He doesn't talk to the law.

He doesn't listen to the law.

He doesn't watch L.A. Law.

Now he's in trouble with the law.

You are Meldrick Taylor and all the cheering has ended. People don't stop you on the street and ask for your autograph anymore. "Meldrick who? Oh yeah, I remember, didn't he do a walk-on in Three's Company?"

The music is muted, the hour is late and your old locker stands empty. As the late Victor Hugo used to say, " So long as there shall be ignorance, poverty and wretchedness on this earth, stories like this must be told."

You were going to Boxing's Hall of Fame along with those great names like Julio Cesar Chavez, Robert Duran, Ike Williams, Beau Jack, Sugar Ray Robinson and Sugar Leonard. You belonged to the age of great ring warriors. You had the fastest hands in the sport. You held world titles in two divisions: the International Boxing Federation junior welterweight title in 1988 and the World Boxing Association welterweight championship in 1991.

You had the best handlers any fighter would want in manager Shelly Finical, and trainers George Benson and Lou Duva. You were as slick as Willie Sutton and you had that gumption trade of all Philly fighters. There was a certain, electrifying, crowd-pleasing layer of atmosphere when Meldrick Taylor stepped through the ropes.

Your record is staggering by today's standards. As I recorded it after the Chavez fight: 25-1-1-(14 kayos). You had an overall grade of B+ in boxing ability, power, defense, ring generalship, chin, and stamina. You fought quality opposition and ducked no one. Whatever needed to be done in the ring you did it.

They called you "The Kid" when you won the Olympic gold medal in 1984. You signed a pro contract with Main Events shortly after that. You knocked out Luke Lecce in Madison Square Garden in your pro debut on November 15, 1984. You could have won from your car phone, it was that easy. In 1985 you won 8 straight fights, 5 by knockouts. It must have been tough, because you could still walk into a shoe store and not be recogonized. Your Olympic teammates Tyrell Biggs, Mark Breland and Evander Holyfied were getting all the confetti.

You passed your first big test in 1986 with a 10 round decision over Robin Blake, a pretty tough guy. Howard Davis fought you to a draw, then you won four straight in 1987. Still, they treated you like the dog act in town. It was demoralizing.

In 1988 you knocked out rugged Buddy McGrit in 12 rounds in Atlantic City and won the IBF Junior Welterweight Championship. It wasn't a fight, it was a Punch-and Judy show. As one-sided as the Alamo. With the speed of ocelots, you threw more punches than Don King has handpicked officials. You were a bull called Spitfire. Magic Johnson and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar on their best night. Up to that point, no fighter had done more to tailor the sport's dimensions than you did. Kid's began looking up to you.

But to the average fight fan, you were still "Meldrick what's-his-name?" No seller ticket. One reporter called you "dull," but you didn't care. You were glad to be called anything but "Hey, You!" Your contemporaries were on Johnny Carson and Larry King. You couldn't even get booked on the Arseno Hall show ( Who would want to?). You were as anonymous as The Pink Panther's butler. Or the Pink Panther.

On the surface, your main advantage seemed to be speed. But what really made you a coming commodity was your bull-dog determination. You were determined to whip the Latin idol, Julio Cesar Chavez, who in Mexico, was held to be a combination of Pancho Villa and Cantinfla Mario Moreno. You where whipping him for 11 rounds 2 minutes and 58 seconds. Then Richard Steele picked your pocket. There were rumors that Don King shuffled the cards and passed the deck to Steele, with a wink. In September 1994 you lost a rematch with Chavez.

John Wayne would have gotten up, brushed himself off, and gotten back on the horse. George Brett would have bought a tube of hemorrhoid ointment and stepped back up to the plate. Evel Knievel would have crawled out of the wreckage and asked for another bike. Oliver Hardy would have taken another pie in the face.

But you couldn't get the genie back in the bottle. The determination was gone. The heart stopped beating. Lou Duva called the paramedics, but it was too late. Oh, you attempted several comebacks since 1996, fighting in Mexico, Denmark, Georgia, Florida and Illinois. But the fire was out. You were in and out of the gym as if you were double-parked. In 1998 they banned you from boxing in New Jersey because of your physical condition. Then you simply gave up on life.

There's an old saying that victory has a hundred fathers and defeat is an orphan. You became an orphan. The pendulum would never swing back.

In 1997 you were accused of trying to scam an insurance company by falsely claiming your $85,000 red Mercedes convertible was stolen in 1994. What happened to all the millions you made in the ring? Hell, you didn't have to live in a grass shack. You lived in a mansion with marble floors. Your swimming pool was the Indian Ocean. You had life by the gonads. What more did you want?

I lost track of you after that. Missing Person's couldn't find you. The Census Bureau gave up. Posses with dogs couldn't pick up your scent. Your mail was stamped "Return to sender. Address Unknown." You disappeared like Amela Earhart over the horizon.

Then I picked up the paper and saw that you had been arrested and charged with the attempted rape of your ex-girlfriend. The story said you pulled her inside your East Germantown house, closed the door, started ripping off her clothes and attempted to rape her. She only escaped after she grabbed a thick gold chain that was wrapped around your neck, pulling it and forcing you to grasp for air. She ran home and called the police.

Now, instead of going down in history alongside the Sandy Saddlers, Willie Peps, Kid Gavilands and Rocky Grazianos, they will speak your name in the same sentence with Riddox Bowe, Ron Lyle, Mike Tyson, Arron Pryor, Tony Alaya Jr, and guys of their ilk. Guys who had it all and blew it.

I cry too much for the man and keep remembering Kipling's advice to the young wounded British soldier:

Just roll to your musket

And blow out your brains

And go to your God

Like a soldier!

A Bit About Bill Kelly