Of all the sad words of tongue or pen

Throughout the long, checkered history of the "sweet science," boxing chroniclers have wrestled with the question of just what was the best heavyweight fight of all time.

Some contests come readily to mind: the first and third bouts of the Ali-Frazier trilogy, for instance, were Herculean struggles. And has there been anything, either before or since September 23rd, 1952, to match the sustained and pitched savagery of Marciano-Walcott? I don't think so.

But most wise observers of the centuries-old rite of two men engaged in combat have christened the bout between the legendary Joe Louis and the scrappy Irishman, Billy Conn, on June 18th, 1941, in New York's Polo Grounds, as the greatest heavyweight bout of all time.

Louis was at his peak. In what is known in boxing's blunt vernacular as the "Bum-of-the-Month Club," the "Brown Bomber" rifled off one victory after another. Conn was to be his 18th title defense, and the seventh in seven months. Louis would soon discover that if ever a malapropism had been made, it was in those who tagged his next opponent a "bum."

At 18, the "Pittsburgh Kid" had served notice to the flattened-nose fraternity that he was for real, beating former welterweight champion and fellow Pittsburgh native, Fritzie Zivic. He moved up in rank, and in two rousing wars with Fred Apostoli, emerged triumphant both times.

By 21, he had defeated nine champions or former champions. On July 13th, 1939, he defeated Melio Bettina for the world's light-heavyweight title. Conn then gave up the light-heavy crown to vie among the big boys, where the real money was. Victories over Henry Cooper, Gus Lesnevich, and a knockout victory over Bob Pastor, who had given Louis fits in 1939, set the stage for the showdown with Louis.

The book on Conn was simple: consummate boxer; supremely agile, with rapier-like quick hands and an excellent combination-puncher; an iron chin behind a deft defense. There was a shadow side to his ledger, though: owing to an unusually low-resting heart rate, he was a notoriously slow starter and improved as the fight wore on. Louis knew this and would pounce on Conn from the opening bell. More troubling, however, was Conn's street-fighter instinct. When he got caught, which was rare, he would often shelve his finely honed skills, plant his feet and wail away with both hands. Since he wasn't a particularly strong puncher, a fit of such pride against the man whose fists housed howitzers could prove suicidal.

At the weigh-in the morning of the fight, Louis, who had trained for Conn's speed, scaled down to 199 ½ pounds; Conn tipped the scales at 169. Promoter Mike Jacobs, perhaps worried that he would be party to what would amount to a homicide, announced Conn's weight at 174.

Betting was heavy, and as the fight neared, some big Pittsburgh action trimmed the odds on Louis to 9-5. The crowd of 54,487 must have wondered what all the ballyhoo was about in the first two rounds. Louis went after his man from the opening bell. Conn got off to an even worse start than usual. He danced awkwardly around the ring's periphery to avoid the oncoming Louis. He looked amateurish, and slipped to the canvas halfway through the round. Louis punctuated his dominance with a terrific right hand as the bell sounded.

By the second, Louis was warming to the task. He now took the fight to Conn in earnest, stinging him with left hooks. A crippling right hand to the solar plexus gave the impression that the Irishman was being torn in half. The gritty challenger fought back with three straight lefts and a right cross that stunned Louis briefly. Although he had lost the round, Conn had survived the champ's initial onslaught, and before the bell sounded for the third, he turned to his manager, Johnny Ray, and said: "O.K., Moonie. Here we go."

And so he did.

One minute in, the challenger got off his bicycle and began upper-cutting Louis. Although the champ had the better of the exchanges in close, Conn out-jabbed him and took the round.

In the fourth, Conn gave the crowd a glimpse of what would later prove to be his downfall: he ignored Ray's entreaties to box from a distance and decided to slug it out with the champ. Louis appeared bewildered, seemingly paralyzed by the kid's quickness.

Conn was finding his groove and Louis knew it. The champ went out in the sixth hell-bent on ending it. He pursued and punished Conn repeatedly, bloodying the arc over his right eye with a withering hook.

The combatants fought on even terms in the seventh. From rounds eight through twelve, with the exception of the 10th, Conn took the fight away from the champ.

In rounds 11 and 12, it was all Conn. Louis's face and torso were now a magnet for a dizzying array of blows the challenger reigned on him. Conn's fists lashed out and struck the champ like hammer raps on a nail. The champ was tiring. When he tried to counter, more often than not he struck no more than the balmy summer air of that New York night. Never had the champ been so wild and errant with his punches. Near the end of the 12th, Conn bullied Louis against the ropes.

The challenger threw a hard right hand and a left hook that jarred the champion. As Louis lumbered back to his corner at the end of the 12th, the look of defeat etched his countenance.

If Louis wasn't quite beaten, he was certainly losing. Two of the three judges had had Conn comfortably ahead, while the other had the bout even.

"Chappie, you're losing," Jack Blackburn told Louis between rounds. "You've got to knock him out."

In the other corner, Johnny Ray told his charge: "Run. Stick and move."

By now, however, Conn was deaf to his manager's exhortations. His mind was made up.

"Moonie. This is easy. I'm going to take this guy out this round."

The pride of youth had set in. Conn began the fateful 13th flat-footed so as to get more leverage on his punches. This made him a more stationery target. He greeted the champ with a right and left but Louis countered with a left hook that hurt.

Instead of retreating, Conn threw caution to the wind, and thereby sealed his fate. He went at the champ. For the next minute, the warriors pounded each other. The Polo Grounds convulsed with the rhythmic thud of leather and screaming fans. The fighters broke from a clinch. If Conn was greased lightning, thunder, in the form of a Louis right cross, now struck.

It jarred the challenger. A crippling left hook to the body followed. Louis pounced on his wounded foe with a series of jarring punches. A short, chopping right hand was the coup de grace. Ever so slowly, like some giant poplar being felled, Conn went tumbling to the canvas. He had overreached.

Victory wasn't enough, winning large is what mattered. And that was his ruin. No puffed up super-middleweight was going to knock out the greatest heavyweight who ever lived.

Just as referee Barney Joseph had tolled ten, Conn righted himself. By then it was too late. Two seconds remained in the unlucky 13th when he was counted out.

What if Conn had just listened to Johnny Ray? What if he had stayed out of harm's way for those last rounds? We'll never know. Conn took it all in stride. Afterwards, he quipped: "What's the use of being Irish, if you can't be thick-headed?"

Louis-Conn. June 18th, 1941: two names and a date that will forever be inscribed in the fistic firmament.