These days, it’s hard to turn on any device and not find yourself in the middle of a debate about who’s the G.O.A.T. in a particular sport. Especially in the summer months, tossing something flammable into the Jordan vs. LeBron pit will keep an inferno burning as long as you need it to.

In boxing, the debate happens every once in a while, but there is a true consensus: It’s Sugar Ray Robinson. To feed the beast that is debate culture, arguments in boxing need to get a little more granular: Who is the greatest in a given division, who is the greatest of a particular decade, who would win a fantasy matchup between two greats? One way to make overall debates about the greatest in a given field more thought-provoking and also equitable is to ponder who the greatest version of an athlete is, either on one night or from a particular era. This approach has produced some popular answers in boxing circles, such as Muhammad Ali the night he faced Cleveland Williams, or the super middleweight version of Roy Jones Jr.

But even then, it often goes back around to Robinson.

The greatest version of a fighter we have ever seen, especially if you consider the length of time that version persisted, was in all likelihood a welterweight Robinson. After turning pro at lightweight in 1940, Robinson was already fighting above the 135-pound limit by early the next year, and for all intents and purposes, by the time he defeated future Hall of Famer Fritzie Zivic in 1941, was a welterweight.

From 1943-51, Robinson won 91 consecutive bouts. If you extend that time period a bit, from 1938-51, only one fighter defeated Robinson, Jake LaMotta. LaMotta defeated Robinson in their second of an eventual six bouts, but he weighed a half pound over the middleweight limit (160). Robinson was 2.5 pounds beneath the welterweight limit (147).

By August 1950, Robinson had been welterweight champion for four years after winning the vacant crown over Tommy Bell four years earlier. He’d made four defenses of that title, but was outrageously active against solid fighters in the interim. After making his fourth defense against Kid Gavilan, Robinson would make 14 straight appearances at middleweight.

In part, this was due to Robinson’s realization that making 147 was becoming difficult for him. However, as Robinson would later write in his 1969 autobiography Sugar Ray, “despite [his] record, one defeat in one hundred seventeen fights, I had never really been a hero.” Robinson craved stardom even beyond the squared circle, and was sensing a perfect storm brewing that could make that happen. Moving up in weight on its own, he felt, would boost his profile. Waiting at middleweight was his old rival LaMotta, who had become the best in the world and a household name based not only on performance and excitement, but more unsavory reasons, too.

The year prior, Robinson’s friend and old Army buddy Joe Louis had temporarily retired from the sport, leaving writers across the United States to wonder where the next jolt would come from. Many believed that the star to take the flag from Louis would be Robinson, and that the mega event to reinvigorate the sport would be another clash with LaMotta.

In June 1950, Robinson defeated Robert Villemain in a bout that was contested for the Pennsylvania state world middleweight title. LaMotta had, to that point in the year, not yet fought, so the state took the liberty of recognizing Robinson as the champion instead. In Robinson’s words in his bio, the belt “wasn’t worth as much as [his] purse,” but it was nonetheless a little dig at LaMotta, a little added reminder that the Raging Bull had something that he wanted. The next month, Robinson had scheduled a defense of that title against Jose Basora in Scranton, Pa.

While in early preparations for the Basora bout, Robinson received word that his childhood friend and training partner, Louis “Spider” Valentine, had passed away from cancer. In 1939, the two had — against their wishes — faced one another in the finals of the featherweight bracket of the New York Golden Gloves. In the first round, Robinson clipped Valentine with a left hook that sent him to the canvas.

Robinson bent down, tucked his gloves under his friend’s arms and helped him up to his feet, prompting admonishment from the referee and fury from his cornerman. For the rest of the fight, he made sure not to hurt Spider, but in doing so admitted he was a little nervous when the scores were being read until he heard his name announced as the 1939 champion.

Ten years later, Spider was gone, and the 30-year old Robinson wanted to do something in his memory. He called Walter Winchell, the famed columnist and radio broadcaster who had founded the Damon Runyon Cancer Memorial Fund in honor of his own friend. Robinson wanted to raise money for cancer research, and told Winchell he would be willing to fight and donate his purse to the cause.

“If it’ll make you feel better, you can give me a dollar,” Robinson told Winchell. Indeed, his official purse for the bout would officially be $1 USD. Then, there was the matter of who he would fight. Jersey commissioner Abe J. Greene would claim that offers were made to Rocky Graziano, Laurent Dauthuille and even LaMotta, but all said no (LaMotta and Dauthuille would have the Ring Magazine Fight of the Year a few weeks later against one another, so they can be forgiven).

However, Robinson preferred to make one last defense of his welterweight title anyway, to enhance the event even more. While Robinson was training for his bout against Villemain, bombastic manager Vic Marsillo showed up at his camp with his fighter, top welterweight contender Charley Fusari, angling for a fight. In the ensuing weeks, Marsillo would do a radio interview suggesting Robinson had been ducking Fusari.

Robinson remembered this and realized he had the perfect opponent for the occasion, the No. 3-ranked Fusari, and a helpful salesman in Marsillo.

In the national papers, the bout was publicized of course on the shoulders of the cause it supported, but also on the suggestion that Robinson’s struggles with weight would weaken him to the point that he might lose to a part-time milkman. There was plenty of turbulence around Robinson and his health to support the idea that this a "trap" fight.

The bout against Basora was postponed the same week the Fusari bout was formally announced, after Robinson fell ill with what was described as a "back cold" and a "back ailment." This prompted hasty litigation between Robinson, the Basora bout’s promoter Ernest Genell and the Pennsylvania commission, the only body to regard him as middleweight champ at that time.

Robinson assured all involved that he was indeed ill, but that he had a legal and emotional duty to fulfill his promise for the charity bout first. He assured them that he would face Basora "days later" if they wanted. A physician with the commission examined Robinson and determined he was in "perfect condition to fight" and he was ordered to pay the commission $1,000 and Genell $5,000, meaning he would lose $6,000 rather than make the $7,500 guarantee he had agreed upon for the night.

After the money was paid, all was resolved provided that Robinson face Basora before LaMotta or any other middleweight, after rumors circulated that he would face his rival for a sixth time in September.

Whether his back problems were real or not, his issues with making the welterweight limit most certainly were. Columnists across the country speculated that Robinson might be better off just relinquishing his title and cartoonists depicted a sullen Robinson staring at a number on the scale he didn’t like.

A week out from the Aug. 9 fight date, reports were that Robinson was weighing 152.5. These would never be corroborated, as Robinson didn’t step on the scale during the pre-fight medical check-in, instead spending most of his time miming his golf swing. However, in the closing days of his camp in Pompton Lakes, N.J., manager George Gainford took the advice of Robinson’s personal physician Dr. Vincent Nardiello (also the New York State Athletic Commission physician) and let him go to a Turkish bath for the weekend to try to sweat off additional pounds.

Marsillo loudly proclaimed that Robinson’s struggles would be his undoing, and garnered additional attention by hiring Dr. David F. Tracy, the famed psychologist and hypnotist who had made waves earlier in the year when he was hired by the St. Louis Browns of Major League Baseball to work with their players.

This was, at the very least, the first high-profile example of a professional sports outfit investing in its players mental health in a medical fashion. Unfortunately, the public’s belief in the usefulness of psychological aid in sport was set back after the Browns began the season 8-25 before firing Tracy at the end of May.

Tracy worked with Fusari and his aides, which included the legendary Ray Arcel, to convince them that Robinson wasn’t 100 percent and that victory was possible. The Jersey Journal joked the week before the fight "if Vic Marsillo can only arrange to have the psychologist get into the Robinson camp and known down whatever is left of Robinson’s confidence, the championship bout should be nothing more than a canter for Fusari.”

According to Robinson at least, Marsillo’s confidence wasn’t boosted by Tracy, because he did indeed make an arrangement with Sugar Ray’s camp. Robinson claimed that Marsillo suggested that he "carry" Fusari, and he agreed. For one, Robinson had no ill will towards Fusari, but he felt that the 21,821 fans who turned up to Roosevelt Stadium "did not pay for a quick finish," and wanted to be entertained. Above all else, Robinson admitted that he’d lost his killer instinct in the wake of Jimmy Doyle passing following their bout in 1947.

Robinson’s only battle would be with the scale, which required him to be locked in a steam box by his doctor twice to defeat, coming in a half-pound under the welterweight limit for the final time.

Though there is limited footage of the bout, thanks mainly to British press film reels, it would not be televised. Robinson’s national TV debut would come later that year against Bobby Dykes. From the footage, we can see an extremely relaxed Robinson pursuing and outboxing Fusari, whose corner (according to Robinson) was telling him to continue to move the entire fight, making his carrying mission more exhausting.

The bout attracted some of the biggest stars of the day, including actress Marlene Dietrich, baseball superstar Joe DiMaggio and Margeret Truman — whose father, Harry, was the sitting President of the United States at the time, and one of the only men in the country with a salary as high as DiMaggio’s. DiMaggio was reported to have been given the loudest ovation other than Robinson, of course.

With only referee Paul Cavalier judging the bout, Robinson won 13 of the 15 rounds, retaining his welterweight title, which he would eventually relinquish without ever losing a by-the-book welterweight fight in pursuit of middleweight glory.

Robinson would declare well after his career was over that it was his "proudest fight." Contemporary reporting suggested the night raised close to $46,000, but Robinson claimed it was closer to $100,000. The next year, he would be honored at New York City Hall for his charitable efforts, and the public saw a sight they’d never seen before with Sugar Ray shedding tears.

Later in 1950, Robinson set sail on the SS Liberté to Paris, embarking on a European loop that saw him take part in five fights in 29 days. The day after the final fight of the tour, Ring founder Nat Fleischer announced that Robinson was the winner of a new award, “Best All-Around Fighter.” Pound-for-pound had been used in boxing circles, but was not commonplace, let alone formalized in the magazine at that point, but Fleischer needed something to indicate that Robinson was indeed the best by that measure, or almost any other, even that point.

As Robinson waited to receive that award at the banquet, the MC received a pair of telegrams that read: “See you in Chicago on February 14. Make sure you’re there. — Jake”