For Holmes, Last Fight Is Painfully Short

For one final moment, in the last bout of a memorable career, Larry Holmes, the old champion, brought some electricity to one more heavyweight championship fight.

For the start of the third round, before 15,000 in Atlantic City’s old Convention Hall, Holmes came out on his toes, and brought back some old images, some flashbacks.

Somehow, you knew in your heart it was hopeless. But there he was, trying to dance across a line separating fantasy from reality. At 38, he was trying to give a 21-year-old wise guy from the streets of Brooklyn his what-for.

And the crowd loved it. The cheers rocked the old Boardwalk arena when Holmes opened the round, flicking out the same stinging jabs he used to beat Norton, Shavers, Witherspoon and other battlers of old, in the years when he defended his championship 20 times.

Then it ended, brutally.

Holmes, after two rounds of retreating and tying up Mike Tyson, trying to conserve his 38-year-old body for 12 rounds, decided to throw a straight right. It landed, on Tyson’s nose. Tyson sneered, shook his head and motioned for Holmes to quit running and mix it up some more.

To emphasize the point, he landed a powerful, quick jab of his own that sent a spray of Holmes’ sweat onto Jack Nicholson and the others in the celebrity seats.

In the fourth, Tyson proceeded to give Holmes, who is a grandfather, one of the worst beatings any former heavyweight champion has ever endured. And there have been a lot of those.

When it ended, Holmes, who had never been knocked out, was flat on his back, looking up groggily into the eyes of caring people, trying to help him to his feet. Tyson, in a furious assault, knocked Holmes down three times in the fourth, the final time with a vicious right that sent Holmes down with seven seconds left in the round.

Holmes didn’t need any of this. He got $3.1 million for the pounding, but they say he has stacks of CDs and municipal bonds in bank safety deposit boxes.

Guys like Holmes, they never learn. Eight years ago, it was Muhammad Ali who endured an indecent exit from the sport, and Holmes is the one who did the pounding.

Some cried when Joe Louis went out, in 1951, dangling pitifully over the bottom rope in Madison Square Garden, looking up at a young bull, Rocky Marciano. Jack Dempsey came back after a 3 1/2-year layoff in 1926, and Gene Tunney made him look like a second-rater. Jim Jeffries tried it after being away six years and was knocked out by Jack Johnson in 1910.

But this is now. This is the late 1980s, and it is the time of Iron Mike. Make that Iron Mike, Inc. And get ready for the Iron Mike’s ’88 World Tour.

He fights March 21 in Tokyo, to open a domed stadium there, against Tony Tubbs. There is a probable early-June fight in London with Frank Bruno, and talk of a September bout in Milan with Francesco Damiani. And of course, there is Michael Spinks, if the unbeaten former champion can shed his manager/promoter, Butch Lewis, as Tyson management demands.

Tyson is now 33-0, with 29 by knockout. Holmes finishes 48-3.

“I knew when I hurt him (in the fourth) he was finished,” Tyson said afterward. “I knew when he went down the first time, he wouldn’t finish the round.”

Finish the round? Tyson’s final blast, a huge right hand, caused some to wonder if Holmes was finished, period. It landed with a sickening impact on Holmes’ chin, and his head wobbled, as if disjointed.

He was down for half a minute, until a stool was brought to where he’d fallen.

He’d come into the ring a decided underdog, all the way from 7-1 to 9-1. His fired-up cornermen wore red shirts with “SHOCK THE WORLD!” on the back. Holmes’ robe said: “THIS IS IT.”

Tyson, as usual, appeared in all-black. Black shoes (no socks), black trunks. No robe. He was bathed in sweat, and wearing a glare that would cut through your car door. The cornermen’s T-shirts said “FIRE & FEAR.”

It began as everyone expected: Tyson charging, Holmes retreating. Holmes tied up his shorter opponent repeatedly inside, often laying a heavy left arm across the back of Tyson’s neck.

The second round was more of the same, with Holmes measuring Tyson with a lingering jab. Holmes landed a solid right uppercut to Tyson’s chin on the ropes, but Tyson didn’t even blink. He retaliated with a crackling left hook to Holmes’ ribs that backed the old champion up.

After three, most cards had Tyson ahead. One Times card had Tyson up by 30-27, the other 29-28.

Then came the Fire & Fear.

In the fourth, Tyson brought a sudden halt to Holmes’ trip through yesteryear with a left to Holmes’ body and a right to the head. Holmes went down with a thud, flat on his back. He bounced up at the count of four, but his face was slack, eyes glassy, footing unsteady.

The second knockdown was more the result of Tyson’s furious assault than a punch. Holmes got up, and Tyson quickly trapped Holmes in his corner. Holmes escaped, seeking shelter on the east side of the ring. There, he made his final stand.

The referee, Joe Cortez, probably allowed the fight to last 20 seconds too long. By the time Tyson put him down the last time, he’d hit him a half-dozen hard blows to the head.

Holmes didn’t show up for the postfight interview session, which was true to form. He went out gently, however, telling HBO commentator Larry Merchant: “I tried to circle him, tie him up, make him miss. He’s a sharper puncher than most guys I fought, but he doesn’t hit as hard as others. Mike Tyson is better than I thought he was, a true champ. He’s awkward, hard to hit.”

Tyson, who had changed to blue sweats and a gray stocking cap to face 800 media members afterward, came in smiling. He had toggle-switched to Mr. Nice Guy.

No, he said, he didn’t fight with anger. Holmes’ Trainer, Richie Giachetti, had labeled Tyson “the dirtiest fighter around” at the weigh-in and the rules meeting.

“No, I wasn’t mad at him at all,” he said softly. “He made a mistake, and I took advantage of it, that’s all. When he was champ, he did it all the time--he kept his left hand too low.”

Before and after the fight, Tyson spoke of the heavyweight championship with a measure of awe in his voice.

“The heavyweight championship is very special to me,” he said quietly Thursday. Late Friday night, grinning, he said: “Tell all those fighters who called me a cheese champion to start coming to (my) fights, and take some lessons.

“Larry Holmes was a game champion. Early in the fight, he was leery and cautious. But in the third round, when he started punching a little, I knew the (knockout) punch would come.

“I am the best fighter in the world; I am the champ.”

In the aftermath, there didn’t seem cause to challenge the point.