By Martin Flanagan
WHAT I remember most from meeting Lionel Rose the first time was his handshake. A lot of men try to tell you who they are through their handshake. Some try to crunch your knuckles to dust.
Lionel Rose was a man with power in his fists. Yes, you felt the power but it was gone before you knew it was there and you would describe his touch as light. He had no need to prove anything to anyone. He'd been a world champion when that term had real meaning and something of that aura never left him.
I first met Lionel in 1991. A telemovie about his life was about to appear and he had agreed to be interviewed. I rang a number I was given, Lionel answered the phone. ''Who's that?'' he said. Lionel's private life was not without complications and I gathered that not all the calls he got were from friends.
Once he knew who I was, I was fine. He invited me to the home he then shared with his wife Jenny and son Michael, an upstairs flat near Bonbeach.
Their part of the house faced away from the bay, towards a coastal bushscape. When I got inside a chair was pulled up in front of a window looking out at the bush. This is where Lionel sat and played his red guitar. Later, he played a bit for me. He was as light on the strings as a breeze on a pond.
Lionel had one of the best left hooks to ever come out of Australia. He also had one of the best smiles. When I asked him if he'd had a good life, he said, ''Wonderful!'' What I remember about his living room was that in the corner were two boxing trophies denoting world titles - they were like gold steeples more than a metre in height.
But sitting around them were 13 smiling Buddhas. Lionel told me he liked their smiles. ''Nothing worries them,'' he said. Someone had told Lionel that if you rubbed their stomachs you'd get good luck. He used to rub them before he had a punt on the horses.
We talked about his fight with Englishman Alan Rudkin. Rose broke a bone in his right hand, tore a muscle in his diaphragm and boxed on to cling to his title. After the fight, he was physically distressed. The press were banging on his door. Rudkin invited him over to his changing room and they had a cup of tea together.
Rudkin, who was from Liverpool, told Lionel he'd gone to school with one of the Beatles. Lionel had the sort of easy amiability about him that would enable him to fight someone over 15 punishing rounds for a world title, then sit down and have a yarn with them about their childhood.
One of my favourite Lionel memories is the 1991 VFL grand final when the pre-match entertainment was ''Angry'' Anderson singing Bound for Glory from a pale blue Batmobile. Most people remember it as one of the more eccentric moments in the recent history of the game. Well, in the motorcade that accompanied the Batmobile were Lionel and Fighting Harada. I'll never forget the rapturous smile on the pair's faces as they entered the arena.
The crowd loved Lionel, Lionel loved the crowd and, in that curious way Australians have, they loved Fighting Harada because he was obviously Lionel's mate and also a champion, some say Japan's finest.
Martin Flanagan is a senior writer.