As they clasped hands, Holyfield spied me alone in my corner. ““Would you like to join us?” he asked in a quiet voice. I am wary of what is all too often a cynical mix of sports and religion–the fighters who boast of having ““God in my corner” and the coaches who view God as a ““12th man on the field.” But there was no sense of command performance in Holyfield’s offer, no hint of sanctimony in his circle. It seemed to be a warm, generous gesture. I joined the circle and bowed my head. The prayer, offered this day by the massage therapist, was appropriately modest for a man known as the humble warrior; no beseeching the Lord for victory, only to ““help Evander be all he can be.”
The quiet scene in the spartan gym moved me, and I offered my own silent prayer that Evander, who at 34 had taken too many beatings and faced too many health problems, would not be hurt too badly by the fearsome Tyson. Turned out, along with so many others, I was praying for the wrong man.
