Boxer Brad Rone stepped into the ring July 18 with a heart aching from loss but steeled with purpose. His mother had died the day before of heart failure, and he was determined to earn his $800 fee to help pay for her funeral.

Like many other professional boxers, Rone had few dreams and many losses. Like them, he traveled the country to fight a few rounds for a small purse, giving hometown boxers not much of a challenge and an easy victory to pad their records.

He won only seven times in 53 fights, and lost 25 in a row. His last fight killed him.

When Rev. Victor S. Couzens told mourners Friday at Cincinnati's Inspirational Baptist Church that "the fight is fixed" in God's plan for mankind, 34-year-old Brad Rone lay in an open casket next to the casket of his mother, Thelma. Two black boxing gloves lay above his head.

"He didn't have a good record and he knew it," said Rone's fiance, Helen Ruffin. "He told me, `I'm never going to be a heavyweight champion.' But he said he would always go into the ring as a warrior."

Rone, who also worked in a convenience store, took a five-year break from boxing from 1990 to 1995 after losing his first four fights. During that time, he was incarcerated for an assault in what friend and early trainer Larry Mullins called a fight involving someone who had "messed with one of Brad's sisters."

Others may question whether a fighter with a 7-41-3 record (including two no-contests) and a three-year losing streak should have stayed in boxing, but Rone's friends and family do not.

"If he didn't have boxing, he'd probably have been back in jail," Mullins said.

Pete Susens, who booked many of Rone's Midwest fights, added: "Brad loved boxing. Boxing made him somebody, not just another schmo in a convenience store."

Said Sean Gibbons, another boxing matchmaker and friend: "Boxing gave Brad a chance to make a little money and see the world. He fought in Germany, Denmark and Hawaii."

Despite Rone's record, Susens said he believed "he was a good fighter because he fought hard fights against big names. He didn't have a big punch to make it big, but he was a real good journeyman fighter."

That is a mantle often bestowed on fighters who are not quite contenders, and many wear it without embarrassment.

They include Reggie Strickland, who has 60 victories, 248 losses and 15 draws, and Donnie Penellton, whose record is 14-149-4, including a current 18-fight losing streak. Other records are less comical if no more successful: Justo Almazan's 11-32-4, Anthony Ivory's 28-63-4, and Oscar Andrade's mediocre 31-22-1.

They often fight opponents with impressive records and are dropped into those opponents' hometowns "where they maybe get robbed by hometown officials' scoring," said veteran promoter Don Chargin. "But a fighter with a great record, even unbeaten, who has been babied can be beaten by a guy with an average record."

Andrade proved that recently, defeating two fighters whose combined records were 39-2-2. That lifted him into the ranks of super-flyweight contenders.

Few average fighters achieve that distinction. Those with losing records never do. But "there are a lot of guys with records like mine who don't fight hard like me," said Ivory, 39, a junior middleweight from Chicago.

Ivory, who hopes to use his boxing savings to open a martial arts school, says he stays in the ring because "I keep in shape and I don't mind training. I love to run and be in the gym.

"I never got seriously hurt in a fight," he added. "If I felt I'd really been hurt, I could walk away from it."

Bruce Trampler, a matchmaker with promoter Bob Arum's Top Rank Inc., said there is "a whole spectrum of rationales" that keeps fighters with losing records in the sport.

"The litany ranges from `It beats getting a job' to `It's all I know how to do' to `I enjoy it,'" he said.

Almazan, 31, says he fights to supplement the income he and his wife make managing a San Diego apartment building.

Though Almazan has only 11 victories in 47 bouts, "he's one of my favorite fighters," said Chargin. "If you need a late replacement, Almazan gives you action."

Chargin cites a July 11 card in Canton, Ohio. "A day before, a fighter dropped out and we had nobody to fill in, so we called Justo. He flew in from California, and he won," picking up a $1,000 bonus to his $1,500 fee.

That is tip money for champions, but it was more than three times what lured Brad Rone into the ring last week.

Crowd stunned

Over his 14-year career, Rone fought several top heavyweight contenders and even sparred with Mike Tyson. But when he faced Billy Zumbrun last week in Cedar City, Utah, he had gained nearly 80 pounds and weighed a pudgy 259.

He had fought Zumbrun just a month before and lost.

"Rone didn't look like he wanted to be there," said sports editor Bob Hudson of the St. George Spectrum, who was seated at ringside. "He moseyed into the ring, while Zumbrun came in excited, raring to go."

Even so, Zumbrun's early punches seemed not to faze Rone. Yet when the bell ended the first round, Rone collapsed before he could return to his corner.

"I had turned away for a second, so I didn't see him fall," Susens said. "I thought maybe he'd been hit after the bell and was going for a disqualification. The other guy was standing there, looking confused."

But as Dr. Randy Delcore, the ringside physician, jumped into the ring and struggled to find Rone's pulse, a stunned crowd realized Rone had not fallen to a punch.

The night after his mother died, Rone was pronounced dead at Valley View Medical Center in Cedar City. The state medical examiner's office has not released autopsy findings, but preliminary reports point to aberrant cardiac arrhythmia, which can lead to a heart attack.

His bout was the third on a four-fight card. The fourth was canceled.

Heartbroken

Rone grew up with nine siblings in a home headed by a single mother. His extended family included a coterie of boxing friends in Las Vegas, including former light heavyweight champion Eddie Mustafa Muhammad, who called Rone "T.C.", short for his other nickname, "Top Cat."

"I was with T.C. the whole week, laughing and joking, before his mother died," said Muhammad, now a manager and official with JAB, the newly formed boxers' union. "When he told me his mom had died, I knew how much he loved her. He flew back and forth to see her. He was trying to hold it in, but his heart was broken."

Muhammad thought Rone was going to forego his fight and return to Cincinnati. He learned of Rone's death on the Internet.