By Ron Borges

Roy Jones, Jr. recently said he was "back to my old self'' during a teleconference called to hype his upcoming July 29 fight against Prince Badi Ajamu, who is neither a prince nor much of a known commodity in the light heavyweight division. The latter, of course, is how he got the fight. What Jones best hope is that he is anything but back to his old self because of late that has meant he has ended up back on his old back, having been knocked out in two of his last three fights, all of which ended in defeat one way or another.

Of course, there is little to compare between Prince Badi Ajamu and either Antonio Tarver or Glen Johnson, Jones' conquerors, which is the other way he got the fight, of course. A boxer's ability to delude himself often knows no bounds and Jones is not only no exception he has always been the poster boy for self-delusion. Jones long felt sure he was a draw despite compelling evidence to the contrary. His pay-per-view numbers and ticket sales belied that self-appraisel as they will again when Jones enters the ring at the QWest Arena in Boise, the fight capital of Idaho.

Idaho is known for several things, most notably potatoes and having a blue field at the local college football stadium. As a boxing center it eclipses Fargo, North Dakota but will never be mistaken for Vegas. Or Albuquerque for that matter.

Yet that is where a man who has so long talked of himself in the third person that when he looks into the mirror he has to be introduced to himself has decided to return to boxing after a 10-month layoff. That long absence went so unnoticed that when it ended, Roy Jones ended up in Boise. This might have made sense if, say, the Prince hailed from Boise and hence was the hometown hero and a hot ticket seller.

He was, however, born and raised in Camden, N.J. and fights out of Philadelphia. He is in Boise only because that's where Jones' people told him to be on the appointed day.

Other than that, he doesn't know why he's there and neither does Jones, who is back at nearly 38. Why is anyone's guess.

Jones insists it's like the draw to the stage for an old actor. It's the smell of the greasepaint. The lure of the crowd. The love of the game. This from a guy who used to agree to fight formidable opposition only under threat of deportation.

"The lure of not being in the ring is what brought me back,'' Jones said recently. "That and fighting someone like the Prince is what I needed. He's someone who will challenge me. Push me to my limit. In fact, he really kind of reminds me of myself in my younger days.''

Sure he does. Ajamu's career has a lot in common with the former Olympic silver medalist and world champion in four weight classes from 160 pounds to heavyweight. They are both boxers. And then there's the fact that they're both boxers.

It was once written about an aging, cranky baseball player by an adroit sportswriter that, "He never learned to say hello 'til it was time to say goodbye.'' The same can now be said of Jones. When he was at the top of his game you had to beg and bribe him to get into the ring against anyone who stood a chance of punching back.

Unlike most fighters, talking to him was even more difficult. It was easier to talk to one of the fighting roosters he keeps in the side yard of his Pensacola, Fla. home than to get anything useful out of him.

Jones had no interest in helping his sport, little interest in hyping his events and a lot of interest in demanding big guarantees, after which he seldom cooperated with the people paying them. A month or so ago he met with a group of national writers in Atlantic City to try and drum up interest in coming to Boise, which only one of them are known to be doing.

When asked why he had looked so hapless in his last fight, an October, 2005 loss to Tarver by one-sided decision, instead of giving Tarver credit he claimed his corner was in such disarray because of the presence of his father, from whom he had been fistically estranged for quite some time, that he decided he had no interest in winning.

What this sounded ominously like was a guy admitting he'd tanked a fight. Someone might have asked for a clarification of that had they cared enough to do so. They didn't and when the story came out no one else cared either.

After saying that day that, "If I go on and win that fight who gets the glory? Not me. Not God. All the glory would've gone to Roy Jones, Sr. and he didn't deserve it,'' Jones later insisted he didn't mean to imply he'd lost the fight on purpose, only to infer that the presence of his father in his corner after so long an absence had broken his spirit and affected his performance. He left out the fact that his father was there at his invitation, embarrassing as that was for his long time trainer, Alton Merkerson, who was reduced to a bucket carrier trying to keep up with the Joneses.

Sadly Jones doesn't seem to understand he's become a circus act. Once considered the pound-for-pound most talented boxer in the world, he regularly disrespected his sport, his opponents and everyone he came in contact with. He was difficult in the way divas are difficult and eventually it made him distasteful to deal with.

Hence when his reflexes began to slow and all the technical flaws his physical gifts had allowed him to survive for so long made him a vulnerable old man lying stiff on the floor, his legs hovering six inches off the ground and quivering after Johnson knocked him cold, his predicament generated little sympathy. Jones had for years crapped on his opponents, for lack of a more descriptive phrase. Now he was on the other side of that equation, beaten to the punch in three straight losses and really in four straight fights because many folks will argue Tarver outpointed him in their first encounter as well.

Jones got that win because a great champion in decline always gets a favor or two before he departs but the hue and cry was so loud he was boxed into a corner from which he could not escape and he granted Tarver an immediate rematch. Thus began a two-fight string of early siestas before Tarver would again outpoint him a third time on a night in which Jones fought like a cat on a hot tin roof - cautiously refusing to take any chances.

Now he is back, an old man in the shadows, trying to reclaim a legacy he failed to cultivate when he was at his heights. He may very well beat the 34-year-old Ajamu but what will that mean? It will mean nothing to anyone but the phony ratings organizations which have polluted the sport for so long. One or more of them will rush to make him a mandatory contender for one of their meaningless titles (please name the light heavyweight champions by organization) under the mistaken belief such a

title fight might mean something to the larger sporting world.

How defeating someone who has been beaten by Rico Hoye and fought Anthony Bonsante of "The Contenders'' to a draw qualifies anyone for a title shot after losing three straight fights against more serious competition only the suits who run boxing can explain. But there is one possibility for which no one needs an explanation. If Jones ends up an empty shell in Boise and becomes the third shot former champion in a row (Fernando Vargas and Arturo Gatti having preceded him the past two weeks to the boxing gallows) to lose badly it will be a sad but predictable end.

Just another night when another guy who once ruled the ring made himself blind to the obvious - that he is now a knockoff, a cheap imitation of who he used to be.

In mid-August the greatest heavyweight of his time, Evander Holyfield, will make the same mistake in Dallas, fighting a journeyman against whom he has nothing to gain and much to lose. It has long been how history is written in boxing. Great champions, like aging singers, refuse to leave the stage even when they can no longer carry a tune. They stay until they end up in someplace like Boise, sitting at a truck stop wearing sunglasses after midnight wondering in bewilderment how it all slipped away.