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<BODY.CONTENT>
<UID>
8502070483
</UID>
<PUBLICATION>
DETROIT FREE PRESS
</PUBLICATION>
<DATE>
850920
</DATE>
<TDATE>
Friday, September 20, 1985
</TDATE>
<EDITION>
METRO FINAL
</EDITION>
<SECTION>
SPT
</SECTION>
<PAGE>
1D
</PAGE>
<ILLUSTRATION>
Photo
</ILLUSTRATION>
<CAPTION>

</CAPTION>
<BYLINE>
MITCH ALBOM
</BYLINE>
<AFFILIATION>

</AFFILIATION>
<MEMO>

</MEMO>
<COPYRIGHT>
Copyright (c) 1985, Detroit Free Press
</COPYRIGHT>
<HEADLINE>
THE ONETIME OPPONENT AT THE TOP OF HOLMES' LIST
</HEADLINE>
<SUBHEAD>

</SUBHEAD>
<CORRECTION>

</CORRECTION>
<BODY>
LAS VEGAS -- Larry Holmes was a nobody. Just some name. "Get down here
by 8 p.m. and you can have a fight with him," the promoter said. Rodell Dupree
looked at the clock on the gym wall. He  had four hours. "OK," he said, and
hung up.
He grabbed his gloves, called his girlfriend and his uncle, and they
drove from Jersey City to Scranton, Pa., in his '65 Chevy. Got there just in
time.

  The fight started. The two men threw punches at each other's faces,
ribs, arms. Four rounds later, it was over. The guy named Holmes won on
points.
  Dupree waited around until he got his  money -- maybe $200 -- and drove
home. He never saw his opponent again.
  That was 1973. In the dozen years that followed, Larry Holmes would
rise to become heavyweight champion of the world, to  beat men such as
Muhammad Ali and Gerry Cooney, to win 48 fights without a loss. This weekend,
with the world watching, he goes for No. 49 against Michael Spinks. If he's
successful, he'll tie a record  set by the legendary Rocky Marciano.
   The talk in Las Vegas is of the greatness in numbers, of history, of
the glorious light that's about to shine on Larry Holmes.
   But there's a little  ray shining on Pine Street in Jersey City.
Dupree now makes his living driving a forklift, but he never forgets.
  He was Holmes' first pro fight.
A clash of dreams
  A message was left for  Dupree at his uncle's house. At 1 a.m., Dupree
called back.
  "Yes, I fought Holmes first," he said happily, ignoring the hour, as if
this were the first time someone had asked. "I couldn't do  nothing to him. He
was like a big barrel. But I tried. They didn't expect it to go no four
rounds, I know that."
  He paused. "I was hungry, you know? Back then, I was hungry."
  He talked  for a while about his career, about nights like that night
in Scranton, when he was still heady with dreams, big dreams. He'd be a name
someday. Maybe a champion. Yeah. A heavyweight champion.
  It happened -- for Holmes, not for him. Dupree fought another seven
years, then gave up.  He had kids to feed. He never beat anyone big. He never
made more than $4,000 for a year's worth of fighting.  His record is a blur.
He doesn't remember the last man he fought.
  Mostly, boxing left him with a lot of bruises and swollen flesh, until he
finally said enough. But there was that one night --  Larry Holmes, who knew
it would be the Larry Holmes? -- and he carries it with him like a lollipop in
his pocket, and tells his sons about it, and the guys he works with at the
chemical plant.
  "Sometimes the guys tell me, 'Rodell, you were the first, man. You
should call Holmes up, tell him you want to be the last, too.' "
  He laughs at the idea and says he never considered it. Not  really.
The first of 49
  Larry Holmes woke up this morning in a Las Vegas hotel suite. His
entourage stood by, ready to serve. A glass of orange juice? A massage? Name
it.
  Rodell Dupree  woke up this morning in Jersey City. He is likely behind
the wheel of his forklift as you read this.
  For one brief moment, 12 years and a lifetime ago, they were equal,
eye-to-eye across a boxing  ring, where past and future meet at the end of a
leather glove.
  Holmes got hitched to a star. Dupree stayed here on earth. Glory comes
in different doses to different people.
  You take what  you can get.
  "The highlight of my career," Dupree said, "was when Holmes won the
championship. At least now, wherever I go, I can say I fought heavyweight
champion Larry Holmes in his first professional  fight. And we went four
rounds."
   He paused. "Yeah . . . we went four rounds."
  If Holmes ran into Dupree today, it's doubtful he'd recognize him.
That was, after all, 12 years ago.  There have been so many fights in between,
so many millions of dollars, so many headlines.
    But every fighter carries a piece of his opponents with him. And in
a small way, Holmes has carried  48 fighters to the brink of history here in
the Nevada desert.
   Dupree would like to see Holmes fight Spinks. He won't. Cable TV --
on which the fight is shown -- is a luxury he can't afford  right now.
  "I'll wait and read about it Sunday. Maybe the newspaper will run a
list, you know, and my name will be there, No. 1."
  He'd like that, he said, and he hoped it would happen  so he could show
his kids.
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COLUMN
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