If the looks on the faces of the fathers, mothers, and sons that showed up for an old-fashioned smoker at Freddie Roach's Wild Card Gym is any indication, boxing is very much alive, friends.

"Fight Night at the Wild Card" was the same evening as the Roy Jones-Tarver fight; which is Roach's way of saying what he thinks of Jones.

In this tiny spot in the heart of Hollywood above a Chinese laundry, it was the 1940's again - in every settlement house and church in Brooklyn and the Bronx-- including fighters with names like "The Asian Tiger," "Repo Man," and "Bugsy."

There were 13 bouts scheduled--three two-minute rounds, with 12-ounce gloves and headgears. Since they were unsanctioned by the AAU, every great fighter through the 60's and 70's served their apprenticeship in smokers, without the risk of blemishing their amateur records. Many of boxing's hardcore fans got their addiction to the sport by lacing 'em up in smokers as kids.

Downstairs in the parking lot, with cars being jockeyed like a Rubik's Cube, Justin Fortune, Roach's conditioning coach, cooked up franks and sold cold beer.

The gym very quickly looked like it was going to collapse into the laundry under the weight of all the bodies pushing to get a better view of the ring. Some stood on tables and chairs. Some stood above the others without any visible means of support. The mood was like Mariachi music.

Though it was a bracing fall evening outside, it was quickly a sauna in the gym, without a centimeter to breathe--people peeling down to T-shirts.

Olympic Champion, Brian Viloria, an undefeated pro, was the picture of intensity at Wild Card training during the day. Now, he was totally at his ease-- just a friendly young man, smiling and signing autographs for fans, and acting as a ringside judge.

On the other side of the ring--also signing autographs and laughing-- was an almost cherubic Manny Pacquiao, who hardly looked like he was about to go to war with Marco Antonio Barrera--one of the best featherweights ever--in a match that was the focus of the whole boxing world.

Roach was the referee; his brother, Pep, was a second, and his mother was one of the other judges. Hollywood celebs lined the ringside, and local fighters and trainers sprinkled the crowd--that looked like 10 pounds in a five-pound bag.

The ring announcer let everyone know that regular ref, James Toney, couldn't be there. "He's in Vegas calling out Roy Jones."

It was an adrenaline rush for three hours-- people laughing, drinking, joking, betting, making friends and greeting old ones.

93-year-old trainer Eddie Cousins hadn't slowed a bit, climbing into the ring, animatedly demonstrating what his charges needed to do.

There was one moment when the crowd booed a decision for a fighter that Pep was handling. He gave them the finger. They booed even louder, and Pep stood on the ring apron, dropped his trunks and mooned them, roundly.

The explosion of laughter almost tore the doors off. People rocked in their seats, stamping their feet. And the pure joy in the room was like a sports bar when the home team won the world series, and it never came down from there. That alone was worth the $5. It was the fix that satisfied the jones of every old-school boxing junkie.

Mario Lopez, the actor and TV personality, sporting the handle "Bazooka," was a big surprise to those who didn't know how seriously he took boxing. With his black headgear with the bar across the front, and his powerful build, he looked like Spartacus.

"The Jersey kid," his opponent, must have felt he'd been ganged up on by what seemed like the entire Lopez family-all with one face-who were jumping up and down at ringside, taking pictures, shouting encouragement and swinging along with every punch Lopez threw.

Lopez wasn't just a fired-up swinger: He showed what he'd learned in the many rounds with James Toney and Shane Mosley, using some of their signature moves: pivoting left and right inside for the best angles and leverage. He was patient, didn't lunge, threw multiple left hooks and accurate, short, lead right hands.

Lopez not only landed with the kind of punches that made the crowd go "OOH!" He showed enough meanness that he had to be warned several times by Roach for unnecessary roughness.

"The Jersey Kid," hung in there tough but he was outgunned and overpowered.

When Lopez was announced the winner, and the little bronze medal on the red and white ribbon was placed around his neck, he flashed a mega-watt smile that couldn't have been broader if he'd won the Academy Award.

There must have been a sudden exodus from Dublin, when "Irish Man" battled "The Russian Sleeping Pill." Rows of lads who'd had more than a few to drink-- wrapped in the Irish flag--chanted, "Irish!" "Irish!" Some scruffy leprechauns feeling no pain smushed their faces against the gym's second-story window screens--all but inaccessible from the ground--yelling "Irish Man! Irish Man!" at a level that would normally summon the police to a domestic disturbance.

The crowd warmed to anybody that showed heart, and were no less appreciative of the two women's bouts, which were wars. "The Moroccan Princess" and "Killer" staged their own version of Gatti-Ward 1. And, "The Torpedo" must have studied the films of Jake LaMotta, trying to walk through the bombardment of "Knockout."

When "The Bruiser" was in a grueling struggle with Danny "The Man," "The Bruiser's" anxious mother stood near me wringing a handkerchief and tensing with his every effort. "Yes, my son!" she repeated, tears welling in her eyes when he was given a majority decision.

After conferring with Freddie Roach, the ring announcer said: because his opponent didn't show up, Steven Ayala was declared the winner in his match.

Ayala is a 57-pound seven-year-old, the brother of 15-year-old, rising amateur middleweight Anthony Ayala Jr.--who he wants to be just like. "Only better," says Anthony.

With the medal around his neck, Steven was encouraged by Roach to shadow box for the crowd. He looked like a scale-model Ricardo Lopez, throwing perfectly executed, blurring combinations. The cheers grew as the crowd took him to their heart.

After the naming of the best boxer of the night, and the most courageous, the crowd filed out, still buzzing with the evening's excitement; and Mario Lopez-- medal still around his neck-- was graciously posing with his arm around a young relative of Pacquiao. She looked like it would be something she would treasure.

Trainer Eric Brown turned to me: "We should do it in the parking lot next time. We could fill it." There was no question in my mind.

The demise of boxing--with thoughts of skateboarding and streetluge siphoning away the life blood of the sport-- seems much less a possibility after feeling the electricity, desire to excel, and camaraderie in that room...

And, above all, seeing the growing dream in the eyes of young Steven Ayala as he left the ring holding up his medal for his dad to see, makes me sure that he and others like him will carry the torch.

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