By Lee Groves

The photo accompanying this story is one of the most prized possessions in my boxing photo collection because of the history it represents and the memories it stirs within the recesses of my mind.

It was snapped at the Two Trees Inn at Foxwoods in the early morning hours of March 7, 2004. You might recognize the three older gentlemen – screenwriter and boxing historian Budd Schulberg at the far left, referee and judge Arthur Mercante Sr. in the center and former light heavyweight champion Jose Torres to Mercante’s left. All had been enshrined in the International Boxing Hall of Fame, a ceremony that forever cemented their place in the fistic firmament.

It would be perfectly understandable if the reader didn’t recognize the two younger men in this photo, for they were two anonymous boxing fans who were lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. The man in the leather jacket is Keith Stechman, a Long Island boy whose love of boxing rivals mine. At the far right is your humble scribe, several pounds heavier than is the case today but no less enthusiastic about his surroundings as well as the company he was keeping.

Although Keith and I were far younger and knew we would outlive the men standing with us, the fact that they passed from this life within 16 months of each other is still cause for profound surprise and sadness. Torres, the youngest, was first when he died of a heart attack at age 72 in January 2009. Next came Schulberg, who died almost seven months to the day later after living 95 full years. Then came word Saturday morning that the 90-year-old Mercante – regarded by many as the greatest referee in boxing history – died peacefully in his sleep in his home in Westbury, N.Y.

“I met Arthur at the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 1993 and he was one classy guy,” Keith told me when I called him Saturday night to reflect on the night this photo was snapped. “He always told me that when he was in the military he weighed 160 and that he weighed 162 now. He was a gentleman who was always respectful of the sport. Guys like Arthur Mercante Sr., Jose Torres, Budd Schulberg, Hank Kaplan, Gil Clancy, those guys are dinosaurs who will be extinct someday, and we will miss them when they leave.”

With Mercante’s passing, the photo’s sentimental value and preciousness increased exponentially. As I stared at the image that preserved this treasured scene, my mind drifted back to that night when Torres, Schulberg and Mercante were robustly healthy and thriving in their element.

This was long before I ever thought about becoming “The Travelin’ Man” and writing about my experiences on the road. I was at Foxwoods at the invitation of a boxing buddy who was part of Joel Casamayor’s security detail when he fought the second of his three fights with Diego Corrales – an ill-fated soul who would leave us far too soon. After Corrales won what Keith and I thought was a faulty split decision, we returned to the Two Trees to bask in the event’s afterglow.

The lobby was stuffed to the gills with boxing people – officials, boxers, trainers, managers, supervisors, family members and so on – and even though the hour was late the energy was electric and the fight talk flowed freely. One of the many reasons why boxing is the sport all others aspire to is that the connection between boxing people is so visceral and so deeply felt that it transcends every social, racial and attitudinal barrier. It was nothing for fans like Keith and me to walk up to various luminaries and strike up a conversation because as long as we sounded like we knew what we were talking about, we knew we would be accepted instantly.

“When I’m around people in boxing, I feel important,” Keith said. “It’s not like it is with baseball, football and basketball players as well as actors; fight people will let people like us hang out with them. They treated me like I was their friend. Arthur, Jose and Budd were classy human beings.”

I was sitting in a large plush chair in a side room by the lobby to take a brief break from the verbal scrums when Keith walked up and introduced me to Torres, Mercante and Schulberg. I had briefly met Torres and Mercante during my various visits to the IBHOF but this was my first encounter with Schulberg.

As an aspiring boxing writer I immediately grasped the magnitude of meeting someone of Schulberg’s accomplishments. So while Keith was chatting it up with Torres and Mercante, I made the most of my one-on-one time by mining Schulberg’s memories of the people he met, the fights he saw and the writing techniques that formed the foundation of his legend. Not that I would be able to fully apply them, of course, but just hearing him explain his expertise was a one-of-a-kind thrill.

When Schulberg and I reached a natural transition point we joined the others and swapped stories for more than an hour. In that time the walls between fans and celebrities had long crumbled and by the end we were behaving as if we had known each other for years. It was at this point that Keith asked another longtime friend for a favor – one that would preserve this night and this moment for all time.

“It was my idea to ask Dr. Ralph Bohm, a longtime fight doctor in the amateurs and for the New York State Athletic Commission, to take the picture,” Keith recalled. “I have a lot of pictures of me with famous athletes, so I asked Ralph ‘do you have a camera? Would you mind taking a picture of all of us?’ Budd, Jose and Arthur were more than gracious. They were beautiful people.”

Keith had promised to mail me a copy but the rigors and responsibilities of daily life have a way of shuffling one’s priorities. It wasn’t until sometime last year that Keith fulfilled his vow, and he was reminded only after he looked through a huge pile of photos while doing some cleaning.

“I had it laying around for years in my stack of photos and one night I came across it,” Keith recalled. “As soon as I saw it I said, ‘wow, I’ve got to get this out to Lee.”

As soon as I opened the envelope and laid my eyes on the snapshot I knew I had a treasure in my hands. As a collector, I’ve never been one to collect photographs of myself with others because (1) I felt a person’s autograph was enough proof that I actually met this person and (2) I am not particularly photogenic. This photo, however, engendered different feelings because to me the whole was far greater than its parts.

Of the three, I had the most personal contact with Mercante. One fond memory took place at Madison Square Garden in December 2003 when I was waiting to have the press credential photo for the Vitali Klitschko-Kirk Johnson card snapped. I needed to grab the elevator to get to my next destination – and so did about 15 other people.

The elevator was close to capacity and I was about to squeeze my body in when I saw Mercante also trying to get in out of the corner of my eye. There wasn’t enough room for the both of us, so I stepped back, made eye contact and told Mercante, “That’s OK, you should get in. I’m going to make way for the Hall of Famer.” He seemed genuinely surprised by my gesture and thanked me with a smile before the doors closed.

Although I wanted to get on the elevator and finish up my business I wasn’t pressed for time; I could afford to wait a couple of minutes for the doors to reopen. Besides, what’s an extra few minutes when you can brighten the day of someone like Mercante, a person I grew up seeing and admiring on countless TV weekends in West Virginia?

In subsequent years – whether I met Mercante and his son Arthur Jr. on a hotel shuttle bus or at ringside at a fight card – I used the story to establish a point of reference and each time he remembered, or at least he acted like he did.

Mercante was a man of discipline and order, no matter whether he was inside the ring or out. He was as precise with his language as he was with his ring positioning and he commanded respect no matter what the venue. Because he kept his mind and body in impeccable condition he was able to enjoy a career that touched six decades. Even into his 80s, Mercante’s memory was sharp and his authoritative yet courtly presence was beyond dispute.

From his first championship fight (the second Floyd Patterson-Ingemar Johansson fight in June 1960) to his last (Ricardo Lopez vs. Zolani Petelo in September 2001) Mercante was the standard by which his peers measured themselves. It was fitting that Lopez and Mercante – among the greatest craftsmen in their respective fields – ended their careers inside that Madison Square Garden ring and the sport will likely never again see their like.

Death is a concept we hear about on a daily basis, whether one reads it in a newspaper’s obituary section or sees it on the cable news channels or on a computer screen. When death strikes those that one has actually met – even if peripherally – the emotional impact is so much greater. Such is the case with the boxing community at large with Mercante’s passing but for this humbled scribe the pain is a bit more personal.

I never will again gaze upon this photo in exactly the same way. Until last year it represented memories of a fabulous evening that ended with an unexpected brush with greatness. Now it is a grim reminder of what has been lost but also an opportunity to reflect on a happier time.

“I’m sure that somewhere up there, Arthur is doing his pull-ups, Jose is shadow-boxing and Budd is writing an article about it all,” Keith said as we were about to say our good-byes. And now the boxing world must grudgingly say good-bye to one of its finest.

Rest in peace, and may we have the pleasure of seeing you again someday.