LOS ANGELES -- From a rough start through his refined end, Bernard Hopkins spent three decades in boxing making a name for himself: The Executioner, The Alien, The Matrix, B-Hop, ’Nard. Call Hopkins what you will, just know that as far as he’s concerned, he set himself apart a long time ago.
That seems like a relatively fair position based on the 51 years he knows.
“I didn’t think I would live to 20 because I was told that by teachers and neighborhood people,” Hopkins said. “I really believed that because of my behavior I was trying to do all the hell I could do before I was out of here. Either you get killed or go to jail for life, like most of my friends. If you look at the numbers, the numbers never lie. This is all bonuses. I come from a guy taking $10 [to] now paying the government millions of dollars in taxes. The country isn’t as bad as people might think it is, depending on how you look at it.”
Before living like a well-paid artist who mastered his craft, Hopkins navigated a childhood in North Philadelphia that often claimed people like him, and, later, prison, which did, too -- a hardscrabble and predictable story, written prior to Hopkins revising it.
“This man has been counted out by the system,” the lanky 6-foot-1 counterpuncher said of himself. “What he pulled off is amazing, and then to put that exclamation point and become who he became as a public figure, c’mon man. This is Hollywood stuff.”
Hopkins’ fairy tale truth is not as uncommon as he makes it out to be -- the list of boxers who came from nothing to meet greatness is long and proof enough -- but it’s still remarkable.
“To make lemonade without lemons takes really a hell of a unique personality,” he said. “It’s a lot of discipline and a not-giving-up attitude and being stubborn in a way of good and sometimes not.”
If the all-time great middleweight is true to his word, then The Forum in Inglewood, California, will host the final contest for the two-division champion, whom pundits unanimously agree merits entry into the Boxing Hall of Fame when he becomes eligible in five years. The good, the bad and the icing on the cake. Spanning three eras of boxers, there’s not much left to learn about Hopkins except how he’ll close the show. Regardless of what happens against unheralded 27-year-old American puncher Joe Smith Jr. (21-1, 18 KO) in a 12-round light heavyweight bout (HBO, 10 p.m. ET/PT) on Saturday, Hopkins’ personal and professional legacies are secure.
Since the announcement came two months ago that he agreed step into the ring once more since losing a decision to heavy-hitting Russian Sergey Kovalev in 2014, Hopkins (52-7-2, 32 KO) has repeatedly heard the same questions and concerns. Why do this? At your age, you have nothing to prove and so much to risk. What’s the point?
This is how people who never did anything worth remembering react to diminished greatness. People in his business have questioned a unique situation -- a fighter of his skill and resolve still fighting at this age -- because they can’t understand something different, Hopkins suggested. That’s his interpretation of the way the boxing community, especially the press, has treated what he promised is his 67th and final fight, No. 23 on HBO, which will tie him with Lennox Lewis for number of appearances on the network.
“I will be The Matrix, I will be The Executioner,” he said to the press. “I will be everything that I need to be to win. The sweet science is something that I’ve always been addicted to. My fight will be like watching the last game of Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant.”
However, Jordan and Bryant, extraordinary competitors respected for what they accomplished with awe-inspiring athleticism, knew nothing of pulling themselves up from a grave that hadn’t been marked yet. Making the most of a promising life isn’t easy. The way Hopkins did it was far more difficult.
“I achieved my first goal of success in the first part of my lifespan,” Hopkins said. “That was rougher than boxing -- business or physical in the ring -- if you know anything about Bernard Hopkins’ history, if you know anything about before I became who I became. If you know any details about Bernard Hopkins, the inner-city Philadelphia guy, through the penitentiary at 17 to 25 and survived without washing anyone else’s underwear, you would realize that I became champion a long time ago. What I did got the interest of the bonus of being a productive American citizen. So it’s more than just who I became as an athlete, as a public figure. You would have [to] look at the more deeper part.”
Hopkins hasn’t gotten anywhere in life or accomplished everything he has in the ring without an enormous will to persevere.
“I think that we as humans have limitations that we put on ourselves,” Hopkins preached. “The majority put limitations on themselves that never let themselves blossom and see the real value in what they have in themselves or why they’re here. I figure like this: When it’s all said and done, I don’t want to regret what I didn’t do and talk about it later on. Don’t you know there’s a lot of people, if they’re honest with themselves, they really can’t look in the mirror and say, ‘I’ve done everything I wanted to do up to now and I’m motivated to go forward.’ You got some people who wanted to be a boxer but never gave themselves the chance or wanted to be a teacher and never gave themselves the chance. It’s not that they weren’t qualified. They was afraid to fail to win.”
After serving 56 months of an 18-year sentence at Graterford State Penitentiary, Hopkins climbed into the ring for the first time as a 23-year-old man filled with hope. He had no intention of living down to the words of the warden at Graterford. No, Hopkins said, he wouldn’t return to prison, which was where he discovered boxing. The sport was a ticket to a new life, and he fully invested himself into it.
The last thing Hopkins ever was was unblemished, and all these years later, a stumble in his pro debut comes across as poetic. The disappointment of failing in the beginning may have broken others but Hopkins, of course, regrouped. Three years, later Hopkins stood tall at 22-1 when he met Roy Jones Jr. in 1993. Jones was a shooting star -- fast, fleeting and flash -- and Hopkins was not savvy or dynamic enough to respond. As he moved past a unanimous decision loss, he matured and treated boxing like a thinking man’s game when he could. When he couldn’t, Hopkins had no problem getting dirty and dangerous.
Seventeen years later, Hopkins’ career hung in the sky like a constellation compared to Jones’ dwindling brilliance when they rematched in 2010. Unlike Jones, Hopkins’ spent an immense amount of time working on being a fundamental fighter. He relentlessly cared for his body and never took learning for granted, so when age intervened and reflexes waned, Hopkins remained capable of competing when most prizefighters struggled with the effects of their efforts.
A two-weight world champion, one of the best middleweights to walk this earth and featuring a record 20 consecutive title defenses over 11 years, Hopkins ranks among the best fighters of all-time and has never been stopped in the ring. Past the age of 40, only George Foreman and Archie Moore rival him.
“You have to prove you’re special, no matter how many titles you win,” Hopkins said. “If you use that to stay in the game, then you become special and an icon [that] surpasses legend. Common man, special man. Which one do you want? Which one do you want? I want the special; you are that before you become that. If you want to work your way back down to common man, there’s a lot of people down there.”