THERE was once an expression that denoted a certain Glesca self-reliance.

It was applied to those who should be avoided if any argument progressed from the intellectual to the physical. It was this: "He can look after himself."

I can only look after myself now with the aid of a carer and a suitcase-full of medication that leads to accusations that I am a drugs mule on my way to my winter training block in Tenerife.

In truth, though, I was never able to look after myself. This, of course, did not stop me involving myself in confrontations where my only possible reward was a silver medal. I had a quick tongue and slow reflexes. This meant that after a square go I often resembled a parallelogram.

The last fight I won was in the nursery but my pride in that endures because she was a feisty little southpaw. She was also a kitten who had made off with my Plasticine soldier.

More recent bouts include an argument with an elbow on a football park. It was attached to a body that was barely human and completely covered in hair. When preparing for court appearances this centre half eschewed shaving and instead was mown. He greeted one Wildean shaft from me with an elbow in the coupon that ensured any other quips were made hesitantly and accompanied by a whistle from where my front teeth should be and once were.

Other notable bouts from me include the Rumble in the Bungalow (an unfortunate misunderstanding at a neighbour's Ne'erday gathering when, frankly, my trenchant views on politics were not appreciated by what appeared to be a Hitler Youth reunion) and The Thrilla over a Filla (a disagreement with a chief sub over the precise worth of a story.

These, of course, are just the lowlights of a physically inept past that can be described in words but has as its best evidence the scars on my body.

This inability to fight has not impacted on my fascination with boxing. I know it is brutal. I know it is dangerous. And if it was banned tomorrow, I could not raise a convincing moral argument to sustain it. I know too that the best people I have met in sport have largely been drawn from boxing and that I have benefited and learned from their companionship.

My life has also been punctuated by what is now known as the superbout, though in my early days they were merely referred to as the Big Fights. Really Big Fights were, of course, just The Fight.

I am old enough to remember the kerfuffle at primary school when we learned that Cassius Clay had beaten Sonny Liston. Later Muhammad Ali created a series of works worthy of a ceiling painted by Michelangelo to a soundtrack by Mozart. There was the three-header against the mighty Joe Frazier and the defeat of George Foreman in Kinshasa that Homer would have struggled to have covered with a proper perspective and reverence.

Luckily, the world had Hugh McIlvanney at the fight. Oor Shug reported: "We should have known Muhammad Ali would not settle for any ordinary old resurrection. He had to have an additional flourish. So, having rolled away the rock, he hit George Foreman on the head with it."

The Fight continued with a series of bouts between Marvin Hagler, Sugar Ray Leonard, Roberto Duran and Thomas Hearns, (you can call him Tommy if you like, but I am playing it safe). There were others: Arturo Gatti versus Mickey Ward regularly produced more violence than the EastEnders Christmas special and were almost as ugly; Evander Holyfield and Mike Tyson was a match-up that exposed the dangers of confusing very good with great; and there were other bouts such as those involving Jim Watt and Ken Buchanan that held a specific interest for this observer.

The Fight continues its transmutation into the Superbout tonight. Manny Pacquiao and Floyd Mayweather will tee off for what has, with commendable restraint, been described merely as The Fight of the Century. Pacquiao has been a world champion in eight divisions and Mayweather in five. These records have something to do with the reality that boxing now has more divisions than the Russian Army, But it is also a testimony to the greatness of the two boxers.

Their most substantial achievement, however, may be to give boxing a genuine, global stage in a sporting weekend.

There are those who say that boxing has been compromised by its distance from non-subscription telly, though the biggest fights could only ever be watched on cinema screen or latterly by pay-per-view.

There are those, too, who argue more convincingly that boxing has struggled to adapt to the imperatives of the sleekly commercialised sporting world.

This has never, though, been a failure on the part of Pacquiao or Mayweather. This Superbout may have come at least five years too late in terms of the powers of the respective boxers. But it will gross upwards of $300m.

It will, too, produce a loser. So for one day Pacquiao or Mayweather will discover what is like to take second prize. They could, of course, save themselves a lot of effort and pain and just put a call in to me.