A weekend or two have passed since I conjured the headline. The braggart with the fast smile and quicksilver punches, Ryan Garcia had doused Conor Benn in lashings of humility so copious in quantity even Benn’s disproportionate purse would be inadequate compensation for a man with too much pride in too little qualification for such an exalted platform.
It struck me that the duality of meaning in the word class, well, it ventured to remind Benn the Junior that he’d not had the required schooling to compete and equally, the juggernaut of promotion propelling him forward had ignored the gulf in class evident in the pairing.
As the Romford Bull Johnny Fisher clung to victory with his legs disobeying him and his gasps for air betraying the poker face he was trying to offer last night, I was reminded that British fighters propelled toward levels they’re ill-equipped to succeed at is a dangerous pastime.
The fact Fisher is meeting that reality so soon only confirming the poor state of domestic level shows in the UK in the aftermath of the distortion caused by Saudi Arabian riches.
My smugness as I lay in the bath the Sunday night after Benn’s defeat with the title rolling in my mind and contemplating how best to convey the idea it spoke to wasn’t quite a match for Benn’s misplaced bravado in the build up to his bout. True, some was drawn from him by the starvation he imposed on himself to make Welterweight but nevertheless remained luminous until reality hit him through the thunder of Garcia’s fists. The thickened brow, the jutting jaw, the wide cheek bones and pulsing neck contorted with his insistence that he boasted the firepower, for which no current evidence existed, and the technical ability to impose himself on a taller, longer, faster, better opponent still fresh in the mind of this observer as he hit the deck.
He had come a long way as a tribute act. Earned handsomely, despite years of inactivity forced by failed drugs tests, and had options to depart, a young man with millions banked, or regather himself back at the domestic level he had never conquered. The fools were those who believed more than the tattooed pied piper who had danced ahead of them. But the defeat was more akin to Howard Clarke versus Fernando Vargas or Esham Pickering versus Mauricio Martinez than the great victories of his father, Nigel. The memory of which stimulated much of the interest he enjoyed.
Watching Johnny Fisher last night, another British fighter signed to Zuffa Boxing after the stewardship of Matchroom Boxing had guided him to levels of renown and renumeration similarly disproportionate to his ability and horizons, I was reminded of Benn’s denouement at the hands of Garcia. Fisher, a champion of Chinese takeways, catchphrases and likeability is, as boxing parlance once described, ‘a big lump’. Sadly, he’s precious little more.
Six feet five, with thick limbs and a barrel chest he is, aesthetically, a kind of exaggerated throwback. The loveable nephew with a big jaw and a desire to entertain and please. He’d have played well with the Grandma’s on the front row of a 1970s British wrestling ring. How they would’ve swung handbags at all Big John’s opponents. As we were told before Fisher had broken into our consciousness, ‘he sells thousands of tickets, bosh’, and as such, Eddie Hearn was keen to guide him. There was money to be made and he was from the Matchroom ‘manor’, Romford.
The problem, much like Conor Benn, is that sooner or later there will be an opponent who doesn’t collapse when he’s hit by a Popeye right hook. Big Dave Allen, a man with a dislike for road running only Wild Coyote could surpass, and famous for his consistent lack of preparation was still far too seasoned and competent and beat Fisher twice, if only awarded one win. Fisher made some money. So did Big Dave. But Fisher was revealed to be nothing more than a game swinger with an aerobic problem after 3 rounds.
So, to last night. Fisher met a Belgian with modest power and a modest record, Michael Pirotton. Over 10 rounds. He tried, oh how Fisher tried to be something he’s not built to be. Patient, methodical, cautious. All in an attempt to pace himself once the big shots didn’t shift Pirotton as much as the half full CopperBox wanted them too.
Despite the limitations, and both men had them, it proved an absorbing contest. Interest for the non-partisan fuelled by the schadenfruede of hoping the huge underdog from Belgium could outlast another of Zuffa’s expensive acquisitions. It is hard not to like Fisher. He’s game, he’s brave and he’s usually aggressive.
But he’s just not good enough for the platform he’s now on. He may one day clobber a contender and win. It will be a fluke and it will need to be in the opening round or two. He squeaked a Majority Decision last night. So more progressive steps lay ahead. But the sight of him swaying, exhausted as the referee waited to raise his hand and then require oxygen at ringside suggests the kinder matchmaking of Eddie Hearn would have been a safer home than the cut-throat mentality of Dana White’s mob.
Of course, like Benn, and ultimately all fighters regardless of their capabilities or potential, the aim is to make as much money as fast as possible – and get out. Or should be.
I hope Johnny Fisher’s family help ensure he isn’t in too deep before he does.
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