I was 11 years old in 1964 when I sat on the floor beside my dad’s easy chair in our home at Marine Corps Base Hawaii on Oahu. The radio on the old Curtis-Mathes cabinet hi-fi was, through the wonders of modern technology, providing a live broadcast of the “fight of the century.” It was my initial exposure to the sport of boxing. It was the first Ali (Clay, at the time)-Liston fight. Clay would win and announce after that he would henceforward be known as Muhammad Ali.

I was hooked. Not so much on the sport’s violence, or its bloodlust, or its frequent controversy, its oft-rumored corruption, or the sometimes-colorful characters involved. No, I think I became hooked largely by something else that I would not identify until later in life -- the sheer courage of the combatants.

I would go on later to serve a little time (a phrase not altogether uncommon in boxing) as a sportswriter, and my favorite sport to cover was always boxing. If you have never sat at ringside and been splattered by blood or spit, then you haven’t really seen a boxing match. If you haven’t had a grown man land practically in your lap gasping for breath after taking a shot to the liver, then you don’t understand the significance of working the body as well as the head.

I remember once interviewing soon-to-be world bantamweight champion Gaby Canizales in a rundown gym in Laredo, Texas. He was there that evening to watch his kid brother, who was all of about maybe 10 years old, in a sparring session. The little guy seemed to be all knees and elbows as he and his opponent flailed punches at each other. Those punches were mostly harmless, it seemed. But the two little guys stood in bravely against each other and traded their best shots.

Gaby beamed with pride as he leaned over to me and said, “Someday he is going to be the best.”

I kind of chuckled. “How the hell can you tell?” I asked him

“Just wait and see,” he said. “Just wait and see.”

In his little brother, Gaby had identified the quality of courage and the presence of a big heart. Characteristics Gaby possessed as well.

Years later that kid brother, Orlando Canizales, would, like his older brother, hold the world bantamweight title. At that time, many considered him to be the pound-for-pound best boxer in the world. He would go on to defend his title an unprecedented 16 times. The two brothers have had a municipal boxing gym named in their honor in Laredo, and their accomplishments were jointly recognized by the Texas Legislature. They grew to be fine young men and community role models when their boxing days were over.

I was out of sports writing by the time Gaby won his first of two world championship bouts. But it is a great honor of my life to have known him and to have called him friend. It took me a while, but eventually I realized that what Gaby had seen in his little brother that day we talked in the gym were the heart and  courage of a champion.

I experienced a golden era of boxing. I was born at the tail-end of the career of the incomparable Rocky Marciano,  and remember tales of Sugar Ray Robinson. Leonard, Duran, Hagler, Hearns. Julio Cesar Chavez seemed to be on television all the time. Some of the greatest heavyweights ever – Ali, Joe Frazier and George Foreman – engaged in legendary battles. Those three almost made us overlook the fact that there were other big guys throwing leather out there who were remarkable fighters in their own right – Floyd Patterson, Ernie Terrell, Ken Norton.

But somewhere along the way, boxing lost its luster for me. I stopped watching. At one time I could have rattled off the names of every champ in every weight class. These days, I’d be hard pressed to name one.

And then came last Saturday’s latest version of the fight of the century, Mayweather-Pacquiao.

Having just had my heart broken by my beloved San Antonio Spurs, I needed something to cure my sports depression. But should I really plop down a hundred bucks to see an event that may only last one minute?

Still, if there were ever a fight that could rekindle my faded love of boxing, this one was sure to be it. The brilliant tactician (Mayweather) against the raging bull (Pacquiao). It was Ali-Frazier in 150-pound miniature.

OK, I’ll do it.

It isn’t often that one gets to witness two multimillionaires enter a boxing ring and flail harmlessly and aimlessly at each other for 12 rounds. And that is a very good thing.  

I found myself thinking back to the day in the gym where I saw Orlando Canizales as a youngster. Those two kids may have lacked fully polished skills at the time, but they did not lack courage and heart. Mayweather and Pacquiaio possess the skills – at least it is said that they do – but last Saturday they did little except put on an exhibition of going through the motions..

On that Laredo day so many years ago, those two little kids left the ring, not with an almost incalculable paycheck, but with their pride. I wonder, in the long run, what is worth more.

No,  I don’t.

I believe now that watching those two kids give it their best in an old gym on the Texas-Mexico border may be my fondest boxing memory. Sitting and chatting with a future world champion while doing so was some pretty nice icing on the cake, too.

I saw Orlando Canizales when he was 10 years old and had the courage of a lion.

Years and years later, I saw two millionaire con artists  who reminded me of why I gave up on the sport and have come to loathe the characters who have ruined it.

At the end of the fight, Mayweather approached Pacquiaio, draped his arm around his neck and said, “We made a lot of money tonight.”

How’s that for a great post-fight-of-the-century quote?

In the days since, I have thought some about the greatest professional boxing match I ever saw – Ali-Frazier III – The Thrilla in Manila.  Two of the most courageous fighters I have ever seen locked in what was nearly a grudge match to the death. Frazier coming on and coming on like some kind of frothing, rabid locomotive. Ali pedaling and dancing as well as his aging legs would allow, firing punch after punch at Frazier’s head. It was horrific. It was an awful spectacle to watch. Fearsome in its brutality. Yet it was somehow glorious. It was two remarkable athletes completely possessed by courage. Apparently, they don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

A few days after the Thrilla, a reporter asked Ali if he had watched a video replay of the fight. He said he had not.

“Why would I want to go back and see Hell?” he added.

Now, THAT, is a post-fight-of-the-century quote.

Since laying out that hundred bucks Saturday night, a couple other quotes have been running through my mind. The first is, “Fool me once, shame on you.”

But I prefer to paraphrase Chief Joseph.

I will watch no more forever.

Mark Hendricks

5.4.15

          The semester before our 2009 trip to Kaua’i, Diana took a college astronomy course from Don Olson, a truly world-renowned astronomer on the Texas State faculty. Hawai’i is considered the most remote population center on the planet, meaning that – for a relatively large population – it is further away from a major land mass than any other. This remoteness makes it ideal for stargazing, and, in fact, the Big Island is home to one of the world’s most significant observatories.
            So, it seemed only natural that Diana would ask Don if there would be anything interesting in the sky for us to see when we were there in late May. And it was only natural that Don would be helpful and very happy to inform us that we would be there at the only time of year – late May – when the Southern Cross would be visible from the Hawaiian Islands. That particular constellation is usually only visible in the Southern Hemisphere, but Don assured us that there is a narrow window where it can be seen in the southern Hawaiian sky in late May. All you have to do is look in the southern sky after 9 p.m. or so and it should be there, slightly above the horizon. That would be easy for us as we were staying on the southern shore of Kaua’i. A simple look straight out at the ocean from the beach should give us a great view of the Cross.
            So we were disappointed that the first three nights, the southern sky was shrouded with cloud cover. The rest of the sky was perfectly clear and the stars were beautiful, but the southern exposure was non-existent. It would have been so easy for us to see it, too, because our balcony lanai faced directly south. It should have provided a perfect view for “Cross-gazing.” On the third night, though, I had about given up.
    “Don is going to be so disappointed,” Diana said.
            I told her I would send him an email to soften the blow, and went inside and wrote to him that the southern sky had been cloudy and our attempts at finding the Cross had been fruitless.
            “If there’s anything you can do to blow these clouds away with your powers of great astronomy, we would appreciate it. Otherwise, we are going to give up the hunt,” I wrote to him.
            But the Southern Cross was the last thing on our minds the next morning as we loaded up the Escalade for a trip to Hanalei. Hanalei is a beautiful little artsy town on the North Shore and is home of Hanalei Bay, where they shot much of the movie South Pacific. The trip from Poipu to Hanalei has to be one of the most beautiful drives imaginable. It seems that every corner you negotiate and every hilltop you crest yields one incomparable view after another. Gorgeous beaches, incredible mountain vistas, valleys of taro, rain forests so dense you lose your cell phone signal and your satellite radio feed, and, always, the magnificent floral displays. Color EVERYWHERE. I could not make this drive without quietly thanking God for his handiwork and for providing my eye surgeon with the necessary skills to correct my vision, which only weeks earlier had nearly completely abandoned me.
            We stopped at the Kilauea lighthouse on the way up to the North Shore. The little peninsula that is home to the lighthouse is also a wildlife preserve and the view of the Pacific is breathtaking, as is the distant glimpse of Mount Makana, the “Bali Hai” mountain of South Pacific. Then on to Hanalei, crossing the little one-lane bridges where local custom dictates five to seven cars pass in one direction, and then you give the oncoming traffic its turn. They call this “driving with Aloha” in the Islands. It is how people should drive everywhere. So civilized. Road rage does not exist on Kaua’i.
            In Hanalei, we “discover” the Hanalei Gourmet Deli. Great lunch of fish and chips. The fish had no doubt been swimming recently, maybe that morning. A quaint little bar where the locals rub elbows with the visitors and one just wants to stay and swap stories and stay some more. Would maybe forever be long enough?
            But the beach beckons, so we pile into the Escalade for the 10-block trip to Hanalei Beach Park. And there is the pier from South Pacific and a beautiful, very sparsely populated beautiful white sand beach. Calm, blue water. The bay surrounded by green mountains, seeming to rise out of the water. It’s sunny, but rain showers can be seen coming over the mountains. Still enough time for a great swim. The water is cool and effervescent. It cleanses stress from our bodies and we are younger.
            Time to go. The beautiful trip back and we see all the same views from the reverse angle this time. They are just as magnificent. To the condo pool where a plunge rinses the sand away. Then a rest and a shower. Tonight, we are going to the Casa Blanca for dinner.
            We went there two nights ago. It’s a place recommended to us by Ed. The drinks are good and very reasonable and the food is too. We have met a local singer/songwriter named Mike Young and he has become our friend. He is playing tonight.  He has been very impressed with Diana’s knowledge of and ties to country music. He is a typical Kaua’ian in that he is humble, unassuming, laid back and smiles easily. Good cocktails, food and music prove a great cap to what has been a wonderful day so far. But we figure it is about time to be heading back, so we get up to leave.
            “Hey, where are you going?” asks Mike. “You can’t leave yet. I have a special surprise for you.”
            He introduces us to a woman who he has been talking with for a few minutes. He says, “She is the best hula dancer in the islands and is the head dancer in the show at the Lihue Marriott. She wants to perform a hula for the two of you.”
            Well, this is a great honor and one that cannot be spurned without causing great loss of face in the Hawaiian culture. So, of course, we pull up a couple of seats and are entertained as she dances a beautiful dance to Hele on to Kaua’i, which, roughly translated, means Coming Home to Kaua’i. It is a song Mike has chosen for us and it is one of our favorites. She then dances the Hawaiian wedding song for a young newlywed couple. It is purely magical and there is not a dry eye in the place.
            We thank Mike and the dancer (sadly, I cannot recall her name) and we promise to catch Mike’s act again before we leave for home. We go back to the condo where we fix a nightcap and turn on some music on the Ipod.  We are sitting on the balcony lanai reflecting on what a great day it has been. The trip to the North Shore, the great evening at the Casa Blanca, our own private hula performance, new friends. And then the song comes on the Ipod. A sledgehammer of a reminder that there is one more thing to do tonight.
            The song is Fly Me To The Moon, and it is a song that our astronomer friend Don Olson has said would be one that he would launch into space to be played for all eternity if he could. It reminds me to look to the southern sky. One last shot at the Southern Cross. If the clouds are there again tonight, I guess it was just not meant to be.
            When you look straight south from our balcony, the lower portion of the sky is kind of blocked by a line of several palm trees. But there is a break in those palm trees and right there in the break, perfectly framed by the silhouette of the palm fronds, shines the Southern Cross. It is bigger and more majestic than I had imagined it would be. And the framing by the palms is just amazing. What a wonderful sight. Diana and I dance to the rest of Fly Me To The Moon and then we raise a glass in a toast to Don Olson, the astronomer who chased the clouds from the southern sky and gave us a look at a wondrous creation.
            That night, I send Don another e-mail, telling him of our greatest day ever and how it ended, right on cue from Ol’ Blue Eyes hisownself.
            The next morning, I receive a message back from Don: “Isn’t it wonderful when the heavens perform as advertised?”
            Yeah, Don, it sure is.