Nino Benvenuti has left us. The great champion from Istria passed away less than a month after turning 87, and in these hours the sense of emptiness that grips the heart of every boxing fan—and not only boxing fans—is immense. His death is not merely the loss of a champion, but of a gentleman—someone whose fair play, humility, and grace allowed him to transcend the confines of the boxing ring and be admired in Italy and around the world as a human being, beyond just being a boxer.
Ever since I was a teenager, learning the first elements of the history of Italian boxing and thinking about the most famous, talked-about, and thrilling rivalry ever seen in a ring in our country, I have always felt myself, without a doubt, a “Mazzinghiano”.
I preferred—and still prefer—Mazzinghi’s aggressive, all-action style, his deep connection with the working class, those who, in overwhelming numbers, awaited those magical and unrepeatable derbies, projecting onto Sandro their hopes of redemption, of revenge, of turning the natural order upside down.
It was as if Benvenuti, simply by being the “big name,” supported by the top journalists and the Italian Boxing Federation, symbolized power, wealth, and institutional authority. A complete distortion of Nino’s actual story—after all, he had first stepped into a boxing gym just to take advantage of “a free hot shower”—but as we know, the collective imagination rarely concerns itself with such details.
And of course, I didn’t care either. As a kid, I was bitter about the final outcome of those two legendary derbies and felt an instinctive dislike for Benvenuti, one that had no rational or concrete justification, born purely from an unconscious impulse. Even though the footage was nowhere to be found, I had convinced myself that everything the “Mazzinghiani” said about the famous rematch in Rome was true: in my mind, Sandro had been unfairly counted by the referee and robbed by the judges.
As the years passed, my beliefs and feelings began to crack, changing little by little in the face of mounting evidence that my teenage resentment toward Nino had no real foundation.
I still remember the first time I was taken aback by Benvenuti’s complexity as a person. It was 2010, and his old rival Emile Griffith—now poor and suffering from dementia—was struggling toward the end of his life. Nino went above and beyond to help him: he organized fundraisers, invited him to Italy, and did everything he could to bring some joy back to a man life had treated harshly.
But wait—him? A “conservative man,” rooted in traditional values, pouring his soul into helping an openly gay man? Anyone who might ask such a question simply didn’t know Benvenuti. He didn’t care about Griffith’s sexual orientation. He knew they had shared forty-five unforgettable rounds in the ring, and he knew that without that epic trilogy, his own glory wouldn’t have been the same. Their stories were forever intertwined, and one man’s suffering could not go unnoticed by the other.
Another turning point in my “re-evaluation” of the great Istrian champion came about five years ago, when I had the good fortune to interview Benvenuti for an editorial project I was working on at the time. What struck me during that interview wasn’t just his conciliatory, respectful words toward Mazzinghi, but also his response to my final question, which concerned the Argentine great Carlos Monzon.
Let me explain that in my “journalistic career,” if one can call it that—since it’s mainly a passion project—I’ve interviewed many exceptionally talented former champions. And I can assure you that a huge percentage of them, when discussing a defeat, will roll out a long list of justifications, explanations, and reasons why, if not for this or that, things would’ve gone differently…
But Nino left me speechless. When I asked if things might have turned out differently had he faced Monzon at a younger age, he responded with powerful, decisive words: “No, no, absolutely not! If I’d been younger, he would have been too! Monzon won purely on his own merit.” A rare display of humility that truly made me reflect.
Then came the sad day of Sandro Mazzinghi’s death, and once again, Benvenuti surprised me. Of course, it was expected that he would offer words of sympathy for his former rival, but he didn’t stop at formalities. He personally attended the funeral of the great champion from Pontedera, and the footage from that day leaves no room for doubt: Nino was a broken, devastated man, weeping bitterly for the death of his old adversary.
Once again—just like with Monzon, whom he visited in prison, and Griffith, whom he supported in his time of need—Benvenuti demonstrated a profound truth: that a boxer’s greatest opponents help define his greatness, and that after the final bell, the only feeling worth holding onto for the man you were just trying to knock out is gratitude.
Finally, the late but much-welcome decision by RAI (Italian national television) to release the full video of the rematch between Benvenuti and Mazzinghi erased even the last traces of doubt I still harbored in my heart toward the Istrian boxer.
I watched that fight with my eyes glued to the screen, and pen in hand to carefully score each round. And as much as it still pains me to admit it, I realized that all the resentment I had harbored over the years was unfounded. The knockdown was legitimate, and though it was close, thanks to a superb finish, Nino deserved the win.
I was, I still am, and I always will be a “Mazzinghiano.” With his relentless pressure, his lion’s courage, his shy yet sensitive character, Sandro embodies everything that made me fall in love with boxing, and I consider him my all-time favorite Italian fighter. But today, as a “Mazzinghiano” at heart, I cannot help but mourn the passing of Nino Benvenuti—the other side of a single, priceless coin: that of two magnificent sportsmen who, through their achievements, their example, and their boundless class, wrote their names in history with indelible ink.
Farewell, Nino, gentleman of the ring. You will be missed.