Bernard Hopkins Is Not Tired Yet

It was 3 p.m. on the dot when the old man walked into the Joe Hand Boxing Gym in the Northern Liberties neighborhood of North Philadelphia. The thwap-thwap of leather on leather and the faint whistle of jump rope continued unabated. Just another Monday. He paused only to crack jokes and shake hands with a gaggle of young fighters before making a beeline to the changing room. His unmarked face, stubble flecked with silver, and good humor gave no obvious indication he was a professional boxer who had just taken the most lopsided defeat of a decorated career.

Most fighters wouldn't be in the gym less than 40 hours after a world title fight, but Bernard Hopkins isn't most fighters. Until Saturday night, the 49-year-old was the oldest champion in boxing history, having outwitted and outpunched a series of younger, faster opponents. But on Saturday night, unbeaten Russian star Sergey Kovalev—18 years Hopkins' junior with weapons-grade power in both hands— caught up to Hopkins at Atlantic City's Boardwalk Hall.

Hopkins, less than 10 weeks from AARP eligibility, opted to stay in town an extra day after the fight, pampering himself with a day of rest and a spa treatment. Then he packed his things, made the hour-long drive up the A.C. Expressway and headed directly to the gym for this light afternoon workout. Some people just love to work.

"My luggage is still in the car," he said.

Hopkins wrapped his hands while explaining the need to "keep the motor running" and "train down" one's body. After all the work that goes into the training camp for a fight, he reasoned, it's worse to stop cold turkey than to jump back into a familiar rhythm. Whether this is physiologically true is immaterial: After all, who is in a position to question a 49-year-old with the ascetic compulsion to keep a 31-inch waist and stay in fighting shape 365 days a year?

"These are the things you have to do whether you're an athlete or not," said Hopkins, who was once known as "The Executioner" but now prefers to be called "The Alien," shortly before lacing up his fluorescent Grant gloves. "A body that moves, lives. Water even got its own mind. When it stays still, it's called stagnant. Water needs to flow. When it doesn't it evaporates."

While Saturday's defeat was not Hopkins' first, each of his previous six losses had been narrow decisions fought at his pace and on his terms; cases of Hopkins' trademark risk management allowing his opponent to nick enough rounds to score a majority.

Not so Saturday night. Kovalev, who had scored all but two of his victories by knockout and the previous 13 in succession, floored the veteran in the opening round with a clubbing overhand right to the temple. Hopkins kept a poker face, but it was clear from his reluctance to attack that Kovalev's power had him in survival mode. Kovalev, who is known as "Krusher," imposed his will and executed his game-plan with a sort of dignified restraint—at least until the final round.

Long after it had become clear Kovalev would win handily, the Russian opted to unleash hell in a bid for a last round knockout rather than sit on his points lead. Kovalev landed 38 punches over the final three minutes, the most in a single round against Hopkins—who is seldom caught flush—in 41 fights tracked by CompuBox. As worrying as the flurry looked on TV, it was even more harrowing at ringside, where audible gasps could be heard along press row. When the final bell rang, it would not have been unfair to say the North Philly native lost every minute of every round of the fight.

But Hopkins, even at 49, still fights at a remarkably high level, regardless of wins and losses. He's never taken a serious beating, never been cut in a fight, never been knocked out. Despite the loss to Kovalev, he can still be competitive against nearly anyone in front of him, which means that he will surely book more fights, earn more paydays, and continue to compete at what he loves to do.

This is crucial for Hopkins, an athlete with the end of his career—a career that has defined him for more than half his life—in plain sight. He is confronting the questions all men of a certain age must meet, whether a boxer or a lawyer or door-to-door salesman: How do I exit the stage gracefully? What is there for me after this? Is this really the end? Does it have to be?

It should come as no surprise that Hopkins, one of the ring's most celebrated tacticians and problem-solvers, has the answers—and an exit strategy—already drawn out. He said Monday he wants to fight once more in March or April. And once more only: the send-off bout would be a celebration of a life and career that make the nickname "Alien" feel appropriate.

Growing up a self-described "wolf among sheep" in a hellish North Philadelphia project known as the Badlands, Hopkins had dozens of arrests to his name before he turned 17, when he was finally sent to Graterford State Prison on an 18-year sentence for armed robbery. As prisoner number Y4146, he took up the gloves and became a jailhouse boxing champion. "See you when you come back," was the last thing he heard as the bars clanked shut behind him 56 months later.

He spent most of his career under the radar, even as he racked up a record 20 straight middleweight title defenses from 1995 through 2005. A natural autodidact, he was managing his own affairs long before Floyd Mayweather made headlines for doing the same. He didn't cross over into the mainstream until beating Felix Trinidad in 2001, when he was considered too old to upset the Puerto Rican superstar. Right. He didn't earn a seven-figure purse until he was 39. Since then, in his 17 fights since turning 40, Hopkins has managed to surpass Foreman and Archie Moore as the greatest quadragenarian fighter in history.

Hopkins said Monday his farewell fight will take place in Atlantic City, New York, or Philadelphia against a well-respected opponent. Two possibilities he floated were middleweight terror Gennady Golovkin—the lone boxer more feared than Kovalev—and former 160-pound champion Julio Cesar Chavez Jr. The only prerequisite, he said, is a name that will make people sit up and say, "Why's he fighting that fight?"

"There won't be a announcement," he said of retirement. "I'm going to make a statement."

After that, he wants to do more outside the ring than he did inside. He aims to make boxing a sport that parents feel confident sending their children into—free of the bottom-feeders and cheap suit-wearing criminals posturing as managers or, worse, advisors.

"It's robbery," he said. "Not robbery with a gun or a knife, but robbery with a pen."

As Hopkins cooled down after Monday's workout, local prospects Jesse Hart and Eric Hunter stood by and soaked in his wisdom. The group chatted excitedly about Saturday's fight, probed his expertise, and spun dreams of what lay ahead. Yet for Hopkins, who has managed to bend time to his will, the past, present, and future are one and the same.

"The job is never done."