"Hold it, Rock, will ya? Ya drive me crazy. You’re so sloppy, ’cause you’re so off-balance. Take this string and tie it to both ankles…If you can move and you can hit without breaking the string, you got balance. You become a very dangerous person.”

— Burgess Meredith
to Sylvester Stallone in Rocky, 1976

Dave Tiberi ended the last round of his final fight standing toe-to-toe with the IBF middleweight champion of the world. In a ring at the Taj Mahal, in front of a crowd of supporters and a television audience of millions, Tiberi had spent the last 36 minutes taking the fight to his opponent, James “Lights Out” Toney, forcing the action, absorbing Toney’s shots, and answering with even more of his own. Round after round, each of Tiberi’s punches had taken their toll. Now, in the 12th round, Toney—The Ring magazine’s 1991 Fighter of the Year—looked spent, exhausted—finished. The bell rang, ending the fight, and he staggered to his corner. Tiberi, meanwhile, was grabbed by manager Mark Kondrath and lifted into the air. They knew they’d won; why wait to celebrate a moment like this? Tiberi raised his gloves, and uttered a deep sigh of relief. I did it, it said.

Then Michael Buffer entered the ring to announce the results. The first judge confirmed what everyone already knew: 117-111 in favor of Dave “TNT” Tiberi. The arena erupted. Tiberi’s fans, who’d traveled from his hometown of New Castle to see the fight, whooped and prepared to welcome their new champion. Buffer paused before reading the second card. “Bill Lerch scores the bout 115-112 for James Toney.” Hissing boos quickly replaced cheers. Tiberi was stunned; couldn’t believe what he’d heard. He fell into a daze, snapping out of it long enough to hear the final scorecard and the words that would forever change his life: “…the winner by a split decision…and still IBF middleweight champion of the world, James ‘Lights Out’ Toney.” The crowd roared back, alternating between chants of “TNT!” and “Bulls­--t!” ABC announcer Alex Wallau would later call the decision “disgusting.” Standing in the ring, hurt more by words than by punches, Dave Tiberi did what a lot of other people did that night. He cried.

Boxers need balance to survive.  Feet apart, body turned slightly, throw a punch and put some power into it. Use your balance to knock a guy off his. That’ll get you through those three-minute rounds, might even end the fight early if your timing’s right. But what happens when a fighter steps through the ropes and heads the other way—not into the ring to do battle, but out of it, to fight another kind of fight?

Ever since that night in Atlantic City—Feb. 8, 1992—Dave Tiberi has stayed out of the ring. He still follows the sport, still has meetings with friend and former sparring partner Bernard “The Executioner” Hopkins, is still on the board of the Elsmere Boxing Club, still teaching self-defense to Delaware State Police troopers. But he hasn’t had a boxing match in almost 16 years, not since winning/losing to James Toney.

So he hasn’t fought in the traditional sense, no. But every day since that controversial split decision—a decision Taj Mahal owner Donald Trump himself contested—Tiberi has had to fight the past. He’s over it, has moved on, runs a video-production company in Newport, enjoys life with his wife and three daughters. But the memories, like the feeling of a jab square on the nose, sting.

There were the Senate hearings in ’92 that looked into corruption in boxing, spearheaded by then Sen. Bill. Roth of Delaware, who was outraged when he saw the fight on TV. There were the offers for a rematch with Toney, some promising as much as a half-million dollars (plus another 2 percent of pay-per-view sales), about $470,000 more than Tiberi received for the first bout. Then there was all the evidence of wrongdoing in the fight itself: two of the judges weren’t even licensed in New Jersey; Tiberi’s ripped gloves that had to be replaced in the sixth round conveniently disappeared; referee Robert Palmer made questionable calls, including one that cost Tiberi a point for a low blow. According to Tiberi, Toney had a multimillion-dollar HBO deal, and Toney’s manager, Jackie Kallen, had a say in choosing the judges—two things Tiberi says he didn’t know before the fight. The only way he could’ve won that night was by knockout.

Funny how time has corrected some of the injustice, if not reversed fortunes altogether. Tiberi, now 41, still trim and taut, stepped away from a career in boxing and earned a lifetime of respect by not fighting. Toney kept at it, gaining weight over the years, eventually ballooning up to heavyweight, where his success has been overshadowed by a series of positive test results for steroids.

Who knows how well either man sleeps at night? Both have reason to be restless. One thing is for sure, though: Dave Tiberi can’t take it anymore. He’s headed back to the ring.

Auto-repair and detailing shops line West Ayre Street in Newport, each storefront trying hard not to look like the one next to it; each one eventually looking like the one next to it. In one of the storefronts sits the office of TNT Productions, Dave Tiberi’s video-, multimedia-, and television-production company. And in the office, on the conference table, sits a Bible.

“The Bible doesn’t say money is the root of all evil, the Bible says the love of money is the root of all evil,” Tiberi says.

When he needs backing up in an argument, or reassurance, or guidance, he turns to the Bible. He carries prayer cards in his wallet. One of the prayers is from Philippians 4:13: I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

“In every area of our lives,” he says, “we need accountability.”

Tiberi’s strong faith, long-established, has led him here. He’s put together two well-received fight cards this year, one in July at the Hockessin PAL Center, another in late September at Delaware Park in Stanton—the first fight card the park had hosted in more than 20 years. Under the name First State Boxing Series, Tiberi wants to host six more cards. He’s in talks with two potential sites to host a card in early December, he says, and he’s also in talks with a couple of major TV networks to host televised fights. He wants to go statewide, hit schools and colleges, roll into civic centers.

Why would someone so royally screwed by the boxing industry choose to be a part of it now, to play along? “I want to address needs in the sport,” Tiberi says. “Something has to be done about these promoters like Don King and Bob Arum”—both members of the International Boxing Hall of Fame; both with histories of lawsuits against them. “Boxers call guys like that opportunists. There are very few promoters who have boxing backgrounds—[Bernard] Hopkins and [Oscar] De La Hoya are the only two major promoters who have also fought. What’s been neat is when fighters call me and ask me questions. They say, ‘You’re the only promoter we’ve talked to that can tell us the emotions in the locker room before a fight.’”

Club fights—the kind of fights Tiberi is promoting on his cards—draw good audiences. Fair match-ups, clean calls, no lag time between bouts. But they don’t bring in enough money to support the kind of changes Tiberi wants to see happen. If he can get his fights televised, he wants to use some of the proceeds to put in place education and healthcare funds and pension plans for fighters.

“With TV, you have more residual income,” he says. “You can open up that pot of gold to help the fighters who make the sport. There are guys right now who are paupers. I could mention some names that would make your hair stand up. They go to Atlantic City and they’re treated like kings, but they live in housing projects.”

Look back and you're find that many of boxing’s greatest fighters grew up in the same run-down, hopeless environments their brethren sometimes return to. People like Mike Tyson and Riddick Bowe, who learned street smarts in the notorious Brownsville neighborhood of Brooklyn. People like Tiberi’s friend, Bernard Hopkins, who spent nearly five years in a Montgomery County, Pa. prison for strong-arm robbery and other charges, and Tiberi’s infamous opponent, James Toney, a former drug dealer. They and others sought out gyms and Police Athletic League centers, looking for ways to channel aggression or, at the very least, to stay out of harm’s way for a few hours.

Inside the Elsmere Boxing Club, local fighters—some who need the extracurricular diversion; some who want careers in boxing—have the same idea. They’re guys like Reuel Williams, a 31-year-old Wilmington welterweight who’s racked up a 5-1 pro record despite learning to box just four years ago. Guys like Dan “Bada Bing” Biddle, a 20-something cruiserweight draped in a soggy Looney Tunes towel who turned to fighting after amateur football didn’t pan out. Or a 26-year-old middleweight from Poland whose first name, Maciej, is too hard to pronounce, so he has become known as “Magic.” Or 19-year-old, undefeated “Mighty” Michael Tiberi, Dave’s middleweight nephew, and Mike’s friend, Corey Cesarine, a 17-year-old middleweight whose troubles at Smyrna High School made boxing a good fit.

The club is really a dank gym tucked away in the back of a business park on Robinson Lane, just off Maryland Avenue outside Wilmington, nondescript and not too far from some dicey neighborhoods. But it’s here kids like Corey can redirect themselves. “It teaches them an art,” Dave Tiberi says. “People say boxing teaches kids violence. No—these kids already know violence. Once they come here, they learn discipline.”

Tiberi knows a lot about discipline. An amateur record of 62-0; a pro record of 22-3-3, with seven knockouts. Jack Holloway, one of Dave’s football and baseball coaches at William Penn High School, watched a 155-lb. Tiberi, who played center on the football team, take on guys who weighed 200, 250. Holloway smiled proudly as Dave “played beyond his size” and “willed himself to be successful.”

Tiberi’s other big project at the moment is going to take more than discipline and willpower to see it through. It involves building, by Tiberi’s estimate, “the largest PAL site in the country” by adding a boxing club to the New Castle location. A 5,000-square-foot facility that will house two regulation boxing rings, 12 brand-new heavy bags, six speed bags, and all-new gloves and equipment. Local architect Buck Simpers is working on the drawing. Once complete, the Elsmere Boxing Club will move in. Expected completion date: not set. Total cost: $500,000-plus.

Tiberi says about $210,000 has already been raised, and he’s got a couple of bold predictions that could act as selling points. Prediction #1: Delaware will become a destination for top fighters. “It’s hard to find good boxing gyms,” he says. “We’ll have fighters setting up shop here because of the quality of the gym.” Male and—believe it—female locker rooms will be available. Prediction #2: Crime in Delaware will go down. A conversation Tiberi had with long-time Philadelphia Daily News sportswriter Bernard Fernandez revealed something disturbing. “He found out what we’re doing, and he told me about all the Police Athletic League boxing clubs in Philadelphia that have shut down over the years,” Tiberi says. “We wonder why shootings involving teenagers have increased. These kids are falling between the cracks. Who knows where Ali and Frazier would’ve been if it wasn’t for PAL boxing clubs?”

“Fear is a beast you must keep feeding fresh kills to keep quiet, in the ring, outside the ring, it’s all a ring, the beast must have new conquests to stay silent.”

— Gary Smith, writing about Mike Tyson, 1988

Henry Milligan wanted it all.  At times, he had it.

Haddonfield, N.J.-born, Wilmington-raised. A natural athlete. Went to A.I. duPont High School. All-State in football and baseball. Won a pair of state wrestling championships in ’76 (at 138 lbs.) and ’77 (at 167). Went to Princeton, where he became an All-American wrestler at 190 in 1981. Graduated with a degree in civil engineering; went to work for Delmarva Power. Loved competing too much; needed an outlet, a new challenge. Took up boxing. Got good at it. Very good at it. Started fighting amateur. Got a nice write-up in People magazine. Won the National AAU (Amateur Athletic Union) heavyweight championship. Fought Henry Tillman. Beat Henry Tillman. Fought Mike Tyson. Lost to Mike Tyson. (“Ooh,” Milligan recalls, shuddering. “He was an animal. And very fast. When he hit me, it was like a thunderbolt—boom!”) Turned pro before getting his MBA in finance from NYU in 1990. Gave up fighting; worked on Wall Street for a few years. (“Probably should’ve stayed there,” he says, only half-joking.) Did some TV commercials; had a small role in the 1992 film Night and the City opposite Robert De Niro. Went back to fighting; moved back to Wilmington. Fought for the IBO cruiserweight title in 1993. Lost; gave up fighting again. Made another comeback in 1998, winning a pair of fights, including one at Big Kahuna. Broke his nose sparring shortly afterward. Retired for good.

“The problem with me?” Milligan offers in an eerie whisper. “I’m not afraid of anybody. I’m not afraid of a challenge.”

Milligan is now a financial consultant and has several businesses—personal training among them—on the side. He’s also president of the Elsmere Boxing Club, fully behind the New Castle PAL project. When the Elsmere club moves into the PAL site, Milligan says, it will be renamed the John Van Sant Delaware Boxing Club, after the former Elsmere state representative who supported the idea of boxing as a healthy recreational activity for kids.

Because the PAL center receives state and national funds, Milligan says, and because the Elsmere club, also state-funded, is hurting financially, the club’s move to PAL is both natural and timely. “It’s a great thing that we need to take our program to the next level,” he says.

Milligan once had his IQ tested. He qualified for Mensa. Then he took another test, this one to become a member of the Triple Nine Society, for those who score in the 99.9th percentile on a particular IQ test. He got in.

“Boxers will never admit—ever—that there is a toll to be paid for the punches they take,” Milligan says slowly, letting each word resonate. “But as they get older, they realize that it’s absolutely true.”

He’s been cut in matches and had his head rattled more than once, but it appears that Milligan—sharp-minded, personable, great storyteller, still in shape—got out before any serious damage was done. Instead, his suffering would come out of the ring, as a spectator, in knowing that the thing that could turn him into a vegetable, even kill him, was also the thing that made him feel most alive.

“Egotistical as it might seem, I’ve always wanted to be famous,” Milligan says. “Boxing is what drove me. I found very quickly that people took notice, and then it was in the papers a lot, the front page…It fed on itself.

“It’s a drug—the attention drug. And you can’t get enough of it.”

Fight-Night drama has set in. Listening to Tiberi and Milligan talk, they sound the way they might have before a title match. For the moment, it’s still talk, but both men are notoriously hard-headed and neither will ever back down. “If you want a successful local renaissance in boxing, you need guys of that caliber,” Matt Zabitka, a retired sportswriter who covered boxing at The News Journal for more than 40 years, says of the former fighters.

The sport, says Bert Ottaviano, a boxing expert who runs Bert’s Music on Concord Pike in Wilmington, “is at its best when fighters are hungry.”

Tiberi and Milligan are hungry. And the fighters, a dozen or more, slugging and sweating away in the Elsmere Boxing Club right now, are hungry, too. But to succeed here, in a fight taking place just as much out of the ring as in it, Tiberi and Milligan, and each of those fighters, will need something more. More important than fame, or titles, or discipline or willpower.

They’ll need to keep their balance.