That's the biggest problem with boxing in the United States.

Evander Holyfield, the warrior of the ring, once lamented: “That’s the biggest problem with boxing in the United States. They do not promote it like they used to, when it used to be Howard Cosell and they showed it on Wide World of Sports. Everybody knew all the fighters. Everybody was looking forward to the year when the Olympics came on.” These words are not merely about television or fame; they are about memory, decline, and the fading of a once-great tradition. Holyfield, who lived in the golden era of the sport, speaks as one who has seen its glory and watched it diminish before his eyes.

The meaning of his words lies first in the idea of promotion. For a sport, like a flame, must be fed if it is to endure. In earlier times, boxing was lifted up by voices like Howard Cosell, who carried the stories of fighters into every home. The people knew the champions, the contenders, even the hopefuls who rose through the ranks. There was a sense of shared anticipation, when a nation looked forward together to the clash of the gloves and the crowning of the strong. Without this, Holyfield warns, the fire grows dim, and even great fighters may labor in obscurity.

The Olympics stood as a beacon of this unity. Every four years, the world would gather, and boxing was among the proudest contests. Champions like Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard, and Oscar De La Hoya began their journeys under those lights, becoming household names before they even turned professional. Holyfield himself was shaped by this tradition, carrying the spirit of Olympic boxing into his later triumphs as heavyweight champion. To see that spirit diminished is to feel the thread between generations unraveling.

History gives us many parallels. The gladiators of Rome once commanded the heart of the empire, filling the Colosseum with their battles. But as the years passed, the contests grew less noble, the spectacle less inspiring, and the people’s passion waned. In Greece, the original Olympic Games were sacred to the gods, but in time they were corrupted, and eventually abolished by Rome. Every tradition, no matter how glorious, is at risk when those who hold its torch fail to keep it bright. Holyfield’s warning is the echo of these ancient declines: boxing is not dead, but it is neglected, and neglect is often the beginning of death.

Yet within his lament lies a call to action. He reminds us that people hunger not only for victory, but for story. When fighters are known, when their struggles and triumphs are told with passion, the sport becomes more than combat—it becomes human, it becomes myth. To promote boxing is not merely to show matches, but to give faces and voices to those who step into the ring, to rekindle the sense of destiny that once made every bout a shared national event.

The lesson here is clear: greatness fades when it is not nurtured. A sport, a tradition, even a culture, cannot thrive without care. If boxing is to rise again in the hearts of the people, it must once more be lifted into the light, its champions made visible, its stories told. Without this, even the mightiest fighters may pass unseen, and the legacy of giants like Holyfield may grow distant to future generations.

Therefore, remember Holyfield’s words: do not let the flame of tradition die in silence. Whether in sport, art, or any endeavor, promotion is not vanity—it is the lifeblood that connects the craft to the people. Cherish the stories, tell them boldly, lift up the champions of today so that they may inspire tomorrow. For when a people forget their heroes, they lose part of themselves. And when they remember, they find again the strength that once made them great.