A fight as lame as a damp squib

It was a night weighty with luminous portent. Sure, the fight in New York was the thing, but there was big cheese to be had around local waters as well. Even as Evander Holyfield whiled away the US afternoon with a few light gospel renditions, we in Ireland were happily fulfilling our own manifest destiny, ooohing and ahhhing at the spectacle of a pyrotechnics display on the waterfront.

This was no ordinary fireworks show, however, but one which transformed Dublin from an apparently irrelevant backwater into a fully "modern and competent" city. We knew this to be case because Jimmy McDaid said so on TV. If our capital could spiral dizzily towards global respectability on the tail end of a few catherine wheels, then surely Evander could blaze a trial towards the pantheon of boxing immortality by realising his prediction and downing Lennox Lewis in round three. If only it were all so simple.

SKY Box Office, that lone beacon of selfless, unrivalled sports coverage, was determined that it should be a night to remember. From the outset, this Holyfield-Lewis clash was presented alongside sepia tinted frames of Jack Johnson and Rocky Marciano and clips of the AliFrazier fight, which was, it seemed, about to relinquish the mantle of "fight of the century" to Saturday evening's fare. Slow motion clips of Holyfield and Lewis were shown to the strains of the old Mascagni piece used in Raging Bull. We were left in no doubt as to the momentousness of the occasion.

Take away the sentimental foppery, though, and what you got was a bunch of guys in natty tuxedos trying to stave off yawns as the evening progressed. Fight of the century this might have been but by 3.30am, it was hard not to feel as though you had just endured the entire 100 years in actual time. It was marathon stuff, with Barry McGuigan managing to grow a goatee over the course of the broadcast.

Indeed , it seemed as though there was a simmering resentment undercutting the Sky presentation over who exactly had gotten the prized ringside tickets for the big fight. Wee Barry was decidedly less chirpy than is generally his wont while Jim Watt was downright petulant over his station, a floorside spot in Bowler's night club in Manchester. Bowler's on a Saturday night looked as though it was no place for a 40something-year-old in a tux.

We were assured that the long distance analysis was due not to any frugality on the part of Sky but because of the station's inability to secure more accreditation.

A quick glance around Madison Square Garden and it was easy to see why. A mercifully unsmiling Jack Nicholson had taken valuable time out of his L A Lakers schedule to transport himself and at least three hundred large, sun-glassed gentlemen to the east coast for the night. Michael Douglas was there, as was Bo Derek. They say that Ali was in the crowd as well but he didn't make the celebrity star trail.

One man definitely keen to grab a piece of the celebrity pie was referee Arthur Mercante Jnr. His old man, we were told, had officiated at the Ali-Frazier fight some 22 years ago. Young Arthur, all brillcream and Noo Yawk attitude, was conscious of his place in history. Beforehand, he had an intimate moment with both boxers, beautifully captured by the cameras and mike which Arthur himself held.

"Hey, dis is yoa show an', ahhh, I'm in it," he explained to Evander, who looked nonplussed by this unexpected cameo development. Over in the Lewis dressing room, Arthur assured trainer Emanuel Steward that he would make certain that Holyfield's abdominal protector was not positioned too high on his midriff. Lewis, though, was taking no chances, appearing with a strap of his own which he wore just below the nostrils.

Although Lennox adopted a steely gaze for his walk to the ring, his sang-froid was interrupted by a bout of jostling which was described as "unprecedented". The entire Madison Square Garden security system seemed to be reduced to a hapless looking skin head in a blue jacket. At one point, Lennox seemed prepared to rumble with a member of the audience. Evander's entrance, in contrast, was as serene and evangelical as a gospel preacher's path to the pulpit. Right then, you got to thinking that maybe home advantage was going to count.

Onto the action. Lewis, splayfooted and narrow shouldered, bided his time. Holyfield, like the rest of the world, seemed to lose heart.

"Sometimes a fighter can age over night," sighed Ian Darke as Holyfield grew progressively more ashen with each round. It was difficult to believe that this lame pageant of jabbing and hugging and - at one point - lifting was billed as one of the definitive boxing moments of the century. By round seven, you couldn't help but wish that Lennox had gotten on it on with the heckler in the crowd.

Onto the judging. The boys at Sky had vociferously urged Lewis to go for the kill in the final two rounds, reminding the public that this was "a Don King promotion in America." Inevitably, the American judge scored a home win but the decision of Londoner Larry O'Connell to score the fight a draw was one which was best summed up by Lewis's utterly disbelieving countenance.

"He was robbed," declared Ian Darke. The good news is, of course that we get to do it all again. That and the fact that Evander "still believes in the Lord," despite the fact that no lightening materialised in round three. Well, someone up there likes him.

On the radio yesterday morning, Mike Catz from the New York Post reckoned that boxing died in Madison Square Garden on Saturday night. He doubted the wisdom of ever staging another fight. It was difficult to summon the interest to even agree with him.