THE smoke clung to the low ceiling, dimming the dusty lights that bathed the metal folding chairs in a faint glow. Boxing loses a kind and honest man
The canvas floor of the ancient boxing ring was stained in spots with blood, a stark reminder of gruesome battles already fought.
The ringside bell would be clanged with a hammer and the three judges sat on wooden stools, their faces expressionless as they stared through the ropes.
The microphone was lowered just like in the movies and the ring announcers didn't pitch products or shout personalized phrases. But their voices were strong and sure as they introduced the respective fighters, who sometimes wore tattered sweat shirts in lieu of a sparkling warm-up jacket.
The fans, who only had to cough up a few bucks to get in, waited in line for tall plastic cups of beer and a few side wagers were openly discussed. When the fights started, it was easy to discern who was rooting for the boxer in the red trunks or the blue.
Every week the Showboat Hotel would host a night of boxing matches and each time it was a trip back into the 1940s. It was a chance to see the rising and falling stars of the ring world, some on their way to the big-money venues of the nearby Strip, others just hoping to wring one or two more paychecks from their battered bodies.
I loved covering the big fights at Caesars or the MGM or the Riviera. Hagler. Hearns. Tyson. Leonard. Camacho. Mancini. Holmes. Spinks. Witherspoon. I was fortunate to see so many of the big names whose careers crossed through the 1980s.
The lavish press conferences and postfight parties. Sitting close to Bo Derek and Jack Nicholson at ringside when the air was absolutely electric with excitement and anticipation.
They are unforgettable memories.
But the weekly trips to the Showboat were also very special, because my favorite boxing personality of them all would be there.
He was a truly kind man who knew the fight game inside and out, but who somehow managed to reflect the sport's romanticism and appeal, not its sinister and shallow sides.
Mel Greb died last week in Las Vegas at the age of 73.
Greb was credited with arranging 60 world championship fights and was most famous for putting together the 1963 rematch between Sonny Liston and Floyd Patterson, which established Las Vegas as a boxing capital.
The last time I saw Mel was about 10 years ago when we went to one of his favorite places for lunch, the New York Deli, which was tucked away just off the Strip.
I was with friends and fellow writers Bart Ripp and Frank Maestas - a couple of characters themselves - and the lunch couldn't have been more hilarious as the stories flew faster than left jabs or overhand rights.
Then, as usual, Greb pulled a wad of hundred dollar bills from his pocket and insisted on peeling one off the top to pay for the beers and pastrami sandwiches.
Today's boxing world is sure a different one than Mel Greb knew and loved. The money is ridiculous and the sites have been turned into carnivals that only the wealthy can afford.
I actually like Bob Arum and have enjoyed the outrageousness of Don King over the years. And there are still plenty of nice people in the sport - George Foreman, Eddie Futch and longtime Las Vegas trainer Johnny Tocco first come to mind.
But the death of Mel Greb, who never needed the spotlight, makes me very sad because he symbolized an era when boxing was truly an art, a romantic novel come to life - as it did every week in that smoky room at the Showboat Hotel, where you walked through the door and magically entered the 1940s.
Perhaps none other than Muhammad Ali summed it up best: "We lost a great man and heaven gained a great boxing promoter and an honest man."