It was almost six years ago when Jermain Taylor won his first middleweight championship title.

He had to have one judge in the 12th round for the victory and that’s exactly what he got.

I’ll never forget that night.

What I’ll also never forget was going to a media-only workout of Bernard Hopkins.

I was standing by the ring watching him get taped and then start to do crunches and he was talking nonstop.

For some reason he suddenly zeroed in on me and I was wondering why until I realized at the bottom of the logo on my hat it said North Little Rock Arkansas.

He was still doing crunches when he started talking about the suckers who were betting against him.

He got up and was almost ranting about how dumb anyone would be to not bet on him, that it was better to win with short odds than lose to long ones.

Slowly he started approaching me, and he was talking louder and louder and staring at me.

I had already backed up against the ring and had no where to go. When he was within six feet I was wondering who would write my obituary and if they be kind.

Who was going to tell my daughter I was beat to death by the middleweight champion of the world, or that I died of fear?

In what seemed like was a heartbeat he’s inches from my face and now he’s got his left hand raised and jabbing it in the direction of my forehead.

“You should not bet against,’ me he said and jabbed again.

Did I mention I was terrified?

So I did the only thing I knew to do, I reached up with my right hand and grabbed his left hand.

If I was going down he was going to have to do it with one hand.

Only someone yelled, “That’s enough, Bernard.”

And he stopped, walked up the steps and hopped in the ring and started shadow boxing.

I was leaving when someone from his camp snarled, “Don’t touch the champ’s hands again.”

To which I replied (over my shoulder as I almost raced out of there), “Keep him out of my face.”

I didn’t go to any more Hopkins workouts.

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