That was in Milan, more than five years ago. I was ringside and can guarantee you it was a very boring fight. Williamson had won the U.S. title three consecutive times (1996-97-98), so everybody was expecting a spectacular battle between top rated amateurs. Maybe that was the problem; the two guys knew each other’s reputation and kept on the waiting stance to avoid trouble. They were successful in that. The judges called it a draw. Isn’t that reminiscent of Williamson vs. Chris Byrd?

Anyway, Fragomeni’s pro career took a step forward on November 13, 2004, when he beat by majority decision Frederic Serrat (who was 23-3) for the vacant WBC international cruiserweight championship. He defended it on March 12 against Daniel Bispo (15-0) and won a unanimous decision. That was an entertaining fight, with Fragomeni showing his full repertoire and proving he has the stamina to keep the rhythm going for the entire length of a title bout. He didn’t knock Bispo out, so you may wonder if the Italian has real punching power. His record (18-0 with just 7 KOs) says no, but against Bispo the story was different: Fragomeni hit really hard with combinations to the face and the body and looked on the verge of a KO win, but he found out (like everybody else) that the Brazilian was a legitimate tough guy.

On December 16, in Milan, Giacobbe Fragomeni will face journeyman Zoltan Beres (27-27-2) in a six round contest. The event will be promoted by Salvatore Cherchi at the famed Palalido. We met Giacobbe Fragomeni during a break from his training and asked him about his future as a prizefighter.

Assuming that you will win easily on December 16, what will be the next step of your career?

I never assume anything like that. I respect all my opponents. Besides, I need to go the distance to keep improving. So, even with an easy opponent it’s likely that I won’t win by KO. My next step should be a fight against WBO cruiserweight champion Johnny Nelson. I was talking about it with my manager, Salvatore Cherchi. I think Nelson is a good opponent for me. I can beat him.

What about his fight against Vincenzo Cantatore?

Nelson won clearly, every round but the 9^th 10^th and 11^th. That’s Vincenzo’s fault, he should have attacked him from the first stanza and kept the pressure on him. When Cantatore followed that strategy, Nelson was in trouble. When the British fighter received a good shot to the face, he was groggy. Another good punch would have been enough to KO him. If I get my chance against Johnny Nelson, I will be the aggressor for the entire fight. I won’t give him the time to breathe, not even for one second. Also because he is very sure of his capabilities, if you let him box his own way his self-confidence keeps rising and he will try to knock you out.

What about the WBA/WBC cruiserweight king Jean-Marc Mormeck?

His style is very close to mine. We would make an exciting fight. I’m ready to fight him, just like I’m ready for anybody else.

After Mormeck easily defeated a power-puncher like Wayne Braithwaite, many fighters don’t want to face him.

Then they should change profession. Real champions, both pro and amateurs, never turn down a challenge.

Talking about your amateur career, your fight with DaVarryl Williamson was disappointing. Why?

We were preparing for the Olympic trials and didn’t want to risk anything. That’s why the match was boring. I saw Williamson in action many times, before fighting him, and I knew he had punching power. I also knew he had a suspect chin. He proved it during the 1998 Goodwill Games final in New York City. I wasn’t there, but I saw the tape: Williamson attacked Savon with combinations and the Cuban did nothing. When Williamson opened his guard, the Cuban legend knocked him out with a right hand to the chin: 1^st round KO. Williamson tried to get up, but didn’t have strength in his legs and fell back to the mat. Impressive! I wasn’t surprised by the outcome because I saw Felix Savon in action many times and I knew he was a unique champion, a true legend of amateur boxing. He beat me in the world championship semi-final, but I’m not ashamed of it. Anyway, I’m proud of my amateur career: I was a member of the Italian national team from 1993 to 2001. I fought the very best all over the world and became European champion beating an outstanding boxer like Sergei Dychkov in the final. I also participated to a trip to Cuba, with the national team; we trained in the same gyms as the Cuban champions and we discovered that they had a 50 years old ring and very old equipment. That’s also to prove that to be successful in boxing, you just need the talent and the will to train every day. No fancy equipment can help you in your rise to the top.

Would you fight DaVarryl Williamson today?

If he can go down to the cruiserweight limit; otherwise no. I competed among heavyweights as an amateur, but for my professional career the best thing is to go after the cruiserweight title.

Giacobbe Fragomeni

Born in Milan, Italy

Division: Cruiserweight

Age: 36        

Born: 1969-08-13

Stance: Orthodox  

Height: 177 cm       

Record: 18 wins (7 KOs) in 18 fights

Title: WBC international champion

According to Sulaiman, “the free negotiations period has begun for the mandatory title defense between our champion Jermain Taylor vs. mandatory challenger Ronald 'Winky' Wright, as ordered during the WBC annual convention in Spain during the month of October. If no agreement is reached, the WBC will order a purse offer to be held on January 20, 2006, in Mexico City."

"I am extremely pleased,” replied Wright, “with the WBC's decision to proceed with the mandatory title defense and I look forward to meeting Jermain head-on in the ring in my next fight. Everyone knows that after every fight, I have always asked for another big fight. No breathers for me. I only want the biggest fights against the best fighters because I am a competitor and I believe a champion should act like a champion. Now we are going to see who the best middleweight really is – Jermain Taylor or me."

Wright and Taylor finished No. 1 and No. 3 respectively as the top boxing pay-per-view draws for 2005.

Wright, 50-3 (25 KOs), won his second consecutive world title elimination bout Saturday night, with a dominating 12-round unanimous decision over Sam Soliman, 31-8 (12 KOs), at the Mohegan Sun and televised live on HBO, snapping the IBF's top-rated middleweight contender's three-year, 19-bout winning streak.

Wright – who already was the No. 1 contender in the WBC and WBA by virtue of his world title elimination bout victory over Felix Trinidad on May 14 (Trinidad entered that fight as the WBC/WBA  No. 1-rated middleweight contender) – solidified his position as Taylor's mandatory challenger and is now recognized as the division's undisputed No. 1 contender. A two-time world champion, and the only man to unify the three major championship titles in the 154-pound division, Wright extended his current winning streak to 11 bouts, dating back to his disputed majority decision loss to Fernando Vargas in 1999.

Soliman was ripped and cut, obviously the special specimen of good health. He was leather tough, battling and banging and offering his own chin for 12 rounds. And the fans in Connecticut loved him. Most likely, the fans across the country watching on HBO loved him.

How could you not love the guy?

He was fun, fast and furious. Did he win the fight? Of course not. Three judges said so and Duane Ford’s verdict of 117-110 was probably the most accurate of the trio.

Winky Wright won Saturday night’s middleweight duel, earning the right (he hopes) to face Jermain Taylor one day soon ... earning the right (he hopes) for a bigger payday and a bigger portion of a sport’s spotlight.

Wright did what Wright always does, showing world-class defense and peppering away with his own punches. He improved his record to 50-3. He landed 300 of his 652 punches. He landed 105 of his jabs.

And for the frenetic Soliman?

He was throwing everything from everywhere, including his head a few times. He was just fighting and fighting and fighting. But he landed just 174 of his amazing 1,260 punch output. He landed just 10 of 333 jabs.

Still, when 12 rounds were put to rest, Wright looked a bit worse for the wear. Some of it was probably from Soliman’s hard head (even his head was tough). But some were from punches, too.

The trainer who truly knows his craft, Emanuel Steward, said at one point that this was the most he had ever seen Winky Wright get hit. Soliman was that active, that tricky, that awkward, that wild and that persistent.

When HBO analyst Larry Merchant pointed out to him that he looked as if he had been in a fight, Wright smiled and said, “Oh, I have. I knew it would be a tough fight. He’s so awkward. And I knew he would be coming to fight. I’m happy to get this one out of the way and move on to fight Jermain.”

Moments later, Wright was shaking his head again.

“His (Soliman’s) style is so crazy,” Wright said. “Throws punches from either way, comes in with his head. He’s tough.”

And the craziest part is that Soliman just kept coming and kept coming and kept coming. Nothing Wright could offer could dissuade him.

Wright appeared to be on the verge of stopping Soliman in the 10th round. He landed a crushing right hand. Moments later he landed a vicious left. Soliman was reeling ... the ropes his only friend. But only for a few moments. Wright almost wore himself out trying to stop the man who has never been stopped. He had to back off and catch his breath in the final 30 seconds of the round.

Soliman went to his corner, waited for his stool ... a sly smile on his face.

HBO blow-by-blow expert Jim Lampley laughed and said, “Give him a minute’s rest and he can fight for three more months.”

It seemed that way. It certainly must have seemed that way to Wright — especially when Soliman came right back out for the 11th round as strong and wild as ever. He looked as if nothing had happened in the 10th round. He looked as if he were answering the opening bell.

“I thought he would wind down,” Wright said. “That’s why I kept the pressure on him, keeping on beating him to the body. I hurt him with some great body shots. He was tough. I can’t take anything away from him.”

Fortunately for Wright, Soliman’s nonstop, one-man Army assault was not power packed. Wright got hit. But he was able to withstand the Australian’s power. Still, it was fun to watch. It was so much fun that some of the fans in the arena booed when the decision was announced. They were enamored with the effort.

Soliman saw his record dip to 31-8. He also saw his 19 fight win streak snapped.

“I gave everything I had,” he said. “The fight was even until the last few rounds. He has his gloves up but I got through. I got through more than I thought I would.”

Soliman seemed to think he won the fight.

Of course, he did not. He did not really even come close. But he was certainly fun to watch. Again, he is fantastically fit and leather tough and his heart is huge. He did give it his all and he did entertain.

This was a rough night in the life of Winky Wright. He got hit more than he is accustomed. But he won the fight.

And now?

Now he wants to move on to his biggest of fights, move on to a date with Jermain Taylor.

And soon.

“I definitely want Jermain as soon as possible,” Wright said. “If he takes another fight, I’ll take another fight. But I definitely want Jermain.”

If Taylor takes another fight — you know, one of those breathers ... one of those pay-an-opponent-to-show-up-and-lose affairs — Wright will stay busy, too. It is doubtful, however, that Wright will want any part of someone like Sam Soliman. Of course, there probably is no one like Sam Soliman.

Still, it was an amazingly fun night at the fights ... just watching the human octopus relentlessly throwing punches.

With those conditions, could anyone blame 29-year-old David Diaz for being even slightly disenchanted with boxing for a few years?

Since the former Olympian and two-time Golden Gloves champion was set for his first shot at a title in his almost 10-year career Saturday, he cherishes the fact he took that time off. The time was just right for the Chicagoan to reach for the International Boxing Association's lightweight belt.

“I think it was the best thing to happen to me,” Diaz said. “If I had kept on the way I was going – barely training, cutting a lot of pounds before the fight – I would have ended up seriously hurt.”

Diaz did what most boxers do when they’ve been beaten out of the game or just simply beaten themselves. He took to the construction sites and other odd jobs. He would have worked just about anything, as long as it wasn’t boxing.

“The reason I kept on so much was you have all these fights (as an amateur),” Diaz said. “When you have fights, you have trips. You want to go on these trips, and the only way to go is to fight.

“If it wasn’t for boxing, I don’t think I ever would have left Chicago.”

Oddly enough, when Diaz retired himself in 2000, he hadn’t lost a single fight. In fact, his last fight Sept. 9 of that year was a second-round technical knockout of Steve Larimore.

He admitted the shift to the pros in 1996 was a bit of an adjustment.

“Once the pros hit in, it’s like, wow, you’re getting paid,” Diaz said. “That was the problem. I wasn’t work as hard as I was when I wasn’t getting paid. I had to weigh my options and it ended up I needed a little break.”

Competition wasn’t much of a problem for Diaz. He’d been around some of the best most of his life. He beat current WBA, WBC and IBF titleholder Zab Judah for a spot on U.S. Olympic team at the Atlanta Games in 1996. The team turned out more than a few professional champions, including Eric Morel (112-pounder, now the former WBA flyweight champ), Floyd Mayweather Jr. (125-pounder, now the current WBC light welterweight champ), Fernando Vargas (147-pounder, now the former IBF and WBA junior middleweight champ), David Reid (156-pound gold medallist, now the former WBA super welterweight champ) and Antonio Tarver (178-pounder, now the current IBF, WBC and WBA light heavyweight champ).

Diaz has watched each one of the professional triumphs of his former Olympic teammates. Although, he admitted it never stirred a rush to get one of his own.

“I was actually happy for them,” Diaz said. “I would have to say that I’ve been finally getting my experience and everything where I think I’m ready for a title shot.”

It’s almost ironic that Diaz would relish having taken his time, considering he never intended to stay in the ring beyond the age of 27. As of now, he’s scribbled out the dates he’d circled years ago and moved them up to three years from now. That’s when he’ll finally call it quits. But even those circles are in pencil.

“It all depends if my body is telling me to stop,” Diaz said. “Whether I become champ or not, I would have to hang it up.”

Time was on his side Saturday, and so was the experience of 30 professional fights heading into the contest at southern Indiana's Grand Victoria Casino in Rising Sun, just 45 minutes away from Cincinnati. Of course, he needed every bit of experience against a fighter he'd never seen the likes of in southpaw Ramazan Palyani.

Palyani had logged more than 400 fights between his amateur and undefeated professional careers, although he only has 12 that awarded him a paycheck. Diaz's experience told him the 32-year-old boxer-puncher from the Republic of Georgia is unlike any southpaw he's faced, based merely on Palyani's technical skills.

Between the two fighters Saturday, neither carried the advantage in a fight declared a draw and the vacant belt remained unclaimed.

To Diaz’s credit, he’s left southpaws weighed, tried and left wanting. More recently, he TKO’d Jamie Rangel in the ninth in 2004. Diaz did worse to Dillon Carew, whose corner stopped their 2003 bout in the third round.

If anything, Diaz is doing the crunches and taking the punches he needs to these days. He learned a hard lesson when he dropped the first fight of his professional career in February against Kendall Holt (17-1) by way of an eighth-round TKO.

“I am hungry,” he said. “I’ve done everything I need to do to get to the shape I am now. Hopefully when I win the title, people are going to be gunning for me.

“I’m going to do what I have to so they can’t beat me.”

Thirty-four years ago my Herb Goings was a tough, black thug from Harlem knocking out opponents in the 1971 NYC Golden Gloves. He had a god-given killer instinct. Then we fought. I knocked him down three times and copped a three-round decision. I’m now 51 and he’s 57. How would he react when he heard my name? Would he even remember me?

I pick up the phone and dial.  It’s a long shot. My Herb Goings, a former pug, living on Madison Avenue?

“Hello?” answers a gruff voice.

“Herb Goings?”

‘Who is this?”

“Is this Herb Goings? The former fighter?”

“Who’s this?” repeats the voice.

Already we are sparring. “Did you fight in the 1971 Golden Gloves?”

“Where’d you get this number?” he counters.

“Are you Herb Going?” I repeat.

“Who’re you?”

“Pete Wood.”

“Pete Wood?” I hear him gasp. “How the hell are ya?”

Eventually he lets his guard down and we reminisce our fight. Herb was destroying every opponent that year in the 160-pound novice division. No one wanted to face him. Especially me. Just looking at his muscular shoulders and rippling biceps made me nauseous. But since we were both 5’8”and 163 pounds we were matched. That night, in a 20-by-20 foot ring, I knocked him down three times and advanced to the quarterfinals in The Felt Forum at Madison Square Garden.

“Man, you threw a wicked left hook!” he chuckles. “You knocked me down in the first. Only time I ever be dropped!”

“You scared the hell outta me!” I say, evening it out. I’m tempted to correct his ‘only time,’ but don’t.

We’re embracing each other, this time, with laughter. There’s not a mean bone in his voice. We are no longer angry kids punching people. I learn Herb is now a New York City bus driver, a vegetarian, swims laps every day and has attained a 5th degree black belt in karate. He’s engaged to a woman from Tanzania and is learning Swahili. His son attends Fordham Prep. As I listen to Herb’s voice on the phone, I can almost smell his onion breath, as we stood toe-to-toe during the ref’s instructions before our fight.

I tell him I’m now teaching English at White Plains High School. I’m happily married and have one beautiful nine-year-old daughter who’s learning tennis. My wife is from Guangzhou, China, and even though I am not learning the language I know a few words and phrases: watermelon; thank you; I love you. Herb and I seem to have cleansed ourselves of our aggression, anger and hate.

Cleansed of anger and hate? Was The New York City Golden Gloves the cathartic experience it claimed to be? Was The Golden Gloves a form of hospital? Or sanatorium?  s encouraging a kid to spew out three rounds of aggression, anger and hate onto someone’s face therapy? Isn’t boxing, in truth, a sickness called sport?  Isn’t boxing tidy violence? Yes. But boxing is also artistic violence. Violent art. It allowed me, with left hooks and right crosses, to be an inspired Jackson Pollack swinging and spewing punches above a different canvas. I hope Herb Goings is no longer punching the world. Whatever his problem was then, I hope boxing has helped him punch it out. Is boxing healing? Are boxers physicians to each other?

Herb was born in Hell’s Kitchen and raised in Harlem. After leaving the ring at 28, he adopted the Hebrew faith. “The first Jews were black,” he claims. “I’m not a Negro, a pickaninny, a black or an African American; I’m Hebrew. Judaism isn’t a race. Moses, Abraham and Noah were black. My two sons, Solomon and Joshua, are Hebrew. Too many black boys lack role models. Michael Jordan and Jesse Jackson aren’t role models; they’re figureheads. Black kids need homegrown male figures in their lives.”

“Elephants is an analogy,” he states. “In Africa there was once a large herd where all of the mature elephants were captured or killed. When the younger bulls took over they be killing each other. The herd was in danger of extinction until older bulls were adopted from The Serengeti and India. It worked. The older elephants calmed the younger ones down.”

I’m an English teacher, not a psychologist, but I sense a connection with Herb’s elephants, adopted religion and boxing; his search for stability and meaning.

After boxing, my quest for stability and meaning led me, at 32, to write “To Swallow A Toad.” Writing about emotional upheaval in one’s life, research suggests, increases physical and psychological health. Writing, indeed, grounded me. Jabbing out words and punching out paragraphs helped scrub out the residual sadness and anger boxing had missed. In my novel, my Herb Goings is Jamal Green, a violent street thug, a loud-mouthed Black Muslim who vows to “kill my white ass.” A raging bull.

“I’m in your book?” he murmurs. “What’s the title?”

“To Swallow A Toad.”

‘How do you spell Swallow?” he asks, writing it down.

Hey, I have spelling problems, too. Spelling grammar, attendance and schedule is always a dilemma – and I’m the English teacher.

We agree to eat lunch in White Plains. We’ll meet on Mamaroneck Avenue in front of the YMCA. He knows a good Japanese restaurant in the area.  efore I hang up, I tell him I’ll bring along something extra special; a videotape of our bout. “No way!” he shouts. Once again, he’s floored. After 34 years, Herb will relive a precious morsel of his youth: our three-round fight. Unfortunately, he’ll rediscover he was down three times.

What did I get myself into? Herb is standing in front of the YMCA at 12:00 sharp. Is he scowling or smiling? He’s wearing a black leather jacket, black shirt, black pants and black shoes. In his hand is my book. Is he angry at the perceived slight at being named Jamal Green? Is he still a raging bull harboring a grudge? Is he thinking rematch?

I walk closer and am pleased to spot a smile in his eyes. We embrace. We’re Joe Louis and Max Schmeling. We’re Muhammad Ali and Jerry Quarry.

Once inside the restaurant, he plants his elbows on the table and orders miso soup and steamed vegetables. He has a bullet bald head and his nose is slightly bent to the right. On his left forearm is a tattoo: Born To Raise Hell. On his right forearm is a nasty 12-inch scar.

“I’m sorry if I was rude over the phone,” he grins. “I thought you was a bill collector.” He looks me over and adds, “How much you weigh?”

“One-seventy-eight. You?” I counter.

“One-ninety.”

“I thought you’d be a construction worker or something,” he says. “Not a teacher! Hey, it’s great to see you doing good. Not all of us are.”

Our life stories gush out.  We’re two small men – an inner-city bus driver and a suburban schoolteacher – two little success stories – spilling our guts. During our meal, I sense we are both gentle souls yearning to discover commonalities and be at peace with each other.  I sense our minds, for years, have been saturated and pickled by years of tabloid headlines and scandalous news. I sense we long to transcend a racially charged society and find harmony, a shared sense of humanity. Hence, we tiptoe around difficult areas, like politics and race. We bob and weave around the Iraqi War and the upcoming mayoral election. Is this timid shadowboxing typical of all first meetings?

He tells me about his morning bus route, the BMX 18 Express, connecting Riverdale with Wall Street. He’s been driving it for years. “I always keep my passengers positive. I’m always talking to them. If they come in frowning, I leave them smiling. If it’s raining, I always tell them “don’t let a little water ruin your day.”

He sips soup and asks, “So, what’s To Swallow A Toad mean?”

“Toads is an analogy,” I state. “If early in the morning a kid is told to swallow a toad for breakfast, just do it, and the rest of his day, by comparison, will be better. It’s just like in childhood. If something bad happens to you, get over it, and the rest of your life, by comparison, will be better. In my book, a kid swallows a toad.”

Herb smiles. “We’re so much alike.” He must have read page 25 in my book: “There was more emotional and physical violence in our house than in one block in Harlem. Family dysfunction, heroin and alcohol addiction, violence.”

At the end of lunch, I need to ask Herb a personal question. Till now, we’ve kept it neutral. But I need to know something. Perhaps this is the reason why I called him in the first place. It’s not my place to ask indelicate questions, or force Herb to express painful feelings, but I personally think a kid needs to be hurt into boxing: “Herb, why did you box?”

He reaches with his chopsticks, deftly tweezes a head of broccoli, pops it into his mouth and chews.  ‘Because I was good at it,” he grins. Then he adds, “Plus, I didn’t want to end up like everyone else, robbing, dealing, or pimping.”

I’m in my 4th period English class reading Macbeth. I tell my students: “Plays purify the morals.” This might be true, but boxing does something better: it disinfects the soul. After a fight, I always felt strangely cleansed and pure. I felt no anger or hate. After fighting, I felt an inner glow, something, perhaps, like a Catholic feels after confession. Or Herb feels after making a passenger smile on the BMX 18 Express.

Herb and I are small men. Neither of us became a champion, but we became something much more important – healthy and happy. Herb gets them smiling on the BMX 18 Express and I teach Macbeth at White Plains High School. We are old bulls who have swallowed our toads.

The summer of 1960. Camelot.

John F. Kennedy and the warmth and confidence his personality projected quickly are converting millions of American voters via the medium of television. The following November, they would defeat Richard Nixon in his quest for the presidency.

At the Polo Grounds one June evening, Floyd Patterson makes boxing history with one dramatic and devastating left hook.

And across the Atlantic in Rome, an 18-year-old from Louisville, Kentucky, named Cassius Clay is about to burst forth for the first time on the world stage.

Then, he was only a light-heavyweight. But, as he inevitably won the gold medal, unfortunate Olympic opponents wilted under his slashing, two-fisted attacks. Moving about on feathery feet, young Clay suddenly would dart in with a barrage then, before his bewildered foe could respond, be gone.

He would call it “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” With it, little more than three years later, he would puncture the aura of invincibility of Sonny Liston…the mammoth, malevolent world heavyweight champion.

In the innocence of “The Eternal City,” that Brigadoon-like summer of ’60 and the succeeding 42 months, Clay would bubble and sparkle. He would fill the nation’s sports pages with bombastic doggerel verse that predicted his opponents’ demise.

And they fell.

After only 19 professional fights, Clay entered a Miami Beach ring a 7-1 underdog to the massive, surly Liston. “Sonny’s fate will be round eight!” seemed so preposterous that bets were made not only on the seemingly inevitable outcome, but whether Clay actually would appear.

But by then, he no longer was the lean, callow youth of Rome.

Dempsey looked as if he’d just stepped out of a back alley. Louis, like some stolid jungle cat. Marciano, as if he’d just dropped his pick and shovel and left the cement mixer.

By the middle 1960’s, Cassius Clay looked like he had just stepped off a pinnacle from Olympus. At 6-3, his still-growing, seemingly golden, body carried 210 supple pounds.

Liston never had a chance; neither did any other heavyweight of the decade.

By 1964, when the exuberant Clay had adopted the Islamic faith…taking the name Muhammad Ali, his skills had become honed like jet-age instruments.

Louis’ left jab was like a wrecking ball crashing into the side of a building. Ali’s was like a laser beam.

In the mid-‘60’s, Ali was like no fighter in history. His sleek, wondrous body would swerve and dart about the ring on mercurial legs. Watching him was like being an audience to Toscanini.

He was Nureyev in boxing togs. His mind, arms and legs worked as though to some unearthly symphony. It was as if Gershwin had choreographed his movements. He was as classic to the eye as is “Rhapsody in Blue” to the ear. Stunned opponents looked like they had encountered an alien being.

Ali went through 15-round fights virtually without being hit. He moved with such delicacy, his blows seemed like strokes from a painter…but with the results of a bar-brawler.

But Ali was much more than merely “a fighter.” The prize ring was but a lake in his quest for the oceans beyond. No athlete so completely was a synthesis of his time as Ali.

When Blacks rose in Watts and Newark…when thousands of America’s young people shouted against a war they termed as immoral, refusing to become a part of it, there was Ali.

When his religious choice was met with repulsion, he replied, “I am America, too…but the part you don’t want to see. I’m free; I don’t have to be what you want me to be.”

During his first championship reign, 1964-’67, his courage openly was questioned. The answer should have been seen during a spring day in Houston, 1967. It was then that Ali refused military induction for religious reasons.

The Hawks immediately, and gladly, proclaimed epithets against him. Ali responded: “I don’t have any quarrel with those Viet Cong.”

That sentence triggered the greatest brush-fire response in America since the events of

Dec. 7, 1941. Yet Ali stood firm. His boxing license was revoked for three-plus years. He continued to stand firm. Intimidation, whether from Liston or The System, found an invulnerable target in Ali.

Then, grudgingly, it was over. His license was returned. As always, he had prevailed. Once more, he could pursue the craft that he had elevated to a mesmerizing art-form.

After those barren 42 months, how would it be for him in the ring? So-called experts boasted, “Nobody can be away from boxing that long and come back as before.”

But Ali had been away only in body; his spirit had remained to haunt those who dared lay claim to his throne.

On an October evening in Atlanta, Ali again worked his magic. He bridged those countless lost moments with a show of artistry that confounded the world.

First, there was Jerry Quarry. Then, Oscar Bonavena. And finally, “The Fight of Champions”. The true “Fight of the Century”. March 8, 1971. Joe Frazier. The physical clash of two ideologies in America.

For 14 rounds, Ali matched his skills and magic against a seeming machine. Then, with less than two minutes remaining, the public gasped as Ali again displayed the dormant courage that lay just beneath the surface. Like the rest of the proverbial iceberg beyond the tip.

Frazier’s killer-left hook dumped him on the canvas, and everyone left him for dead…led again by those who had been affronted by his choice not to ascribe to the doctrine that his country is inevitably right, regardless of the issue.

But Ali defied the naysayers and finished the momentous fight on his two feet…only to hear the decision against him. He became “the loser, but still champion.”

Undaunted, he began a quest to regain his lost crown. But on another March day, in 1973, there was another mountain. Ken Norton astonishingly broke Ali’s jaw, and the newspapers said: “End of the Ali Legend”.

Yet, 18 months later…once again disdained as a hopeless underdog, Ali used his magic to perform still another miracle. A young brute of a man named George Foreman – with python-like arms – incredibly became the victim.

Their confrontation would occur in a ring pitched under an African canopy, as if in a setting to celebrate the Renaissance of a world thought irretrievable.

Once again, Ali had found the light.

Soon, there would be “The Thrilla in Manila”, his tortuous third encounter with Frazier. In “the nearest thing to death,” Ali again would absorb Frazier’s terrible punishment…yet find something deep in the sanctums of his soul to stave disaster.

At the end of the 14th round, his crusade finally ended; Eddie Futch, in Frazier’s corner, humanely disdained possible victory and allowed his battered gladiator to return no more.

Ali, still a champion, would collapse.

As he had long before walked through the door to boxing immortality, his mortality as champion became increasingly apparent during the following two-plus years.

No longer was he the butterfly who stung like a bee. Now he was a tarantula who waited, plotted and struck. On leaden legs. His bouts assumed a disturbing pattern: he would concede the early rounds, only to grasp victories in the closing ones.

Then, on a February evening in 1978, before the glaring lights of television cameras, the nation and world watched an inferior alley fighter, Leon Spinks, finally push Ali from his precarious tightrope posture.

It was as if the violin somehow had turned on Heifetz. Still, the music was not quite ended. Not yet.

Ali desperately brutalized his aging body for one last aria; even he had to realize that it was to be his final performance in boxing’s center stage. Pinza or Pavarotti straining one last time at The Met or Carnegie Hall.

Precisely six months after being dethroned, Ali called upon his final resources to combat the irrevocable sands of time. However, instead of the dazzling, unearthly speed and coordination, he reached back into his store-house of experience to smother the fire of youth against him in the ring.

Guile, more than skill, was the key ingredient for Ali’s successful final bow. He now could retire as boxing’s once-and-future king.

But Lancelot could only resist the call of the joust for a fortnight. Though Camelot long ago had crumbled, he entered the arena determined to resurrect the glory. He boasted of accomplishing another miracle…the kind he so often had performed.

And, for breathless moments, as he stood to face the foe, the court watched…transfixed by the magniloquence of his latest crusade. Hoping that he could somehow, if only for this final, fleeting evening, create at least the illusion of Camelot.

But neither Lancelot’s flesh nor magic could smite down this foe, Larry Holmes…or his inevitable one, time. Ali didn’t even depart across his shield. Tragically, he was led away.

However, the splendor of what he had created in countless arenas, across two tumultuous decades, inevitably will transcend the momentary tarnish of a single Las Vegas evening.

His masterpieces in the ring, like the classic works of Gershwin, Picasso and Hemingway, are recorded for posterity.

And, like those works, provide indelible evidence of genius.

(Hal Pritzker’s boxing-oriented romance novel Every Summer is available through Advantage Books.)

It was somehow appropriate that Ronald Wright, an awkward pugilist who has fashioned a career out of making his artistic superiors look bad, should finally get a dose of his own medicine.

The Winkster won a unanimous decision in Saturday night’s WBC middleweight eliminator, but he spent much of the evening being frustrated by Sam Soliman, a 32-year-old Australian who brought a 31-7 record to the bout at the Mohegan Sun Arena.

Although Soliman hadn’t lost in over four years in his vagabond career, his No. 1 IBF rating was regarded with some suspicion, and the widespread assumption was that Wright, who had spent the past week decrying Taylor’s intention to take a ‘breather’ fight before hooking up with Winky, was taking something of a breather himself.

That illusion was dispelled at the opening bell. Soliman came roaring out of his corner in a frenetic attack that saw him firing punches at a machinegun pace. Precious few of them were finding their mark, but the display of hyperactivity forced Wright to rethink his game plan, if he had one. He spent so much time covering up to ward off Soliman’s random proliferation of punches that he hadn’t time to throw any of his own.

The Winkster assumed, as did virtually everyone else in the building, that it would be impossible for Soliman to sustain that pace. (By the fourth or fifth round we fully expected the Aussie to come off his stool and fall flat on his face, but Soliman managed to remain the aggressor, albeit not a particularly effective one, for most of the night.)

By the time the third round ended, for instance, Soliman had already missed 111 jabs, but he continued to fire away at what Compubox guro Bob Connobio assures us was double the normal middleweight pace.

It was a tactic, it turned out, ill-conceived to actually win the fight, but if the intent had been to send Winky’s pound-for-pound stock tumbling, it probably accomplished that. By the final bell Soliman had thrown 1260 punches – better than 100 per round – to Wright’s 650. The Winkster, nonetheless, had connected on nearly half of his – he hit Soliman an even 300 times – while Soliman landed just 174, leaving Sam’s connect percentage somewhat below the Mendoza Line.

Although Soliman remained the aggressor for most of the fight, Wright was able to assert command in several stanzas, most notably the tenth, when he caught the Australian with a straight left followed by a hard right hook that badly wobbled him. Soliman, though badly hurt, did battle back in the final minute of the tenth, enough, in our eyes, to avert a two-point round, but not, apparently, in the eyes of Tom Kaczmarek and Duane Ford, who both scored it 10-8.

Soliman was still pumping away at the final bell, and leapt up on the ring rope as if he had adjudged himself the winner. Much of the crowd apparently agreed, but then the allegiance of the audience was suspect, anyway. When ring announcer Michael Buffer had introduced a prominent member of Wright’s posse – Yankees’ outfielder Gary Sheffield – from the ring, 4,682 voices responded in unison, with boos.

“Sam was awkward,” said Wright, stating the obvious. “He came to fight.”

That he had. Soliman’s reputation, which was admittedly not much to begin with, will probably be enhanced more by what took place at the Mohegan Sun than will Wright’s.

On the other hand, in addition to solidifying his position as Taylor’s mandatory challenger, Wright will presumably inherit Soliman’s IBF spot – meaning that he can fight Arthur Abraham, that organization’s newly-crowned champion, if he wants.

Don’t bet on that, but after calling out Taylor yet again (“I want Jermain as soon as possible”), Wright allowed that if Lou DiBella persists in his plan to have the WBC/WBA champion fight a nonthreatening opponent in Little Rock, Winky plans to take an interim fight as well.

“I want to stay active,” said Wright, but probably not as active as he was on this night.

“I thought (Soliman) would run down,” said Wright, “but he was very tough. I give him a lot of credit. He came to win.”

Despite Soliman’s bad aim, the issue appeared closer to us than the judges had it: Kazcmarek scored it 115-112, Ford 117-110, and Melvina Lathan 1115-113. (The Sweet Science scorecard had it even at 114-114.)

By turning it into a high-speed chase, Soliman at least had the effect of waking up the crowd; half had been lulled into sleep as eight of the nine bouts on Gary Shaw’s card went the distance.

Carlos De Leon Jr., the son of the old cruiserweight champion, escaped with a draw in his six-rounder against Illinois journeyman Ted Muller. Three judges split three ways on the issue, with Don Trella scoring 58-56 for De Leon (13-1-2), Steve Epstein favoring Muller (16-5-2) by a 59-55 margin, and Glenn Feldman deeming it even at 57-57. (The Sweet Science thinks Epstein had it right.)

In a scheduled six-rounder that was abbreviated to four after it had commenced, Canadian cruiserweight Anthony Russell (11-1-1) decisioned William Bailey (4-8-1), while former light-heavyweight contender Rico Hoye hammered out an uninspired decision over Derrick Whitley of Holyoke, Mass. Hoye, of Detroit, improved to 19-1, while Whitley slipped back under .500 again, falling to 23-24-3.

The curtain raiser saw veteran Sherman “Tank” Williams (27-10-2) outpoint Mississippi journeyman Willie Perryman (9-10) in a battle of roly-poly heavyweights by scores of 99-91 (twice) and 98-92. In other early bouts New York junior middleweight Jose

Rodriguez (3-0) decisioned Philadelphian Anthony Abrams and Wright stablemate Akinyemi Laleye (3-0) won a split decision over Louis Robinson (2-1-1) in a lively light-heavyweight 4-rounder. Laleye, a Nigerian currently training in St. Petersburg under Dan Birmingham, prevailed by winning 39-37 on the cards of both Epstein and Feldman, while the third judge, Frank Lombardi, saw it for Robinson by a 39-38 margin.

A pair of local favorites both won their undercard bouts, to the delight of the sparsish crowd of 4,682. Hartford featherweight Mikey-Mike Oliver (11-0) easily outpointed his Mexican opponent Gilberto Bolanos (10-10-1), despite having a point deducted (for excessive holding) by referee Ricky Gonzalez in the third.

And Tony Grano, a 25-year-old plumber from Hebron, Conn., who turned pro after winning last year’s USA Boxing heavyweight championship in Colorado Springs, won his second bout in as many pro fights when he knocked out Tim Gulley (0-2) of Akron, Ohio. Grano allowed the acrobatic Gulley to cavort about the ring for a minute or so before methodically walking him and fetching his opponent a right hand to the body that left him writhing in agony as referee Dick Flaherty counted him out at 1:18 of the first.

MOHEGAN SUN ARENA

UNCASVILLE, CONN.

DEC. 10, 2005

MIDDLEWEIGHTS:

Ronald (Winky) Wright, 159½, St. Petersburg, Fla. dec. Sam Soliman, 159, Melbourne, Australia (12) (WBC title eliminator)

HEAVYWEIGHTS:

Sherman Williams, 259, Vero Beach, Fla. dec. Willie Perryman, 275, Clarksdale, Miss. (10)

Tony Grano, 212, Hebron, Conn. KO’d Tim Gulley, 202, Akron, Ohio (1)

CRUISERWEIGHTS:

Rico Hoye, 180, Detroit dec. Derrick Whitley, 178½, Holyoke, Mass. (6)

Anthony Russell, 177, Kitchener, Ontario dec. William Bailey, 182, Chesapeake, Va. (4)

LIGHT HEAVYWEIGHTS:

Akinyemi Laleye, 173, Lagos, Nigeria dec. Louis Robinson, 174, Philadelphia (4)

SUPER MIDDLEWEIGHTS:

Carlos DeLeon Jr., Trujillo Alto, Puerto Rico drew with Ted Muller, 168, Moline, Ill. (6)

JUNIOR MIDDLES:

Jose Rodriguez, 150, New York dec. Anthony Abrams, 151, Philadelphia (4)

FEATHERWEIGHTS:

Mike Oliver, 123, Hartford dec. Gilberto Bolanos, 124, Ciudad Obregon, Sonora, Mexico (4)

Since Klitschko’s retirement from boxing last month, his heavyweight reign has been scrutinized by boxing historian and non-historian alike, and the general consensus is that it was a bit of a dud. But no matter; Vitali Klitschko has bigger fish to fry. He has been wooed by several factions in the Ukraine and encouraged to throw his hat into the ring and run for political office. The former champ, in answer to this higher calling, has acquiesced and is actively campaigning.

Klitschko tops the list of a newly formed bloc that includes a party headed by the Ukraine's finance minister, who is also the former head of the Pora youth movement, which helped organize the mass protests that fueled last year's successful nonviolent (except for the Kremlin’s dioxin poisoning of the opposition candidate) Orange Revolution.

Although his political career is just beginning, Klitschko refused to rule out an eventual bid for Kiev’s mayoralty post. And, after that, if all goes well, the sky’s the limit for Dr. K.

The 34-year-old Klitschko is hugely popular in the Ukraine. He was a prominent supporter of the Orange Revolution, which propelled Viktor Yushchenko to the presidency, and which advocated a clean sweep, a fresh start, an out with the old in with the new agenda.

Yushchenko's party tried to enlist Klitschko into its ranks, but the big man with the big punch and the big ambition had other ideas.

Unlike American elections, where we vote directly for candidates, Ukrainian voters cast ballots for a political party, and the party distributes seats to candidates based on its party list. Political parties in the Ukraine have been known to put high-profile names on their list to attract voters (called “Schwarzeneggering� in the U.S.), even though the person sometimes gives up the seat to someone else lower down, and less prominent, on the list.

Klitschko retired from boxing after a knee injury, hot on the heels of a back injury, forced him to pull out of an oft-delayed title defense against Hasim Rahman. The heavyweight picture, which was murky when Klitschko was active, is no less murky since his exit.

While Klitschko’s long-term effect on the heavyweight division is still being decided, his effect on Ukrainian politics is already being felt.

Since Klitschko’s retirement from boxing last month, his heavyweight reign has been scrutinized by boxing historian and non-historian alike, and the general consensus is that it was a dud. But no matter; Vitali Klitschko has bigger fish to fry. He has been wooed by several factions in the Ukraine and encouraged to throw his hat into the ring and run for political office. The former champ, in answer to this higher calling, has acquiesced and is actively campaigning.

Klitschko tops the list of a newly formed bloc that includes a party headed by the Ukraine's finance minister, who is also the former head of the Pora youth movement, which helped organize the mass protests that fueled last year's successful nonviolent (except for the Kremlin’s dioxin poisoning of the opposition candidate) Orange Revolution.

Although his political career is just beginning, Klitschko refused to rule out an eventual bid for Kiev’s mayoralty post. And, after that, if all goes well, the sky’s the limit for Dr. K.

The 34-year-old Klitschko is hugely popular in the Ukraine. He was a prominent supporter of the Orange Revolution, which propelled Viktor Yushchenko to the presidency, and which advocated a clean sweep, a fresh start, an out with the old in with the new agenda.

Yushchenko's party tried to enlist Klitschko into its ranks, but the big man with the big punch and the big ambition had other ideas.

Unlike American elections, where we vote directly for candidates, Ukrainian voters cast ballots for a political party, and the party distributes seats to candidates based on its party list. Political parties in the Ukraine have been known to put high-profile names on their list to attract voters (called “Schwarzeneggering� in the U.S.), even though the person sometimes gives up the seat to someone else lower down, and less prominent, on the list.

Klitschko retired from boxing after a knee injury, hot on the heels of a back injury, forced him to pull out of an oft-delayed title defense against Hasim Rahman. The heavyweight picture, which was murky when Klitschko was active, is no less murky since his exit.

While Klitschko’s long-term effect on the heavyweight division is still being debated, his effect on Ukrainian politics is already being felt.

Robert Ecksel is editor-in-chief of The Sweet Science. To read more of his work Read more at the BLOG

His growing legion of followers, including McCullough, will be watching Duddy with keen interest live on pay per view on Global Warfare presented by Warriors Boxing Promotions on Thursday night, Dec. 15, from the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Hollywood, Florida. Duddy, unbeaten in 13 career pro fights, faces his sternest test when he squares off against Emiliano Cayetano (12-0) in middleweight action.

McCullough, a former world champion and Olympic silver medalist who has battled with some of the biggest and hardest punching names in boxing, has watched the 26-year-old middleweight in the ring, and likes what he sees.

“I think he could be the next Wayne McCullough and become a world champion,” McCullough says. “John made the right move coming over here.”

Duddy has also caught the eye of longtime HBO boxing analyst, Larry Merchant, who saw the young middleweight fight in New York.

“Duddy has a crowd-pleasing style that could explode into something big if it turns out he can compete on the highest level,” Merchant said.

Duddy compiled a 100-30 amateur record in Ireland, but had loftier goals, probably because he had been exposed at an early age to some of the best Irish professionals. Duddy’s father Mickey, a pro lightweight in the early ‘80s, had taken his five-year-old son to the gym to watch him spar with the likes of former world champions Barry “The Clones Cyclone.” McGuigan and Ken Buchanan, as well as ex-European title holder Charlie Nash. Seeing McGuigan in the ring had a profound effect on the youngster.

“I met Barry in the gym when my father sparred with him, and I knew that’s who I wanted to be,” Duddy said.

Eager to get on with his dream to become a professional world champion, Duddy made the move to America, teaming up with trainer Harry Keitt at the Irish Ropes Gym in Far Rockaway, while joining the McLouglin Brothers management team.

Although Duddy has won 12 of his 13 fights by knockout, he was never noted as a puncher in his amateur days. Duddy credits Keitt for his transformation.

An old school kind of trainer, Keitt has had his young pro work with strength conditioners and also introduced him to a technique used by the likes of Jack Dempsey and many others of a different era.

“At the end of training every day we spend twenty minutes hitting big old truck tires with a sledge hammer,”Duddy said. “The old time fighters used to chop trees, but there aren’t too many available to chop down in New York without getting arrested.”

Along with success and a growing legion of fans, have come complications: pressure from the hype, the same kind of thing McCullough experienced.

“I was able to handle the pressure because I’d had it in my amateur days,” said McCullough. Duddy uses a technique of sort of zoning out of the hoopla to keep his mind on business.

"I was able to handle the pressure because I'd had it in my amateur days," McCullough added, whose recently released autobiography – "POCKET ROCKET” – is the #2 bestseller in Ireland.

“With the reception I’ve been getting over here, and with all the Irish coming out to support me, it’s very easy to get distracted,” Duddy said. “I block it all out until after the fight and I think that’s my way of handling it.”

Duddy has not let his surging success go to his head -- or cloud his vision of his ultimate goal, a world championship.

“In boxing, you are only as good as your next fight,” Duddy said. “I’ve still got a lot to learn and we’re trying to take me up to another level each time I fight. I take it one fight at a time, and I don’t care who my opponent is or where we fight. As long as I’m fighting and keep fit, I know I’ll be up for the challenge.”