WHEN, in 1992, an 18-year-old scrawny flyweight entered a professional boxing ring for the first time at a leisure centre in Mansfield, Nottinghamshire, no-one there could have predicted the impact that this kid would have not only on British boxing, but world boxing over the following six to seven years.

The kid’s name was Naseem Hamed, he would come to be known as Prince Naseem Hamed, or Naz, and would go on to generate more excitement and column inches than probably any British fighter ever has. The fact he was Asian, Yemeni, and proud in a society in which Asians were still commonly dehumanised as “Pakis” and expected to know their place, this only added an extra dimension of wonder at the unalterable confidence which this precocious young fighter from Sheffield radiated.

Naz was a product of the famed Ingle Gym in Wincobank in Sheffield, where British-based Irish trainer Brendan Ingle did not so much train as rear kids from the rougher side of the tracks in the post-industrial steel town.

If not turning them into champions and top contenders, he at least turned them into men, instilling along the way old school values of honesty, persistence, dedication and integrity as the foundations of success in life.

Hamed was seven when he first came to Brendan Ingle. His father had brought him to the gym deciding that because he was so small he should learn how to look after himself. Call it fate, destiny, kismet, call it what whatever, it was a meeting that would provide us with more drama than a Rocky movie as Ingle’s unorthodox methods and approach to the sport — so unorthodox they made Cus D’Amato’s methods appear pedestrian by comparison — found expression in the perfect student.

Who following his career could ever forget Naz preening and dancing in front of his opponents, hands by his waist inviting them to hit him, before unleashing an uppercut from the floor at such ferocious speed you had to rub your eyes, unwilling to believe what they’d just registered?

His balance was extraordinary. In fact at times it was as if he was made of rubber, the way he leaned back so far to avoid punches appeared to defy gravity. He had power in both hands, could throw punches from any angle and was able to switch from southpaw to orthodox at will. He could also take a shot, evidenced in his epic fight against Kevin Kelley at Madison Square Garden in 1997, his stateside debut, during which he suffered three knock-downs before coming back to win by TKO in the fourth.

Then there were his ring entrances, legendary in themselves, which had the crowd everywhere he fought raising the roof at the sheer spectacle they were witnessing. In his time he made his way to the ring on motorcycles, flying carpets, on a trapeze and dancing and miming with so much energy that you’d wonder if he’d forgotten he was actually there to fight.

His progress through the ranks from that 1992 debut in Mansfield was astonishing. He took the European bantamweight title in only his 12th fight before going on to claim the WBO featherweight title, followed by the IBF and WBC featherweight titles.

His career came crashing down however in 2001, when he suffered a heavy points defeat to Mexican legend Marco Antonio Barrera in Vegas.

But by then Naz was no longer a boxer, he was a celebrity who spent more time in nightclubs and driving flash cars than in the gym. His relationship with his long-time trainer Ingle had ended in acrimony and now he was trained by Emanuel Steward, following the well-trodden path of fighters who switch trainers as a way of papering over the cracks of their decline.

He was never the same after the Barrera fight and fought once more before disappearing from the ring, despite never officially announcing his retirement.

His weight ballooned and nowadays he’s a regular presence ringside at major fights, holding court in interviews and with fans, reminding us of what might have been if he’d combined his wondrous talent and confidence with the dedication of a Floyd Mayweather Jnr.

Compounding the sad end to Hamed’s story is the news that his recent attempt to reconcile with Brendan Ingle, now 75, has been spurned. The man who trained him from age seven clearly still feels bitter about the manner in which their relationship ended.

In a recent interview, Naz, now 41, said: “I want to see Brendan and say sorry for the nasty things I said about him, because I am so grateful for the things he did for me. The person that I want to be honoured with me in Canastota (Boxing’s Hall of Fame) is the first trainer I ever had and that’s Brendan. He should be in the Hall of Fame. He’s produced so many world champions. The time I had with Brendan was an amazing time. It was priceless.”

He continued: “What I learnt from that gym and that environment was priceless. The only thing I really want is to sit with Brendan to apologise to him, if I upset him, and to make up with Brendan.”

A scrawny young Yemeni kid and an Irish boxing guru, as unlikely a combination as you could imagine yet one that achieved nights of excitement and drama in a boxing ring that have never been bettered. It’s the stuff of movies.

But unfortunately this is not a movie, this is real life, where not every story has a happy ending, and where oftentimes bitterness rather than forgiveness is its own reward.