He was ill. Everybody knew it. But some kind people at HBO invited Nick Charles of Showtime onto one of their Boxing After Dark broadcasts and let him commandeer a mic. It was for an undercard bout, not the main event, but he handled it with the grace and professionalism that had been his trademark. In no more than 12 or 15 minutes, he put on a clinic of how to lead a boxing broadcast.
Did I imagine it, or did I hear a kind of joy in Nick Charles' voice that night in 2011? He'd let it be known that he wanted to call one more fight before his time on Earth ended. Some people did the right thing and let him work. As I listened to him, I felt I was hearing a man doing what he loved one last time, and he was relishing every second of it.
In the annals of people on their last legs putting in a command performance, I think of Nick Charles' last call and I rate it up there with some of the all time greats: John Wayne suffering through The Shootist; Warren Zevon pulling himself together to record one last album; David Bowie doing the same. Yes, I put a boxing commentator in the same breath as actors and singers because for Nick Charles, broadcasting was his art. Some were more famous, but few were better.
A dozen years later it is still incredibly moving to think about that final call. It wasn't just the smoothness of his delivery - he'd turn it over to analyst Max Kellerman like Bob Cousy doing one of those behind the back passes - but we could almost sense him taking in the fight atmosphere, absorbing it, breathing it all in, trying to take it with him, wherever he was going. He had lived a rich life full of children and grandchildren and awards. Yet boxing had a special place for him. Nick Charles really loved boxing. He loved the fighters, and he loved the milieu. Maybe that's what I was hearing.
My first encounter with Nick came after I'd written a story about women's boxing and all of its problems. He contacted me to say he agreed that the women were struggling. At that time, a lot of the women in the business didn't know the fundamentals. Many of those early women's bouts looked like two ladies flailing away in a parking lot. It wasn't fun to watch. He thought women's boxing was going to fail, simply because there weren't enough women at the top level to sell it. The women eventually improved, but it took a long time.
In that conversation, I could sense how much he loved boxing, how he admired the best practitioners, and how it actually hurt him to think of these fledgling women being thrown into the ring just for the sake of novelty. I thought at the time, this guy really loves boxing. He cared about it. I've met other broadcasters, and not all of them cared as much as Nick Charles did.
To look at him, you'd think he was just a garden variety TV personality. He would've fit in on any morning show, or news program, any place you could stick him before a camera. In fact, he was CNN's anchorman on their 1980s show, Sports Tonight. He was once voted "America's Sexiest Sportscaster" by the U.S. Television Fan Association, a distinction he accepted with grace and humor.
True, he had a great look and was always immaculate. He was a bit like that other "Nick Charles," the famous fictional detective of The Thin Man movie series played by William Powell. I guess if you're named Nick Charles, there is a chance you'll be a suave and sophisticated chap. And while I can't vouch for William Powell, I can say with confidence that Nick Charles looked that way all the time. I saw him a few times during off hours, with no cameras around, and he was still immaculate. He was one of those guys who could walk through a rainstorm and not get wet.
But the handsome clotheshorse was drawn to boxing. It was his juice. Even when he was ill, he used boxing jargon to talk about it. "I'm in the late rounds," he wrote to me in an e-mail. "And I'm behind on points. But I plan to score a come from behind knockout."
Once, at an HBO event in Madison Square Garden, I noticed him and his Showtime broadcasting partner, Steve Farhood. They were sitting together a few seats away from me. Why were they there? They weren't working. Farhood may have been writing a story for a magazine. But Nick? He was just there to enjoy the action. He could've taken the night off and watched from home. But there he was, looking as clean and pressed as if he were ready to go on camera. And with each fight on a rather bland undercard, his eyes were riveted on the ring. He wasn't there to schmooze with people or be seen with other celebrities. He was just a fan watching the fights.
Showtime's Saturday afternoon show, ShoBox: The New Generation, was a pet project of his. He purportedly helped create it, and his presence gave the show some class. He thought it was important to introduce new fighters, and he was right. He'd had a long career, and as it was winding down, he was telling us about the young boxers who were hoping to make an impression.
Nick Charles will be inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame next June. If inductees were elected based on how much they cared about the business, he would've been in a long time ago. I wish he was still around because I would love to hear his acceptance speech. I know it would be elegant and professional. And I know he'd talk about his love of boxing, and how proud he was of ShoBox.
Posthumous inductions are always bittersweet. It's nice that Nick Charles will be honored, but sad that he won't be there. Of course, it gives us one more chance to remember him, which is also nice. I'll remember his style. I'll remember his kindness. And I'll always remember his gallant last stand on HBO, the way he sounded as he made what he must've known was his final call.
And I'll think of that mysterious quality in his voice that night, and what I imagine he was telling us.
Do what you love. Love it a lot. Love it like you'll never see it again.
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