Time was, the Boston area formed the hub of American boxing, producing some of the sport’s biggest heroes — John Sullivan, Rocky Marciano, Marvin Hagler, Norman Hayes, Willie Pep, Tony DeMarco, Tommy Collins, Tom McNeeley — and sparking a level of public interest that bordered on obsession. No more. In a Boston Globe story last year, boxing writer Ron Borges lamented the demise of the fight game in the region. "Nothing in sports has changed more than boxing in New England," he wrote, adding that boxing in the area has become "a fringe sport."

New England still produces the odd do-gooder — Chelsea’s John Ruiz, for example, the current World Boxing Association heavyweight champion. But at a grassroots level, the game has had the stuffing knocked out of it. Rocketing real-estate prices have forced all but a handful of the area’s gyms to close, and many of those that remain open have trouble attracting trainees — today’s kids would rather play soccer, basketball, or Sega. With less genuine talent rising through the ranks, the region has had to rely on jelly-legged vets and ham-headed neophytes to fill its fight cards. Worst of all, New England has gained a national reputation for producing second-rate boxers with first-rate records.

It’s a simple enough scam: in order to improve win-loss margins and to make as much money as possible with as little effort as necessary, an unscrupulous promoter will pair his boxer up with no-hopers — or tomato cans, as they are known in the game — which is all well and good until the untested boxer ventures out into the real world and faces a real fighter. The region’s reputation for record-padding reached its howling nadir in 1995, when Boston heavyweight Peter McNeely went up against Mike Tyson. McNeely entered the fight with a very tidy record: 34 wins to a single loss. The only problem was, as local boxing publicist Bob Trieger puts it, "He had fought 34 people who weren’t very good."

Within moments of the opening bell, it became painfully clear that "Hurricane" McNeely would have been more aptly named "Slight Breeze" McNeely, or perhaps "Imperceptible Waft" McNeely. After 89 seconds of relentless hammering from Iron Mike, McNeely threw in the towel. "It was ridiculous," says Trieger. "McNeely made money, but our area had to overcome that stigma. Even with John Ruiz, people were saying, ‘Here’s another heavyweight out of New England.’ Peter couldn’t carry John’s spit bucket, but it was still, ‘Oh, another New England fighter.’ It was a joke."

It was in this climate, in the mid ’90s, that Rich Cappiello and his brother Mike, 40, opened Cappiello Brothers Boxing and Fitness Club, a few miles across town from Petronelli’s gym in Brockton. Given the fact that boxing gyms were about as hot as mud at the time, this was a risky venture. But as cousins of the great Rocky Marciano, opening a gym was something they’d wanted to do since their childhood; boxing, they say, is in their bones. With Mike (a former US Boxing Association Lightweight Champion) taking on the role of trainer, and Rich (a used-car salesman) assuming the job of promoter, the two set out to conquer the New England fight game.

Already, the Cappiello brothers have given local boxing a much-needed shot in the arm. Their fights are often high-quality, drawing large, enthusiastic crowds. And they know how to put on a show: when Kevin McBride enters the ring, for instance, he does so heralded by a lone bagpipe player, which drives his substantial contingent of Irish fans wild. More important, Rich Cappiello’s reserves of energy and optimism have created a sense that there is something going on in the local fight game. John Ruiz, promoted by the fabled Don King, may represent New England boxing in the upper echelons of the sport, but you still need someone stoking up the fires in the basement. Cappiello — with the blood of Rocky Marciano in his veins — may be just the man to do it.

"The future is bright if you have guys like Richie out there," says Petronelli. "I told him to his face, ‘We’re fortunate to have someone like you to run shows here.’ " He adds, "If Richie didn’t do this, God knows who would." Indeed, you can understand why few would want to take on the role that Rich Cappiello has chosen for himself; promoting the fight game from the bottom up can be a thankless task.

"It’s been a struggle," says Mike Cappiello. "It’s not been easy."

In many ways, the Cappiello brothers are complete opposites. Where Mike is serious and guarded, Rich is garrulous and almost manic in his determination. "Whatever I do, I always want to be the best," he says. "I don’t like to take second place in anything." When he was in his teens, Rich built himself a truck and made a living "hustling hot dogs" on the streets of Brockton. Before long, he had parlayed Cappy’s Quik Stop into a thriving car dealership. And now, despite getting into the game relatively late in life, he sees no reason why he can’t turn his talents to boxing. "Why can’t I be the next Don King?" he asks.

This speculation draws a wry chuckle from Tony DeMarco, who was world welterweight champion back in 1955. "Don King?" DeMarco says. "Well, Don King is Don King. He is himself. Rich Cappiello is himself. There are very few Don Kings."

True, but these days there are also very few Rich Cappiellos. As Trieger says, "He’s one of the old barnstorming, Barnum & Bailey promoters." Which is precisely what a good promoter needs to be: a barker, a preacher, a motivator, a salesman. And in addition to selling his fighters, the promoter needs to sell himself. On this last point, Cappiello is extremely well qualified. "I think I can be one of the top guys in the business," he says. "I really, truly believe that. I say that in a confident way, not cocky."

"Richie is probably the most ambitious guy you’ll find among anyone involved in this sport," says Ted Bodenrader, a writer for Ring magazine. "He is young, hungry, and he has set his sights very high. He’s still a minor player in the game, but he has lofty goals. In five years, I could see him becoming a major player."