It's rare in life that we're presented with a clear-cut side to root for. When that fairy tale notion of Good vs. Evil makes itself manifest in palpable, flesh and blood heroes and villains. Even in the world of sports, a culture plagued by incessant over-dramatization from journalists and fans alike, rarely are we given the opportunity to rally collectively behind an individual or a team. But it happened this past weekend at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas.

The contrast between Oscar De La Hoya and Ricardo Mayorga could not have been more striking when their bout was announced. The Golden Boy squaring off against the wild man. The multi-millionaire, multi-media giant against the Nicaraguan drug-runner with bullet hole scars and a habit of smoking and drinking in the ring. The fundamentally flawless boxer against the free swinging brawler. It was the kind of matchup that can make boxing so gripping, even in the modern age of corruption, faltering pay-per-view revenue and empty seats.

But cultural and stylistic differences alone were not what made boxing fans so decidedly favor De La Hoya last Saturday night. Boxing is a sport built on the rags to riches notion of slum kid rising to glory against all odds. The sport is littered with ex-cons carrying checkered pasts. The boxing culture is an almost infinitely forgiving one.

What made anyone with the slightest respect for sportsmanship and fair play root for De La Hoya had everything to do with Mayorga's behavior leading up to the fight. In essence, Mayorga and his antics were able to accomplish what the Golden Boy's extensive marketing staff have never been able to: unify the entire boxing public behind the popular but divisive De La Hoya.

Just Ricardo Being Ricardo at one of Several Over-the-Top Press Conferences 

The line between boxing histrionics and inexcusable disrespect is a blurry one. We look back at Muhammad Ali as a master of competitive mind games. His verbal tirades against opponents have been diluted by decades into mere strategy, harmless maneuvering in the pursuit of victory. But for fighters like Joe Frazier, the intensely personal attacks from the acerbic tongue of Ali left emotional scars that remained long after each man's gloves had been hung up for good.

Even in a sport that welcomes this kind of psychological brutality, Mayorga clearly went too far. He discredited De La Hoya's status as an authentic Mexican, claiming that Mexican residents of Oscar's native East Los Angeles had called him personally to wish him well and plead for a knockout of their hometown fighter. He went farther, calling into question De La Hoya's manhood, and ultimately his sexuality, with a torrent of disturbing homophobic slurs. The wild man stood on a chair, shouted, and grabbed his crotch. He claimed that Oscar De La Hoya's trainer, Floyd Mayweather, Sr., had fought like a "coward" during his own ring career.

But the indelible impression made by Mayorga's comments stemmed from his vulgar references to De La Hoya's wife and young son. There is a fundamental, unspoken law in the sporting constitution that states, "No matter how bad you hate the other guy, no matter how many of his teeth you leave imbedded in the field, leave his family out of it." Actually, this doesn't even qualify as a sports rule. It's a matter of simple decency. Maybe if you're Rick Fox, and Doug Christie's wife has just sent her Prada bag crashing against your temple, you mention the other guy's family. But that's about the only exception. Hell, even Raja Bell's mother offered Kobe Bryant a hug after the Lakers had been sent packing in game seven of the Western Conference Playoffs.

This wasn't the first time Oscar De La Hoya had been treated with severe contempt prior to a big time fight. His bout against archrival Fernando Vargas in 2002 was as vitriolic as any fight in recent memory. Vargas, like Mayorga, used Oscar's chiseled good looks and forays into singing as fuel for assaults on De La Hoya's racial identity and manhood.

De La Hoya's dominant performance that night in Las Vegas went a long way toward softening Vargas' unrelenting machismo. In fact, Vargas' career went into a tailspin almost immediately following his loss to De La Hoya. The Golden Boy is enjoying the last laugh in that dispute to this day. After nearly twenty months of inactivity following a controversial knockout at the hands of Bernard Hopkins, many doubted whether Oscar would be able to answer this newest round of insults against the dangerous Mayorga.

From the opening bell it was obvious that any doubts concerning Oscar's heart or ability to rise to the occasion were unfounded. To no one's surprise, Mayorga charged like a bull from the opening bell. His manufactured air of invincibility lasted about two minutes, when a precise De La Hoya left hook sent Mayorga crashing to the canvas.

Over the course of the next five rounds De La Hoya used his intense focus and supreme skill to dissect the technically inferior Mayorga. With every perfectly placed punch De La Hoya forcibly erased one of Mayorga's savage remarks. Even indifferent observers had to chuckle at the sight of a man eating crow in front of 20,000 spectators and a television audience of millions.

Maybe I should have talked about his dead mother instead.

Some will say Mayorga's behavior leading up to the fight was clearly a marketing ploy, and that the obvious motives behind his comments excuse them to some degree. His record coming into the bout with De La Hoya was 27-6, hardly an intimidating history for a big time prizefighter. That kind of record wouldn't have gotten him the top seed in the NBA's Eastern Conference 33 games into the season.

The simple truth is that Mayorga is not a great fighter, and has undoubtedly been counseled by the Don King camp to make an ass of himself in an effort to increase interest. He has managed to remain in the public eye because of his reputation as a reckless wild man, despite having lost his last three major fights. The argument will be made that all of the extra-curricular events leading up to the fight were what made it so exciting, and for that we should thank Mayorga and his filthy mouth for the intensity of the moment.

If we commend Mayorga for his inhuman behavior outside of the ring just because it made a fight more interesting, then boxing may be in more trouble than any of us realize. If this kind of manufactured, Jerry Springer style, below the belt conduct is what it takes to sell 875,000 pay-per-view orders, then the problems in boxing reach well beyond the much-maligned heavyweight division. Even in a violent, savage sport there have to be boundaries. Mayorga crossed lines and ran his mouth and in the end got exactly what he deserved: a mouth full of canvas and a shameful march back to the locker room.

I would have rooted for De La Hoya in the fight anyway. I've always liked him, and think many of the criticisms leveled at him over the course of his career have been unfair. But when all was said and done, I turned off the television Saturday night with the satisfying knowledge that I had dropped 50 bucks to see something that happens far too infrequently these days: the good guy, or at the very least the undeniably better guy, coming out on top, scoring a defeat for those of us who still believe that sportsmanship and honor have their place in our modern age.

She was in her mid seventies, and had long ago bid adieu to the beautiful Spanish features of her youth. She wore a hideous orange wig when she went out on the town, and sat around the house wearing nothing but giant underwear fashioned from more square feet of lace than a tablecloth. She took smoke breaks from her smoke breaks and had a habit of yelling unsolicited at no one in particular. I had arranged to rent a room from her in her tiny apartment in Madrid months in advance, without any information beyond the address. The price was right and the location was central. An easy sell.

My poor Spanish, her broken English and propensity for craziness made communication between the two of us strained. In fact, during the two months I lived there we had a grand total of three actual conversations. The first took place the day of my arrival, when we kindly introduced ourselves. The second conversation came several days later, when she informed me that I was not to use the telephone or television under any circumstances. The third discussion involved football.

I asked her near the end of my stay if she supported Real Madrid. She looked at me as if I had just asked her to assassinate the Pope, like I had offended her at some moral depth I could never really understand. She said through clinched teeth in a combination of English and Spanish, "I support Atletico Madrid. I HATE Real more than anything in the world." She then paused for several seconds before a childish smile crept across her face and she added, "But I love Zidane."

And I smiled back at her. And we laughed together for a minute or two while we mimicked the wizardry of Real Madrid midfielder Zinedine Zidane, affectionately referred to as Zizou. A balding, unassuming French footballer had done in fifteen seconds what two months living under the same roof could not; my elderly Spanish landlady and I shared something, a fleeting moment of understanding that defied age or nationality.

That Zinedine Zidane had this kind of effect on us never really surprised me. He has been perhaps the greatest player of his generation, and is one of those rare athletes that transcend his sport. One could sit in front of a television and watch soccer for the first time and recognize the genius in Zidane's play, that something that separates him from other players on the field.

There will be numerous soccer storylines playing out over the upcoming World Cup summer. Will Brazil or Argentina be able to spit into the wind of history and become the first South American side to win a World Cup on European soil since 1958? Will a dysfunctional English team be able to put aside managerial disaster and a history of lackluster performances to capitalize on their wealth of talent? Will Thierry Henry bolt London for warmer Catalan pastures? All of these stories are fascinating, but what will interest me most in the upcoming months will be the final bow of Zizou, who announced recently that he is hanging up those tricky boots of his after playing for France in Germany 2006.

For anyone who has seen Zidane play this season, his decision to retire won't come as a surprise. The maestro's play has deteriorated markedly this season, as years of injuries and fixture overload have finally worn him down. Never fleet of foot even at the height of his career, Zidane now looks downright slow on the pitch. Not even his nimble mind and incredible understanding of the game can mask his physical shortcomings these days. The deft flicks and brilliant passes that have always found his teammates in stride are now frequently intercepted by defenders or roll harmlessly into touch. Never prone to emotional outbursts on the field, Zidane's frustration at his own play and that of his Real Madrid teammates has caused him to break his poker face on numerous occasions this season. In short, he has been quite unlike the football magician the world has come to idolize.

However, the deterioration in his game is nothing to harp on.  Zidane will turn 34 during Germany 2006, which is a ripe old age for a world-class soccer player. It's time for him to go, and he's making the right decision to quit now. But what we have here is a fantastic opportunity, as sports fans, to watch a true great go out on his sport's largest stage, with everything to play for, and the hopes of an entire nation riding on his back.

This isn't going to be unfamiliar territory for Zidane. His professional exploits at giant clubs Inter Milan and Real Madrid are certainly well known. But Zidane will forever be remembered for his dominant performance in the 1998 World Cup, held in his native France. Zizou took a team of unproven young players on his back, leading by example and pushing his play to a level of brilliance few would have predicted going into the tournament. He capped his journey into the annals of legendary World Cup players with two goals in a 3-0 thumping of Brazil in the final. And just to prove his performance with the French team in 1998 was no fluke, Zidane carried the team to the European Championship just two years later. He's performed under this kind of pressure before, and it will be interesting to see just how much of that late 90's magic his aging legs can muster.

Zizou lifts the World Cup trophy in 1998 while an enraptured nation looks on.

But Zidane's popularity can't be explained merely in terms of his wins and losses. When he joined Real Madrid in 2001 from Inter Milan for a then record $65 million transfer fee, he was certainly expected to provide the historic club with big time hardware for its already overstuffed trophy room. Initially it looked like his tenure with the club would be astronomically successful. Along with his fellow "Galacticos," Zidane won the 2002 Champions League, the 2002 European Super Cup, and the 2003 Spanish League title. But the club has yet to win anything since. For a Real Madrid supporter, one season spent without winning a trophy is unacceptable. Two trophy-less campaigns, a disgrace. Three seasons without winning anything? Inconceivable.

Yet that is the reality facing the stumbling Madrilenos, and the supporters aren't happy about it one bit. Former club president Florentino Perez stepped down earlier this season amid ravenous calls from fans and the media for his job. The club will be searching for a high profile manager this summer, with names like lame duck England manager Sven-Goran Eriksson and current AC Milan boss Carlo Ancelotti being bandied about as possible replacements. David Beckham, Raul, Ronaldo, and Roberto Carlos can be counted among the growing list of superstar players rumored to be on the way out this summer. In short, heads are going to roll around the Bernabeu this summer. But throughout all the tumult and upheaval, and even before he announced his impending retirement, Zidane has avoided the rumor mill. And while other players who have made significant contributions at Real over the past few seasons will be run out of town on a rail, Zidane's time at the club was wildly celebrated in Madrid over the weekend as Zizou scored the second goal for his club in a 3-3 draw with Champions League semifinalist Villareal.

Zidane at work in a recent performance for Real Madrid. Real finished behind rivals Barcelona for the second straight season.

And it all goes back to that scene mentioned earlier. The scene that took place in that tiny, uncomfortable apartment in the bustling center of Madrid. The appeal of this player that everyone seems to admire. You only need to look at him to understand a lot of it. He looks less like a virile, world class athlete than he does a garbage man. He's been bald or balding as long as he has been famous. Despite being a millionaire many times over, and having a supermodel-caliber wife, Zidane has managed to maintain an "everyman" persona that appeals to sports fans across the globe. He has excelled at the highest level of international competition by consistently being the most creative and instinctive player on the field, making plays that no one else on the planet could make, simply because no one else on the planet would think to make them.

Nowhere has his appeal been more evident than during his days at Real Madrid. The supporters of the world's richest club are a spoiled, impatient lot. They arrive late for games, and the stands are littered with white haired old men who don't seem to be impressed by anything. I witnessed first-hand as plays on the field that amazed me got nothing more than snickers or soft applause from the crowd. These fans, old and young, have been born into a football tradition that has witnessed deified players like Puskas and DiStefano, and more titles than most clubs in Europe would know what to do with. You can see it in the haughty way they watch matches. But all this cynicism melted away when Zidane did anything. Every clever touch drew oohs from the crowd. The stubborn, white haired old men forgot about their inherent disgust with the modern game for a short time, and threw their hands in the air and shouted like they did when they were boys. This was the effect Zidane had on people. I hadn't been a fan of the game a long time at that point, but watching this magician play in person did everything to cement a personal lifelong passion. And I'm sure that each rapturous response he drew from the Real Madrid faithful throughout the years went a long way toward reinforcing their love for a sport that is so distinctly important in their lives.

So if you've never had the pleasure of watching Zidane play, take advantage of the extensive television coverage of this summer's World Cup to catch him before he's gone for good. And if you're a passionate football supporter, make sure you catch his antics one last time. He'll be talked about for years to come as one of the true greats of his era, and every second of praise he gets will be deserved. I know my chain-smoking, exhibitionist, telephone Nazi Spanish landlady will be watching for sure. If, God willing, she's still with us.