Forty-three years ago world lightweight champion Ken Buchanan fought Andries Steyn before 28 000 fans at Rand Stadium.
The man they called the “Fighting Carpenter” banged the South African out in three rounds, only to get his turn a fight later when he walked into a prime Roberto Duran at the famed Madison Square Garden.
Of Duran, the boxing publicist Bobby Goodman once said: “Some guys try to create an image by acting like an animal. Not Duran. He actually was a fucking beast.”
That’s a story for another day, though.
After beating Steyn, Buchanan went to a local bank and deposited his purse of £3500, “somewhere in the centre of Joburg,” as he recalled. He then flew home to Scotland.
He was presumably well off, for he forgot about the cash for two decades. In 1994, he contacted me at the Sunday Times, asking if I could help him recover his money.
All he recalled was that he had stayed in a hotel in Plein Street and had gone to a bank nearby.
I searched high and low, calling dozens of people, but given how computers had replaced old-fashion systems, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Banking records were iffy and Buchanan had no proof he had done the transaction.
A week after the story was published, I took a call from a reader, who turned out to be the bank teller who had dealt with Buchanan.
“I especially remember him coming into the bank because he asked me to dinner. He had a few bruises, but I recognised him,” said Lynn Murray.
That got the ball rolling and it wasn’t long before pieces of the story began to come together.
The bank turned out to be the Trident Building Society, which in later years merged with the Southern Building Society to become Southern Trident. This was subsequently absorbed into the UBS, now part of the giant Absa banking group.
That’s when the inquiry hit a wall, petering out to the point that I had to tell Buchanan the bank could find no record of his transaction, which would have yielded around R54 000 in 1994.
Knowing how he had fallen on hard times, I was deeply disappointed that I was unable to help him.
The picture accompanying this piece is one of the letters he sent me in 1994, when people used to actually take the trouble to write letters. A thrill to find it in my records the other day, it ends thus: “Maybe in the not too distant future we can meet and talk some boxing. Give my regards to South Africa.”
There is, predictably perhaps, a sad post-script to the story.
Last August the famous old fighter was found slumped on a bench in Edinburgh clutching a half-empty bottle of wine.
Verging on 70, he was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for alcohol addiction in December.
As with most alcoholics, Buchanan is taking things a day at a time.
The Hall of Famer’s halcyon days are long past, the days when he fought on two of Muhammad Ali’s undercards, but his name will soon be up in lights again.
A film is being made of the life of Duran with Robert De Niro playing Duran’s trainer, Ray Arcel. Former middleweight contender John Duddy plays Buchanan.
Testament to the great Scottish battler comes from no less a beast than Duran himself.
Asked who his toughest adversary was, Duran growled “Buchanan”.