Tuesday, July 12, 2005 | 10:28 a.m.
Ron Kantowski is a Las Vegas Sun sports writer. Reach him at [email protected] or (702) 259-4088.
When I landed at the Kansas City airport last week, my brother-in-law was waiting just outside baggage claim.
He wasn't holding a placard with ny name on it. He wasn't wearing a dark blue chauffeur's uniform. And there wasn't a stretch limousine waiting at curbside.
But he did toss me an ice-cold can of Coors Light before we jumped into his pickup and headed down the Kansas Turnpike. When they roll out the red carpet in the Heartland, they do it with a Silver Bullet.
In Las Vegas, as the great if underappreciated world middleweight champion Bernard Hopkins discovered late Monday afternoon, they roll it out over a marble floor in a sprawling hotel lobby that is a cross between an airport hangar and Liberace's living room.
That the local media was summoned to watch Hopkins walk from his limo to the registration desk says one of two things about his fight against whippersnapper Jermain Taylor at the MGM Grand Garden on Saturday.
Either this is a really big event or the MGM is in a really big hurry to sell some tickets.
Actually, it's probably a little of both. While hardcore boxing fans seem to be intrigued by the matchup pitting crafty champion against promising newcomer, average boxing fans seem a little indifferent to it. To wit, an MGM spokesman told me the Garden was expecting a crowd of about 10,000, or about two-thirds capacity, for Hopkins-Taylor.
On Monday, a huge crowd had gathered just outside the main entrance of the MGM as Hopkins was about to arrive. But, as I was to learn, most were only tourists waiting for taxis.
Hopkins is not exactly the most exciting fighter these days -- he sort of boxes the way Tommy John used to pitch, nibbling at the corners and occasionally sneaking in a high, hard one -- while Taylor is not exactly the most well-known one.
After the cabs were hailed, I spotted a father and son who appeared to be fight fans. The boy was holding a copy of Ring magazine, hoping that Hopkins would stop to sign it.
"Who's your favorite fighter?" I asked the youngster, fully expecting him to say Bernard Hopkins.
"Erik Morales," he said.
Just then a long silver limousine rolled up and the small crowd began to buzz.
"Is that him?" the young Morales fan asked his old man a second or two before three elderly women spilled out of the back seat.
"No," I interrupted. "Those are Mike Tyson's next three opponents."
Hopkins finally arrived wearing a red t-shirt, baggy jeans, sneakers and a backward Phillies cap. The small crowd chanted his name and snapped his photo, and the champ's trademark scowl instantly gave way to a toothy grin.
At the advanced age of 40 and on the down slope of a spectacular career that has seen him defend his middleweight title a record-setting 20 times, it's nice to see Hopkins finally receive his due as one of the division's all-time greats. While the sweet scientists have been singing his praises for years, it wasn't until he buried a body shot in Oscar De La Hoya's liver in the ninth round of their fight here last September that Hopkins was allowed to climb onto his soapbox and give the rest of us an insight into what he's all about.
What we've learned is that once you get under the Executioner's hood ... well, there is that menacing glare. But once you get past that, you'll discover a colorful personality that was trapped inside a hardened shell for way too long.
When he's through knocking the blocks off those brave enough to meet him in the middle of the ring, Madison Avenue probably won't be putting Hopkins' picture on a waffle iron or using it to sell rebuilt transmissions. But during a recent teleconference with about 35 freeloaders -- er, boxing writers -- Hopkins showed that the Executioner's Song is still worth listening to.
On Monday, he also was getting off on being Bernard Hopkins. Although his arrival was only meant to be a quick photo opportunity, Hopkins milked it like a Wisconsin dairy farmer, holding each of his title belts aloft as the digital cameras flashed.
After that, he asked for a chair, and he sat in the middle of the lobby and entertained reporters for 20 more minutes, looking each of his questioners directly in the eye as if they were lifelong buddies or, perhaps, owed him $20.
His publicist finally urged him to wrap it up after Hopkins answered the umpteenth query about his age by saying the only place it might affect his stamina was in the bedroom, and that they make a pill for that.
"That's enough, champ," she said, feigning irritation. "One more question."
That one question turned into about five as Hopkins, as many fighters do, continued to refer to himself in the third person. Then he stopped in mid-sentence and began to chuckle.
"I keep saying Bernard Hopkins, like I'm talking about somebody else," he said, his wide eyes flashing like hub caps in the desert sun.
Maybe that's because he had grown accustomed to so many in the sport talking about somebody else when they should have been talking about Bernard Hopkins all along.
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