In a wonderful book called The Onion Eaters, the Mullingar-based American novelist J. P. Donleavy depicts a randy protagonist named Clayton Claw Cleaver Clementine who possesses what might delicately be described as an abundance of family jewels, having been born with an extra bit of glandular equipment. This genetic accident is all the more remarkable for the reaction it produces in others: Normally circumspect and well-mannered ladies throw themselves at him, while curious men continually urge him to drop his trousers in order that they might have a look for themselves.

For the past 12 months Evander Holyfield's life has been a lot like Clementine's. The heavyweight champion, who defends against Britain's Henry Akinwande tomorrow night at Madison Square Garden, has resigned himself to the fact that a year into his disfigurement it remains his defining characteristic. Whether he is being interviewed by television presenters, chatting with sparring partners, socialising with film stars or addressing school children, sooner or later, Holyfield has been forced to note, the other person will be overcome by curiosity, break off eye contact, and begin craning his neck at odd angles in an attempt to examine firsthand The Ear Mike Tyson Ate.

There is some irony in the fact that a man whose very hallmark has always been his courage, and who equalled Muhammad Ali's record by winning the heavyweight championship on three different occasions, will be remembered for an act of cowardice on somebody else's part.

Talk-show hosts still joke about Tyson's cannibalism, although not to Holyfield's face. In the months following the bizarre turn of events in Las Vegas last June, Holyfield had to go to court to enjoin one innovative entrepreneur who was manufacturing and peddling "Holy Ears" made of milk chocolate.

With his two wins over the fearsome Tyson, Holyfield not only won two-thirds of the world heavyweight title, but also inherited Iron Mike's promoter, Don King, and his television contract with the Showtime network. As a result he finds himself juggling the sometimes conflicting obligations of both the World Boxing Association and the International Boxing Federation, while simultaneously prevented from negotiating the fight most boxing fans would like to see - a unification bout against World Boxing Council champion Lennox Lewis, who is under contract to Showtime's rival, HBO.

To satisfy the WBA, Holyfield is obliged to defend against Akinwande, the organisation's top-rated contender, and shortly after the final bell tomorrow night he will find himself under almost immediate pressure from the IBF to meet their number one, a fellow from New Jersey called Vaughn Bean.

"There's no other reason (to fight Akinwande) than he's ranked number 1 and that's what the rules are," sighed Holyfield, who will earn $10 million to Akinwande's $2.5 million.

Akinwande's return to prominence aptly illustrates the preposterous turns boxing politics can take. When last we saw the Nigerian-born Londoner he was disgracing himself while being disqualified in a bout against Lewis last July, after repeatedly demonstrating that he would rather hug the WBC champion than attempt to fight him. All logic suggests that, apart from his association with King, Akinwande is no more qualified to be ranked number one in the world than is Vaughn Bean (who, as one wag pointed out, may not even be among the world's 10 best BEANS), but Holyfield, intent no doubt on selling tickets, persists in maintaining that he "expects a good fight" tomorrow night.

"I have to think that way," explained Holyfield. "If I go in expecting an easy fight, I set myself up for defeat.

"Besides, people can change from one fight to the next. If I'd fought all my opponents the way I fought Bobby Czyz, I wouldn't be here today."

How does Holyfield propose to deal with the gangling reach of the 6' 7" Akinwande?

"I've been boxing 27 years," said the champion, "and my arms aren't going to get any longer between now and fight time. I'll just have to use my foot speed."

Indeed, the elements of tomorrow night's encounter are rife with the potential for deja vu. Holyfield knows the one thing he can't do is stand outside and trade jabs with Akinwande, so he figures to charge straight at him and fight on the inside, and Akinwande's only recourse may try to wrap him up like an octopus, just like he did with Lewis. If Akinwande gets himself disqualified again it would only be in keeping with the rest of Holyfield's career, which has been seen its fair share of the controversial and the bizarre.

"Strange things," admitted Holyfield, "do seem to follow me around."

With Lewis in the process of renegotiating his about-to-expire contract with HBO for an extension that would allow him to step outside its limitations for a match with Holyfield, the unification bout could come as early as next year. In the meantime, the nonboxing public continues to clamour for, and indeed expect the fight they believe to be a natural - Holyfield-Tyson III.

For several months after last June's turn of events Holyfield didn't hear from Tyson at all. Then came a meeting in the same building that will host tomorrow night's fight. Holyfield was sitting near courtside at Madison Square Garden prior to the National Basketball Association All-Star game last February when he looked up and was surprised to see Tyson approaching. The two men spoke only briefly, but the chance encounter did seem to break the ice.

"He didn't exactly apologise, but we did shake hands," said Holyfield. "That's good enough for me."

A little over a month from now, the Nevada State Athletic Commission will convene to consider Tyson's application to end his year-long ban from the sport. Holyfield said this week that he expects Tyson to get his licence back, and that, moreover, if he himself sat on the board, he would vote to reinstitute Tyson.

"It's not even a matter of `forgiving,"' said Holyfield. "What's past is past."

Perhaps so, but in the collective mind of the public the two are destined to be linked forever. When Tyson showed up at a press conference at New York's All-Star Cafe a few months ago to promote his Wrestlemania appearance, no sooner had the floor been opened up for questions than a wrestling scribe eagerly raised his hand.

"Hey Mike," the fellow asked, "how does ear taste, anyway?"