A quarter century after their contentious bout, the champ and the challenger are still going at each other -- but these jabs don't hurt

	Where Are They Now? Choose a story The 1972 A's Sal Bando The Hanson Brothers Chris Hinton Larry Holmes & Gerry Cooney Tommy John Marquette Hoops Mario Mendoza Hakeem Olajuwon Joe Rudi Picabo Street Mo Vaughn Gallery: Where Will They Be?
	Holmes is the lord of Lehigh Valley, while Cooney puts his energy into FIST, his outfit to aid former fighters. Michael J. LeBrecht II/1Deuce3 Photography
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By Richard O'Brien

This Where Are They Now feature and others like it can be found in the July 2nd issue of Sports Illustrated.

The brand-new Lincoln Navigator rolling down Pennsylvania's Route 22 on this balmy June day is a major hunk of luxury automotive engineering, but the two men sitting up front make it feel almost cozy. Twenty-five years before, to the very week, they fought for the heavyweight title, under the harshest of public spotlights. But today Larry Holmes and Gerry Cooney are just a couple of old pals heading out for lunch.

"Gerry, I'm driving, so you know you better put on your belt," says Holmes, showing more concern for the well-being of his passenger than he did on the night of June 11, 1982, when he hammered out a 13th-round TKO of Cooney to defend his title in Las Vegas.

"I hear that, bro," says Cooney with a broad grin, clicking his shoulder strap into place as Holmes guns the Navigator around a dawdling Toyota. Cooney shakes his head. "I keep telling you, Larry, you got to take up golf. Relax a little."

The two old foes see each other every few months at boxing events and charity functions. Today it's a photo shoot at Holmes's office in Easton, Pa. -- sandwiched between Cooney's round of golf ("Thirty-eight on the front nine!") and Holmes's flight to Atlantic City for an evening at the casinos. Their verbal sparring continues as Holmes, 57, and Cooney, 50, catch up on mutual friends and family and compare notes on the state of their sport. Ultimate Fighting comes up. "It's on TV every day," notes Holmes. Says Cooney, his jaw clenched and eyes wide in mock ferocity, "Yeah? I'd like to get you in that cage."

Such camaraderie is in marked contrast to the vitriol that surrounded their 1982 bout, when Holmes was the undefeated but largely unappreciated champion and the hard-punching Cooney -- also undefeated but untested in his 25 bouts -- was cast as the Great White Hope. A disdainful Holmes called him the Great White Dope, while Cooney declared the champ had "no class." The promotion was marked by bad blood all around. "White people would come up to me and say, 'You gotta beat him,' " recalls Cooney over cheeseburgers at a modest eatery in a Bethlehem, Pa., strip mall. Holmes laughs. "White people were coming up to me saying, 'Gerry's gonna knock you out,' " he says.

Two patrons approach the fighters and ask if they'd pose for a photo. "No problem," says Cooney, jumping up to stand beside Holmes. "That'll be five bucks" -- he laughs -- "apiece."