Since the great majority of true boxing fans have expressed great appreciation for the effort put forth by Ward and Gatti, why not find out about the man their upcoming award is named after?

Harry Markson was born in Kingston, New York in 1906, and died in November of 1998 in Red Bank, New Jersey, where he resided in the twilight of his life. He graduated from Union College and worked as a sportswriter for the Bronx Home News.

In 1933, he became a part-time publicity man for Madison Square Garden and went on to become the president of Madison Square Garden Boxing, Inc., in 1968, a position he held until he retired to a consulting job in 1973.

He was one of the most distinguished Jews involved in the sport of boxing; a member of the International Boxing Hall of Fame, inducted in the non participant category, which is reserved for people who have contributed to the sport through their activities outside the ring. He also received the Boxing Writers' Association of America James J. Walker Award for Long and Meritorious Service in 1963.

A dignified and insightful leader in the chaotic world of professional boxing, his career was never touched by scandal. "That's a miracle," said Alan Baker, former Vice President of Public Relations at the Garden, in an interview once. "He was really 100 percent."

Harry Markson was a lot more than all of the above to a certain political refugee who arrived in New York in 1963, with two college degrees in tow, but void of funds and running on empty spiritually. It was not easy leaving his homeland at a mature age, venturing into the unknown with a family and no sure means of survival.

This refugee had met Harry Markson back in his homeland where he had toiled as a Sports Editor for a daily paper, covering boxing as his main beat; after all boxing was his passion, his love. They had collaborated on some issues and had also become very good friends.

Upon arrival in New York City the refugee worked two menial jobs. Life wasn't easy, but at least he was employed and able to provide for his family; all the while he wrote articles for a Spanish language boxing magazine and free lanced for one of the daily newspapers.

One day a call was received at the man's home, it was from none other than Harry Markson. Tears welled up in the man's eyes as he spoke to his old friend, who wanted to see him at his office at the Garden. This was too good to be true, the man said. He couldn't believe that Harry Markson had tracked him down and wanted to see him!

On the appointed day, his best suit neatly pressed, the refugee made his way to Eighth Avenue and 33rd Street in Manhattan, through the employees entrance to the Boxing Department and to Mr. Markson's office.

Harry Markson had requested this visit to offer the man a job. He was ecstatic, couldn't say yes fast enough, but wait a minute, the man said, what about the language barrier? Not to worry, said the visionary Markson, Hispanics were making great strides, and a publicist was needed to handle all the P.R. for the Hispanic media, he said, a perfect job for his old friend.

Needless to say, the job was offered and gladly -and very quickly- accepted, handled with great pride and skill for over 20 years, under the tutelage of the likes of Bobby Goodman and John X. Condon among others who followed Harry Markson in the position of President of the Boxing Department at the Mecca of boxing.

The man in our story fell victim to prostate cancer in March 1988, leaving behind a daughter who adored him more than life. One of the first persons to call the man's family was Harry Markson. At Markson's urging, the Boxing Department at the Garden issued the family a check for $3000.00 to help with the burial expenses. Markson said that he only wished he could do more, his voice trailing off in sorrow.

The refugee in my story came from the island of Cuba, and he was my father, the late René Cubas. To the Cubas family, Harry Markson is a man who in life received many official awards and great recognition, all of which he amply deserved. To us, though, he was a lot more. To my family, Harry Markson was the embodiment of a true friend.