Blood Relations

The closer Sam came to finding himself, it seemed, the more he needed to preserve those 2,800 miles between himself and Max. He might let a week pass without calling his brother, and Max, sensing Sam's need, might do the same. Just a few days earlier, after Max had flown to L.A. on a business trip and squeezed in a night of boxing and a few rounds of the King of All Games with his brother, Sam had stayed home for the evening to write rather than drive Max to the airport. Sure, it had stung Max a little, but hadn't every pair of brothers known a time like that? "Don't worry about me," Max urged him. "Let your talent fly. Just let it fly."

L.A. was Sam's liberation from the all-nighters writing term papers for his New York pals, from editing every word his brothers wrote and serving as the family glue. L.A. protected Sam from Sam, freed him to let it fly. His success there was inevitable, because in a town full of people who stand out, he stood out. That's what TV producer Mark Neveldine said.

But now, on the other end of Sam's phone line, came another voice from New York, an old friend. James needed a place to bunk for a few days, a new gym--perhaps trainer Freddie Roach's place, not far from Sam's--and a new start. Sam already had a guest in his cramped apartment, an aspiring actress from New York named Beatriz Qui�ones. But he'd just written a column for foxsports.com asking the world to give the Hammer another chance, so how could he not?

James arrived and sacked out on Sam's couch. A few days became a few weeks. James grew jumpy. He didn't like L.A. He wanted to go home and hold the newborn son that he hadn't seen in five weeks, the one he couldn't bear to see grow up without a dad, as he had. One moment James seemed depressed; the next, so excited that the words tumbled from his mouth. But he wouldn't take his medication, which had made it so hard to train. He sat in front of the TV, making it hard for Sam to write. They began arguing over little things. Beatriz felt the tension growing, packed up and cleared out.

Sam called Max on Oct. 6. Maybe it was only to argue Kobe- Shaq. Maybe it was just to dissect the Yankees-Twins playoff game that night. Max will never know. He was at Yankee Stadium, and the crowd's thunder drowned out Sam's voice. "I can't hear you, Sam!" shouted Max. "Talk to you later!" But he got home late and didn't call back.

Five nights later another young actress, Claudia Salinas, went to dinner with Sam and returned with him to his apartment. James was watching TV again. "I need to watch a game for the column I'm writing," Claudia remembered Sam saying. "Can I change the channel?"

"No," said James.

"Yo, I've got to work," said Sam. "I've got to see who wins so I can finish this story."

"Wait till the commercials," growled the Hammer. It almost seemed as if he needed to know whether even Sam would push him away.

"Let's take a walk," Sam said to Claudia. He was in Kellerman quicksand: trying to help a victim who was making him feel like a victim in his own home. "It's like this all the time," he told Claudia. It was time, Sam decided, to say no, to ask James to leave.