I'm in there to dominate the fight. In the middle of his filibuster Hamed catches sight of me and holds up his palm to slap a high five. I lean over a TV crew and swat his hand. At the instant of contact, Naz snatches my palm, pulls me up and over several journalists and whispers in my ear. I'm glad you're here.
Every ethnic group needs heroes.
I first heard of him in 1995, in an obscure reference on an Internet bulletin board. I had no idea what the fuss was, but clearly an international debate was raging between Naz's British partisans, who proclaimed him one of history's greatest boxers, and what seemed like legions of American skeptics who forecast that the argument would end the day Hamed ran up against a serious American fighter. I made sure to watch. Hamed entered through clouds of white smoke, borne aloft on a throne carried by four huge men, his fans cheering like spectators at a rock concert. With a look of smug bemusement, he dismounted, grasped the top rope of the ring, shook his rear end at the crowd in Newcastle, England, and somersaulted over the rope into the ring.