Bernard Hopkins is Ageless. I am not.

Without reaching into the dark, undusted corners of my study to pull out the copies of old newspapers and magazines that serve as  a constantly yellowing, deteriorating record of my career as a writer, it’s tough for me to remember when exactly I first met Bernard “The Executioner” Hopkins. It had to be around 2000 or so.

But I’ll never forget it.

I was on assignment at the Legendary Blue Horizon on North Broad, covering fights on a Friday night (it would become the first of many, many Friday nights spent at the press table in that dingy, wonderful building) but really writing about the experience itself.

And in the middle of the card, as one palooka was chasing another around the ring, Hopkins walked to ringside and sat down. Shortly (it’s always shortly after showing up) he decided to speak. Into the ring he went. Towards the mic he stepped. I have no idea what he said, but the crowd cheered, his trademark “executioner  X” was made with his arms, and back to his seat he went.

I figured I’d take a shot and try to get a quote or two from him about his own experience fighting in the Blue Horizon.  I politely introduced myself and true to form, he had plenty to say. As I recall, he talked about some of the great fighters that had proven themselves there—himself included—and he talked about how he had left his own DNA in the form of blood and sweat all over the ring and the room itself.

I’ve liked him ever since. And I openly, vocally root for him. Well, more openly I suppose when I’m watching him fight as a spectator (like on December 13, 2003 when he beat William Joppy in Atlantic City and I was there with a buddy as a birthday present) than as a reporter (like October 18, 2008 when he destroyed Kelly Pavlik in Atlantic City and I was there covering it for the Weekly Press). But even then I’m sure I clapped a little. I know I probably threw some imaginary jabs every now and then when he did.

That said, you’ll now have no trouble picturing me sitting in front of my television this past Sunday morning cheering as I watched B-Hop, who is 48 years old,  tempt fate on more time and step into the ring to face Tavoris Cloud, a man in his 20s, and end up walking away with the IBF Light Heavyweight title by unanimous decision.

You read that correctly. I watched it Sunday afternoon. Unlike Hopkins, who has somehow managed to stay young and healthy despite participating in a sport known for ruining men, I have aged dramatically since our first meeting. Now in my 30’s, a day of running errands, bouncing my 3-month old son on my knee here and there throughout the day and attending a fundraiser where I was required to do nothing more than eat and drink till 9:00 p.m. left me too exhausted to stay up for the fight. I watched the HBO rebroadcast Sunday morning.

But all is not lost. I was able to hold my son in my arms without putting him down for all 12 rounds.

I was sitting down of course, but still...