It didn't hit me right away.

Someone wants to pay $25 million to match Mike Tyson and George Foreman, and what's wrong with that? Tyson, his once-precision skills eroded, will be 33 by the time they fight. Foreman is 50 but was the legitimate heavyweight champion of the world at the age of 46.

	With every fight, middle-aged boxers such as Larry Holmes run an increasing risk of damaging their long-term health.

It's good, macho fun. Eleven years ago, this fight's a blowout. But Foreman has retained his power and was able to defeat younger fighters like Lou Savarese and Shannon Briggs. Tyson should still be able to win, but after losing every round to Frans Botha, who knows? Big George probably wouldn't get caught with the right hand that disconnected the game-but-slow White Buffalo.

At the time I saw the story, I thought it would be two former greats slugging it out for one great blast. A few things, though, changed my mind.

The case against older boxers
My feelings began to change because of Aaron Pryor.

Having come back from his battle with drugs, the former junior welterweight champ is now working with young boxers. His new autobiography is out, and while he's not exactly in robust health, he seemed to be headed for some peaceful twilight years. That's not the case.

Pryor has been diagnosed as being punch drunk. Earlier this month, his friend, Ken Hawk, told the Cincinnati Enquirer that Pryor is losing his memory and is on medication to slow the onslaught of the disease.

Who knows how much boxing and/or drug abuse contributed to his poor health?

What we do know is that Pryor came back after a timely retirement to fight. His only loss came during this comeback, a comeback in which he was licensed to fight while being virtually blind in one eye. A Wisconsin official told the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel in 1990 that to do otherwise would be to discriminate against the disabled. Wisconsin boxing is regulated by the Department of Regulation and Licensing -- someone neglected to tell them a boxing license should be issued with slightly different standards than a fishing license.

Pryor fought on, and he will pay the price for the rest of his shortened life.

Jerry Quarry, too, found a place that would let him fight. He had fought Ali, Frazier, and Patterson. He had beaten Shavers and Lyle.

After all that, even after a knockout loss to Ken Norton in 1975, he wasn't punch drunk. He also wasn't done fighting.

In 1992, Quarry was 47. Having made several comebacks in the '80s, his health and motor skills were less than perfect. Early stages of pugilistica dementia were evident. He had already come back twice too often, but had a chance to lead a close to normal life.

Unfortunately for him, there was no boxing commission in the state of Colorado, and no one to stop him from walking into the ring one last time. He was battered and knocked out by a guy named Ron Kramner. The beating he took during that fight accelerated the progression of the disease, eventually leading to his death at age 53.

Time to stop, Macho
No one likes to tell a guy he's slurring his words. No one wants to tell a man once known for his verbal skills that he's no longer making sense in a post-fight interview. You have to figure no one has told any of this to Hector Camacho.

Maybe he will read this.

I was at Madison Square Garden the night Riddick Bowe's entourage went after Andrew Golota with the cell phone. Before that nonsense, I was in the locker room area, just finishing up an interview with then-world champion Arturo Gatti.

I heard a commotion from the tunnel that leads to the main arena. Screams of "Macho Time!" thundered through the bottom of the Garden. Clapping, chanting and yelling filled the air and made us all smile. Hector Camacho, on the undercard, was on his way to the ring. It was exciting stuff for what would be a quick tuneup. On July 11, 1996, Camacho -- long past his prime -- was still fast in the ring, and a motormouth in the locker room.

He knocked knock out Craig Houk in two rounds that night. Less than a year later, he would pound on Sugar Ray Leonard. Later in 1997, he would have to run to survive against Oscar De La Hoya. At that point, he had hung on too long. More than likely, his long-term health was still not at issue.

Unfortunately, Camacho wasn't done fighting.

We've had Camacho on Friday Night Fights twice in the last eight months. Slowness in his hands was evident in a split-decision win over Ken Sigurani in October. In June, he went the distance with a completely outclassed P. J. Goosen. Maybe he wanted to get in some rounds against Goosen; maybe Goosen is tougher than we think. Who knows?

It was what happened after the fight that deserves our attention.

No fighter has a completely clear head upon leaving the ring, when he leaves the physical world for the intellectual. It's difficult to switch from instant reaction to language and thought.

Even in that context, Camacho is slipping.

He first told Bob Papa and Teddy Atlas he wanted to get some work against Goosen, that he had a another fight scheduled for the "37th" of next month. He also said he wanted another shot at a title before he turned 30 (he's now 37 years old). His speech, once electric, was dull. His ability to put together thoughts and ideas was limited. He slurred his words and spoke slowly. This was from the "Harlem Heckler," someone who once spoke with such sparkle and bravado. A very sad sight.

If he gets out now, he would probably be able to train his son (Hector, Jr. is a junior welterweight on the rise) and enjoy his life. Macho, unfortunately, fits the profile of the fighter going into a sadly familiar pattern.

Old fighters never learn
A reporter I know remembers going to a benefit dinner where Muhammad Ali was one of the honored guests. She said she sat near Ali and listened to him banter with the other guests.

Here was one of the greatest athletes and wittiest sportsmen of the age, and she could barely understand what he was saying. And this was 1979. A year later, Ali he would be beaten by a reticent Larry Holmes. Then Ali came back to take more damage from Trevor Berbick in 1981.

In his new autobiography, Holmes says he noticed how Ali had slowed during their prefight publicity tour. He said he was genuinely surprised at how the former champ, a man he had faced many times in sparring, had deteriorated physically and mentally.

Now Larry, himself, is leading a "Legends Tour." In June, he beat Bonecrusher Smith (who retired last week because of shoulder damage), Tim Witherspoon bowed out with a bad back against Greg Page, and Billy Costello outpointed Juan LaPorte.

I'm all for these men getting another payday. They all deserve it. I wonder, though, how long it will take before Larry is addled. Maybe it doesn't happen, but the odds are against him. He needs only to read his own book.

New restrictions are needed to save these fighters from themselves.

Champions like Foreman, Quarry, Holmes, Pryor and Camacho didn't get to where they were by backing away from a challenge. Fans will keep coming to see them, and certain states will allow them to fight. Our modern warriors won't stop as long as there is another fight, or as long as they need the payday. The nostalgic boxing fan ensures the endless career and Holmes proves that even the rich fighter wants more money.

A national commission would, however, feel the pressure from fans and media. A national commissioner would have the power to look beyond a CAT scan and tell Hector "Macho" Camacho it's time to walk away.

There are other reasons for a national commission or federal overseer, but this is clearly one of the most important.