In 300 years of boxing, the only constant is the concept of a champion, or the best around. It’s simple and pure in theory: One fighter beats the rest to hold a fair championship claim.

When the great Sam Langford died at 72 in a Massachusetts nursing home on January 12, 1956, writers and boxing experts couldn’t help but recall the life and career of a fighter for whom the usual formula was useless.

Langford’s career lasted from 1902-26, meaning he fought during a time when there had only been a handful of fighters who won world titles in multiple divisions because simply winning one was difficult enough. Of course, a fighter had to be actually granted title opportunities to become a champion, and since Langford was hard-hitting, skilled and Black, those chances never arrived.

At about 5-foot-8, Langford fought as a welterweight during the first few years of his career, even fighting to a draw with champion Joe Walcott in 1904. But that’s as close as he ever got to a world title.

After Langford’s death, The Ring’s founder and editor Nat Fleischer wrote: “The majority of those selected as [Langford’s] opponents didn't relish mixing it with him, but they had to eat and so did he, hence he fought often, many times with the same man.”

As with Jack Johnson, Joe Jeannette, Sam McVey and countless others, Langford fought whoever was available. Unlike many of his Black contemporaries, though, Langford and his manager Joe Woodman were willing to concede finer points in fight contracts to simply get more fights, often traveling for them.

Within a few years of defeating Walcott and lightweight champ Joe Gans in non-title bouts, Langford unsuccessfully challenged Johnson for the Black heavyweight title in a fight that Woodman used to promote his fighter for years. Every ringside newspaper report of Johnson-Langford described a fight dominated by the future heavyweight champion, yet Langford became the victim of a robbery after Woodman worked his magic during interviews.

When Johnson became the first ever Black heavyweight champion, he notably refused to make a defense against any of his deserving contemporaries. So Woodman made phone calls to newspapers.

“Most sports writers, especially those who hadn’t seen [Johnson-Langford], printed everything I had sent out,” Woodman later said. “All they had to do was read the round-by-round reports of the fights to get the facts, but they didn’t do that. They took my version and year after year the story of Langford’s prowess in that battle grew bigger and bigger.”

Langford’s legend swelled to such a degree that he was welcomed at a few artsy venues in Paris, where boxing became a sensation. The French Boxing Federation even recognized Langford as its heavyweight champion for a time after it stripped Johnson for his criminal conviction in the U.S.

The problem in Paris, as Johnson also found out, was that the recognition and relative good treatment only extended so far. Much of the le tout-Paris was simply fascinated by Black heavyweights, especially McVey, because they thought the muscular fighters were novel and exotic-looking. Langford was often described in the most insulting terms.

Every Black fighter of the day was subjected to racist epithets and cartoons, but Langford’s were almost always the most outlandish and extreme. He was short, had a bald head, a wide nose and noticeably long arms, and he was very dark-skinned. Drawings depicted him as wild or some kind of jungle man, and metaphors turned him into all kinds of animals.

Langford was always pleasant in return, everyone said. He accommodated opponents who were reluctant to fight him by agreeing to shorter fights, he spotted foes 10 pounds or more dozens of times, and even when hammering out nearly 130 KOs in his 300-plus pro fights he dispatched victims with a smile and a one-line like some early 20th century action hero.

In 1910, Langford accepted a fight with Army heavyweight champion Nat Dewey on a stop through Cheyenne, Wyoming. With only about an hour before the train out of Cheyenne came through, Langford knocked out Dewey in a round before turning to a booing crowd and saying, “I’m sorry, but you know I must catch that 11:45 train.”

Woodman also told a story about Langford fighting Fireman Jim Flynn in 1908. Langford saw Flynn’s cornerman Doc Russell prepping a bag of oranges for his fighter to suck on between rounds. Langford said, “My goodness, Doc, you’re wasting a lot of time squeezing them oranges. Jim won’t be needing all that fruit in there.” And again Langford scored a first- round KO.

Winning and killing whoever he could with kindness might not have been the only ways for Langford to fight back, but they were the only ways he did.

Langford didn’t win the Black heavyweight title until 1910, or well into Johnson’s world heavyweight title reign. He was widely considered the strongest contender for Johnson, who frequently sidestepped questions about giving Langford a rematch. When Jess Willard defeated Johnson and immediately “drew the color line,” or swore he wouldn’t defend the title against any Black fighters, that meant Langford was very clearly out.

By the time Jack Dempsey came along and destroyed Willard, Langford was showing signs of age, pudgy and already having eye problems. Even so, in his 1960 autobiography a few years after Langford’s death, Dempsey said:

“They said I feared no man. The hell I feared no man! There was one man — he was even smaller than I — I wouldn’t fight because I knew he would flatten me. I was afraid of Sam Langford.”

It’s possible a young Dempsey truly did fear having to fight Langford at some point, though it’s also possible the former heavyweight champion and icon was simply being kind to a recently deceased legend. Even if it were the latter, however, it’s still Dempsey being willing to take a hit to his reputation to nudge old Sam Langford some respect.

Time has been kinder to Langford than life was. He is correctly viewed as one of the greatest fighters ever these days. But in his own days, he relied on a small pension set up for him by members of the fight community and lived the last three decades of his life blind.

Just as impressive as Langford’s nearly 200 victories was possessing the soul of someone who refused to allow life’s realities to limit his accomplishments.

Weeks before Langford’s death, he spoke to Fleischer and said, “I have no regrets. I had my full share, enjoyed my life and made money. … But it was fine while it lasted.”