Bash Compactor: On The Ropes

It was a typical Dumbo book soirée—except for the locker-room smell in the air. On Saturday night, the sainted late champs—like Joe Frazier and Floyd Patterson—hanging on the wall of

Smooth lounge remixes to tunes like Marvin Gaye’s “Mercy, Mercy Me” played. At 10, a lean man dressed in a pink shirt, owner Bruce Silverglade, climbed into the ring to get a three-round match rolling. Before energetically striking the starting bell he made a quick announcement. “We purposefully feature female boxers because they’re more exciting.”

Two muscular flyweights, one clad in a short French maid’s apron, danced out from their corners and poked at each other with oversized gloves. A man with a shaved head and the physique of an aging fighter was standing off to the side—a white gym towel hidden in his massive hand. It was the Bronx-born middleweight champ of 1988, Iran Barkley. He came up through the old Gleason’s Gym on West 30th Street, which served as an academy for a generation of street kids looking to fight their way out of poverty. Barkley, who’s currently lobbying for professional boxers to receive pensions, looked out at the crowd. Sighing wearily he said, “These kids aren’t very serious.”

“What are you up to now champ?” I asked. Barkley ran over to famous cornerman Eddie Post and whispered something in his ear. In the ring, Keisher McLeod-Wells was landing a flurry of crosses to the hyper cheers of a group of frat guys. “Hit her with a right,” one bellowed. “And take off her panties!” When Barkley walked back he looked like the cat that got the cream.The ex-middleweight, who turns 50 this year, lifted his fists up playfully and told me the news. “I’m making a comeback.”