Special Delivery Trailing badly on points, David Reid went for the knockout and gave the U.S. its only boxing gold by Johnette Howard HE WAS bouncing in a neutral corner with his mouth agape, his feet jitterbugging in place and both of his gloves outstretched as if he were performing some kind of dark magic on his Cuban opponent, as if he were trying to will him to stay down. U.S. 156-pound boxer David Reid went into the last three minutes of his gold medal fight yesterday knowing his only chance was a knockout. And now he was about to get it. The electrifying right counter he'd just sent crashing into the cheekbone and nose of Alfredo Duvergel had sent the Cuban chin-first to the canvas, his arms swimming through the air as he went down. Reid slipped a right from Duvergel. photograph by V.J. LoVero Only 36 seconds were gone in the final round, and the crowd was howling now—howling in an earsplitting mixture of shock, joy and disbelief. At the count of three Duvergel tried to get up, but he slipped. He used one hand to steady himself and finally made it to his feet. Then he wobbled. At that point Bulgarian referee Simeon Stojadinov set his jaw and waved his arms—the fight was over, and there was bedlam. Reid leaped and leaped around the ring. Then he threw back his head and he screamed. "I was going for the home run. I just put myself right there with all the champions who've ever won the gold medal," Reid gushed afterward. And as he walked off the floor, the greatest of them all was waiting for him: Muhammad Ali, the 1960 U.S. gold medalist, who'd shown up to see Reid fight. Ali pulled Reid close and whispered something in his ear. "He said, 'You're a baaaad boy,'" Reid said, still beaming, 30 minutes after the fight. How shocking a win was it? Duvergel had shut out Reid 8-0 in the second round and staggered him with a bruising left that brought a standing eight count. The Cuban held a 15-5 lead heading into the third, a near-impossible point margin to make up. But then, rather than avoid Reid until the final bell, Duvergel threw one last fateful right, which opened a boulevard-wide path for Reid to counter with a violent overhand right. "He had confidence. It seemed like he was going to knock me out; he was beating me to the punch," Reid said. "But I was saying to myself, All I need is to get one in." Reid came over the top with one of his own. photograph by V.J. LoVero And one punch was all it took. After he pulled it off, Reid threw himself into the arms of Al Mitchell, the U.S. coach who had also been his personal coach since he was 10 years old. Like a second father, Mitchell bought Reid his first boxing trunks and shoes, got him haircuts as a kid and shepherded him through adolescence and the amateur boxing ranks, weaning Reid on fight tapes of Sugar Ray Robinson, Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Thomas Hearns and, of course, Ali. Mitchell was running a mom-and-pop corner store in north Philadelphia and training boxers on the side when he and Reid, now 22, met. "When I started to box, everyone told me, 'Go see the guy with glasses,'" Reid said of Mitchell. "He told me I was going to be a world champion before I believed it myself." As the U.S. flag went up and Reid stood on top of the medal podium—saving the U.S. from finishing an Olympics without a boxing gold for the first time since the 1948 London Games—Mitchell broke down and cried. After all he and Reid had been through together, Mitchell said he couldn't stop thinking, "That's my son ... that's my son."