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