Legend reborn in the USA after Hall of Fame call

THERE is comfort to be found amid the sadness of Ken Buchanan’s passing in the knowledge his statue now stands, unveiled last August and many years overdue, in his native Edinburgh. Comfort to be found in the fact the tributes have been — and will continue to be — long and fulsome in recognition of his many achievements.

He is known. And respected. By young and old. His inspirational rise from Northfield, Portobello, to becoming Scotland’s first undisputed world boxing champion at lightweight now part of common lore. His place forever assured in this country’s pantheon of sporting legends. His greatness established and accepted, naturally. At last.

For it was not always such. Indeed, it took a hand stretched unexpectedly across the Atlantic in 2000 to remind everyone here of this largely forgotten hero in their midst. And for Buchanan, himself, to reconnect with his glittering past and embrace what it is to be loved.

Aged 54, and no longer working as a joiner after suffering damage to his back, he was living quietly in shared accommodation in the Greenfaulds area of Cumbernauld, North Lanarkshire — enjoying the odd pint with his cronies in Moriarty’s pub nearby — when the call came to let him know he was to be inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in Canastota, upstate New York.

A most unusual little place for the crowning of royalty, but, in boxing circles, a Mecca in which giants still walk.

Buchanan’s star, in truth, had never dimmed in America. His refusal to sign up to the promotional cartels in London meant his biggest fights all took place outside the UK. His only major, public acclaim at home came with an Edinburgh street parade after returning from beating Ruben Navarro on points in Los Angeles to become the undisputed WBA and WBC champion. It was a thorn that remained in his side for so long.

However, America never forgot. Travelling to Ismael Laguna’s backyard in San Juan, Puerto Rico, as a rank underdog in September 1970 and ripping away that WBA belt by split-decision with a courageous, expert display of boxing in blistering 120-degree heat has always been looked upon by the Stateside cognoscenti as one of the finest example of prizefighting.

They remember him from gracing New York’s Madison Square Garden no less than five times in his pomp, sharing the bill on one occasion with Muhammad Ali and, famously, drawing a line down the middle of the dressing room they used together and telling ‘The Greatest’, in just his second contest back after refusing to be conscripted for the Vietnam War, that he would get a bang on the jaw if he dared step across it.

Even when he did lose his crown, in 1972, it came in one of the most famous fights in Garden history. A little Panamanian called Roberto Duran — who went on to do pretty well for himself, too — hit him below the belt after the bell at the end of the 13th round with referee Johnny Lo Bianco deeming the shot unworthy of a disqualification despite Buchanan’s inability to continue.

Yet, Buchanan was a different man when the Hall of Fame reached their decision to change the course of his future. The warrior spirit wasn’t quite so close to the surface. He was a largely unheralded figure in Scotland, memories of his pugilistic majesty tarnished, to some degree, by a long run of negative publicity over ending his career in unlicensed contests, business failures and the loss of his Edinburgh hotel in a costly divorce.

He kept his world championship belts under his bed alongside a treasure trove of newspaper clippings from yesteryear. He wasn’t in the habit of reflecting much on his past. By his own admission, the trials and tribulations of the intervening years had caused him to lose perspective on the significance of his own achievements.

America changed all that. It brought him back to life and reminded him of what it is to have faith and ambition and possibility. It also restored his place in the consciousness of his homeland and made a new generation realise just what a treasure he was. To be with Buchanan (right) and his family — his dad and former cornerman Tommy and son Mark — that week was to see a man rediscover himself and bloom again. He travelled in a kilt made of the Buchanan tartan that so proudly adorned his shorts between the ropes.

From the moment he stepped off the plane, he found himself transported back to those sunlit days at the top of the world. Assigned his own security team, he was addressed as ‘champ’ by everyone he encountered.

Bars burst into rounds of applause when he entered. One fan drove 500 miles from Pittsburgh just to ask him to autograph an old fight poster. Joe Frazier and Marvin Hagler welcomed him like a long-lost brother.

It was so overwhelming. So different to the understated, anonymous way he was living at home.

Yet, of all the remarkable vignettes witnessed in those days and nights, nothing matched the moment Buchanan left the stage in the wake of his acceptance speech and buried his face in Tommy’s shoulder, both of these men who took on the world showing such vulnerability, shedding such tears of pure emotion.

It felt like a moment of catharsis for Buchanan. The realisation he was always someone gifted. Someone really special. And he was. Even if he had forgotten it at times, himself, amid the ups and downs of life.

Of course, the recognition from his trip to the States introduced him to a whole new public back here at home after a spell in the wilderness. It allowed the focus to centre on his sporting acumen alone.

His relationship with Josh Taylor, who became the first British undisputed champion of the four-belt era at light-welter, was strong and helped keep him in the limelight.

Buchanan lived back in Leith in his latter years, not far from where he grew up and where the Sparta amateur club in which he first laced on the gloves was based. Friends remained close by. He was there, lauded and adored, when that expertly-carved likeness of him was finally unveiled in town. Now Buchanan has gone, his statue takes on greater importance. Never again will his talents be overlooked.

It is most apposite that bronzed tribute to his greatness, that reminder of his sublimity, stands on Little King Street. Buchanan was a little king, all right. Even if he didn’t always realise it.