THERE was a time when I hated Ken Norton, the former heavyweight boxing champion who died, at the age of 70, at a rest home in Nevada this week.

That might seem a bizarre confession from someone who is still in thrall to boxing, especially given Norton’s later standing in the game, and indeed in life. Not only was he a fine champion and ambassador for the sport, he was by all accounts – and not just the trademark trite eulogies – a decent human being.

But there was a distinct, albeit brief disdain for the man from myself. And that irrational fear and loathing stemmed from the fact that he beat my all-time hero of the gloves and gum-shield game, Muhammad Ali.

When I first got into the sport of ropes, ring and raw conflict Ali – he remains one of the few iconic sportsman to be instantly recognised by the one name – was then Cassius Clay, an Olympic Games gold medallist from Rome in 1960 and now making an imperious mark in the professional world.

To many he was an uppity colt fully deserving of his Louisiana Lip nickname, a device as much to sell tickets as to promote himself in a sport that so often sucks the life and wealth out of those who actually take the blows.

The youngster did as he declared, he “shook up the world,” downed Sonny Liston to become world champion and then proceeded to dominate the heavyweight division in a way not seen before or since.

When he became Ali as part of his conversion to being a Muslim, when he refused to fight in Vietnam – “I ain’t got no quarrel with them” – when he went to prison, when he returned to triumph, when he rapped, romped and even ridiculed, he was still my hero.

Even as he shambles about now, a spectral vision of his former self, ensnared by the demons of Parkinson’s disease, he is still my hero.

So when Norton inflicted that telling blow that not only broke Ali’s jaw but sent ‘The Greatest’ tumbling to defeat in a non-title duel in San Diego in 1973, then a certain would-be words-smith was furious at the former US marine.

Norton though remained dignified in his win as he was for the rest of his gloved days before embarking on an acting career in which he featured in 20 movies.

Up until his death he remained friends with his peers and was a rightful member of a heavyweight pantheon of greats that included Ali, Joe Frazier, George Foreman and Larry Holmes.

Norton’s passing this week was a sad reminder, though, that no matter how great the warrior, no-one gets to best that undefeated ruler of the world, the Grim Reaper – undisputed champion at all weights, divisions, creed, colour and beliefs.

The death of the former champ was also heightened by the visit this week to York of another heavyweight titan of the ring.

On a speaking engagement in the city, Evander Holyfield – the only man to have won the world title no fewer than four times – stopped off at the gym run by the city’s fury-fisted professional star Henry Wharton to deliver food to the city’s Gateway Centre foodbank in Acomb.

Wharton revealed that Holyfield, who had grown up in a deprived area of Alabama, wanted no fuss, gladly accepting the chance to visit with grace and gusto.

Said York’s best ever pro boxer: “He was fantastic – a great inspiration, not just to me, but to all the lads at my gym.

“He was brilliant at the foodbank as he was at his talk when he stressed to all my lads that the only way to succeed is to work and practice, practice and work.”

It’s a truth in boxing that no-one gets anywhere, and especially towards the heights of titles, let alone conquering the world, without putting in hard graft.

Yet for all that industry and endeavour and despite the hammerings inflicted and taken, there’s a genuine camaraderie among the boxing fraternity.

It’s not a sport that should be romanticised and I can see why boxing is anathema to many as a spectacle of cruelty and barbarity.

But sometimes it is not called the noble art for nothing. Both the late, great Ken Norton and the still rocking Evander Holyfield are examples of the best of the warriors.