Gerry Cooney, the former heavyweight, explains boxing's prevailing attitude toward Benitez as a kind of macho respect.

''Boxers are proud; they want to give him his dignity,'' he said. ''You mention Wilfred, they say, 'Yeah, it's too bad,' and move on.''

Cooney, on the other hand, uses Benitez, along with Jerry Quarry, the former heavyweight who has a more advanced case of dementia, to illustrate why he is starting an international organization for boxers, the Fighters Institute for Support and Training.

F.I.S.T., incorporated in September, hopes to become known as a resource boxers -- still fighting or retired -- can turn to when they need advice, medical attention, jobs, a helping hand, Cooney said. At lunch at a New York restaurant, looking fit and pampered, he conceded he is doing this because he is one of the lucky ones.

''Wilfred will get help,'' he said. ''F.I.S.T. is going to do something for him.''

But F.I.S.T. is still in the fund-raising stages. And what can it do for Wilfred now? Even Mrs. Benitez isn't sure. If there had only been some place to go for advice when Wilfred and her other sons were children and their father, Gregorio, introduced them to boxing. Or when the boys were turning pro at 15 and 16. Or when Wilfred was still fighting long after his skills were shot, his three welterweight championships a fading memory and his millions in earnings all gone. Then maybe, at 71, Clara Benitez wouldn't have a son who is boxing's worst-case scenario, or two other sons, Gregory, 43, and Frankie, 40, living at home, suffering from punch-drunk memory lapses.

Mrs. Benitez, a retired practical nurse, wants to move with Wilfred to New York, where her four girls and four boys were born in the Bronx before the family moved to Carolina, P.R., when Wilfred was 7. She is sure he would get better medical attention on the mainland. Besides, he could live closer to her. She wouldn't have to drive 45 minutes from Carolina to pick him up, then drive another hour the other way to San Juan for his doctor's appointments, then another hour back to the nursing home, and another 45 minutes home. Maybe some teaching hospital would look at Wilfred's condition and find something to help him.

Sitting in her small, cramped, cement-block house, Mrs. Benitez's mood suddenly brightened.

''If someone can do something to help us find an apartment,'' she said, you give them my number.'' She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. On one side is an old publicity still of Wilfred and Frankie in their boxing trunks, their gloved hands raised to their chests. On the other, framed by a sketch of boxing gloves, is Mrs. Benitez's address and phone number. The card reads ''Clara E. Rosa, Benitez Mom.''