Much though there is to admire in Oscar De LaHoya’s glistening career and despite the perfect role model he represents for any aspiring pugilist his status as boxing’s Golden Boy, and the enormous cheques his crossover appeal allows him to accept and write, is beginning to leave me a little nauseous. Oscar isn’t the Light-Middleweight champion, nor is he a Welterweight titleist – you need to go back to 2002-2003 for the last time he won and defended a belt – and yet he remains the ultimate goal of every fighter from 130 to 160 pounds. With this financial luster comes responsibility. One he will ignore if he opts for Paul Williams.
Continue reading “I’ve tried, Oscar, but Paul Williams doesn’t excite me”
Vitali Klitschko, 37, was never a great fighter. He certainly wasn’t a great heavyweight champion. In fact, I’d go further I’d say he was a poor heavyweight champion and little more than a mediocre fighter. Like many in the curious, contrary world of boxing his repute grew more in gritty defeat to an ageing Lennox Lewis than in any of his victories, of which I would struggle to summon a single performance of historic significance.
Big David Price, all 6ft 8 of him, took two standing 8 counts and failed to score in his semi final contest with Italian Roberto Cammarelle. Price appeared to land more than one scoring shot but without the clarity for the five ringside observers to press their blue buttons together. Bronze remains a solid achievement for the giant Brit but for once aggression and combination punching prevailed. The Italian, the betting favourite according to the BBC’s Jim Neilly, was the more aggressive, positive fighter from the first bell.
Congratulations must go to gutsy, no sniggering at the back, London heavyweight 
As fan and as a writer, purchasing pay-per-view boxing is a prerequisite these days. I’ve done them all, from Bruno v Tyson, Hamed, Lewis through to Hatton v Tszyu and everything in between. So strong is my thirst to see the stars of the fistic world that I even succumbed to the very shallow temptation of Eastman v Hopkins. A fight never likely to distract the annual visitors to the Dulux sponsored, Watch Paint Dry Championships. 
It was painful to view. And my scorecard reflected my desire to prolong the feint hope of Junior Witter finally securing the chance to face arch-rival Ricky Hatton before both got too old or too fat for anyone to care. Placing the credit for the victory at the door of Ricky Hatton, given it was young Timothy Bradley in the ring throwing punches, would be ungracious and unfair but there was certainly a shadow of the wealthy Hitman over the split decision triumph for the American. 
Every one of us lives by certain unfathomable rules; idiosyncratic lines we never venture across. Superstitions or clichés collected from life experience or bestowed from those who formed us. “Never drink in pubs near the market in a strange town” my Dad always implored, a directive I wish I’d adhered to when I was in Stoke-On-Trent in the early nineties but that’s another story.
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