IN 1977, when Welsh bantamweight Johnny Owen challenged for the British title in what would be his 10th professional fight, a pint of bitter cost 27 pence, a pint of lager 32 pence, while a pint of milk and a loaf of white bread set you back 11p and 22p respectively.

A Ford Cortina, for those with the means, cost around two and a half grand, while the average house price was £13,000.

Labour’s James Callaghan, Sunny Jim, was prime minister in 1977, and in the workplace the average wage of full-time manual worker was 70 quid for men and 43 quid for women. When it came to entertainment, among the top TV shows at the time were Citizen Smith, Mind Your Language, Robin’s Nest, George and Mildred, and Rising Damp. In the world of football, Brian Clough’s Nottingham Forest stormed to the English First Division title in the 1977-78 season, seven points ahead of the previous season’s champions, Liverpool, managed by Bob Paisley.

Oh, and 1977 was also the year of Queen Elizabeth II’s Silver Jubilee, marking her 25 years on the throne.

Of Welsh mining stock in Merthyr Tydfil, Johnny Owen was just 21 years old when he faced current titleholder, Paddy Maguire, at the National Sporting Club in London in November of that year. Fate, both cruel and fortuitous, would define Owen’s life and career, and on this night it was fate of the fortuitous kind that saw Owen challenge for the title. This it did when the originally scheduled challenger, fellow Welshman Wayne Evans, declined the opportunity when offered it, citing lack of experience.

The fight between Owen and Maguire was an attritional affair. Throughout, Owen used his superior reach to out-grind the champion, to the point where the ref stepped in and stopped it to prevent Maguire, by now carrying a bad cut over his right eye, from further punishment.

Owen, notoriously shy and introverted, returned to Methyr Tydfil a local hero to a local hero’s acclaim. He was met by the town mayor and two civic receptions were held in his honour. He was voted Welsh Boxer of the Year, and he came in fourth in the voting for the 1977 BBC Sports Personality of the Year.

The year 1977, clearly then, was a good year in the life of Johnny Owen. It was a life that involved more than mere dedication to boxing but a veritable marriage to it. Not a drop of alcohol ever passed his lips, and he purposely avoided romantic relationships as potential distractions from his craft. Scottish boxing scribe, Hugh McIlvanney, famously described Owen as “The Virgin Soldier” in a 1979 piece on him.

Painfully thin, even for a bantamweight, Owen’s chief attribute was his near freakish stamina. Long distance running was a staple of his training routine. It led Welsh boxing writer and former referee, Winford Jones, to opine: “His [Owen’s] great skill wasn’t his strength — though he never took a backwards step and could punch as hard as anyone of his weight — it was his stamina. He could fight for hours, and would wear opponents down by outlasting them.”

The ability and determination to outlast his opponents in the ring may have been an attribute throughout his career, but in 1980 in a world title fight in Los Angeles, it cost Johnny Owen his life.

The date was September 19 and the location the Olympic Auditorium. By now European bantamweight champion, Owen climbed through the ropes to face Mexico’s Lupe Pintor for the latter’s WBC title.

Here’s Hugh McIlvanney: “It is the simple truth that for weeks a quiet terror had been gathering in me about this fight … There is something about his pale face, with its large nose, jutting ears and uneven teeth, all set above that long, skeletal frame, that takes hold of the heart and makes unbearable the thought of him [Owen] being badly hurt.”

McIlvanney’s sense of “quiet terror” in advance of the fight would prove tragically prescient. Owen’s lack of devastating punching power and freakish stamina and courage combined, on this particular night in this particular fight, to dictate that both would be the last of his young life.

Pintor, his Mexican opponent, carried serious power in both hands and early on began to land shuddering blows on Owen’s head. Over the 12 brutal rounds that ensued, the strength drained out of every muscle in the Welshman’s body except his heart.

When the by now inevitable knockout came in the 12th, with just 40 seconds of the round left, Owen was unconscious before his body hit the canvas. In those far off times, safety measures at professional bouts, even world championship ones, were grievously lacking. So much so that there was no oxygen at ringside by which the Welshman might have been saved. There was no ambulance or paramedics on hand either, with the delay before any of the latter arrived on the scene, from the LA Fire Department, crucial in the outcome.

Though he held on for two long weeks at the California Hospital in Los Angeles with his mother at his bedside, on November 4 1980 Johnny Owen succumbed and passed away. He was just 24 years old.

Today in Merthyr Tydfil a statue of Johnny Owen stands pride of place. It was unveiled in 2002 by none other than his opponent on that fateful night, Lupe Pintor. Invited to the ceremony by Owen’s father, Dick, Pintor met the rest of the Owen family and with tears in his eyes, told them via an interpreter: “I am sorry for what happened, I did not wish him [Johnny] harm. It was a sporting accident. Sport is beautiful. I was just doing what I knew best, as Johnny was. He was a great warrior.”

In reply, one of Johnny Owen’s brother told the Mexican: “Please don’t cry, it was an accident. You have come all this way to honour my brother and we thank you. Tomorrow we shall celebrate John’s life and achievements together. John would be proud.”

In 1977, when 21-year-old Johnny Owen was riding high, nobody could have predicted that his tragic demise would come just three years later. Philosophers and poets have long pondered the role of destiny and fate in human affairs. None yet has come up with the answer.