Hank is 71, a Vietnam Combat Vet who did three years in the U.S. Army in the 1960s, where he boxed while stateside. After his discharge he moved to Baltimore, where his older brother fought out of Mister Mack Lewis’ Eager Street Gym. Last night we sat up drinking beer and discussing boxing. The fact that he is a black man of Ali’s era and does not count Ali as the best boxer ever, has made him a source of ridicule among his peers at the mixed-race sports bar where we met. Noting this, I asked him three questions:

J: “If you could tell a young fighter one thing what would it be.”

H: “If you beat a man ‘cause you hit him hard, that don’ mean shit. One out a three times a man ‘ill get caught. And you will find out it don’ mean shit when you hit that muthafuca that won’t go to sleep, and he has a brain between his ears and puts it on you. I like a fighter who uses his brain. That is boxing. A boxer will put it on you and break you down. That’s what it’s all about—not being some Mike Tyson kinna fighta’ who can’t find you unless you let him. Let them Mexicans continue standing toe-to-toe and beating the mess out of each other. You lead your man around, put it on him, and break the muthafuca down! That’s boxing.”

J: "What are your top five boxers of all time?"

H: “Without a doubt, Number One has to be Jack Johnson [Turns on Hawk with an accusatory finger, “Has ta be, muthafuca!”], ‘cause he turned it all around, fought with poise and reserve, beat big men and little men all the same. He was the quintessential thinking man’s fighter.

“Number Two would be Billy Conn was the perfect boxer. His whooping of Joe Lewis was simply beautiful. Then he grew himself a set of balls and tried to knock that man out and got put to sleep his own self.

“Number Three, Ray Robinson. You just have to put the man up there. No one his size could touch him, from any era.

“Number Four, I would have to say, is Ali. I’m a big man, a heavyweight, and to me, a man bigger than me moving like that is simply godlike.

“Number five, will get a lot of groans going along here, but I have to give him his due, Floyd Mayweather. The man has gone undefeated for seventeen years! No one has done that. Ten years is a monumental achievement. And these Mexicans be commin’ for his ass, commin’ hard. Sure, he takes the safe way out. But that is boxing. Boxing was a British art, with the jab based on the fencing sword. Now, if you fencing, you gonna trade? I don’ think so, you gonna stick and move, move and stick. Now I like that Mexican red-headed boy that gonna fight Triple G. He has been on fire since fighting Floyd, learned from fighting Floyd, and I think will rise above that knucklehead notion of his fans that you have to get hit to be a hero. I see him testing Triple G, then we will see what Triple G is made of."

In the background, two of the other six patrons are yelling at each other and getting ready to fight: a 51-year-old former wrestler from Dundalk, MD and a 62-year-old former ski-pro from Utah [Park City, I think] were about to brawl over who was the best MLB catcher of all time, until White Howard, the Blizzard Bartender, broke it up.

J: “What about Klitschcko?”

H: “He a bum! Been knocked flat twice by regular enough fighters, and the first giant muthafuca like him he face he lose. You a giant six-foot-seven-inch muscle man who can pile jab and clinch, so what! Jack Johnson would have mugged him, towering over him like a big baby, getting mugged. Ali had wrote, en recited, a poem while worryin’ his big Frankenstein ass. Now his older brother, he had the fighter’s heart, an excellent work rate, a sense of timing, and he put it on Lennox Lewis, a fine fight that was.”