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With the retirement of Lennox Lewis from the ring last year, boxing lost its personality. Vitali Klitschko's departure last month has left it without even a recognizable name. SPIEGEL spoke with Lewis about how to be a boxing champion, the attraction of Mike Tyson, and the sport's widespread corruption.
SPIEGEL: On Saturday the World Heavyweight Boxing Championship will be taking place in Berlin.
Lewis: Oh. Who'll be fighting?
SPIEGEL: John Ruiz and Nikolai Valuev.
Lewis: Who's the second one?
SPIEGEL: Don't you know Valuev?
Lewis: No.
SPIEGEL: A Russian. A big Russian; he's 2.14 meters tall.
Lewis: Never heard of him.
SPIEGEL: But you've heard of John Ruiz, right?
Lewis: Of course I've heard of him. He's been around for a long time, but he doesn't stand out as an exceptional fighter. That also applies to the other world champions, Hasim Rahman and -- what's the third guy's name again?
SPIEGEL: Lamon Brewster. From New York.
Lewis: Oh yes, Brewster. A nice guy, but he's not well known, but one great fight can change that.
SPIEGEL: Since your retirement in the spring of 2004, heavyweight boxing has been in crisis. You are regarded as the last great champion, and when you retired you held the world champion's belts from all four leading associations. Why can't a worthy successor be found?
Lewis: Perhaps Vitali Klitschko would have had the necessary attributes. At any rate, the current crop of contenders don't have what it takes. Not only are they poor fighters; they've got no personality at all. When I was growing up there were a lot of stars. Marvin Hagler, Sugar Ray Leonard, Roberto Duran, they were great fighters with extraordinary charisma. Guys like that don't exist any more.
SPIEGEL: You were a pro for 17 years, ten of them as world champion. That was a great period for boxing. Never before had so much money been earned. What made this era stand out?
Lewis: There were different heroes with different images. There was Mike Tyson, the animal, there was Evander Holyfield, the devout, the priest. And there was me, the thinker, the intellectual boxer. So there was something for every fan, if you like. The public could always identify with one of us.
SPIEGEL: Did the image of the intellectual boxer do you more harm than good?
Lewis: Sometimes it did. If a boxer has a reputation as an intellectual, some people no longer respect him as a fighter. With me it was always 'Lennox should react, not think'. But that's nonsense. Only the guy who controls his opponent wins.
SPIEGEL: You play chess. It's even said that before big fights you played a game to get yourself in the mood.
Lewis: Boxing and chess are similar. It's about the choice of means. Sometimes I need a pawn, a bishop or a knight to defeat my opponent. It's about finding the best way. A good boxer has to be variable. He doesn't just need to know how to punch. He must also know how to protect himself, how to defend, how to avoid the opponent's punches. Only a complete fighter can become champion.
SPIEGEL: How do you become a boxer like that?
Lewis: A great champion needs a background in amateur boxing, I'm convinced of that. There you learn everything that you'll need later as a pro. Someone who's got more than 400 amateur fights behind him no longer gets nervous before going into the ring and doesn't lose his nerve during a fight. You know all the boxing styles, you're prepared for anything, you've got the pedigree that you need to be a successful pro.
SPIEGEL: But how did Mike Tyson become the great hero of the nineties without having had a single amateur fight?
Lewis: Tyson fit the American ideal of a boxer. A fighter who jumps out of his corner and hits out fiercely. That's what he'll be remembered for. But good boxing doesn't work like that. Tyson never won on points. It was clear that he'd come a cropper some day.
SPIEGEL: When you beat Tyson in 2002, he was already down on his luck. So why was this, of all victories, so important for you?
Lewis: I had to shut his mouth. I could never stand big-mouthed types. I had problems with that at high school. I've still got the scars on my fists from the teeth of the guys I hit so that they'd finally shut up. I came from England to Canada, of course, and was often ridiculed because I had a strange accent. I was expelled from school and it was a long time before I could control myself. But the impulse remained: a punch in the mouth to get some peace and quiet.
SPIEGEL: You waited for Tyson for three years.
Lewis: Patience is a part of boxing. After I had missed out on the Olympic gold medal in 1984, a lot of people tried to talk me into turning professional quickly to make money. They told me that the next Olympics in Seoul would be boycotted again, that I was wasting my life, blah blah. But I still had unfinished business. I wanted the gold medal, and I got it in '88. Only then was I ready to turn professional.
SPIEGEL: Did it have anything to do with the fact that your great idol Muhammad Ali was also an Olympic winner?
Lewis: Sure. I wanted to follow in his foot steps. We've had similar boxing careers in that like Ali I was able to comeback from my defeats. At one point people had written him off and didn't care, but he was able to show that he was a true champion by recapturing his titles. Ali defined his era and I defined mine.
SPIEGEL: Is Ali still important in your life?
Lewis: Recently I donated money to the establishment of the Ali Foundation in Louisville. I regard that as a kind of payback. He smoothed the way for us. He wasn't just a great person who had conviction, but made the sport of boxing great. He was the first superstar, he made our stock rise. Without him we wouldn't have earned so much. Americans from every walk of life have contributed to the foundation: Bill Clinton, Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt. Unfortunately I was the only American athlete to make a donation. There's not enough respect in our business.
SPIEGEL: Have you spoken to Ali?
Lewis: I talk to him often. Most recently I visited him at his farm in Maine.
SPIEGEL: What does he tell you?
Lewis: He says 'I was the greatest. Now you're the greatest. I should think about making a comeback'. He always makes jokes like that, it's his kind of humor.
SPIEGEL: On Saturday the World Heavyweight Boxing Championship will be taking place in Berlin.
Lewis: Oh. Who'll be fighting?
SPIEGEL: John Ruiz and Nikolai Valuev.
Lewis: Who's the second one?
SPIEGEL: Don't you know Valuev?
Lewis: No.
SPIEGEL: A Russian. A big Russian; he's 2.14 meters tall.
Lewis: Never heard of him.
SPIEGEL: But you've heard of John Ruiz, right?
Lewis: Of course I've heard of him. He's been around for a long time, but he doesn't stand out as an exceptional fighter. That also applies to the other world champions, Hasim Rahman and -- what's the third guy's name again?
SPIEGEL: Lamon Brewster. From New York.
Lewis: Oh yes, Brewster. A nice guy, but he's not well known, but one great fight can change that.
SPIEGEL: Since your retirement in the spring of 2004, heavyweight boxing has been in crisis. You are regarded as the last great champion, and when you retired you held the world champion's belts from all four leading associations. Why can't a worthy successor be found?
Lewis: Perhaps Vitali Klitschko would have had the necessary attributes. At any rate, the current crop of contenders don't have what it takes. Not only are they poor fighters; they've got no personality at all. When I was growing up there were a lot of stars. Marvin Hagler, Sugar Ray Leonard, Roberto Duran, they were great fighters with extraordinary charisma. Guys like that don't exist any more.
SPIEGEL: You were a pro for 17 years, ten of them as world champion. That was a great period for boxing. Never before had so much money been earned. What made this era stand out?
Lewis: There were different heroes with different images. There was Mike Tyson, the animal, there was Evander Holyfield, the devout, the priest. And there was me, the thinker, the intellectual boxer. So there was something for every fan, if you like. The public could always identify with one of us.
SPIEGEL: Did the image of the intellectual boxer do you more harm than good?
Lewis: Sometimes it did. If a boxer has a reputation as an intellectual, some people no longer respect him as a fighter. With me it was always 'Lennox should react, not think'. But that's nonsense. Only the guy who controls his opponent wins.
SPIEGEL: You play chess. It's even said that before big fights you played a game to get yourself in the mood.
Lewis: Boxing and chess are similar. It's about the choice of means. Sometimes I need a pawn, a bishop or a knight to defeat my opponent. It's about finding the best way. A good boxer has to be variable. He doesn't just need to know how to punch. He must also know how to protect himself, how to defend, how to avoid the opponent's punches. Only a complete fighter can become champion.
SPIEGEL: How do you become a boxer like that?
Lewis: A great champion needs a background in amateur boxing, I'm convinced of that. There you learn everything that you'll need later as a pro. Someone who's got more than 400 amateur fights behind him no longer gets nervous before going into the ring and doesn't lose his nerve during a fight. You know all the boxing styles, you're prepared for anything, you've got the pedigree that you need to be a successful pro.
SPIEGEL: But how did Mike Tyson become the great hero of the nineties without having had a single amateur fight?
Lewis: Tyson fit the American ideal of a boxer. A fighter who jumps out of his corner and hits out fiercely. That's what he'll be remembered for. But good boxing doesn't work like that. Tyson never won on points. It was clear that he'd come a cropper some day.
SPIEGEL: When you beat Tyson in 2002, he was already down on his luck. So why was this, of all victories, so important for you?
Lewis: I had to shut his mouth. I could never stand big-mouthed types. I had problems with that at high school. I've still got the scars on my fists from the teeth of the guys I hit so that they'd finally shut up. I came from England to Canada, of course, and was often ridiculed because I had a strange accent. I was expelled from school and it was a long time before I could control myself. But the impulse remained: a punch in the mouth to get some peace and quiet.
SPIEGEL: You waited for Tyson for three years.
Lewis: Patience is a part of boxing. After I had missed out on the Olympic gold medal in 1984, a lot of people tried to talk me into turning professional quickly to make money. They told me that the next Olympics in Seoul would be boycotted again, that I was wasting my life, blah blah. But I still had unfinished business. I wanted the gold medal, and I got it in '88. Only then was I ready to turn professional.
SPIEGEL: Did it have anything to do with the fact that your great idol Muhammad Ali was also an Olympic winner?
Lewis: Sure. I wanted to follow in his foot steps. We've had similar boxing careers in that like Ali I was able to comeback from my defeats. At one point people had written him off and didn't care, but he was able to show that he was a true champion by recapturing his titles. Ali defined his era and I defined mine.
SPIEGEL: Is Ali still important in your life?
Lewis: Recently I donated money to the establishment of the Ali Foundation in Louisville. I regard that as a kind of payback. He smoothed the way for us. He wasn't just a great person who had conviction, but made the sport of boxing great. He was the first superstar, he made our stock rise. Without him we wouldn't have earned so much. Americans from every walk of life have contributed to the foundation: Bill Clinton, Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt. Unfortunately I was the only American athlete to make a donation. There's not enough respect in our business.
SPIEGEL: Have you spoken to Ali?
Lewis: I talk to him often. Most recently I visited him at his farm in Maine.
SPIEGEL: What does he tell you?
Lewis: He says 'I was the greatest. Now you're the greatest. I should think about making a comeback'. He always makes jokes like that, it's his kind of humor.
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