When I began gathering ideas for this essay, I asked Top Rank matchmaker Bruce Trampler when it was acceptable for a fighter to quit during a fight. He answered with a terse counter-question: "In whose opinion?"

Those of us who sit on the easy side of the ropes have grown accustomed to platitudes like, "The great ones don't quit." We understand that fighters are held to a different standard than the rest of us and that, unlike mixed martial arts where there's no shame in tapping out, boxers are held to the most rigorous standard of all.

George Foreman's death earlier this year brought back memories of his historic slugfest against Ron Lyle four decades ago when both men were dropped multiple times and seemingly out on their feet, endured breathtaking punishment, and ended with Lyle senseless on the ring canvas.

Teddy Atlas, who has been in the trenches for much of his life, speaks to the code of boxing when he states, "Fighting is the resolve to overcome. The whole definition of being a fighter is an unwillingness to quit. If a person commits to being a fighter, he has to keep trying to find a way to win. A fighter fights on no matter what. Real fighters have that.

"I understand that fighters get to a point sometimes where — Ali said it best after Manila; he said fighting Joe Frazier was the closest thing to death he knew of. But Ali kept fighting because, whatever his body was suffering, adhering to that code made his life worthwhile. So to me, for a fighter to quit is a cardinal sin. I know that sounds harsh. But that's my feeling, what I believe. Boxing is a hurt business, there are rules of engagement. If you don't like the rules, don't play the game. You knew what you were getting into when you signed up for this brutal sport."

But there are limits.

Boyd Melson is a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point. He fought professionally after graduation and compiled a 15-2 record with four knockouts. Two of his experiences in the ring highlight the boxer's code.

In 2014, Melson fought Donald Ward at Roseland Ballroom in New York. Boyd was heavily favored. But in round three, he injured his brachial plexus (a network of nerve fibers running from the spine through his neck into his right arm).

"The pain was excruciating," Melson recalls. "I couldn't control my arm, couldn't feel my fingers in my glove. I thought I was having a stroke. My first thought was, 'I don't know what's happening to my body. I'm scared, I have to quit.' I started to turn to take a knee.

"Then I thought about my training at West Point. To survive in combat and in the ring, you slow time down around you when, in reality, real time is taking place. You gut it out and do whatever you have to do to survive. That's what I did that night. I was barely able to move my right arm. I landed only one good right hand after that and it almost threw me into shock."

Melson was a wounded soldier. But he survived and won a majority decision.

"Of all my fights," he says, "that's the most meaningful one to me. It confirmed what I've always believed about myself; that I can overcome the worst kind of adversity and do what I have to do to prevail. The idea of quitting kept trying to creep into my head. But I was able to block out worrying about my injury and stay in the moment when I couldn't move my arm and didn't know what had happened to me, suppress the fear and do what I had to do to win."

Two years later, Melson had a different experience in a fight against Courtney Pennington at Foxwoods.

"In round one," he recounts, "a punch punctured a hole in the retina of my left eye. From that point on, it was like the eye was covered by a gob of Vaseline. It was useless in seeing punches coming. I got my butt kicked, lost every round. In round seven, I got knocked down by a body shot. I got up but still couldn't see punches coming out of my left eye. And now because I had to protect my body, I couldn’t protect the eye. And I'm thinking, 'I didn't come here to go blind. I'm not willing to pay that price.' So I waved it off."

Was that the right decision?

"Right is relative," Melson answers. "It comes down to questions like, 'Who are you? What are you fighting for? Pride? Money? To find out who you really are? And what are you willing to risk to get it?' In the fight against Donald Ward, I told myself I still had one arm that worked and I kept fighting. But there's a line between courage and foolishness. There's a difference between quitting and realizing that something is not right for you. And the only person who really knows is the fighter."

In theory, the referee, the ring doctor, and a fighter's corner are all there to protect him (or her) and take the decision to stop a fight out of the fighter's hands. Sometimes they do. And sometimes they don’t.

Some referees are notoriously reluctant to stop a fight.

In most jurisdictions, the ring doctor can't stop a fight. He can only recommend stoppage to the referee. And that recommendation must be based on hard medical evidence (such as a dangerous cut or neurological symptoms), not the flow of the fight.

That leaves the fighter's corner. Sometimes the corner's judgment is better than the fighter's. Sometimes it isn't. Once again, Teddy Atlas has his say.

"Sometimes a fighter has no more left to give," Atlas notes. "And if I'm worth my salt as a trainer, my job is to never get to the point where my fighter – if he's a real fighter – is thinking about quitting. Some trainers won't stop a fight. It's so obvious that the fight should be stopped. The fighter has been taken to a place where either he has to submit or be badly hurt. And the trainer won't stop it. Is it ignorance? Stupidity? Ego? Whatever it is, that person shouldn't be working a fighter's corner.

"And the trainer shouldn't ask his fighter if he wants to keep fighting," Atlas adds. "Because, if he's any kind of fighter at all, he'll say ‘yes’. That's a decision the trainer has to make."

But sometimes the protective mechanisms fail. A fight isn't stopped when it should be. And sometimes a fighter wants to quit when maybe he shouldn't. There are no ironclad criteria for what's right. A host of variables come into play.

Some fighters are brought in as sacrificial lambs. They're expected to lose, and everybody (including the fighter) knows it. The only open issue is how bad a beating he'll take before being knocked out by a vastly superior opponent. If that fighter says to himself, "F--k the promoter and the fans. I've been getting beaten up for four rounds. I have no chance to win." Well, what did the promoter and fans expect?

The stakes of a fight matter. A fighter is expected to endure more hardship to preserve whatever chance (no matter how small) he has to win a world title bout than a four-round club fight.

And a fighter can be forgiven for considering how badly he's being hurt. We're not talking about a tennis match where a player is taking a drubbing en route to a lopsided straight-sets defeat. Getting beaten up by a professional boxer hurts. It's not hard to understand why a fighter might say to himself, "It's not my night. I can't win. Why keep getting hit?"

Purists might tell that fighter, "Remember the fighter's code. Show some pride."

But punches aren't just painful in the moment. The physical effects of a bad beating stay with a fighter for life. The punishment accumulates with every bout and causes long-term damage. The only question is "how much?"

If a fighter is getting beaten up, expended everything he has with nothing left to give nor defend himself with and feels that he's in imminent danger of serious physical harm with no chance to win, he has every right to preserve himself for life afterward.

The fighter isn't always objective. But sometimes the fighter knows best.

There's also a distinction to be made between pain and injury. Injury (such as a torn rotator cuff) is non-negotiable. Continuing to fight with an injury can turn a condition that might not be serious in the long run into a condition that's very serious.

A fighter shouldn't be expected to fight through an injury that threatens permanent physical damage.

When a fighter goes into the ring with a bad eye or a bad shoulder or intermittent headaches, people are quick to say that fighters should take responsibility for their own wellbeing. That also holds true for what happens to fighters during a fight, not just before it.

But having said all that; it should be noted that how a fighter quits matters.

There are many different ways to quit in a fight. Not trying to win is one form. A fighter who just tries to survive from round one on and never makes a fight of it falls short of the standard set by a fighter who gives it his all, is getting badly hurt, has no chance to win, and says finally, "I've had enough."

Honesty matters.

Sometimes as a fight goes on, it's clear that a fighter is looking for a way out. I have a problem with fighters who fake it.

Getting up at the count of ten-and-a-half and complaining about a "quick count' is another form of quitting.

Quitting comes with consequences, both in what people think about a fighter who quits and what the fighter thinks about himself. But it's the fighter's choice.

If a fighter is getting hurt, has nothing left to give and the physical risks have moved beyond what should be acceptable in boxing, that fighter is entitled to quit.

Coming Monday: Part II ...

Thomas Hauser's email address is thomashauserwriter@gmail.com. His most recent book — The Most Honest Sport: Two More Years Inside Boxing — is an available on Amazon. In 2019, Hauser was selected for boxing's highest honor — induction into the International Boxing Hall of Fame.