Boxing Advice from the Hulkster

By Joel Stein

Don King is a good and righteous man. Anything in this column that implies otherwise is the result of poor grammar or was slipped in by my editors after I went home. The important thing to remember is how good and righteous I think Mr. King is. Also, in case it comes up, I like the Scientologists.

On March 13, Mr. King promoted a heavyweight title fight between Lennox Lewis and Evander Holyfield that resulted in a draw. While it appeared to the untrained eye that Lewis beat the living daylights out of Holyfield, landing 348 punches to Holyfield's 130, the expert judges thought it was superclose. A grand jury is investigating the matter. I suggest a censure resolution. But only because I think that makes me sound smart.

A long-drawn-out trial would be bad for the country. Though it would be worse for the country if the jury decided that Lewis won. Any American getting beat up by a British guy is devastating. I once spent an afternoon with Lewis, and we ate lunch in his hotel room, and he drank tea. There were moments when I'm pretty sure I could have taken him.

I don't think the fight was fixed. Because if it was, the fixers did a really bad job. As the World Wrestling Federation has taught me, a good fixed fight starts with two guys yelling at each other and usually involves thrown chairs, a choke hold given by a guy outside the ring and, for reasons I don't understand but kind of enjoy, a screaming, scantily dressed woman.

I didn't actually watch the fight because I no longer patronize boxing. The last fight I watched was in 1996, when I went to Madison Square Garden to see Riddick Bowe, a black American, fight Andrew Golota, who is a plumber in Poland. Early on, in a moment I can't really explain, I told my friend that it would be "fun to sit with the Polish people." For the next half hour we sang Polish songs and chanted Polish chants. Nationalism is a blast, even if it's not your own country.

But when "An-jei Go-la-ta," as we affectionately came to know him, was disqualified and a race riot broke out, we were out of there faster than you can spell solidarnosc. Or at least than I can.

When I had tea with Lewis, I asked him why I've seen white fans boo black boxers for not throwing enough punches. He insisted that the crowds aren't racist, just full of bloodlust. He's right. I had hoped that after the Golota bout, civilized people like me would realize this and abandon boxing for nobler pursuits. Like watching catfighting lesbians on Jerry Springer for free.

But it's only now that columnists, commentators and fans are talking about boycotting the sport. Even Hulk Hogan, who knows something about prearranged outcomes, told me he was disgusted by the Holyfield decision. "Any boxer who fixes a fight," he said, "should be hung in the backyard by his toenails for a couple of weeks."

Boxers have been knocked unconscious, paralyzed and even killed in the ring. Last month I met Muhammad Ali, who didn't talk as we sat silently eating chocolate-chip cookies. And the thing that finally made people disgusted with the sport was bad judging?