott: He never fought again. He went blind in one eye with a torn retina. He couldn't fight any more. Bummed the hell out of him.

Eric: I'll be darned. In your next fight after Weaver, you beat the tar out of Marty Monroe.

Scott: Yes, but you skipped a fight too. You skipped one right after the Boudreaux fight. Pedro Soto.

Eric: Pedro Soto, yeah that’s true.

Scott: That was a great fight in the Garden. And, the day before I fought him, it was announced in the paper that he was gonna fight Ali his next fight. I thought wait a minute, I don't think he's gotten through this one yet, has he?

Eric: I'd forgotten that, he was a prospect at one time.

Scott: He was ranked 6th or 7th in the world the day I fought him. He had announced in the New York papers that he was gonna fight Ali. But he didn’t get that opportunity, unfortunately. Bill Clancy, his manager, was just sick after that fight. And what's the guy's name at the Garden who made all the matches who just died?

Eric: Teddy Brenner.

Scott: Teddy Brenner, he was just sick after that fight. Oh, we just pounded that kid.

Eric: Now we come to your July 1980 World Heavyweight Championship fight against Larry Holmes and his thumb.

Scott: Oh yeah, he was very good with that thumb. He stuck me with that thumb in the 7th round. We'd still be fighting if he hadn’t thumbed me. He couldn't hurt me. He had no punch. I've always said to people, I said, as far as boxing skill, he was number 2 to Ali and that was it. He was one of the best boxers I had ever boxed with. He could control that ring with his leg movement and his long reach and his jab was great. There is no question he was a good boxer and a good fighter. But he was not a puncher. I always said to people, name the guy you saw him knock out with one punch. There is nobody. He was not a hitter. To be a hitter you gotta have a lot of courage, 'cause you know you're gonna get hit while your trying to throw that bomb. Guys like Earnie Shavers, they are hitters. Earnie Shavers, he just fears nothing, except Jesus Christ, that's it. He is just unbelievable. So is Foreman. They just hit and their punching power is off the scale. Holmes is not a banger. He boxed well and could take a good shot. That's the other thing people never really realized is that he could take a good shot. I saw him when Earnie Shavers dropped him to the deck face down and he just got back up. I was amazed.

Eric: That was one big league right hand Shavers landed.

Scott: I was sitting ringside and I'm looking right at his face and his eyes are shut at the count of 2. At the count of 5, he's starting to get to his feet! I'm like, "how the heck does he do that?" I was just amazed that he could get off the deck like that. And, then he won. That’s a great fighter to me. I always felt that way. Anybody can win out in front. It takes a great fighter to get up off the deck to win.

Eric: That's true. That thumb he gave you, has that bothered your vision any since then?

Scott: No, we've been fortunate. No it has not. I waited a day or so and then I went to see a doctor right afterwards. I had some bleeding in there but no retina problems at all.

Eric: That's great. Then you won a couple more fights after that and then you ran into Greg Page down in Nassau, Bahamas.

Scott: Oh, Boy that was not my day , I'll tell you that.

Eric: For one of the only times in his career, Page showed up in shape.

Scott: [Laughs a long time] He made me so mad! Every fight he'd been fighting 240, 250, 260, coming in like a blimp. I get him and he's what 224 or 223? I'm like, "what is that all about?" He was terrific. He had a great right hand. The funny story about that fight was that he knocked me down, I think it was the 2nd or 3rd round, he had me down on the deck and I get back up and came to the corner and said to Joe, I said "Joe, what in the hell is he hitting me with?" He says "he's hitting you with a right hand over your jab." I said "boy, I'm glad somebody's seeing it." I was throwing my jab, I wasn't bringing it back. I was leaning out and he was just reaching over and nailing me. He could have been a great fighter. He had a lot of skills. He just couldn't motivate himself to train.

Eric: No question – if Greg Page had stayed in the gym, he would have been a great fighter.

Scott: He wanted to play basketball one time. He's like that goofball we got now, what's his name? Such a good fighter and loves playing basketball. . .

Eric: Roy Jones.

Scott: Yeah, Roy Jones. Figure it out. Basketball is a fun game but that's not where you belong. But, Greg Page had great skills and, hey, it just wasn’t my day. I mean, the last time I looked, there was only one undefeated heavyweight whom I know of and that was Marciano.

Eric: That's true and he cut out at the top of his game.

Scott: And if you look . . . I've always looked at my record and I had I guess 12 loses.

Eric: I didn’t count them up here.

Scott: 12. I look back and I think, you throw out Boudreaux and throw out Dino Dennis, you throw out Gordie Racette. Gordie Racette, I mean that was a joke. There were several of those losses that didn't belong in there.

Eric: You forgot Lyle.

Scott: Lyle, Cookie Wallace.

Eric: Then take the draws against Spinks and Norton and turn them into wins.

Scott: You know, not a bad record.

Eric: No, no, hell no.

Scott: Everyone always laughed and said you’re the great white hope. I said "No, I was white and I was hoping."

Eric: I don't think you had the establishment behind you the way Jerry Quarry and Duane Bobick did.

Scott: And Gerry Cooney.

Eric: Cooney too.

Scott: Huge establishment behind him. Big money behind him.

Eric: The really wanted him to be champion.

Scott: I'd have won against Cooney. I would liked to have fought him.

Eric: He was careful; he did everything he could to avoid people who could fight.

Scott: He was a smart boy. It wasn't him as much as his handlers. Those guys from New York, they really took care of him and protected him.

Eric: They almost blew it against Jimmy Young because Young showed up in shape for the first time in several years. Didn't he get elbowed or something and then they stopped the fight on cuts?. Until that point, it looked like Young was going to give Cooney some real trouble.

Scott: Jimmy Young could give anybody trouble. . . everybody trouble. Jimmy Young was so gifted defensively. He was a terrible guy to fight. He just would be a terrible guy to fight I think.

Eric: Now were coming up towards the end of the line. Gerrie Coetzee.

Scott: Down in Africa, yeah. A tough fight and and interesting event. The guy that refereed, what the hell is his name? The day before the fight . . . you can print this . . . the day before the fight, we meet with him and he is the Commissioner there! He's telling me all the rules, right? We are in Africa, and I'm going "cool, that's fine". When he gets all done he looks at me and he says "Gerrie Coetzee is a great fighter, be heavy weight champion some day." I said "screw you, I didn't come here to lose" and I got up and walked out. You know, Commissioners don't do that. You don’t sit and tell another fighter how great your fighter is. Sure you feel it, your pulling for your hometown guy, but you don’t say that to them! You are a neutral body. So I got up and walked out.

The next day, it's an outdoor fight and I get in the ring first and there's a big crowd and I'm loosening up and I see Coetzee coming through the crowd and out of the corner of my eye I see the referee get in the ring. I turn to acknowledge him and guess who the referee is?

Eric: The Commissioner.

Scott: Same guy. Same. . . we don't have a shot. In the 2nd or third round, I get cut with a right hand, but I'm not worried because Papa Joe is good with the cut stuff in the corner, so I go to the corner after the round and Joe is just standing there staring at me. I said "what's wrong?", He said "when you got cut they came and took my bag and said it was illegal". He had nothing. All he could do was put vaseline on it for each round. That's all he could do. It was just bullshit. In the 8th round, he cut me again and I took a knee and I looked over at Papa Joe and he's saying stay down, 'cause now I can't see out of my eye. At the count of 8, I stood up and the referee came over and said "are you okay?", I said "screw you". He stopped the fight. Joe said "why did you get up?", I said "no one's ever thrown a ten over me before, and it wasn't going to be him."

What a jerk. That's just so horseshit to do that. Your fighting up hill the whole way. I really think that that fight probably took the wind out of me right there. It really did. I think that was the real beginning of the end for me. I was so disillusioned by boxing and by what had happened over there and the way I was treated. It really took it out of me. All the other stuff I had been able to fight up against and keep it going, but that just took the wind out of my sails I think, when I look back over my career.

Eric: You didn’t fight many more times. Then you had the fight with Frank Bruno.

Scott: Yeah, the Bruno fight. That was the real tallying point for me that I knew I was done. Even my wife knew it. In fact, she knew I was done before I did. When the fight was over – Bruno knocked me down and split my eye really badly (it is one of the only real bad scars I have from boxing) -- I went in the dressing room and my wife said "you okay?" and I said "yeah, I'm okay". She said "it's over isn't it?" I said "yep". I said "how did you know?", and she said "you're not crying". She said "I've been with you for 20 years and I have never seen you win or lose without crying". I'm very emotional and whether I won or lost I would be very emotional and tears would come. And, there were no tears. And she also said, "you never clean out your locker". She said "you cleaned out your locker before you left, you brought stuff home to get washed up. You never do that".

Eric: Well, you sure came along during an era of tough heavyweights.

Scott: I look back at my career and people say I didn't have a great career. I say "you know what?, I had a great career and a great time. I fought at a time when boxing had a great thing going and it was all kinds of fun. It was a wonderful career.

[Next month: Scott talks about his personal life and what he's doing now and offers his thoughts on the state of boxing today.]

Searching for my seat, I ask an usher in a red jacket for directions. A large, squarish, fifty-something man with yard-wide shoulders and Tony Bennett hair and the sort of seamed, forbidding face I associate with cinematic portrayals of 1950s union enforcers, he glances at my credential and tells me in a disaffected tone that it is not even good for a seat in the auxilliary press section: I will have to stand in the back of the arena. I know this to be untrue, but I realize he's the sort of guy who has for decades been a fixture of New York life, the guy you might see in the corner of a photograph of mobsters hanging on a streetcorner, or in the background of a shot taken at a police benefit, or the fourth guy from the left in a group portrait of mayoral aides--he represents the
essence of minor officialdom, a man whose purpose is not to assist but to deny, to clear away inessential clutter from his purview, and I'm forced to appreciate the judgment of such an archetype.

In the ring undefeated heavyweight Lamon Brewster is engaged in turning his Garden debut into a public relations disaster, and in process transforming himself from a prospect into just another muscular bore. His opponent, a fat punchless cruiserweight whose ringwalk was done to the theme music from the movie Conan the Barbarian, has spent the first five rounds in full-on panicked retreat, with Brewster plodding after him, throwing one punch at a time, displaying neither imagination nor talent, ignoring plaintive cries from his cornermen to pick up the pace. One of my colleagues, a Brewster enthusiast, suggests that Lamon is just getting some rounds in and that he will come on in the middle rounds with a finishing burst; when this fails to occur, he declares that this is not the quintessential Lamon, and suggests that the fighter's cross-training under Willie Gault is responsible for his sluggishness. But judging by what I'm seeing, a swifter, more flexible Brewster--although marginally more entertaining, perhaps--would still be a notch or two below the Shannon Briggses and the Hasim Rahmans, and rather than watch this mess drag out toward its inevitable conclusion, I turn my attention to the crowd.

Toward the end of the sixth round, a tuxedoed Larry Merchant comes bounding up the stairs toward the press room, moving like a considerably younger man, proving that his physical being has not suffered the same sort of deterioration as has his ability to analyze a fight. A few minutes later George Foreman ascends those same stairs, laboring mightily, like a man walking underwater, head lowered, rolling his shoulders with the effort. There's still some talk of another Foreman fight, but after seeing him negotiate the stairs, I wouldn't want to put him in against anyone with better reflexes than the cross-trained Mr. Brewster.

I spot Budd Schulberg looking for his seat, being warmly greeted by Thomas Hauser and Wally Matthews and Mark Jacobson and Max Kellerman and others of the boxing media. He's a diminutive, white-haired, leprecaunish man in his mid-eighties. Two of his children are with him, one a 16-year-old: proof positive that Mr. Schulberg can carry his punch late into a fight. There are a number of celebrities at ringside--James Gandolfini of The Sopranos, Michael J. Fox, and so forth--but Mr. Schulberg outshines them all in my estimation, because of his long and illustrious affiliation with the sport. I think about the fighters he watched in the old Garden, Robinson, Louis, LaMotta, Pep, Marciano, Monzon, Williams, Gavilan, Beau Jack, and I wonder if those worthy gentlemen from a grittier, less cheaply luminous era whose 15-round-dramas were enacted in grainy black and white (archivally speaking, at least) would be comfortable in this new building, battling beneath a gigantic gaudy cube of a scoreboard that seems as if it might have been part of an arcade game in some previous existence. The fighters at ringside, splendid in their $2000 suits, seem a different breed...though this is doubtless a romantic and ill-considered judgment on my part. Put a Shane Mosely or a Zab Judah back into the Forties and, while they would have surely lost some fights, with their talent and temperament, they would fit right in. And of course the new Garden is accumulating its own history and traditions--not far away is the corner in which Andrew Golota was assaulted with a cell phone following his first disqualification against Riddick Bowe, an act that helped instigate a riot of semi-legendary proportions and, subsequently, dozens of amusing anecdotes. I recall Jack Newfield, columnist for the New York Post and Don King's longtime nemesis, telling me that he was sitting with Tim Witherspoon when the riot started and people began streaming toward the ring, and Tim told him, "Jack, the brothers is comin' for your wallet, but I got your back."

The pink-clad, quasi-pulchritudinous Mia St. John enters the ring to desultory applause, and I consider going to the press room for a sandwich. My desire to be elsewhere is intensified by the fact that the guy sitting next to me, the Brewster apologist, calls St John by her first name and, as the fight begins, actually appears to be rooting for her--an activity I liken to rooting for tooth decay. St. John is catching a lot of right hands, which leads her number one fan to opine that she best cash in on her good looks now, because another year of taking punches and she'll be too hagged out to attract the attention of Playboy and such. Frankly, I think St. John's opponent, a dreadlocked blond, is the better looking of the pair; she's certainly a better schooled fighter and seems to be winning the lion's share of the exchanges with cleaner punching, but--Surprise! Surprise!--Mia gets the majority decision.

The house is only about 60 percent full by the time the anthem is sung, and Gatti and Gamache make their entrances--New York City is evidently not that interested in watching the self-proclaimed "new Oscar" fight yet another designated victim. Gatti passes close to me, and I'm taken aback by his freakish appearance. From the neck down his body is that of a young man, but his face, though smooth, looks ancient and leathery, almost monstrous, as if the years of attrition have scoured away his youth to reveal an alien presence beneath. By contrast, Gamache looks boyish...and tiny. The big hairs and leather jackets, drivers--I suspect--of Town Cars and Oldsmobiles with fake rubies on the mudflaps that spell out Kiss Me I'm Italian, jump to their feet and cheer. Less than two rounds later they're cheering even louder as Gamache lies unconscious on the canvas, the victim of a savage knockout that has since led the District Attorney to seize all records and video pertaining to the weigh-in, and has inspired a civil suit by Gamache against the various parties involved. According to informed sources, tape of the weigh-in plainly shows that while Gatti is standing on the scale, the bar is not even close to horizontal, and so it would seem that Joey Gamache may wind up wealthy from his boxing days...but at what cost, no one yet can say.

There don't seem to be many de la Hoya fans in the press section. Even those who cling to the notion that he's a great fighter have grown weary of his unvarying "I've-never-been-in-better-shape" pre-fight speech and the subsequent post-fight excuses, not to mention the whole "new Oscar" thing. For my part, I recently watched a number of old welter fights and have become convinced that Emille Griffith and Benny "Kid" Paret would have more than held their own against Oscar, and a Jose Napoles would have gone through him like Einstein through kindergarden. His opponent this night, Derrell Coley is--in a word--pitiful. I notice that he throws some of his body punches with a peculiar sidearm wristing motion, as if he were trying to skip flat stones across a river. Despite his lack of serious opposition, the new Oscar is much like the old; he comes forward, true, but he fights in spurts, and there are long sections of each round during which he walks after Coley but applies no real pressure. I find it's more interesting to watch Shane Mosely, dapper in a double-breasted cream-colored pinstripe suit, watching de la Hoya. For the first few rounds he's attentive, but then, as if he's seen all he needs to see, he begins laughing and talking with his companions, refocusing on the fight only after Coley catches de la Hoya flush in the fourth and buckles him. Once it becomes apparent that de la Hoya will survive this momentary crisis, Mosely returns to his socializing.

In the paid ringside seats nearby, a champagne vendor begins arguing with some inebriated customers. Being a rube from Washington state, where beer is generally the sole alcoholc beverage option for the live fight crowd, I'm fascinated by the concept of champagne vendors. What makes this particular evening champagne worthy? The presence of the Golden Boy? Or am I merely being provincial--is this a Garden staple? Do even the Heavyweight Explosions promoted by Mr. Cedric Kushner (sitting this night hard by Bob Arum, looking particularly sea-lionish in his tent-sized suit), disastrous bombs-away shows featuring old plodding thunder lizards and blubbery journeymen and unproven, wildswinging muscle freaks--do these splatterfests as well appeal to the champagne-swilling crowd? The vendor, a Puerto Rican man of middle years, apparently thinks he's been stiffed by two expensively attired yet physically unprepossessing white men in their late twenties, early thirties--both on the Butterbeanish side of chubby; they are accompanied by two overstuffed and heavily painted Latinas whose micro-mini outfits squeeze them centrally rather like napkinholders and look to have been selected from the Pork Me pages of the Bimbos 'R Us catalogue. The ladies do not participate in the conversation; in fact, they appear disinterested in the entire proceeding, and I have the idea that they are not close to their escorts, or--more precisely--that their closeness is dependent upon certain financial arrangements.

So enthralled am I by this potentially violent confrontation, I miss the punch that ends the more predictable and arguably less significant confrontation in the ring, and have to wait for the replay on the scoreboard to see Coley display the better part of valor and take the ten count. It appears I was wrong about the absence of de la Hoya fans among the press--the guy next to me is on his feet, pointing at De La Hoya in "You da man!" fashion as the mighty Oscar stalks about the ring, arms upraised in victory. My colleague hurriedly packs up his laptop; he wants to get a good seat at the press conference, an event that holds scant interest for me. I can pretty much write from memory whatever de la Hoya will say and thus it will be necessary to endure neither his bland gaze and practiced smile nor the unctious affirmations of Bob Arum. After being shoved aside by security to create a means of egress for Messers Arum and Kushner et al, I push my way toward Budd Schulberg's seat--we're supposed to have a drink at a bar across the street. But Mr. Schulberg, it turns out, is feeling a little tired, and so after shaking his hand, I wander back out into the cement corridors of the Garden, passing among groups of fight fans who exhibit no more excitement now than they did prior to the event.

Eventually I wander out onto Eighth Avenue and into the freezing neon midnight of Penn Station and environs, into the horn-blasting, horse-and-carriage paced traffic and gasoline fouled air of the city so nice they named it twice, the world still roaring along--a group of white boys sagging and bagging in their oversized jerseys and chinos, standing beside a lamp post and trading "Fuck yous"; a stylish, fast-stepping blond yelling into her cell phone; streams of Yellow Cabs stopping for anxious befurred businesswomen and student backpackers and families with stunned-looking babies and fold-up prams fresh off the Amtrak from Chicago, all unmindful of what went on inside the arena, and I'm thinking of the hundreds of previous nights when the names Robinson, Duran, Leonard, Ali, Hagler, Hearns, Frazier flashed from the Garden marquee, and thousands upon thousands of fight fans straggled out onto this same stretch of pavement after seeing an incredible drama of blood and bone enacted by the vivid personalities emblematized by those names, a bit disoriented to discover that the world had not been changed by the fury they had witnessed...and here I am, not even a tad disoriented, because for the last twenty minutes or so I've been trying to figure out where I want to eat, Chinatown maybe, and I can imagine no reason whatsoever why anything should have been changed in the slightest degree by the uninspired mismatches that have just taken place. But then a young black guy in a hooded down jacket falls into step alongside me, aggressively demanding a handout. When I shake him off he points at my chest and says, "How was it, man?"

I don't know what he's talking about, and he says, "The fight, man! How was the fight?" I have, I realize, neglected to remove the press credential with De La Hoya's picture on it from about my neck.

"Wasn't you at the fight, man?" the black guy asks. "How was it?"

And partly because it's the easy answer, the one most likely to get rid of him, but also because no fight night at the Garden, however ordinary and disappointing, is without its virtues and rude benedictions, being the intersection of innumerable intriguing stories both separate from and tangential to the event, the jeweled lens into which the brightly colored shadows of the pugilistic gods pour their energies, the central loop in the convulsed knot of boxing politics, the still point of its turning world, the nexus of its multi-million dollar contractual agreements and grotesque ethical infractions and petty disputes, its tragedies and glories, in all of which I have been steeped for the past several hours, I tell him, truthfully, "It was great!"

By Derek A. Bardowell

"Look in my eyes, what do you see. The cult of personality ."
- Living Colour

By exemplifying the characteristics that one would deem noble in a human being, Lennox Lewis has, perhaps, done more than any previous undisputed heavyweight champion, to demystify the legacy of the most coveted title in world sport.

This is not to say that gentlemanly characteristics are things completely foreign to heavyweight champions of the past and an attribute alien to greatness in the ring. Joe Louis, Gene Tunney, Floyd Patterson are just three of the heavyweights from years past who embodied the finest qualities and are noted as much for their achievements with gloves as they are for their reputations without them. Yet none of these fighters, perhaps with the exception of Floyd Patterson at times, carried such burdensome fighting characteristics to work with them; which is why all three have attained hall
of fame status.

It was legendary Pulitzer Prize winning writer Norman Mailer who wrote in '10,000 Words a Minute' that a heavyweight championship fight ". is to some degree the way a Hollywood premiere once ought to have been."Beyond the glitz, the glamour, the jewellery and the incessant facial creases so cruelly mistaken by the cameras as genuine smiles, there is, of course, the main event. The drama. One that, if it unfolds into an epic like 'Gone With The Wind', 'Citizen Kane' or 'Casablanca', quickly evolves into a classic. Unfortunately those are quite rare nowadays, particularly in boxing where the number of titles and weight divisions as well as the inflated purses rarely produces 'epics' that exhibit the do or die attitude of which such classics are made. If Lewis-Holyfield I and II were movies, they were excruciating examples of what the super fight has become - a formulaic, panned out drama, where lack of commitment replaces conviction. A drama not worthy of a crown that has come to represent the most important post in boxing. There was not even any moments to recount that approached the frightening suspense of the shower scene in Psycho I or the chilling severity of the final scene in 'Seven'.

The Lewis-Holyfield fight should have been a confrontation similar to the pairing of then young actor Andy Garcia and legend Al Pacino in the final part of the Godfather trilogy. Of course what evolved in the movie was nowhere as riveting, well acted or produced as the previous two; yet was enthralling and satisfying enough to establish Garcia's standing as a quality actor. Lewis' victory over Holyfield, however great and historic for Britain achieved something that one would have thought appeared near impossible under the circumstances. A huge question marks. In such a
beautifully violent art as boxing, it is rare that a victory - and one that has not come via controversial means - has left the victor with such question marks. There must have been more than a few that wished Lennox Lewis could do what his opponent Evander Holyfield was, perhaps, as good as any at doing, metamorphosing from devout Christian and a man, once described as needing 'a personality transplant' outside the ring into 'The Real Deal' or 'The Holy Warrior' in it.

How apt it is that Lennox Lewis does not have a nickname with which to identify him by.

In the March 2000 issue of Bert Sugar's 'Fight Game', Budd Schulberg - the author of 'The Harder They Fall' and the Academy Award winning screenwriter of the film 'On The Waterfront' wrote: ". nothing reflects character more nakedly than boxing ." In this excellent piece, Schulberg speaks of how he once regarded the heavyweight champion of the world ". with a reverence just this side of religious fervour." And how "The heavyweight champion was no mortal man but stood with Lancelot and Galahad ."

Like so many fans of boxing, I was introduced to the sport by my father. My father's tales of him growing up listening to Marciano fights on the radio in the streets of Galina, Jamaica was the most pleasant chime to my ears for me as a kid. Those stories were incredible because Marciano was such a hero, yet my dad, up until the 1980s, had never seen him fight on film or television. But he was heavyweight champion. And he was unbeaten and seemingly invincible. The stuff every kid's hero should be made of. The funny thing was, when my father finally bought a video recorder, some 26 years after Marciano relinquished the heavyweight title, the first cassette my father rented from the local video store was a Marciano bio-pic. Some things just don't leave you. The stories of Marciano were also fascinating because it was almost inconceivable for me growing up to have a hero that was human. Superman, yes. Shazam, Spiderman or the Incredible Hulk. Fictitious cartoon characters whose role it was to be heroes. But someone real?

Another of my dad's favourites, like so many, was Muhammad Ali. Unfortunately, I kinda missed the Ali era, only catching the horrific tail end of the most magnificent career in boxing. I grew up at a time when Larry Holmes presided majestically over the heavyweight division, but there was no way the 'Easton Assassin' could ascend to higher mythical, physical or political heights than Muhammad Ali, despite being one of the 10 greatest heavyweights of all time. By the time Ali and Holmes faced off in one of the most one sided fights in the history of the sport, I was seven; and Ali was the only sportsman that I was aware of - I'd never seen what Marciano looked like, but figured he had a similar mug to Sylvester Stallone.

My most vivid memory of Ali was when he fought Leon Spinks twice in 1978. Spinks was ugly to a kid; no front teeth and the scowl of a demoted worker. He was ugly to my mom too, and in my household, upon defeating Ali in the first fight, Spinks had been cast as the villain, which made Ali the hero.I had no conception of the magnitude of Muhammad Ali at the time. I didn't know what the Vietnam War was, or what it meant; I was blissfully naïve to the experience of sharing a ring with George Foreman or Sonny Liston and the Nation of Islam was something that I thought back then, was something only of interest to the Asian kids in my class. Such things paled in comparison
to who shot JR.

It was a Friday night, and as ever, my older sisters were in their rooms playing Blondie, The Beat and The Specials while I was lying on the floor crashing matchbox cars as if they were in a demolition derby. As ever, my mom and pops would come home from work, have some tea, or coffee before setting out to do the weekly groceries at Sainsbury's. But, it was fight night, and ITV were about to screen the Ali-Holmes fight at around 7pm or 8pm. In such emergencies like this, shopping could be put off until Saturday afternoon, if need be. My pops would suck up whatever verbal punishment my mom would dish out for the pleasure of watching a good prize fight. Well, an
Ali or Ray Leonard fight. On this night, however, my father, as if it were any other Friday, put on his jacket and made his way out the house with my mom to go shopping. I was in disbelief. Surely my pops knew the fight was on? What's happening? I mean, my mum and dad did not have an argument or nothing. The night was turning out to be a painfully plain Friday night, yet it was Ali night. My parents are my heroes, but at some point, and it can be one of the biggest head fucks for those kids with a close relationship with their folks, you realise they are not invincible. And that realisation was drawing closer to me at an almost petrifying rate. My dad's memory must have been going.

That wasn't it though. My dad was fine. My dad just was not interested. This was before the days of the internet and satellite television, and when teletext was not so popular. World information came from the television or the radio, more specifically the news; something to be completely avoided
for a pre-teen like maths homework. My dad, probably knew the result. I didn't. In fact, I'm sure I thought the fight was live, making my dad's hasty retreat to shopping - to shopping for God's sake - all the more startling. I pleaded with him, 'dad, where are you going, the Ali fight is coming on'. Holmes of course, like many of Ali's opponents was not even a co-star, but a mere extra in the proceedings. Such was his magnitude. Here was a thing that a 40-year-old man and a seven-year-old boy could clearly enjoy together in a house full of women. It was an essential part of our bonding process, more riveting than reading a book, better than watching cartoons or banging my Tonka truck on stool legs. My dad was mid way through putting on his coat, but without flinching or turning his head in my direction in response to my question, proceeded to cover the top half of his
body with it. He turned, and I never forget the look on his face. It was angry, aggravated even, and hurt. Must have been the first time I'd seen my father display an emotion of vulnerability, and as he replied, 'I don't want to see that fight', something sunk inside of me. I watched the fight, although it wasn't the same, and I understood too. Although I didn't quite understand.Maybe I'm romanticising the story somewhat, but that's part of the magnetic charm that is boxing. Something that is not scripted, is exciting and real too. The heavyweight champions of the past were larger than life characters, they had the cult of personality; something reserved usually for great politicians, humanitarians, dictators or artists whether it's JFK, Malcolm X, Andy Warhol, Marilyn Monroe or Hitler. The heavyweight champion, almost by default, has to live up to this mythical title. The have to.
The lighter divisions, of course provide an sublime demonstration of skill, speed and movement, although the lack of power - generally that is - usually fails to captivate non fundamentalists. There's also that unwritten rule that if one of those lighter guys were in a barroom brawl with you, they'd crumble quicker than concrete amidst a volcanic eruption. The peripheral fan wants more. Wants someone that they can be in awe of. A hero. A brief respite from life. Someone that, for 45, or now 36 minutes, they look up to. The middleweights don't quite fulfil it either. Comparatively, they are the
complete demonstration of boxing excellence. They are the easiest to relate because, in person, a Nigel Benn or a Bernard Hopkins are no bigger than the average man, although, of course, physically much stronger. In our dreams, it is quite conceivable to be them. When Michael Nunn was in the ring, he was of a similar height to me, a similar build, and with a similar hairstyle to me, so to watch him was, in my dreams, to watch myself had I been a boxer and not a writer. But Ali? Tyson? Marciano? Dempsey? No, I couldn't be any of those guys, not even in my dreams. Those guys were big, tough and at one point, mythically, the best fighter on the planet. Imagine having that moniker, 'best fighter on the planet'. One more time, 'best fighter on the planet'. It was big enough props being the best fighter in my school, but in the planet? Man, he could whup anybody. Who cares if Duran was the meanest sonofabitch in the ring, or Robinson the greatest pound for pound, if they
got in the ring with Ali, goodnight baby. A simple matter of physical dimensions.

The myth, the cult of personality is something Lennox Lewis has, thus far, failed to fulfill, despite being a colossal 6ft-5in and close to 250 Ibs. Upon entering the ring to fight, Lewis appears almost unconsciously aloof to all that surrounds him, although completely aware of what is going on around
him. He's too alert to what's happening. It's almost as if he has got himself into a mindset that he does not wish to leave at any point during the evening's proceedings. It's completely different from any fighter, of that magnitude, that I've ever seen. Marvin Hagler, for instant, would enter the ring completely focused of being able to 'destruct and destroy' with complete conviction and a business man-like ruthlessness. Roy Jones Jnr. and to a much larger degree 'Prince' Naseem Hamed, use the music and dance to hype them up into an almost showman-like frenzy that gets their adrenaline
pumping to the same level as their intensity to battle. For each one however, there seems to be a multitude of emotions that dawns within their minds. It might not manifest itself in a facial expression, but maybe a look, a nervous glare, a sudden shadow boxing spurt to dust of their nerves like the sweat on their bodies. Sugar Ray Leonard used to speak of that time before the fight as a time he'd feel the fear, but would also try to picture the scenario of what was about to evolve in the ring.

But for the cerebral Lewis, nothing changes. He rarely blinks upon entering the ring, and when he does, it's as if someone has pressed a pause button on his face before they open again. His dolefully glazed expression, belies the alertness in his mind and underlines the fact that, unlike the true greats, he cannot think instinctively. He cannot dwell within the two realms of cutting loose and expressing himself creatively in the ring while under some semblance of mental, fighting control. Lewis wants to be aware of everything around him, and be prepared for anything that may happen or any surprises, like someone who is afraid, but not completely scared of flying. Lewis is almost like a third person looking upon himself and instructing him of what is about to happen. He fears the fear. Something that if he can just conquer will spur him to greatness, or possible defeat. The risk for greatness. But he doesn't want to let go. He can't concede to his fears, and hence cannot conquer it.

It's rare, particularly in a heavyweight fight, which inevitably always starts slow unless Tyson's involved, that you'll get an opening stanza like Jaws; something, that could throw Lewis out of his peaceful, placid, third person mind-set like what Shannon Briggs did back in 1998. Allow Lewis to
settle, and he is unlikely, even with his abundance of talent, to try and up the ante. However, at some point in the fight, he'll get comfortable and his mind becomes complacent. It's not as bad as he thinks. He starts dropping his hands playfully, as if he's mocking the danger of the situation. He gets
confident and starts expressing himself. He starts to admire his work and poses subliminally after every punch. He finally becomes comfortable when, BANG. Turbulence. Before he tries his best to settle back into his third person.

Lewis is indeed a finer purveyor of the power of suggestion than a close friend that fancies you. He fights by suggestion. He throws a suggestive jab, progresses forward suggestively and now throws his big right hand with suggestion. Of course much of this may be down to the devastating defeat he
suffered at the hands of Oliver McCall, one that may have ended the career of a lesser man. Few fighters, have recovered from such an ego shattering defeat and, not only recaptured former glories, but in the eyes of many come back to become an even more significant force. Unlike many in a similar situation, the 'fight' was not drawn out of him in the McCall fight. But something was. The ability to think instinctively. He still does it in flashes, and when he does, one would not be foolish to be convinced that Lewis has the ability to be one of the ten greatest heavyweights of all time. Indeed, at his peak, Lewis' forceful jab may have allowed him to fend off the controlled ferocity of a 1988 version of Mike Tyson. His overhand right, somewhat telegraphed and amateurish in his early days, but since been tightened up by the excellent training of Emanuel Steward, would have been
enough to at least test the chins of an Ali or a Marciano. He has a full array of punches, including a vicious uppercut and a sneaky left cross, each when thrown with authority can knockout the best of opponents. When in tune, Lewis is a wondrous hybrid of speed, power and fistic grace. Then, of
course, there's the mobility, quite remarkable for one so big and an excellent defensive mechanism if pushed back by a more aggressive opponent. Although Lewis' retreats are often voluntary.

In many ways, Lewis' position highlights the barbarism of boxing in the sense that he is everything Mike Tyson can't be as a person, but nothing Tyson can be as a fighter. And as begrudging a point as it may seem to some, it is Tyson's understanding of boxing's basic barbarism, beyond the immense skill, that makes him such a massive draw. When he was over in London recently, he said in a television interview:"I'm a totally different entity to what most people think. I'm Tyson here - Mike and daddy to my children and my wife. Tyson is nothing. Tyson is a freak. The fans don't know why they cheer me. I'm the guy who makes the freak show happen. People come to watch me kill somebody, beat somebody up and knock somebody out."

To some, Tyson is buying into the stereotype of a boxer, and socially, and perhaps with greater
ramifications, the stereotype on a mean Black man. In fact, one boxing publication upon the possible arrival of Tyson to these shores carried the cover story headline of 'Lock Up Your
Daughters'. In truth, Tyson is merely highlighting the hypocrisy of boxing, and in particular the media. Despite Tyson playing the complete gentleman upon visiting England, itwas not a role the media, or perhaps anyone else, wanted him to portray. Hence the media picked up on any negative aspect they could upon their depiction of Tyson. What Tyson does out of the ring is completely irrelevant, unless it's bad. Whatever Lennox Lewis does in the ring is completely irrelevant, unless it's bad.
Their respective crimes are how they appear in the ring mirrors what they are out of it. As such, Lennox could not walk into Tyson's back yard and attain as much publicity.

The immense dissection of Tyson is one of the reasons why he remains so popular to those in the Black community in Britain. If it was not Tyson incurring the wrath of anti-rape groups, or the contention of letting a convicted rapist enter the country - even when far worse offenders have - or him not being allowed to train at night in Hyde Park to counsellors trying to stop him from touring Brixton, the Black capital of Britain, everything that surrounded the coverage of Tyson was negative.
As the Sunday Times' journalist Nick Pitt reflected: "The Daily Express produced a classic: 'Repellent spectacle, foul man, despicable entourage, sick insult, revolting quagmire of shame,' with the names of Tyson, Warren and Straw interspersed among the hyperbole. (Despite their sensibilities, the Express covered the fight and took paid advertisements for Sky's TV
coverage)."

When people speak of Black people and their relationship to boxing, the foundation is usually that this sport is some kind of escape route from the ghetto. And that such a tough upbringing and the desperation to succeed inspires the necessary mental and physical attributes required to emerge
victorious in the ring. The above which, if you study the upbringing of some the great Black fighters in history, is quite true. Lost however, in the corporate marketing of the sport - meaning that if Tyson were to fight in New York or in a place where 75 per cent of the tickets hadn't been purchased by the casinos, promoters etc and behind the most powerful, although heavily scrutinised man in the sport, Don King - lie the appeal boxing has for Black people. And this was none so apparent than when Mike Tyson visited these shores recently for his show against the hapless Julius
Francis.

Indeed, it would be true to say that behind Muhammad Ali, Mike Tyson is the most revered Black sportsman among Black Britons. More than Jordan, Pele and whoever else you care to mention. The ghetto has an endearing do or die quality that, for those who have never lived in it, cannot full understand. There's an unconditional love for the heroes that emerge from the ghetto, without changing who they are or what they are fundamentally about. There's almost a justification for any action they because the shitstem [as reggae legend, the late Peter Tosh used to say] is against you and we are products of our environment. The only way we know to get out is to fight our way out,
which is not entirely true, but aestethically, it is a lot more awe inspiring, particularly for our heroes. The spirit, the pride is one that Mike Tyson carries with him. He is the anti-hero, and as such someone we would like to be. Someone who is fearless, does not bow to convention and is not scared to stick two fingers up at the shitstem. It's a part within us that rages at things we think is not fair, but suppress in such situations to conformity. We applaud that raw emotion because, in a sense, Tyson is a lot more liberated than we'll ever be. And despite the consequences of his actions, he has not bowed to no one. Maybe the next time Tyson does a press conference, he should playback a recording of Tony Montana's restaurant speech from the ultimate anti-hero gangster movie, Scarface "Wha' you lookin' at? You all a fucking bunch of assholes. You know why? You don't have the guts to be wha' you wanna be. You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your fucking fingers, 'that's the bad guy'. So, what that make you? Good? You're not good, you just know how to hide, and lie. Me, I don't have that problem. Me, I always tell the truth . So say goodnight to the bad guy."

For Black people, particularly those from the ghetto, Tyson is the personification of their struggles. Being the victims of the shitstem for so long, those that fearlessly strike out against it, on whatever level, are often commended. Tyson won the hearts of black people world-wide because he was one of the few to cross the colour line without selling out. Without losing that spirit. And as such, it is something few Black people cannot forget, regardless of his actions. We all need heroes, but to see Tyson in positions that only Ali had been in previous, and like Ali, still representing is not just important but damn near God like.

The colour codes in England are not as apparent as in the States because we do not have as established a community; hence the nationalistic pride is not nearly as significant. And our roots of appreciation is not as strong as it is in Africa or the Caribbean for our own countrymen to the point where any Black person who embraces the Union Jack makes people in the black community feel uneasy. Britain has such a varied racial mix, that Blacks in the UK are on the frontline of the Diaspora because we embrace the lineage of so many struggles within our community. Black Britain embraces all, whether American, Caribbean, African or whatever. Hence there were probably more Blacks Britons supporting Jamaica and Nigeria at the last World Cup than there were supporting England. More Blacks probably support the West Indies in cricket than they do England. And if they do support England, it's more because there maybe a Black player or two in the side. It could also be true to say that if Tyson were to fight Lewis in front of a predominantly Black audience in the UK, more people might shout for 'Iron' Mike than LL. In many respects, that is quite a sad statement, but true nonetheless. It's something Lewis would understand having been thrusted, perhaps unjustly, into the role of anti-hero upon his announcement that he wanted to
represent England as a pro fighter. At the time, Frank Bruno was England's media darling. A nice guy out of the ring and an overachiever in it, Bruno was, however, everything that Black people rejected. He did not come across as articulate, and at the time he first became a known fighter in the mid-eighties, the presence of articulate Black people in the media was rare; he grinned at any opportune moment, like those butlers in those old 1920s movies; he had a white wife, which for many was an all too common thing for young rich Black men in the UK; appeared more comfortable with whites than he did Blacks and was embraced, almost unconditionally by the media like no
other Black in Britain had even been before. In return, Lewis had endure taunts against his right to fight for England and was a man that culturally identified with black people making him the complete antithesis of Bruno. Oh yeah, and he could fight too. As is always the case, with success came support. And in much the same way as 'Prince' Naseem and Chris Eubank, upon proving his worth as a world class fighter, the sceptics soon turned to followers.

Lewis has been in some stink fights; Oliver McCall's 'in ring' breakdown in their second confrontation and 'Huggin'' Henry Akinwande's impression of ballroom dancing both spring immediately to mind. But when pushed, Lewis responds, as he did against Briggs and Ray Mercer. Couple this with his devastating knockouts of Andrew Golota and Razor Ruddock, and Lewis' resume is quite impressive. He is a thinking man's fighter, that does not mean that he has the ring smarts of a Sugar Ray Leonard; it means he just thinks too much. However, it could be the case that Lewis is just too talented, and in years past, few have been able to penetrate that part of his repertoire. Nevertheless, Lewis - who I believe is past is peak - will not have skills as his greatest ally in the forthcoming years. Indeed, when his skills erode, it's possible that we'll see the true greatness of Lennox as he can no longer rely on his talent to bail him out of situations. It will come
down to guts, courage and desire, and while many may criticise Lewis for the way he fights, he has yet to be fail a gut check in fights where it has required him to do so. By fighting the way he currently does, Lewis' demystification of the heavyweight championship title holder will not redefine anyone's perception of greatness. However, in his quest for greatness, one that includes Michael Grant on 29 April, and perhaps in the future, Tyson, Ike Ibeabuchi, David Tua or the Klitschko twins, Lewis will
have to prove that he signifies more than just the power of suggestion.

The Greatest British Fighter Ever?
In becoming the first undisputed heavyweight champion of the 21st Century, Lennox Lewis has carved a unique niche for himself in boxing history. But just how great is he? At this stage, it's too early to be talking about him in terms of the Hall of Fame, but certainly as a British fighter, he must
rank among the best. Here's a list of the 12 greatest British fighters of all-time.

1) Jimmy Wilde
Career 1910-1923
Record 131 (wins) - 3 (losses) - 2 (draws) (99 KO's)
World Titles World flyweight champion (1916-1923)
World Title Fights 3

2) Ted 'Kid' Lewis
Career 1909-1929
Record 169 - 30 - 12 (70 KO's)
World Titles World welterweight champion (1915-1916), (1917-1919),
World Title Fights 10

3) John Conteh
Career 1971-1980
Record 34 - 4 - 1 (24 KO's)
World Titles WBC light-heavyweight champion (1974-1978)
World Title Fights 7

4) Ken Buchanan
Career 1965-1983
Record 61 - 8 (27 KO's)
World Titles World lightweight champion (1970-1972)
World Title Fights 5

5) Jackie 'Kid' Berg
Career 1924-1945
Record 157 - 26 - 9 (62 KO's)
World Titles World light-welterweight champion (1930-1931)
World Title Fights 3

6) Lennox Lewis
Career 1989-present
Record 35 - 1 - 1 (27 KO's)
World Titles WBC heavyweight champion (1993-1994), (1997-present), IBF & WBA
heavyweight champion (1999-present)
World Title Fights 11

7) Lloyd Honeyghan
Career 1980-1995
Record 43 - 5 (30 KO's)
World Titles World welterweight champion (1986-1987), WBC welterweight
champion (1988-1989)
World Title Fights 9

8) 'Prince' Naseem Hamed
Career 1992-present
Record 34 - 0 (30 KO's)
World Titles WBO featherweight champion (1995-present), IBF featherweight
champion (1997), WBC featherweight champion (1999)
World Title Fights 15

9) Freddie Welsh
Career 1905-1922
Record 76 - 4 - 6 (32 KO's)
World Titles World lightweight champion (1914-1917)
World Title Fights 4

10) Nigel Benn
Career 1987-1997
Record 42 - 5 - 1 (35 KO's)
World Titles WBO middleweight champion (1990), WBC super-middleweight
champion (1992-1995)
World Title Fights 15

11) Barry McGuigan
Career 1981-1989
Record 32 - 3 (28 KO's)
World Titles WBA featherweight champion (1985-1986)
World Title Fights 4

12) Benny Lynch
Career 1931-1938
Record 82 - 13 - 15 (33 KO's)
World Titles World flyweight champion (1935-1938)
World Title Fights 5

By Rick Farris

Armando Muniz was one of several amateur boxers to become household names in Los Angeles during the mid- 60's. Muniz was one of many young amateurs that were a part of promoter Aileen Eaton's "Youth Development Program". This program would feature two televised amateur boxing matches prior to her weekly professional cards at the Olympic Auditorium.

The fans loved this. By taking two amateur boxers and putting them on TV as the opening act for top professionals, you almost always got two very hard fought, competitive matches.

Everybody involved with this program benefitted from it while it lasted. It gave the boxers a chance to build a following before pursuing a professional career and provided them with the experience of fighting before a large
audience. It benefitted the fans who would get a kick out of the often crude, but always exciting young boxers who would fight their hearts out before the television cameras. And, of course, it benefitted Aileen Eaton. Mrs. Eaton would usually have first crack at building the pro careers of the young stars who had already established a following. I can speak for the boxers who participated in this program because I was one of them.

Of all the young amateur boxers who got their start in this program, the career of welterweight Armando Muniz was one of many to find success in the professional ranks. Armando was one of several to go on to challenge for
a world championship. Another was "Irish" Jimmy Robertson who fought Roberto Duran in Duran's first lightweight title defense in 1972. Of course, a couple of others did pretty well also. Danny "Little Red" Lopez
and Bobby Chacon went on to win world championships.

I had the pleasure of getting to know Muniz when I was competeing as a junior amateur. Mando was several years older than I was and establishing himself as one of the nation's best amateurs at the time. When Armando wasn't training he divided his time between college studies and coaching kids at the Stanton A.C. near his home in Artesia. Muniz wasn't typical of the average boxer, as he was working toward a college degree at Cal State University Los Angeles and would eventually end up getting his masters.

However, as important as his boxing career and education was to Muniz, the work he did with the dozens of kids he coached was equally important. This is how I first got familiar with Mando personally. I had already seen him
fight at the Olympic, but as special a boxer as Muniz was, it wasn't a hint of how special a person he was. I would compete in the Jr. Golden Gloves tournament every year in Southern California and often would be
matched against one of Muniz' boxers.

Armando Muniz was a gentleman. He was quick with a smile and sincerely interested in everybody he talked to. His intellect and class were obvious. He was also one rough S.O.B. in the ring, one of the best welterweights to
ever come out of Los Angeles.

After defeating one of Muniz's kids in the 1967 Jr. Golden Gloves quarterfinals, Armando congratulated me after the fight. I was 15-years-old at the time and wished him luck in the upcoming Golden Gloves tournament. Mando thanked me but said that he wouldn't be entering the tournament that year. I was really surprised, not to mention disappointed, because Muniz was one of L.A.'s best hopes for bringing home a national Golden Gloves title. I had to ask Mando "Why"? Mando smiled and said he had just received his draft notice and would be going into the Army soon.

Unlike many 19-year-olds of that era, Muniz wasn't heart broken or brooding over the likelihood of ending up in Vietnam. Those were the cards he was dealt and he would play them the best he could. And play them he did!

Several days after Mando had entered boot camp word got out that Muniz was an amateur boxer. A sargeant who happened to be an ex-army boxing champion happened to investigate Muniz' boxing background and was impressed enough to contact the head coach of the U.S. Army's international boxing team. The coach just happened to be future U.S. Olympic coach Pat Nappi.

On the advice of the sergeant, Nappi made his way up to Fort Ord in Northern California to check out the new recruit and when he left Armando Muniz was the newest member of the nation's top amateur boxing team. Muniz was quickly transferred out of Fort Ord and two days later was sent to Venezuela to represent the Army in an International Team competition. It would be six months before Mando was sent back to Fort Ord to complete his basic training.

In the mean time, he traveled to the U.S.S.R., Germany, Korea and other countries around the world. While most soldiers were eating Army chow, Muniz ate the best food, got plenty of rest and was ordered to do nothing but train. As a boxer, the Army wanted Armando Muniz to "be all that he could be". And he was.

Several months after joining the Army team, Armando won the National A.A.U. Welterweight championship. A few months later he earned himself a birth on the 1968 U.S. Olympic team and would bring home a bronze medal for the U.S.A. at the Olympic Games in Mexico City.

Six months after winning his Oympic medal, I saw Muniz for the first time since our talk when he told me he'd been drafted. We met while we were both competeing in the 1969 National A.A.U. tournament at the San Diego
International Sports Arena. I was the Southern Pacific A.A.U bantamweight champion, representing the southern california team and, of course, Mando represented the Army. I remember I was sitting with my team mates in the dressing room area before the first round of eliminations when suddenly Mando walks up. Everybody on our team knew and loved Muniz, especially one of our team coaches, Jake Horn, who had trained Mando from the time he was a child.

We all congratulated Muniz on his medal and being rated the number one amateur welterweight in the world. I remember our welterweight Tommy Coulson said to me after Muniz left, "Damn I hope I don't have to fight Muniz". Luckily for Coulson he was eliminated in the first round.

I was 17-years-old at the time and made it to the semi-finals in the tournament that year. In the semi-final match I would be facing 23-year-old Caleb Long of the U.S. Army. Long had knocked out his previous three opponents in the tournament and Muniz made it a point to come over and talk with me before the match. "Ricky, be careful with this guy. He's had nearly 200 amateur fights and is a defending national champ as well as the all-Army and inter-service champ. He's KO'ed both the Russian and Cuban during the past few months". I don't remember what I said to Armando, but I'm sure I didn't thank him for inspiring any confidence in my chances. I ended up going the distance with Long but not before taking the worst ass whipping of my amateur boxing career. Caleb Long went on to win the National A.A.U. title for the second straight year, and so did Armando Muniz.

A little over a year later I would turn professional and Armando