It wasn't Lebron versus Carmello, or Tyson versus Holyfield. It was better. And this one actually lived up to the hype.     On Oct. 25, two-time Olympian Melvin Douglas was asked about NCAA heavyweight champion Steve Mocco by an Arizona Republic reporter.    His response? "So what? NCAA Champs are a dime a dozen."      Douglas, 40, making a comeback at the 19th annual Sunkist Open in Tempe, Ariz., delivered the proverbial slap in the face with that response.    Two days later, in the championship final, it would be the God-given talent and experience of Douglas versus the power and youth of Mocco.     Something had to give.     In the 2000 Sydney Games, Douglas' last competition, he wrestled at 213.75 pounds. At Sunkist, he was closer to 240, with a Warren Sapp-like physique, sporting a fu man chu and shoes with no laces taped around his ankles. And like Sapp, he was a crowd-pleaser, smiling during bouts, feeding off his hometown crowd and displaying his considerable talents.     In the semi-finals, Douglas met Kellan Fluckiger, the huffing-puffing, tattooed All-American out of Arizona State. With blurring speed and nimble feet, Douglas controlled the match. Working in five-second bursts, exploding in on duck-unders, single-leg attacks and throw-bys, he then bought time with under hooks, snap-downs and slow, meandering steps back to the center.     Meanwhile, Mocco warmed up for his own bout, pacing back and forth behind Douglas's mat, occasionally stealing glances at the former World Champion. Weighing roughly 270 pounds, with a wide, burly frame,   the North Bergen, N.J. native simply overwhelmed his earlier opponents. Stepping on the mat with a purpose and rarely failing.     After Douglas won 5-2, Mocco took his turn.    While Douglas was on his way to sign his bout sheet, he strode a few feet away from Mocco. Neither one made eye contact with the other.    They would meet soon enough.     While cooling down, Douglas, sipped water and chatted with Sunkist Kids coach Joe Seay behind the scorer's table. Moments later Mocco pinned his Canadian opponent. Douglas nonchalantly peered over through a cluster of people. His face was blank.    Like a pay-per-view boxing event, the best was saved for last. Three mats covered half of the Wells Fargo Arena floor, but both all other matches in the other styles had already concluded. This was the last match left.    It was almost 6:30 p.m. when the referee blew his starting whistle.     Mocco, like a bull let out of his pen, charged towards Douglas, shooting, ducking and trying to snap him out of position. Douglas calmly brushed away the onslaught like a fencer, one leg forward, standing nearly erect, slowly back-peddling with each forceful rush before being driven off the mat.     Douglas was put in par-terre for passivity and Mocco capitalized with a two-point gut wrench. Later, Douglas received a penalty point because Mocco was using two hands to pull the head.      Two upper weights were battling one mat over, but they might as well have been invisible.     Everyone wanted to see this match, and, based on the crowd noise, all wanted Douglas to win. Each Douglas point was met with deafening approval, every Mocco score with grudging acceptance.    In the second period, Douglas tried three consecutive ducks, getting denied each time. Mocco, attempting another gut wrench, got sloppy, and Douglas stepped over for a 3-2 lead.     Mocco captured a double-leg takedown with forty seconds left to knot the score at 3-3.     Timeout Douglas.     The trainer rushed out, but Douglas was in no hurry. Searching for an injury, the trainer eventually diagnosed hurt lungs. The referee, like a dignified servant, waited patiently by the seated Douglas, affording the veteran all the time he desired. Oxygen is hard to come by at 40 years of age.     "Hey, Mel! Take all the time you need," a fan yelled, laughing. "You only need one takedown."    Minutes later, the action resumed.     In one quick flurry, Douglas lowered his level, ducked under Mocco and whirled around his wide frame. In trouble, Mocco tried to spin away, but was corralled at the edge of the international mat, in-between the first and third circles on the perimeter. Douglas was behind Mocco, who was in a tri-pod position, hips arched high in the air like a sprinter in the starting blocks.      The referee frantically waved his arms inwards and outwards before motioning to the side like an air traffic controller.     No takedown. Out of bounds. Back to the center.     "Booooooooo!!!" the crowd, on its feet, exclaimed in unison.        Timeout Douglas.     "Fix the tank," one fan said.     "Retape your shoes," yelled another.     Mocco, shifting side to side in the center circle, hands on hips, looked annoyed.     Five seconds into an anti-climatic overtime, Douglas attempted another duck-under, lowering, rising, never moving forward. Mocco, waiting in a linebackers crouch, held his ground and steamrolled the off-balance Douglas for the takedown and the match.    4-3 - Mocco.    Both competitors shook hands, paying respects. Douglas then gazed into the applauding crowd, sleepy-eyed and expressionless, as if searching for someone. Mocco, in typical Hawkeye fashion, bolted the arena, out of sight and into the warm desert night.