I remember meeting Alex Miteff.
I was in New York to watch Amir Khan sparkle on his US debut against Paulie Malignaggi.
It was at a time when I realised the British public had not taken to Khan as we thought they might, given how disappointing the sales of Khan on the cover of Boxing News was for that preview issue.
Hatton and Calzaghe, he was not.
However, I upheld my tradition of while in town for a fight, I would look for any retired boxers I could find.
My old buddy Tom Jess, so crucial with helping me track down fighters for The Road to Nowhere, had details of a care home where Miteff was apparently staying.
We parked outside and went in, and really it was like an assisted living place. We asked a couple of staff members for help and were pointed in vague directions but not long after entering, we stumbled into a room with a bed and a man breathing heavily lying on top of it.
I have to admit, I had no idea whether it was Miteff or not. He’d slipped out of the public eye, so far as I could see, decades earlier.
The dashing New York-based Argentine, who was born in Santa Fe, had not boxed since 1967 and we were more than 40 years on from there.
