People are surprised when I tell them that I don’t cry. My friends know that I openly express my feelings, which is why it surprises them so much that all this time none of them have ever seen even a sole tear ride down my cheek. I’m a sensitive guy, somewhat emotional, but as for crying, I haven’t since 1996, when I felt my dog’s heart stop beating as the vet put her to sleep.

I know you won’t label me as some sort of freak robot for this, but I think I should explain that I have been close to tears a few times since 1996. The time my grandma, stricken with MS, got up from her wheelchair and took steps. The time I had to say goodbye to the girl I adored as she boxed up her belongings. The time we got the call that my childhood friend was shot and killed. The time I realized that my girlfriend would never love me the way I yearned for. Passion-entrenched times, enough for perhaps a sensing of my eyes filling with water, but never a physical outreach, never an emotional release. Never a shed tear.

Tonight I again caught myself on the brink of tears. This time no circumstances in my personal life were at focus. Actually I’m embarrassed to say what I was doing when it happened.

I was watching TV. And I haven’t even reached the embarrassing part.

I was watching “Legendary Nights,” a series that recaps classic boxing matches.

Tonight they recapped a 1990 bout, a fight I vaguely remember but whose memory will never escape me. Analysts widely considered Julio Cesar Chavez, undefeated after over 70 fights, the best fighter in the game. He was challenged by an up-and-coming Meldrick Taylor, with the winner well on his way to a legendary career.

The story of the fight goes like this: Meldrick Taylor dominates Chavez through the first nine (of twelve) rounds. All Meldrick has to do is be standing when the final round closes to be declared the winner. In the final round, Meldrick chooses to fight rather than dance around and secure his victory. With about 25 seconds left in the fight, Chavez unleashes a crushing blow to Meldrick’s head. He wobbles around for several seconds, trying to hold on for the bell. Chavez lands another vicious punch and knocks Meldrick down with about 10 seconds left. Meldrick is quite stunned but gets up to beat the count. Nevertheless, despite Meldrick’s wide lead on the scorecards and the virtual end of the fight, the referee stops the fight with 2 seconds left, declaring Chavez the winner by technical knockout.

These are the important details, the parts of the story I still remember, including the fury all boxing fans had toward the absurd call by referee Richard Steele. After that fight, Chavez continued a glorified career that will certainly place him in the hall of fame. Meldrick Taylor never reached the heights his career was two seconds away from reaching.

Tonight “Legendary Nights” replayed an interview with Meldrick Taylor, some thirteen years after the fight. I had long been curious as to his life after the Chavez fight. My dad had already seen this program--- I was watching a rerun--- and had warned me of the tragedy I would witness. No warning could prepare me for such a tragic display.

There Meldrick Taylor sat on his couch. He looked bloated, his eyes seemingly still swollen from a fight thirteen years ago. His mouth sunk, his chin nearly grazing his neck. Every word that came out of his mouth seemed to require all his effort and concentration. His once charismatic, loud-jabbing demeanor had deteriorated into a clunky, foggy trance. He expressed his thoughts at a plodding pace, his sentences so drastically slurred that executives must have pondered over the use of subtitles.

Meldrick Taylor is still boxing. He continues to distribute--- and absorb--- punches. He fights guys who weren’t worthy to hold his jockstrap in his prime. Sometimes he wins, sometimes he gets knocked out. But he continues to fight, not ready to give up on his dream.

Through all his stutters and fumbled language, Meldrick desperately attempted to convince the public--- and himself--- that he is as good a fighter today as he was in 1990. He still covets the championship that eluded him in that controversial defeat. He’s set on achieving the greatness he almost attained thirteen years ago. He will continue fighting. Even if it kills him.

This is a man who saw his defining moment confiscated by an outside party. He’s a destiny unfulfilled, a life unfinished. He will continue a hopeless quest to reverse time and reach conquest in a former life. He will never satisfy his purpose but refuses to search for any other journey. This is all he has to live for. This is all he will ever live for. We have already seen the future. His life is rapidly deteriorating. In another thirteen years he will have no quality of life, as he will either be a wheelchair-confined vegetable, or buried in the ground. All because he has yet to see his only apparent purpose in life realized.

It almost brings a man to tears.