By Thomas Gerbasi

Some people make an impression the moment you meet them. Paulie Malignaggi is one of those people.

It was the weekend of the Bernard Hopkins-Keith Holmes fight in April 2001. Malignaggi walked into the legendary boxing bar Jimmy’s Corner with a legend of the New York boxing scene, matchmaker Johnny Bos. Everybody knew Bos, but only the locals knew of Malignaggi, who was about to make his pro debut in a couple months.

Bos made introductions, and as we all made small talk, I brought up the subject of his Golden Gloves fight with Darling Jimenez. The two were local rivals who fought several times, and recently, Malignaggi told me how he grew to appreciate Jimenez because he pushed him to a higher level. That was the 36-year-old Paulie. The 20-year-old Paulie wasn’t as philosophical.

You could see the fire in his eyes as his voice rose and his cadence sped up. It was a familiar sight and sound to boxing writers and fans over the next 15-plus years, as he spoke his mind with no filter, insisting that he won that last fight against Jimenez.

Bos chuckled, already used to that Malignaggi charm. I liked him instantly.

In July of that year, he made his pro debut in a ballpark at Coney Island, stopping Thadeus Parker in the first round. Last Saturday in an arena in London, England, he was on the other side of the stoppage, getting halted by Sam Eggington in eight rounds. On the Monday following the bout, the self-proclaimed “Twitter King” announced his retirement on the social media platform, ending his career at 36.

The final record reads 36-8 with 7 KOs, but what Malignaggi did between 2001 and 2017 can’t be quantified with pure numbers. Even calling him a two-division world champion who fought the best of his era doesn’t do the Brooklynite justice.

And that’s something he might not even be able to appreciate, because from the start, no one was a harsher critic of Paulie Malignaggi than Paulie Malignaggi. Maybe that’s because he set a bar for himself that no one could reach. But that’s what made him special as a fighter. As soon as he stepped into the ring for the first time, he wasn’t going to be content with making good paydays, winning a world title or two or getting to fight on premium cable. That was small change for him.

“I’m boxing’s next superstar,” he told me before his pro debut. “Paulie Malignaggi is going to make it up the ladder quickly. I’m going to win multiple titles. I’m going to explode on the scene. I’m looking to make a big splash. And once you see me, I’m going to be here for a while.”

He was here for a while, he made his big splash and he won multiple titles. But he always felt that there could be more. Unfortunately, his brittle hands had other ideas and it often made the end result something he wasn’t satisfied with. And while fans who had no use for his cockiness, flash and liberal use of hair gel would never come aboard, most did come to appreciate what he could do in the ring. His jab was one of the best in the game, he was a cerebral boxer, but his greatest attribute was what beat in his chest.

When I saw Malignaggi dig deep and stand in the pocket with punchers that could end his night with one shot, I always thought about Mike Katz telling me that Chris Byrd was the bravest fighter in the world. Of course, I wondered why the Dean of American boxing writers would say this, but his explanation made perfect sense.

“Byrd goes into every fight knowing he can’t hurt the other guy.”

That was Malignaggi’s curse. It was never more evident than on the night he fought Miguel Cotto in Madison Square Garden in June 2006. Fighting in a ring he accurately described as a playpen, Malignaggi was forced to battle at close quarters with a murderous puncher, yet despite being cut and suffering a broken orbital bone, he went the distance, earning a measure of respect none of his previous 21 bouts got him.

The loss ate at him, once again proving that for all the flash, he was as true a fighter as there was in the game. He would eventually get his world title twice over, all the while competing against all comers. Along the way, he was every writer’s dream subject, not just opinionated and unfiltered, but analytical and knowledgeable about any topic that was broached, and that approach has served him well in his current gig as a ringside analyst.

And yeah, maybe he was never going to be Oscar De La Hoya, but he was a damn good Paulie Malignaggi, and there’s something to be said for anyone who can be a unique figure in a homogenized sports world.

Did he stay around too long? Maybe. Maybe not. Some thought he was done after the Cotto fight. We all know how that went. Losses to Ricky Hatton and Amir Khan were supposedly career enders, but they weren’t. And if anyone knew what boxing could do to someone, it was Malignaggi.

In 2002, former middleweight champion Gerald McClellan came to New York to see his friend, photographer Teddy Blackburn, receive the Boxing Writers Association of America’s Good Guy award. McClellan was permanently injured in his fight with Nigel Benn, blind, confined to a wheelchair and under 24 hour a day care from his sisters. I offered to help Gerald’s sister, Lisa, get the media who were in town to see the ailing champ. Few showed up, many telling me that they didn’t want to see McClellan in the condition he was in. Even fewer fighters made the trip to his room. Malignaggi was one of them, seeing firsthand what the sport he loved could do. In doing so, he got a harsh look at boxing, but he still paid his respects to a champion.

And he always paid respect to the sport. He showed up in shape, he fought his fight, and he gave the fans their money’s worth. Even as the end drew near, his honesty was impressive, with his reasons for continuing to fight captured in 212 words he told me before his last win over Gabriel Bracero last July.

“Maybe it’s just a dream,” Malignaggi said. “We get into this sport as dreamers. We’re all dreamers, we all come from garbage. Guys who come into this sport aren’t normal. No normal people pursue combat. So we all come in as dreamers to better our lives. I’m the same way, Bracero’s the same way, anybody else who laces on the gloves for a living is the same way. So maybe I just don’t want to stop dreaming. Maybe I’m still living my dream. Whenever I’m there in an arena that’s roaring and yelling, I don’t care if they’re with me or against me, if they’re gripped to my fight, I’m the center of attention, coming from a place in my life where I was never the center of anything. I didn’t have s**t and people never expected me to become anything. So I can still take the stage and have all eyes on me, and maybe I just want to keep dreaming and feeling that for just a little bit longer. But I want to close it out in my way, to where I feel in this grandiose plan that I walk away in an honorable way, and not the way a lot of great champions have been forced to walk away from it.”

There was really nothing left to say. I told Malignaggi as such. He laughed, never silenced before or since. But in that moment, I understood the fighter’s psyche like never before. And no, he didn’t want to go out with a loss, but he went out like he came into the pro game – fighting.

And as much as he won’t admit it, his retirement on Monday was on his own terms. He leaves the game with a broadcasting gig that will take him well into his old age, his faculties intact, and the realization that while he may not have gotten what he initially wanted out of this game, he had a career that only one percent of boxers get to claim. And just like that first meeting in Jimmy’s Corner, he made an impact.