Evander everlasting

Like most great fighters, Holyfield can't quit

The place where Evander Holyfield calls home is a meticulously groomed palatial estate south of Atlanta. Outside the wrought-iron gates, a uniformed officer at the guard house provides a map of the 153-acre grounds to help hunt down the ex-champ -- sending me over the bridge, past the ponds and beyond the stables to what rises up as a 140-room mansion.

I wander into the garage, but the champ isn’t in sight. Only a black stretch limo, a couple SUVs and enough space to provide cover for the L.A. Lakers fleet of wheels. That leads me to a darkened weight room. Picture your local health club, only with equipment squeezed in so tight you can barely find your way to the far end. You learn quickly that everything about the place is super-sized.

Finally, with his staff answering calls for help, I’m led past the winding staircases and a grand entrance right out of Gone with the Wind to Holyfield’s first-floor office. The champ is behind a desk that stretches 12-feet wide. A name plate reads “4-time heavyweight champ.’’ He’s got a phone to his ear as he eyes a large computer monitor. A fax, scanner and paper-shredder sit on a stand just over his right shoulder.

Now I ask you, does this sound like a guy who needs to sweat for a living, or absorb shots thrown with bad intentions? Nah, Holyfield could quit tomorrow and live the life of J. R. Ewing. If you do the math, the guy has earned around $200 million in fight purses and -- after taxes, sanctioning fees, payments to team members, training expenses, etc. -- is walking around with something in the neighborhood of $90 million.

That’s probably more than enough to cover the upkeep on this joint.

But like most great fighters, he can’t quit. So what if he has more heavyweight belts than any man who has ever fought? The old champ fights for a fifth and the opportunity to exit as the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world.

So, with no guarantees of a title shot, the 39-year-old Holyfield is set to climb into the ring June 1, risking his reputation and health against Hasim Rahman. If he wins, maybe the Lennox Lewis-Mike Tyson winner comes looking for a mega payday. But even if he loses, Holyfield talks of patiently hanging around for another title shot.

“One thing you have to realize is I am willing to stay on the battlefield as long as it takes,’’ he says. “It is not like age is important to me. I don’t even look at the age. I could fight another 10 years and not worry about age. I have taken care of my body so well that I don’t have the affects of everybody else. I look at those guys who are 27, 28 -- damn, my body is better than theirs. They can’t do nothing I can’t do.’’

That’s the problem. Holyfield still ranks with anybody in the division. Nobody can beat him up. Nobody can beat him into retirement.

And so the worry is he’ll overdo his stay, absorb too many shots and one day shuffle away like Muhammad Ali. But no, Holyfield (37-5-2, 25 KO’s) says he’s different. He won’t be conned by the adoring masses when it’s time to go.

“For Ali, it meant a lot for him to be with the people,’’ says Holyfield, respectfully distancing himself from the boxing legend. “Me, I’m a winner. But I am not driven by everybody having to like me. Ali loved attention. I like attention, but I don’t love it. I’m not gonna go to the street to please everybody. He tended to seek that love. I’m like, ‘Here I am, people. You can love me if you want to and if you don’t, it is OK.’ I just know everybody is not gonna love me.

“If you’re after that affection, you fight a little longer than you should. People say, ‘You can do this, champ.’ Hey, I know I can do it. ‘Oh, you’re the man, you’re the man.’ I look at them, ‘Thank you.’

“I don’t need the pat on the back. Don’t con me. With Ali, everybody rode on his back. Everybody rode the ticket. He had a big entourage. I just have what I need. You either bring something to the table or you don’t. I’m not gonna pay somebody to say, ‘You can do it.’ Hey, I already know I can do it.’’

The ever-frugal Holyfield has only seven paid members of his boxing camp, led by manager Jim Thomas, trainer Don Turner and fitness guru Tim Hallmark.

See, behind the cold-blooded, warrior image is a shrewd, calculating businessman who has set himself up nicely with an African-American family-oriented television network, Major Broadcasting Network, and Real Deal Records, a label with a dozen Christian and gospel artists under contract. He fights to bankroll his businesses, to get the seed money for his foundation’s planned $20 million recreation center in Atlanta.

According to terms of a deal signed with promoter Don King before his the first Tyson fight in 1996, Holyfield is guaranteed a minimum $5 million fight every six months. The guarantee was considerably sweeter before Holyfield dropped a controversial decision to Lewis two years ago.

“I’m a person who was born in the ghetto, had nothing but had a lot of love," Holyfield says. “My mother was goal-oriented. My whole life, you set your goal. So I always knew I would be heavyweight champion of the world. My only thing is I didn’t know if I was gonna lose. But my whole life I’ve overcome things to reach goals, so I have to retire as heavyweight champion of the world. I just can’t say, ‘Well, I didn’t win -- I’m out of here. That is not me."

And no matter what the calendar reads, Holyfield insists the years haven’t diminished his physical skills. There isn’t anything he can’t do in the ring. But mentally, he isn’t the desperate, hungry fighter. Instead, he enters the ring with less emotion, much like a buttoned-down businessman.

“When you’re young, you’re very sensitive about things," he tries to explain. “You are aggressive. Somebody says something you don’t like and you want to whup him."

He pops from behind the desk, shadow boxing with some imaginery bad-ass character.

“I’d be fighting and it just happens,’’ he says, holding his ground. “Almost like I could talk to the person without even talking to him: ‘Oh, you think can whup me, huh? Huh, huh? Bop, bop . . . bop. Yeah, I’ll wipe you out.’

“Now, 'cause you have more knowledge, it can be dangerous sometimes. This is a job and competition. You are out of the ring and this is just an aspect of life. So when I look at opponents, it is hard to look at them with a charge."

Fortunately, it’s not every fight that someone like Tyson chomps on your ear. Even so, how does an old champ get the animal juices flowing?

“I don’t create the feeling," he admits. “The problem I have in a lot of my fights is trying to get myself like I used to be now that I’m more mature. This is my job. You do this, do this and this. The difference is if my leg hurts I’m thinking about it. Is it right? Back then it didn’t make no difference if it’s right or not. I’m gonna fight on this leg. Now, my mind asks questions: ‘You ain’t getting old. Your leg used to feel like that but you didn’t feel how your leg felt, cause you’re still gonna whup the guy on a bad leg.’

“Now I feel aches and pains and I start relating it to this talk of being too old. I have to reverse it and say it has nothing to do with it. When I was young my side hurt. When I was young my hand hurt. My back would get tight, too. Now I got more knowledge and more understanding, but I have to be responsible for that. I can’t take that knowledge and use it to defeat myself."

That’s the price of being worldly and rich in a killer sport.

Mike Fish is a senior writer for CNNSI.com.

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