I'm sorry to say that my last conversation with Clem Florio, handicapper of race horses, gifted dancer, student of boccie and lover of the sporting life, took place too many years ago. It was just after Hasim "Rock" Rahman, heavyweight out of Baltimore, had lucky-punched Lennox Lewis to the world title, and that, my friends, was seven -- count 'em -- seven years ago.

We were at the Swallow at the Hollow, talking about the sweet science, and how all the world prefers a heavyweight. Clem had been a boxer himself, once upon a time, and he fought as a middleweight when he was growing up in New York. Clem had fought his way out of Ozone Park in Queens, and in those days, boxing was for the young Italian-Americans there -- as it has been for young African-Americans -- a way to make some money, a way out of poverty. Guys who fought for money dressed better; some even had cars. To Clem, a few rounds, a few punches landed and taken, followed by a payday - all that looked pretty good -- at least for a little while. I think he said he' been in 85 fights, and one marriage.

Back in the spring of 2001, within minutes after Rahman defeated Lewis, the Baltimore-trained heavyweight said something that struck a nerve with Clem. "After he beat Lewis," Clem noted, "he says, `Ma, you won't have to work no more.' . . . Oh my God! I mean, that's what I wanted to come of it for my mother - that she wouldn't have to work anymore. That's like something out of a movie."

So was Clem -- a Balitmore guy with New York roots, a dancer's charm, a pugilist's feisty attitude, a handicapper's savvy, and an Italian-American's passion for just about everything, particularly a good game of boccie. He had a romantic spirit, a sense of humor, a baritone's pipes and a flare for the dramatic. One thing about Clem -- he was always nice to me, always took an interest in what I was writing about, my stories. He believed in unions and was a proud member of the NAACP. He hated hypocrisy and phony pols. He called me once in a while with a story about some down-and-out palooka who needed a hand. He gave me -- and many others with a microphone or note pad -- great interviews during many a Preakness Week. He was always colorful and animated, and funny; he was a man in love with life.

I'd see Clem at the fights now and then, or in Little Italy, in the sun and sausage-scented smoke of the St. Anthony Festival. He always had a smile and a good word, and he wasn't above taking a little action on the outcome of a boccie game.

Rest in peace.