By Matthew Hurley

As 2005 comes to a close only one story comes to my mind.  It isn’t a personal one, although I always wax reflective and, being the pessimistic sort I only relive every failure I was able to accomplish with remarkable ease, and it wasn’t politically oriented or even job related.  This year the only thing I’ve been haunted by is the death of boxer Leavander Johnson.  I can’t get it out of my mind, and any true boxing fan should pause for a moment before they celebrate the holiday season and remember that we have lost a valued member of our community.  

The passion that drives our beloved sport is articulated by the heroic efforts of every fighter who has the guts to step through those ropes and put his or her health on the line.  Sometimes, in the heat of a titanic struggle of talent and will, we forget that.  Amidst our euphoric glee, between splashes of spilled beer and the aroma of hot dogs, pizza and popcorn we forget that two human beings are risking it all for our entertainment.  And then someone like Leavander Johnson shocks us back into reality.

I didn’t know that much about Leavander Johnson before his fight with Jesus Chavez on September 17th 2005.  I’d seen him fight a few times and I knew that he was a boxer who, at this last stage of his career, was a man, a professional, of intense pride and commitment to his craft. 

He was one of those fighters who would spout seemingly dubious rhetoric such as, “I’m willing to die in the ring,” or “I’ll go out on my shield if I have to.”  Boxers, of every talent level say that and we, as fans, always get hyped up but ultimately it’s all just talk.  And yet, it isn’t.  We may hear athletes in different sports, no less intense, try and talk with such bravado but only boxers truly mean what they say because there is always the potential for tragedy in any bout.  

That very precarious vulnerability is what makes prize fighting so intense and so fascinating.  Writers from Ernest Hemmingway to A.J. Leibing to Pat Putnam were drawn to the beatific barbarism of boxing because it represented, in such basic realism, man’s violent nature.  Where the Olympic Games were created in ancient times to supplant war for athletic competition, boxing evolved from basic fisticuffs between brutes into a sport once the Queensbury Rules were established in 1867.  

The artistry of prize fighting is so often misunderstood by non-boxing fans.  They don’t see the skill and precision that is honed through endless hours of training.  They equate boxing with a messy bar room brawl that erupts every night at the local tavern.  Of course if you ask any of these naysayers to shadowbox for a mere three minutes they’ll collapse onto their stacked up empty beer cans one minute in. 

And these same doubters, if they’re true sports fans, all raise their arms like a victorious fighter whenever something goes their way. They all get pumped up when they hear the Rocky theme song and they’ve all, at some point, ripped off Muhammad Ali with some inane rhyme at least once in their lives.  

     But boxing also represents a safe haven for many individuals who have no other avenue to rescue them from the meaner streets that could lead them into ruin.  The sanctuary of the gym, the camaraderie of the coaches and trainers and other fighters comes to represent a home for many of these lost people.  And as they begin to appreciate the virtues of hard work a sense of pride develops and a sense of honor and dignity is established. 

Of course money is always the tantalizing carrot that hangs from a string just out of reach, but once that foundation is built most fighters fight on because they have finally achieved an identity and they won’t allow anyone to take it away from them.  That, and it is oversimplifying the man’s life, was Leavander Johnson.

When Leavander Johnson was being pummeled by Jesus Chavez in defense of his beloved title he simply wouldn’t quit.  He wouldn’t go down.  Everyone, from the HBO commentators to people at ringside to fans like me watching at home were clamoring for the fight to be halted as the rounds wore on. 

But Leavander kept throwing punches.  He was a fighter.  His instinct wouldn’t allow him to capitulate even when his body was probably begging for mercy.  Someone should have intervened, but no one did until the eleventh round.  And we all sighed with relief.

And then, when the cameras weren’t focused on him, he collapsed never to regain his footing.  Just like that, this proud, valiant man was gone.  

Ultimately no one is to blame.  Put bluntly and dispassionately, that’s boxing.  That’s the inherent risk every fighter takes when he laces up the gloves.  But it still hurts.  It still haunts us.

“I’m willing to die in that ring,” Johnson said before his final stand.  He sacrificed so much to get that title that meant the world to him and then he lost his life defending it.  The tragedy of that night should not be forgotten.  He left behind a family who will be spending their first Christmas without him.  He left behind a boxing community that still shudders in the wake of his death.  

So as the year ends I find myself more than a bit melancholy because I keep think of Leavander Johnson.  He represented everything I love about the sport of boxing and finally everything that frightens me about it. 

I won’t forget him, or that night, as I sat comfortably in my leather recliner, wishing someone would rescue him before he got hurt.  And yet I take some comfort in the fact that he did achieve something that was so very important to him.  In the end, perhaps it wasn’t worth it.  But I’m certain Leavander Johnson truly meant those words that are so chilling to reflect upon now.  He was a fighter and he will be missed.

Leavander Johnson 1969 - 2005