Why is it that Muhammad Ali and

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Why is it that Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier can be slugging it out in the middle of the ring at Madison Square Garden, but if two fat guys start winging punches in the cheap seats, we all turn around and watch them? For some reason, few things are more fascinating than a fistfight between two utterly inept doofuses ... or, better yet, a couple of hell-bent females.

This section of "The Boxing Amusement Park" is dedicated to that phenomenon of human nature. E-mail us your best story of a fight you witnessed (contact@ringsideboxingshow.com), a fight you were in, a fight you heard about. Make one up, if you want. Be descriptive. Avoid profanity whenever you can (kids see this stuff, too). Sign your name -- if the statute of limitations hasn't yet expired on your crime, a fake one will do -- and the city or town you're from. If you want to send us a jpeg that goes with your story, feel free. If your story is worthy, it'll appear here. If it sucks ... oh, well.

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Though JFK is widely remembered as one of our greatest leaders, one thing he bestowed upon the schoolchildren of the '60s was known as "The President's Physical Fitness Tests," a series of horrifying challenges designed to crush whatever remained of the already-fragile self-esteem of every pimple-faced 14-year-old in America.

Once a year, a square-jawed, square-haired PE teacher would herd us into the gym, like POWs at Bataan, and gleefully describe the nightmare that confronted each of us: We would be timed and scored against all other kids in America as we did sit-ups, pull-ups, the shuttle run, the 60-yard dash, the rope climb, and the most-diabolical test of all, the 600-yard run -- a distance sadistically calculated to be too far to sprint, but too short to jog.

At our school, the fiercest rivals in the 600 were Kevin Hecht, nicknamed "Heavy Kevvy" because he had the physique of a melting ice-cream cone, and Marshall Geefigan -- "The Geef" -- a tall, banana-shaped creature whose bony knees and elbows and razor-sharp facial features made him a geometric anomaly of isosceles triangles, supported by a colossal pair of size-13 Converse high-tops. Year after year, The Geef dueled Heavy Kevvy almost to the death, trying to avoid the humiliation of being the last clodhopper across the finish line.

As ninth-graders, that rivalry came to a boil over an incident so ugly that, generations later, the story almost certainly is being re-told to today's children as a cautionary tale.

Here's how it started: While the rest of us stood beyond the finish line, sucking the thin Colorado oxygen into our burning lungs, Hecht and Geefigan lumbered toward us with spit and snot flying, and sweat rolling down their green-on-white gym uniforms.

Adding intrigue to the moment, though, was the fact that Heavy Kevvy -- the last-place finisher several years in a row -- inexplicably held a 5-yard lead over The Geef, with just 50 yards to go. That's when The Geef made his move, stretching out those long, circular strides and pumping his gangly arms. His flesh changed hues several times over the next several seconds, and face contorted so grotesquely that his black, caterpillar eyebrows appeared to fuse together at the bridge of his nose. Hecht strained to hold his precious lead, but could hear the BLAP! BLAP! BLAP! of The Geef's giant tennis shoes closing the gap behind him.

Both gave their best efforts over the home stretch, each snorting like an asthmatic warthog as they stumbled toward us. Geefigan overtook his nemesis with one, final giraffe-like stride, extending Heavy Kevvy's life-long losing streak. For the next moment or two, each staggered around, utterly disoriented, no doubt wondering if they might puke up a major organ.

And that, essentially, is what happened next: The greenish Geef stumbled sideways toward the bright-red Hecht, keeled over, and launched at least a quart-and-a-half of creamed chipped beef on toast -- a school-cafeteria delicacy -- all over Heavy Kevvy's brand-new sneakers.

With every fiber of his remaining strength and energy, Kevin Hecht launched himself angrily at Geefigan and they tumbled into a hideous, writhing, heaving pile of perspiration and stench. Mr. Skinner, the PE teacher, quickly separated them by the scruffs of their necks, but the gauntlet had been tossed: It would be Heavy Kevvy vs. The Geef that night in the courtyard of the First Baptist Church, just off school grounds.

Hallway publicity throughout the rest of the day ensured a capacity crowd for what promised to be an intriguing heavyweight struggle. Far as anyone could recall, there had never in the long history of our town been a fight between such profoundly pathetic physical specimens as Kevin Hecht and Marshall Geefigan.

And, indeed, it lived up to all of our expectations. As the rest of us formed a four-deep circle around the two combatants, they hoisted their dukes and began to jockey for position. Spectators chose up sides. Bets were made. Smack was talked.

The Geef threw the first punch, a long, swooping right hand that orginated somewhere near Wyoming and floated toward Hecht's head with the velocity of a soap bubble. Heavy Kevvy clearly saw the punch coming -- how could he not? -- and made his best defensive move, rolling his shoulder, turning his face to the side, and leaning slightly to the right. Several seconds later, the punch landed flush. Hecht went down hard on his loveseat-sized buttocks, and The Geef, off-balance, fell on top of him. The crowd roared.

They rolled three times, leaving the mastodon-like Hecht on top. He maneuvered himself into a sitting position, flattening Geefigan's stomach muscles against the courtyard lawn. Seemingly doomed, The Geef made his move to turn the tables, hoisting his long, grasshopper legs and locking them around Heavy Kevvy's massive, bucket head.

As far as anybody knows, that's how the fight ended. Kevin Hecht maintained his perch on Geefigan's stomach. The Geef held his grip on Hecht's head. Both moaned, cursed and howled until the crowd became bored and dispersed. The sun went down. Historians recorded the result as a draw.

So, there it is: The mostly-true story of an epic heavyweight scrap in a town that probably isn't much different than your own. Now, it's your turn: Write your story, e-mail it to us at contact@ringsideboxingshow.com, and (as long as it doesn't suck ... and maybe even if it does) we'll publish it right here. Can't wait!

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Two Fights to Remember

WW2 was fought not only overseas, but some battles took place right here at home. My wife and I lived in a government housing project in Pittsburgh while Adolph and Benito made their unsuccessful attempt to rule the world. The units in the GHP were built in rows of eight, each unit separated by thin party walls. Some of us, younger men who had not yet been summoned to duty by FDR, used Friday nights to enjoy Gillette's Friday Night Fights on TV.

My next-door neighbor, who shall remain nameless, was doing his duty on the high seas with our Navy and came home unexpectedly to find his wife, who shall also remain nameless, in bed with the milkman. When he burst into the bedroom and discovered what was happening, he pulled the milkman out of bed, slammed him against the wall and threw a right hand that missed and put a hole in the bedroom wall.

One of my friends, Jimmy, and I tore ourselves away from the Friday Night Fights, and this was quite a sacrifice because teevee was still a very new and exciting entertainment medium. But we did it because we felt someone might get killed if we didn't.

When we charged through the door, Jimmy grabbed the irate husband and pulled him off the millkman. He pinned his arms behind his back, and tried to place thoughts of peace and harmony in his angry head, I climbed on the back of the profusely bleeding milkman. In a few minutes the husbasnd agreed to end the battle, so Jimmy released the irate husband's arms. The moment he did, the husband charged across the room, where I continued to pin the milkman's arms behind his back. The husband hit the helpless milkman between the eyes with a marvelous right hand, and the milkman crumpled to the floor with a broken nose and two rapidly closing black eyes. When he finally came to, he staggered out the door, into his milk truck and drove away, looking for a doctor.

Our Navy had declared another victory in the battle of Wayward Women and Malicious Milkmen. The husband forgave his wife for her indiscretion, and Jimmy and I returned to Gillette's Friday Night Fights. If I remember correctly, the main event was Carmen Basilio vs Tony Zale. Carmen got paid for the beating he took that Friday night, but the milkman did not. God bless America!

--ROBERT N. TAYLOR, Denver, Colo.

Still got the suspension letters! My mom saved all my stuff from my youth. I was a little guy who got picked on, so I learned to wrestle and then started whoopin' kids. I especially fought kids who picked on kids who didn't know how to fight or had a disability. One of those kids I helped ended up passing away a few years later from a doctor screwing up a surgery to fix sclerosis. Very sad story, but I whooped this kid's ass for being so mean all the time to that poor little dude named Danny. R.I.P.

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