The truest thing Riddick Bowe ever knew was that punch. Despite countless blows to the head, the boxer recalls its purity because his memory, he says, is as sharp as ever. He was just a teenager then, but he still hears its echoes.

"WHAP!" Bowe says, punching a fist into an open palm to punctuate his words. "Just like that. You hear that sound?"

He recalls seeing a guy on the ground, knocked out cold, his teeth jutting in all directions. "I tell you something -- about 30 years later, I've never been able to create that same shot," he says.

So much else in Bowe's strange saga, though, seems open to debate, the passage of time and the violence of his chosen profession not necessarily blurring memories so much as crystallizing the differences.

A former heavyweight champion who has made his home in Fort Washington for nearly two decades, Bowe isn't mentioned in discussions of the best fighters ever. Despite his immense talent -- his record stands at 43-1 with 33 knockouts -- Bowe's achievements are overshadowed by the sideshow he invited into the center ring.

Bowe, a man who made millions as a prize fighter, now seeks paychecks wherever he can find them. Seventeen years after losing his title, he is back amid the heavy bags, though he's not fighting and he's not exactly training future champions.

Instead, he leads exercise classes at LA Boxing gyms in the Washington suburbs for government workers who pop in for a workout after business hours, housewives who squeeze in some gym time while their kids are at baseball practice, young men and women who are trying to keep their bodies from aging.

To a recent class, he brought his world championship belts, his 1988 Olympic silver medal, even his high school diploma. He's proudest, he says, of these mementos from his past life.

Since then, however, life has not been as kind. Today, he says, he doesn't trust people.

He has a new wife but few friends. The fans, family and entourage who seemed so important a decade ago are all gone, he says.

"When the money go, they go. When the money left, whatever the case may be, all that stopped," he says. "Have a million friends. Once the money stop, the crowd goes away."

Bowe's versions

As a young fighter, Bowe was often favorably compared with Mike Tyson, the tough-to-the-core brawler who also hails from New York. In contrast, Bowe was personable, media-friendly and had a clean record. But after Bowe had reached the peak of his career, winning the belt in November 1992, in the first of three battles against Evander Holyfield, controversy became ever-present, in the ring and outside it.

Bowe threw one of his championship belts in the trash can and saw a fight interrupted by a man who flew into the ring wearing a giant fan. Another fight was marred by an in-ring riot that injured both spectators and law enforcement officials. Bowe left boxing for a military career that lasted less than two weeks and shortly after that was charged with kidnapping his wife and children.

But it's how Bowe recalls each incident that is perhaps most telling. There's always a back story, and it rarely matches with media reports or other people's accounts.

Even the simplest details are up for debate. For his entire adult life, Bowe's birth date has been listed as August 10, 1967. It's listed that way in boxing records, newspaper stories and legal documents. But Bowe now says he was actually born one year later. He's adamant about this, not because he wants to appear young enough to return to the ring -- an option he hasn't ruled out -- but because he wants to finally correct the record, he says.

His Brooklyn upbringing is painted in grimy strokes. There's still an up-from-the-streets romanticism attached to his youth -- he was one of 13 kids raised by Dorothy Bowe in a drug-riddled housing project -- but he maintains little contact with his family.

With the help of Florida writer John Greenburg, Bowe has completed his memoirs, "Big Daddy Forever," a raw, hold-no-punches account of his life that has yet to find a publisher.

"I came from an extreme, deprived background," Bowe says in an unpublished manuscript. In the book, he reflects on his siblings -- who died of complications from AIDS, who spent time in jail, who earned money as a pimp. Most suffered from envy, he says.

They "were always jealous of me," he wrote. "Number one, I was pretty and most of them weren't. Number two, they sensed that I would be someone special someday."

Bowe's mother, who lives in Georgia, suffers from Alzheimer's disease and was not available to comment. Messages left with Bowe's surviving siblings in New York were not returned.

For Bowe, boxing provided structure to a childhood that had little. As a teenager, he became infatuated with the life and career of Muhammad Ali, and matching that success became the carrot on a stick. He completed high school, enjoyed a great amateur career and won silver at the 1988 Olympics. Upon his return from Seoul, Bowe embarked on a professional career with Rock Newman, a virtual unknown in the boxing world, as his chief architect.

"I thought he was innocent, I thought he was rather gullible and I thought he was someone who could be easily exploited by the sharks," Newman says now. "And that drew me to him. I don't want to say this was all altruistic. I thought we could do special things. But something about his sense of vulnerability, his innocence, his lack of sophistication, it drew me to him as a protector."

Newman was a graduate of Howard University who had entertained a handful of unrelated ventures before striking gold with Bowe. He effectively served as both manager and promoter, even though the rules prohibited such a formal arrangement. While most in boxing serve multiple clients, Newman took on only Bowe. Their fates, successes and failures are all intimately tied together.

At one time, he had it all

At his peak, Bowe was on top of the world. He had punching power in both hands, an endless stream of money, fame for his ability in the ring and notoriety for the unpredictable nature of his fights. He traveled the world, visited with the pope, appeared on "The Late Show with David Letterman," had cameos on prime-time sitcoms and served as grand marshal of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

A lifetime later, Bowe is back in the ring without gloves. Earlier this spring, Bowe called Tate Marshall, the proprietor of a handful of LA Boxing gyms. At first, Marshall thought someone was playing a prank. "I said, 'Okay, Riddick Bowe, I'm Muhammad Ali, how are you doing today?' " Tate said. After meeting in-person, the two reached an agreement, and Bowe began leading a handful of boxing workouts each week.

He walks from person to person, taking the group through a script that quickly bounces from jumping jacks to sit-ups to throwing combinations at a heavy bag. All the while, Bowe offers encouragement and tries to pull a smile out of each exhausted pupil.

"How you feel, man?" he asks a young man who's lightly tapping a bag.

"I feel good."

"You need a break?" Bowe asks.

"Yeah, I could use one."

"You get your breaks in Hollywood, but not here." And without catching his breath, the old fighter sends himself into a rolling laughter, forgetting that he'd told the same joke just minutes before.

Bowe says he took the job to "break up the monotony" of his daily life. "You sit at home for 10 years, you go stir crazy a little bit," he said.

He's not working solely for the paycheck, he says, though money is an ever-present topic. He says he'll probably continue with LA Boxing "until something else comes along that pays a little more."

Bowe filed for bankruptcy in 2005, listing more than $4 million of debt. The lavish lifestyle he once enjoyed is mostly part of the sport's history books, which are filled with sob stories of fighters who blew vast fortunes.

Bowe once owned 26 cars, including four Rolls-Royces, and he bought five more for his ex-wife. He had 10 houses, putting most of his family in the same Fort Washington neighborhood, and gave his mother and siblings $1,000 a month for living expenses. Those close to him say he probably netted more than $30 million over the course of his boxing career.

"You live and you learn," Bowe says. "If I had to do it all over again, I think I would've been frugal more. I wouldn't have spent so much money."

It's not clear how much remains, but in addition to his workout classes at LA Boxing, Bowe has appeared at autograph signings from Florida to New Jersey, hopes to make money off his unpublished book and won't rule out the possibility of boxing again.

He has a ring and a gym at his home, but Bowe admits he hasn't worked out there in a long time. He's been out of training for almost a year and says he weighs about 300 pounds -- 80 more than his fighting weight when he was champ. He understands the inherent risks and knows how devastating a single fight can be -- his two brutal bouts against Andrew Golota are regarded by many as the beginning of Bowe's decline -- but Bowe says if the right offer came along, he'd be in fighting shape within three months.

"If the price is right, I'll be there," he says. "However, I don't think I should risk my health and things of that nature if the price isn't right."

'He always hated' training

So many prize fighters lose the struggle to stay away from the ring. For some, the allure is money. For others, it's adoration from fans. And for most, it's the ever-present chase for one truly clean punch.

For Bowe, the temptation appears to be all three. After leaving the sport in 1996, Bowe took fights in 2004, 2005 and 2008 -- all sloppy, unimpressive wins -- even though many governing bodies wouldn't license him to box.

He was only 29 years old -- officially -- when he initially hung up his gloves. He recalls Newman telling him that he had money, he had his health and he should walk away before he lost either.

"I cried for a week," Bowe said. "I mean, I literally cried for a week. I would be watching TV, and I'd think about the fights I had with Evander Holyfield or something else that took place, I would just start crying."

Newman chuckles when he hears that. Bowe's former manager says that as a boxer, Bowe loved being in the ring on fight night, but the weeks and months that led up to each bout were another matter. He estimated that Bowe quit the sport seven to 10 times during the course of training for various fights, and always had to be persuaded to return to camp.

"It's not like Bowe got money and then started hating the training," Newman said. "He always hated it. There was rarely a fight -- four, six, eight rounds, whatever -- where Bowe didn't want to quit. I mean, Bowe retired preparing for his second fight. '[Forget] this [stuff]. You all are crazy if you think I'm gonna be doing all of this.' "

Newman says he had to continually beg Eddie Futch, the Hall of Fame trainer, not to give up on Bowe.

"Bowe wanted fame and fortune. He wanted to be Muhammad Ali. But he didn't want to pay the price that it took," Newman says. "He could not internalize the process. He hated the process, hated what it'd take to actually be Muhammad Ali."

Bowe created headlines across the country by putting his career on hold to join the Marines. In February 1997, he reported for three months of basic training at Parris Island, S.C., but he quit after just 11 days, sparking another round of headlines. He wasn't obeying orders and couldn't maintain the rigid schedule.

"I thought they'd probably give you a hard time for a week or so," Bowe said. "I didn't understand that for the 12 weeks you're in boot camp, somebody was going to be in your face."

He returned to Maryland without a military career, with no plans to fight and little direction. All he had was a family life that was quickly unraveling.

Irreparable damage

Bowe had his first child, Riddick Jr., when he was 18 years old. His memoirs go to great lengths to describe his early sexual encounters and conquests, from losing his virginity to sleeping with high school teachers. "To the best of my knowledge," he wrote, "it's possible that I could have impregnated as many as 25 women." He said a family friend paid for six abortions.

Shortly after Riddick Jr. was born in July 1986, Bowe married his child's mother, Judy. The two shared a rocky relationship throughout Bowe's boxing career. He admits to adultery in his book, and accuses her of the same -- and a lot worse. Judy did not return several messages seeking comment.

The couple's problems didn't become public until 1998, when Bowe was accused of kidnapping Judy, from whom he was estranged at the time, and his children, threatening them with a knife and pepper spray.

Bowe reached a plea agreement, admitting guilt to a federal charge of interstate domestic violence. He was given a 1 1/2 -year prison sentence, plus six months of house arrest. He calls the incident a "misunderstanding," maintaining that his mother-in-law, now deceased, encouraged him to drive to North Carolina and save his marriage and family. According to his version of events, Judy and his children willingly loaded into a Lincoln Navigator to return to Maryland.

"I never kidnapped anybody," he says.

When the family reached Spring Hill, Va., and stopped at a McDonald's, Judy borrowed Bowe's phone and police arrived shortly after.

Bowe immediately checked himself into Howard University Medical Center to treat stress and anxiety. He stayed for a week and didn't hear from Judy again until divorce papers were served in May 1998.

During the criminal proceedings, it was revealed that Bowe underwent neurological tests that indicated he had irreparable frontal lobe damage. His defense team tried to blame his actions on the effects of his violent sport. In the course of the court case, Bowe saw other experts who have disputed those findings. Aside from his slurred speech, he says he suffers no ill effects from his 45-bout career.

"Ask me a question. I remember everything," he said. "I feel great. Some people tell me I talk funny, but this is the sport I chose and perhaps this is one of the downfalls. It is what it is."

Felt like the black sheep

Bowe's family has little to do with him. He's highly critical of his ex-wife and has little nice to say about his children. His associations with his extended family aren't much better, though he maintains a good relationship with his sister, Kimberly. His other siblings, he says, used him for money.

"There were a lot of times when I kind of felt like I was an orphan," he wrote in his book. "Me and my sisters and brothers; we had nothin' in common. I wasn't down with drugs and the things they were doin', so I was kind of a black sheep."

His familial life now revolves around his second wife, Terri Bowe, and the couple's two children. Bowe became infatuated with Terri in 1999, and though she spurned his initial advances, Bowe promised her grandmother the day they met that he'd marry Terri. In August 2000, he did.

"He was everything that I did not expect," Terri says. "You see a guy like him and don't realize just how laid-back, how kind he is. A lot of people with similar backgrounds, you might not think they have great respect for women. But Bowe is just amazing."

Even 10 years into marriage No. 2, domestic problems haven't disappeared. Since leaving boxing the first time, Bowe has separately been charged with hitting a sister and fighting with a nephew.

In 2001, he was arrested for assaulting Terri, who later recanted her initial version of events to police.

Bowe says that today -- nearly 18 years since winning the world title and 14 since his last significant fight -- he has very little to do with anyone who was around him during his boxing career.

"At the end of the day, what's so key in life is with whom you associate," says Jeff Fried, a Washington attorney who helped get Bowe's career off the ground and managed his money throughout. "And if you associate with quality people, a lot of good things can happen. Because everyone's there for each other. That's what I believed Bowe had."

Bowe said if he were to start his career anew, the only thing he would change is the people that surrounded him.

Lost trust

For 10 years, Newman says he lived an "all-consuming 24-7 Riddick Bowe existence," but Newman and Bowe are no longer friends. Newman says he has no ill will toward the former fighter, even though they had an ugly parting of ways after Bowe sued Newman for mishandling the fighter's finances, claims that were dismissed in court. In turn, Newman accuses Bowe of adhering to "selective and convenient memory."

"He's highly capable of sincerely believing anything that he conjures up," Newman says. "He can be singularly myopic. It's like nothing else exists. If he wants a black Jeep Cherokee and you tell him you'll get him one, he'll run through the damned wall for you. If that's what is in his sight, there's nothing else in the world.

"The flip side of that is, if he gets another thought in his head, he doesn't have the ability to fully process reality and distinguish it from the thought that's trapped in his head."

Bowe says he doesn't need money, but concedes he hopes returning to the public eye might lead to more opportunities. Asked to name his best friend, he jokingly says, "the money." Still, it's the money that he blames for so much.

Asked if he trusts people, Bowe says, "Absolutely not."

"As long as I have money, I have friends. You stop paying these people, they disappear," he says. "They move on to the next sucker."

After years of bad business ventures, bad relationships and legal battles, Bowe says he is finally rich in family and happiness and the things that matter. But he wants to climb the ladder again. He's only 42 -- 41, if you believe him -- and feels he has more to contribute. This time, though, he'll heed the lessons from a past life.

"If I got a whole lot of money now, I'm not looking to help my family out. I'm going to help the man I don't know," he says. "Because at the end of the day, he's going to treat me better anyway."

Courtesy: The Washington Post/SJC Boxing

7-06-2010