06.02.04 – by Chris Acosta: The first time I saw Lennox Lewis as a professional, he was stumbling around the ring like a newborn giraffe against a clubfighter named Levi Billups. His punches were sloppy, someone appeared to have tied his shoestrings together because he couldn’t set his feet set properly and his size almost seemed to work against him. HBO was broadcasting the fight to showcase Britain’s newest heavyweight hope but the whole time I kept thinking, “How the hell did this guy win a gold medal?”
To make matters worse, he hailed from England and we Americans just knew that the true standard for heavyweight boxers was right here on this side of the pond. At the time it was almost disturbingly laughable to envision Lewis in the same ring with a Tyson, Holyfield or Razor Ruddock; a stray dog running out in traffic had a better chance of surviving.
But when HBO commentator Larry Merchant likes to call boxing “the theater of the unexpected” he never mentioned that it could apply to an entire career. Little by little, Lennox began to show signs that there might actually be something more to him than his own self -confidence. I feared for his life against Ruddock in his first title try and then for Ruddock’s life after that long right hand sent him to greet the sandman on short notice. I watched it over and over and finally, passed it off as a fluke. My mind danced with images of rabbits feet and horse shoes and that the big guy was only borrowing the belt until the next big punch landed on his head.
I couldn’t wait for Riddick Bowe, whom Lewis had beaten for the gold, to avenge his Olympic defeat in the pros. Bowe had shown a tremendous degree of improvement in the paid ranks, had the late, great Eddie Futch in his corner and defeated Evander Holyfield to win his version of the belt. But then there went Bowe and his egg-head manager Rock Newman, throwing the WBC belt into a trash can, claiming that the Brit wasn’t worthy of a shot at the title. “C’mon Riddick,” I thought, “you can handle this guy.”
Instead of seeing it for what it was, a move to save face in public, the ignorant American in me couldn’t fathom that the tough guy from Brooklyn might actually be afraid of a tea -sipping Englishman with good manners. And boy if I didn’t continue to make excuses for his opponents for most of his career: Tony Tucker was shot, Andrew Golota wasn’t there to win, David Tua was hurt, Michael Grant was too inexperienced. I had a new one for every fight.
And then it hit me like one of Lewis’ jabs (though thankfully, not as painful): Maybe this guy is a damn good fighter. Maybe even a, gulp, great fighter?
Rather than accept this obvious fact, I kept looking for his replacement and the whole time, he’s racking up one defense after another and destroying all my theories about him: showing guts against Ray Mercer, showing passion against Shannon Briggs, technique against Tua and Tyson and combination punching the hell out of Frans Botha in what is still, the hardest series of punches I have ever seen in my life. Lewis had always conceived, it just took his body a little longer to achieve and I guess it wasn’t fast enough for our liking.
Many a story has been written about the mystery surrounding why this gentle giant never recieved accolades here in the States. That I cannot tell you. Maybe it’s written in the stars, perhaps it’s locked away in Davey Jones’ locker, maybe bigfoot has the answer stashed away in his cave, whatever. All we really have to go by are the facts.
Lennox Lewis, under the tutelage of highly respected trainer Emmanuel Steward, transformed himself from a guy with no chance into a man whose foes had no chance. He became the first heavyweight champion in a century to hail from Britain, he cleaned out the division of it’s hardened veterans and young bucks, he had a knack for turning fearsome prizefighters into jelly before a punch was ever thrown, he avenged the only two losses of his career and more importantly, conducted himself with enough class to make many of us want to gag in envy.
This past June, I was expecting to see the defending champion show up against talented challenger Vitali Klitschko. But after a few rounds of anxiety he looked different, like another fighter I’d seen somewhere before but couldn’t place; maybe some bum on an ESPN undercard. I searched my brain in frustration until the answer became clear: Lennox Lewis, against Levi Billups. For a moment I thought, “How the hell did this guy become world champion?”
And I reminded myself that he was great.