In 1988, Canadian sprinter Ben Johnson simultaneously won an Olympic gold medal and broke the world record when he dashed across the 100m finish line in 9.79 seconds.
Twenty-eight years later, Australian boxer Lucas Browne travelled to Chechnya and beat WBA champion Ruslan Chagaev, becoming the first fighter from his country to win a world heavyweight title.
Both men became national treasures. But for Johnson, his glory lasted barely longer than his Olympic final race. Three days later, he tested positive for stanozolol, a banned performance-enhancing drug. He was stripped of his record and medal, and both his compatriots and his fellow athletes turned on him viciously.
He served a two-year ban, and then failed another drug test in 1993. This time he was banned for life, and his disgrace was total. To this day he remains a poster boy for drugs cheats in sport.
Browne, too, was stripped of his title when two months after beating Chagaev he tested positive for clenbuterol, which aids muscle-building and weight loss.
His compatriots' reaction was altogether more muted. With a "good Aussie bloke" persona, Browne's excuse that some dastardly foreigner must have tainted his food was widely accepted.
But then, shortly after completing a six-month suspension -- a quarter of Johnson's term -- Browne failed another drugs test, this time for ostarine, which is said to have similar properties to anabolic steroids.
While this led to the cancellation of another WBA title fight, the repercussions of testing positive for two separate banned substances within an eight-month period have been more a nuisance than a punishment.
Browne fights on, and has a major WBC-sanctioned match set for March.
Boxing fans barely commented on his second test failure.
Compare that with Johnson, who remains a pariah, continually heckled in person and online, his notoriety precluding him from ever securing a significant post-athletics career.
What accounts for the difference in penalties and public reaction between drugs cheats in most sports, and in one of the most dangerous ones?
Why does a man who cheated in a footrace essentially have his life ruined, while those who seek an unfair advantage in boxing are, at worst, moderately inconvenienced?
Perhaps it is because Browne was far from an isolated example. In the contemporary heavyweight scene alone, there are a number of known drug cheats.
Even putting aside the one-time offenders, there are several other fighters who have been caught doping at least twice.
Alexander Povetkin flunked tests prior to back-to-back WBC title fights. He's been banned by the WBC but remains highly ranked by the other three world championship bodies, and continues to compete.
Shannon Briggs last year failed a second drugs test, but will likely be back in action in a few months.
And Luis Ortiz has twice been stripped of WBA belts for doping offences, yet it was announced last week he will challenge WBC world champion Deontay Wilder on March 3.
It's inevitable that fans shrug their shoulders when a boxer is caught out, so commonplace has it seemingly become (if I listed recent one-time offenders, it would fill most of this column).
This is especially so when the sport's controlling bodies take such a lacklustre approach to penalties.
Consider Ortiz's case. His second failure came in September, yet less then six months later he will challenge for one of the most lucrative championships in all of sports. Sure, he was suspended for a year by the WBA, but the WBC does not have to abide by this. Ortiz was also fined a mere US$25,000 -- a fraction of what he stands to earn against Wilder.
Penalties for doping in combat sports -- given the direst of consequences could result from an unfair advantage -- must be increased to a level where they are true deterrents. As it stands, any professional boxer could be forgiven for asking themselves: why shouldn't I cheat?