Darkness take my hand – The complicated legacy of Carlos Monzón.

How good a fighter was Carlos Monzón?

Damn good.

The first time I saw him fight was against Nino Benvenuti, the reigning world middleweight champion. Benvenuti had won 82 of 86 fights, including two of three over former champion Emile Griffith. I liked him and was hoping he’d beat Monzón. The thinking was that Benvenuti could outbox his slightly taller adversary.

A minute into the fight, Monzón was clearly hungry for the title. He fired wicked punches that landed with a thud. He boxed better than advertised. He was mean. The champion looked confused, as if he couldn’t handle the pressure. He glanced at the referee for help. Benvenuti punched back, rarely landing a blow, and when he did, they had no effect. He was being walked down and beaten up.

In the 12th round, Benvenuti landed a solid left hook to the jaw. His crowd cheered, but the challenger didn’t bat an eye. A right hand sent Benvenuti to the ropes. Seconds later, another one landed on the point of his chin. The champion collapsed to his knees, his head resting on his left glove as if in silent prayer.

It didn’t help.

It took Monzón 80 fights to get a shot at a world title. His path to the top had been fraught with poverty and long odds. Born into a family of 12, Monzón quit school in the third grade, fought for pesos in the streets of Santa Fe, Argentina, shined shoes, and sold papers.

After a solid amateur career, Monzón turned pro in 1963. He fought at a relentless pace, stepping into the ring 22 times in just 19 months. Though he dropped early-career decisions to Antonio Aguilar in 1963 and Alberto Massi in 1964, Monzón adjusted and never lost again. From 1970 to 1977, he utterly dominated the middleweight division.

Tall, lean, and strong, the sullen Monzón was multi-talented, born with unique skill and punishing power. He defeated all the top contenders, including personal favorites Emile Griffith (twice), Bennie Briscoe, Benvenuti in a rematch, and Tony Mundine. He beat the stuffing out of welterweight champion José Nápoles and won two brutal decisions over Rodrigo Valdez.

A darker side of Monzón, apparently lurking even before he captured the title, showed itself in the 1970s. His temper was explosive, easily erupting in violence. Reports and articles detailed his horrific abuse of women and how he beat the crap out of the paparazzi. His outbursts could be entirely unpredictable. The chaos followed him home; during a domestic dispute in 1973, his first wife, Mercedes “Pelusa” García, shot him twice—once in the arm and once in the shoulder—though he recovered to continue his boxing career.

After retiring from the ring in 1977, the violence only continued. His home country protected him and treated him like a god until 1988, when authorities finally arrested Monzón for murdering his estranged wife, Alicia Muñiz.

The incident was brutal. Following a heated argument fueled by alcohol and rage, police charged Monzón with strangling Alicia and throwing her off a second-floor balcony. He followed her over the edge seconds later, injuring his shoulder in the fall. Monzón was convicted of murder and sentenced to 11 years in prison.

On January 8, 1995, shortly before his release from prison, Monzón was on a weekend furlough when he lost control of his car. The accident killed both him and his passenger near his home in Santa Fe. Monzón was 52.

His life, filled with incredible highs and disastrous lows, had come full circle.

Remembering him is complicated. Inside the ring, he controlled the action with absolute skill and power. Outside of it, his inner rage and darkness could explode at any minute, destroying everyone around him, and ultimately, himself.

To the people of Argentina, he is still a hero, worshiped for his ring exploits. To others, he is a monster who could fight.

We’ll leave it at that.