Category: Fight Reports

Wardley defeats Parker in thudding brawl

In a pulsating encounter in London, Fabio Wardley of Ipswich found a way to stop Kiwi Joseph Parker in the 11th round and in doing so positioned himself as Oleksandr Usyk’s next opponent for the Undisputed Heavyweight title. Wardley’s rise from the anonymity and peculiarities of White-Collar boxing to the cusp of such opportunity is both romantic in its appeal and astonishing in its reach.  

He boxes in a way that both highlights his lack of Amateur experience and demonstrates strong, natural intuition and a sense he is empowered by liberation from any pursuit of technical excellence. The evidence of tough moments, spread across several of his recent fights at increasingly elevated levels, substantiates the idea that technical proficiency, while admirable, is not the sole arbiter on Fight Night. Wardley, in another of his erudite post-fight interviews, spoke of his resilience of spirit and aggressive style that cares little for prevailing convention and the reliability of his instinct and willingness to trade.  

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Boxing. Home to heroes and hope.

Article first appeared at BigFightWeekend

As footage showed Ricky Hatton’s funeral cortege rolling through Manchester on Friday, blacked out limousines shining like poured Guinness, the route was lined by Mancunians clapping and cheering, it was natural to wonder whether boxing would ever see his like again.

A monochrome image of him in retirement, his fighter’s frame made stout by middle age, appeared above the ring the following night in Sheffield for the show topped by Dave Allen and his heavyweight slug fest with Arslanbek Makhmudov. Applause accompanied the boxing custom of striking the ring bell 10 times when a former champion has passed away.

I’m sure I could hear Ricky saying Kostya Tszyu in that broad accent of his in the fog of my mind and the image of him entwined with his trainer Billy Graham in that moment of absolute joy when he’d beaten the veteran champion swirled into view. Hatton beat many capable men in a distinguished career, but Tszyu remained his pinnacle.

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40 Years on from Murphy v Mutti double knockdown

Larry Hazzard counts over Murphy and Mutti as both hit the canvas in the 12th round of their 1985 fight.

Article first appeared at BigFightWeekend.com

The moment Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed fell to the floor simultaneously in final round of the fictional Rocky 2 rematch, Balboa rising to beat the count and win the title, fight fans could be forgiven for a wry smile at Stallone’s improbable script writing.  

But just five years later, on October 19th 1985, Chicago’s Leroy Murphy and Zambian Chisanda Mutti both found themselves on the canvas in the 12th session of their 15 round IBF Cruiserweight title fight in Fontvieille, Monaco.  Murphy, who had been the favourite pre-fight and was promoted by former contender Ernie Terrell and the then up and coming Cedric Kushner, was behind on all three judges’ scorecards at the time of the double knockdown. 

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Liddard outsmarts Conway for British title

As is customary for British title fights at the York Hall, Bethnal Green, a venue situated in the heart of London’s East End and steeped in fight history, Kieron Conway and George Liddard offered a compelling fight for those who gathered, and the handful of customers DAZN hasn’t yet ostracised. 

Champion Conway entered the ring as the tried and trusted, Liddard as the upstart in a rush. That was how the fight was characterised. Conway appeared the bigger man, at 29 and having matured in to the classic Middleweight division. His young challenger, still just 23 and reckoned to be the youngest ever champion was he to succeed, sported a D’Artagnan moustache and a Jack Nicholson grin. 

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There are no more miracles. Ali and Holmes 45 years on

Ali and Holmes. The sad decline of Ali exposed to the world.

Article first published at BigFightWeekend.com

October 2nd 1980. The Last Hurrah.  

45 years ago, Larry Holmes beat up his hero. A fight which sickened those watching on who loved his hero too. Muhammad Ali had reached into his deep reserves of magic and found there were no more miracles to summon. Aged 38, Ali’s feet were now slow, his energy sapped by a decade of grueling encounters with Frazier, Foreman and Norton, weight drained by misuse of Thyroid pills and the first creep of neurological demise becoming ever more evident. Ali was no longer the quicksilver punisher of the 1960s, the lion-tamer of the early 1970s or even the stubborn old warhorse of 77 and 78.  

That he would fight again a year later against Trevor Berbick ghastly evidence that those who loiter in a champion’s orbit are rarely there for love.

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Usyk.

To be good is to be larger than war.
It is to be more than great.
Amanda Gorman, Poet, (1998-)

Oleksander Usyk. 23 fights. Done.

Victories, as the away fighter, disadvantaged in height, weight and youth against Anthony Joshua twice, Tyson Fury twice and a stoppage of the leading contender of the next generation, Daniel Dubois, confirm a dominance for the Ukrainian few heavyweights achieve. Narrow though it proved.

A win, is a win, is a win. And Usyk collects them. And belts. And the hearts and minds of those he conquers.

His defeat of Fury was, to this observer, as a slight as it had been in their first encounter but throughout he was the fighter with the greater self-belief and superior boxing acumen. Had he not conceded 50 plus pounds it is hard not to imagine he would’ve dominated more clearly. Weight was a leveller.

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Dillian Whyte. Slobber-knocker.

It is 70 years since Orville Henry, the wiry Sports Editor at the Arkansas Gazette for the thick end of six decades, first put the term Slobber-knock to print. Filing copy in March 1964, he was describing the playing style of Dennis McLure via the words of Barry Switzer who had recruited McLure to the University of Arkansas’ football programme. This was long before Switzer’s own assent to the NFL, the position of head coach at the Dallas Cowboys in 1994 and a famous SuperBowl triumph in 1995.

“DENNIS doesn’t wait for anything to come at him,” says Barry Switzer, who recruited him. “He gets to where that ball carrier is going, meets him head-on, and I’d say he slobber-knocks ’em.”

Reading about Henry, who passed away in 2002, his status as a legend of the written word acquired in a life time of detailed and colourful coverage of the Arkansas Ridgebacks, I drew the conclusion he would’ve enjoyed the absurdity of Sunday’s heavyweight fight between the one-time contender Dillian Whyte and Ghana’s improbably named Ebenezer Tetteh.

It was, as Dan Rafael had forecast it to be on the BigFightWeekend preview podcast, “a heavyweight slobber-knocker“.

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I don’t want to be here. Sunny Edwards and the kid with the pale blue eyes

The communal head guard was always too tight. The gum shield always dug in a little on one side. The ring was small and the shallow vaulted ceiling narrowed the space above still further. I sat on the ring apron, sweat flooding from every pore. In the ring a 17-year-old with a mop of blond hair and pale blue eyes was dancing, feet sliding effortlessly across the canvas as my fellow 30-something plodded toward him. Two minute rounds that lasted a week inside the ropes, a handful of breaths on the outside, ticked past.

The youngster was talented. A natural. Quick, elusive and brave, he punched harder than a Lightweight should too. I was the bigger man, I mumbled in the torment of knowing I had to get back in when the two minutes ended and the minute’s rest the kid didn’t need was up. His quarry’s nose sprang a bloody leak and brought an early close to my wait. Most of the time I’d spent on that apron I’d contemplated how I could get out of this position with pride in tact. Or whether I really cared about my pride. A childhood spent avoiding fights had brought me to this place twenty years on. I’d smirked at the swell of dread, tasted its familiarity. A nervous response to the absurdity of being where I was. As the other victim climbed down, bright red ribbons running into his mouth the colour correspondingly drained from my face.

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Billam-Smith loses title to Ramirez, remains undefeated as a Gentleman

As images emerged of Chris Billam-Smith in the days that followed his courageous display versus the talented Mexican Gilberto ‘Zurdo’ Ramirez; left eye closed shut, the signature white tape clinging to the stitches on his brow and a bandaged hand with broken digits, it was hard to suppress growing admiration for his performance – despite the clear defeat he suffered. The pictures served as another reminder of the damage accrued in punishing, distance fights both in the conspicuity of the short term but also stored deeper for those days beyond the lights when retirement and middle age come to collect on the debt of punches taken.

Billam-Smith, like illustrious predecessors Cooper, Farr and a legion of others, won new fans and deepened the respect with which he is held via his toughness between the ropes as well as his conduct and demeanour in defeat. The Bournemouth favourite is a throwback to fighters who punched for pay long before most of Saturday’s paltry crowd in Saudi Arabia were born.

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Meek and Destroy. Dubois finds his inner badass

“By an act of will, a man refuses to think of the reasons for fear, and so concentrates entirely on winning the battle.”

Richard Nixon, American politician, 1913-1994,

It has become a forgotten truth that fighters don’t always lose when they lose. Learning lessons in defeat can prove more valuable than the apparent affirmation of victory; punishing the lazy, or the arrogant and affording perspective to those willing to listen to the truths defeats present, losing can be a gift.

A fighter beaten can still return stronger and better for the setback. In the past fighters accepted this and as a result, at least in part, they fought more often because the worry of defeat wasn’t as troublesome as it has become in era when being unbeaten was the preeminent narrative.

Daniel Dubois became a refreshing example of the value of fighting tough opponents and the catharsis of defeat. Against the cocky Croatian Filip Hrgovic on Saturday, in the midst of the latest lurid carnival of lost integrity from Saudi Arabia, he fully delivered on his physical gifts, years of hard work and the humility required to learn from defeat once considered a crippling weakness.

Conversely, Hrgovic finally paid the price for a relaxed outlook which this week appears to have mutated into hubris.

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It was what is was. Usyk topples the Fury chimney. Does either man have any more to give?

As Tyson Fury’s legs succumbed to the punches Oleksander Usyk was detonating about his temples in the 9th round of their undisputed heavyweight title clash, it brought to mind the work of renown Steeplejack, and Fury’s fellow Lancastrian, Fred Dibnah. Famous for his affable smile and fearless enterprise in climbing mill town chimneys of the type LS Lowry painted in the sky-line of post-war, industrial Manchester, Dibnah became an unlikely television personality in the 1970s and 80s. The British public became enchanted by his boyish glee as he clung on to the side of an obsolete monolith hundreds of feet above the ground with only stout boots and blue overalls to protect him.

In the gratuitous hospitality of a Saudi Arabian Saturday, a hellish Kingdom where all visitors must protest their gratitude with unstinting profusion, Fury was no more detached from the mundanity of Lowry’s flat capped factory workers, Dibnah and the grey skies and modesty of his own youth than anyone else in attendance to these grotesquely performative advertorials. With the possible exception of his vicarious father, John. A man made to ‘bleed his own blood’ having head butted a diminutive member of Average Joe’s Dodgeball team earlier in fight week.

In that 9th round, as Fury Junior’s matchstick legs betrayed the impossible heft above, it reminded this viewer of Dibnah, ambling backward in the long shadow of a Rochdale chimney stack condemned to fall by a redundancy of purpose. At that point, with his grip on his own consciousness at its most tenuous, he may have wished to be back home, or anywhere other than the tumult of losing a heavyweight title.

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Three pounds and change. Garcia triumphs over Haney.

The three pounds an effervescent Ryan Garcia elected not to shed in advance of his seismic victory over Devin Haney at the Barclays Center in down town Brooklyn last Saturday, or, if you prefer, the three pounds that proved beyond the chisels of his dedicated sculptors, dependent on the narrative most pliable to your viewpoint, could seem entirely trivial to the casual observer.

It is, when all said and done, just 2.14% beyond the contracted 140 pound Junior Welterweight limit.

Whilst it would be convenient to dismiss the significance of the three pounds and change, nobody wants a boxing superhero with an asterisks besides their name, to omit their impact in any analysis of Garcia’s upset win does a disservice to Haney, the sport and fails to recognise the advantage boxing’s newest enfant terrible sought.

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White Bronze Claret. Wardley and Clarke fight to a bloodied stand still

It is the equality of opponents that creates boxing’s finest nights not the greatness or dominance of one or the other. Fabio Wardley and Frazer Clark left London’s O2 Arena on Sunday night as a conspicuous example of this age-old truism. Wardley, the British and Commonwealth Champion, retained his titles with a draw few could argue was an accurate reflection of the equivalence of their efforts and success. Both retaining their unbeaten records also a fitting conclusion given the blood shed and the utter exhaustion they exhibited through the championship rounds.

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Welsh tough Liam Williams back with a win

Article first published at BigFightWeekend.com

Flinty Welsh Middleweight Liam Williams, 25 (20ko)-4-1, returned from a year of inactivity with a one punch knockout victory against the over matched Florin Cardos at the York Hall, London. A win that reveals little; Williams has always been a powerful hitter, but serves as a reminder to Hamzah Sheeraz, the tall and rangy 24-year-old Middleweight prospect, that their proposed fight for 2024 will feature all of Williams’ trademark intensity.

Age 31, Williams still has time to feature in high profile bouts in a weight class lacking the profile fighters traditionally associated with the historic division. In short, despite losses to Liam Smith, Chris Eubank Junior and Demetrius Andrade, Williams retains international prospects and will entertain the public in pursuit of more illustrious scalps. Whether that quests proves forlorn or successful.

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Cordina too close in the ring and on the cards

Cordina wins in Monte Carlo in tougher than expected defence

Welshman Joe Cordina successfully defended his IBF Super Featherweight in Monte Carlo, beating American Edward Vazquez over 12 competitive rounds. It was closely contested, Judge Jeremy Hayes arrived at a 114-114 score which struck this observer as generous but was in keeping with DAZN pundit, and former Cruiserweight champion, Tony Bellew’s card.

Closer than widely anticipated; Cordina made the mistake of not offering Vazquez the space to make his own.

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Myth, mirth and miracles. Fury finished or unfocused?

Article first published at BigFightWeekend.com

Muhammad Ali turned 36 a few weeks before his loss to novice professional Leon Spinks. A man with as many gaps in his smile as fights on his ledger. Tired and compromised, Ali was a poorly coordinated confection of numb defiance and flickering memory by the early Spring of 1978. The shuffle, the rope-a-dope all danced and lumbered into view. No more than crowd-pleasing catchphrases from what had once been masterful soliloquies.

Spinks’ victory, following a paltry 7 wins and a draw from a little over 12 months as a professional by way of preparation, remains one of heavyweight boxing’s greatest upsets.

On Saturday, another ageing champion faced a novice. And surprise visited boxing once again.

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What’s going on? Fury, KSI and a night in the MisFits abyss

Article also appears at BigFightWeekend.com

I suppose Marvin Gaye didn’t really care about Cassius Clay recording an album at Columbia Records in 1963 or Smokin’ Joe Frazier singing First Round Knockout for Motown in 1975. Hard to imagine Marlon Brando was unduly concerned that Jake LaMotta played the bartender in The Hustler or that Tupac worried about Nigel Benn’s collaboration with Pack on the 1990 song Stand and Fight. It only made 61 in the UK Charts after all.

And so, perhaps, boxing, the sprawling, dimly lit dystopia that it is, shouldn’t worry too much about MisFits and the entertainment it imparts to those dimly lit enough to pay for it. Aside from the copious amounts of money MisFits boxing generates it also appears uniquely able to both entice the casual and enrage the aficionados with the ease of a Bill Nighy suit fitting.

The weekend’s bill in Manchester showcased two of the niche’s preeminent forces; Tommy Fury, famous for sharing a father with Tyson Fury and his appearance on a reality show and KSI, who is good at video games and has ‘form’ in this peculiar space. A bizarre schism in which boxing, WWE and the world of YouTube influencers co-exist in an orgy of nonsense.

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Leigh Wood is Nottingham newest Miracle Man

A condensed version of this article was first published at BigFightWeekend.com

In the Spring of 79, deep in the bowels of the City Ground, home of Nottingham Forest Football Club, Brian Clough waited to conduct his media obligations. It was after 10 o’clock, in the aftermath of his team’s 3-3 draw with German champions Cologne in the Semi-Final of the European Cup. A result that meant the East Midlands club would need to win in Germany to progress in their maiden season competing alongside Europe’s elite.

Bristling with self-assurance, and as a man for whom miracles were customary, Clough refused to succumb to the notion that the team’s failure to secure a first leg lead meant their barely conceivable adventure in the competition would soon be at an end. He appeared emboldened by the doubt of others. As his team washed the clotted mud from their bodies and the Forest faithful wandered into the darkness beyond the floodlights, Clough closed the post-match TV interview with a lingering look toward the camera, a wry smile spilling across his face and the words; “I hope anybody’s not stupid enough to write us off.”

As Leeds’ hero Josh Warrington was whacked to the canvas on Saturday night by a series of unanswered hooks from the WBA Champion, and proud Nottingham man, Leigh Wood, having spent much of the completed rounds dominating his now conqueror, that quote drifted back to mind.

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Little menace as McCann hits Baluta road block

Fancied prospect Dennis McCann, 14-0-1, a young Southpaw Super-Bantamweight with a paid for smile and a sprinkling of sunbed panache, found himself in a ‘gut-check’ contest with Watford based Romanian Ionut Baluta, 16-4-1, at London’s famous York Hall last weekend. It was uncomfortable, difficult and there was a degree of fortune that he woke up on Sunday morning with his manicured record unbroken. 

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Dillon outworks Ashfaq to claim British title

Article first published at BigFightWeekend.com

In a rugged, gritty contest Liam Dillon won the vacant British Super-Featherweight title by Majority Decision against Qais Ashfaq on the Josh Kelly undercard in front of a boisterous crowd in Newcastle, England.

A title rich in history and always hotly contested, the chase for the Lonsdale belt delivered once again with a natural style clash between southpaw boxer Ashfaq, who falls to 12-2, and the marauding offence of Liam Dillon, 13-0-1.

Both men had successful phases in rounds and at different stages of the fight. Dillon scored two knockdowns, in the 4th and 9th, to secure the win, though neither were heavy and one, contentious; Ashfaq seemed to stumble forward but was being hit with modest body shots as he touchdown, they proved vital to the win.

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Josh Taylor and the loser’s lament

“You don’t miss your water til your well runs dry.” 

William Bell, Singer/Songwriter, (1939-) 

As the pain seeps in to Josh Taylor’s morning, the bouquet of bruises blossom on his body and the tartan accoutrements are laundered for the flight home, or to which ever parasol laden destination he promised his new wife, the 32-year-old will be forced to face the truths that only defeat imparts. It is a reckoning all fighters must address at some point, with deference to the select band who escaped without its bitterness on their lips. The process tends to reveal the character of the man, and in Taylor’s case it is one who sneered at the contenders for his crown, draped in the veil of invincibility all unbeaten fighters live beneath.

Taylor’s defeat on Saturday night in the Madison Square Garden Theatre stripped away the veil and was sufficiently comprehensive to offer no alternate shroud of controversy or contention to hide behind. Just loss. Pure, naked, loss. The first, maybe the last. Perhaps the beginning of the end. Only time, and his next fight or two, can provide the answers. 

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‘Emperor’s New Clothes’ – Anthony Joshua’s search continues

Article first appeared at BigFightWeekend.com

As Anthony Joshua stole glances toward his corner, blood seeping from his nose and his arms wrapped around the heaving shoulders of Jermaine Franklin, it was easy to see the familiar signs of confusion and anxiety. The fighter within Joshua, the one with grit and innocence who deployed his physical gifts and youthful vigour to climb the heavyweight mountain, is gone. He was drowned in the deep waters of fights he won and the crashing waves of the fights he lost.

The selection of Franklin was deliberate. Conspicuously so. Famous only for a narrow loss, lacking in single punch power and with modest mobility, Jermaine Franklin was booked to huff and puff, present manageable offence and provide a sellable knockout to the growing crowd of doubters.

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Dan Azeez batters veteran Rocky Fielding in 8

Dan Azeez, now 18-0 (12ko), successfully defended his British Light-Heavyweight title and added the Commonwealth title with a methodical and ultimately destructive performance against Rocky Fielding at the Bournemouth International Centre. The fight was made at the intersection of their respective career arcs and proved to be a little too late for Fielding, who now stares long and hard into the wilderness beyond professional boxing. It has been a good career, the Autumn of which sadly hindered by the pandemic.

33-year-old Azeez is refreshing both in the level of activity he boasts and in the humility of his outlook. Eager to pursue competitive fights, the late bloomer from London is now drawing attention and respect. American trainer Buddy McGirt has joined the team and evidently sees a fighter with polished fundamentals, a good attitude and prospects beyond British domestic level. 

The fixture was strategic in the making and designed to platform Azeez and to decorate his resume with a known name, despite the pretext of Rocky Fielding’s decline, his performance remains a disappointment. Circumstances may be in play that are not in the public domain, but not only did he miss weight by a pound and opted not to try and lose it, he looked fleshy and lacking in self-belief throughout the fight. 

There was a script. Azeez read his part and delivered a well-rounded performance. Fielding seemed to accept his supporting role too. 

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Lopez leaps into world class after winning IBF title in rugged encounter

Luis Alberto Lopez, the little Mexican with an unsettling, maniacal grin, took the IBF Featherweight belt from Leeds’ Josh Warrington in an absorbing contest in front of the Yorkshireman’s partisan fans tonight. A triumph built on unshakeable self-confidence, heavy hands and a chaotic style that baffled and battered the 32-year-old Warrington for sufficient rounds to eek out a narrow points victory.

English judge Howard Foster scored a 114-114 draw, but two other judges saw 115-113 to the visiting Lopez despite the widespread expectation of a benevolent ‘hometown’ verdict circulating on social media.

In the end, with swing rounds in the 1st and 6th, the fight could’ve ended a draw, a 115-114 could be found on this obsever’s notepad, but Lopez felt like the winner if there was to be one.

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Pretty Boy Kelly in joyous, redemptive triumph

Irrespective of how the remainder of Josh ‘Pretty Boy’ Kelly’s career unfolds, aged 28, and with a deep reservoir of ability, there should be many more stories as yet untold, his win on Friday night may forever remain the most satisfying. A victory over local-rival Troy Williamson secured the British Light-Middleweight title, call it Super-Welterweight if you wish, and provided Kelly with an escape from the claustrophobia of the past.

Kelly’s talent has never been in doubt, but success in boxing requires more than talent, however luxurious it may appear. Self-belief, perseverance and resolve are all necessary qualities for the boundaries of a fighter’s potential to be stretched to its limit. In defeat to David Avanesyan almost two years ago, Kelly’s inflated self-belief was punctured. Fighters like Kelly, who adopt a cape of arrogance as part of their fighting persona, as slick counterpunchers so often do, feel the exposure of defeat more acutely than even the proudest of warriors. Avanesyan had proved too resolute, too organised and too strong. Cutting, dropping and breaking the resistance of Kelly in six rounds, cornerman Adam Booth throwing in the towel as his charge unravelled.

Avanesyan has progressed subsequently and is now signed to fight one of the stars of the Welterweight division, having left the vanquished Kelly in the darkness of defeat and brooding self-doubt. Until Friday.

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Chisora the absorber, pummelled for pay and our ghoulish perversion

Derek Chisora has been a brave and capable heavyweight. His bravery was the great enabler of his third fight with Tyson Fury. The prolonged pummelling he endured entirely unnecessary.

It is the nature of the sport of boxing, the pursuit of glory at potentially grave personal cost, both the explicit and the disguised, that participants and observers are pushed to their extremes of tolerance. The third meeting between Tyson Fury and Derek Chisora for the Heavyweight title was a luminous example in this particular collection of boxing’s gloomiest encounters. All involved, from the last spectator to those carrying buckets of spit, are complicit in permitting and encouraging Saturday’s prolonged brutality.

As expected, Derek Chisora was pummelled for thirty or more minutes. The masquerade of competitiveness tossed aside from the second round. Reality replaced salesmanship. Facts displaced fantasy.

Predictable. Pitiless.

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Timeless. Priceless. Wardley guts Gorman in 3 to become British Champion

Where there's a will there's a way
Proverb

As a thick snake of blood oozed from a cut on Fabio Wardley’s busted nose, punches smeared and splattered it across his brow and cheek. His teeth grinding into his mouth piece beneath. A giant, visible to Wardley through a mask of warm claret, lumbered closer, the possessor of greater experience, heft and the initiative. The Ipswich man grimaced but chose to walk forward. Toward the tumult. Where many would hold or fold, Wardley elected to fight. Not to box, but to fight. In that distinction, in Wardley’s willingness to risk when vulnerable and hurt, the British Heavyweight title, with all its abundant history, was won.

Gorman proved unable to match or repel Wardley’s spirited response to the success he’d enjoyed in the first round and fell to defeat in the third. The white towel of surrender fluttering on to the canvas to confirm the fighter’s shallower resistance was spent. By then, Gorman had been on the floor twice in the second and once in the third.

Wardley’s youthful combination of flaws and enterprise suggest many equally entertaining nights lay ahead.

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In the footsteps of Ali. Katie Taylor eyes Croke Park crescendo

Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
W.B. Yeats, Irish Poet, 1865-1939

Katie Taylor answered in her characteristic manner. Certain. Humble. Promoter Eddie Hearn waxed lyrical. Ignoring the boos of progressively deeper octave; “Ireland, Croke Park. Serrano. Has to be. If not, someone else. But it is Ireland next.” Taylor’s Irish eyes smiled, warming to a familiar squint. Sweat still springs. Cheeks thickened. Her aching hands resting on silk hips. As the questions were posed and the cliches shared, hundreds still loitered among the strewn plastic cups and the Saturday night spilt at their feet. Taylor had done as expected; beating the tall, organised Argentinian Karen Elizabeth Carabajal for all the Lightweight belts by unanimous points decision. Knockouts, the violent climax ticket buyers crave still stubbornly elusive.

Still friends and strangers sway, arms entwined, a joyful scrummage. The shrewd and restless twist their necks to listen as they clambered for the exits. The nocturnes and neon of the London night, the rationed taxi cabs and their prodigal sibling of the morning’s regret quickening their stride. Irish tricolours stretch and fall. Cheers, drunk with vowels tumble down toward the ring and the garden of microphones.

Katie Taylor fills arenas. And her eyes are on the biggest of all. One with both history and meaning for the people of Ireland.

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Barrett falls to Rakhimov but exposes his weaknesses

Shavkatdzhon Rakhimov won the vacant IBF Super-Featherweight title in Abu-Dhabi Saturday night in the latest in a sequence of major fights to take place in the Middle East. A venue that provides convenient fight times for global audiences and inconvenient questions about money for promoters. For Zelfa Barrett, a fluid counter puncher from Manchester, the fight offered an opportunity to confirm his ability at World level. One he took, despite the disappointment of defeat in the 9th round.

Barrett’s success with left and rights to the body, stinging right uppercuts to head and body and a willingness to punch in combination despite his movement based strategy and determination to avoid short-range exchanges, brought a points lead heading toward the championship rounds.

Pressure fighters like Rakhimov don’t tend to worry about the minutiae of scorecards.

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Veteran Wilder punches toward future greatness

The bigger they come, the harder they fall.
Bob Fitzsimmons, 1862-1917

It is the nature of the meandering river of life that the vistas and postcards of the past can seem more lustrous than our current view. That which has passed becomes richer for the embellishment our memory imposes and the present dulls as our optimism dissipates with grey hair and midlife. Applied to boxing, it exaggerates our heroes and denigrates their successors.

This manifests as “Tommy levels Floyd”, “nobody beats peak Iron Mike”, or for older observers, “nobody punched like the Brown Bomber”. Ask Eddie Murphy. These opinions root deeply, becoming fixed in the landscape of our outlook. It closes us to the brilliance of now. The genius around us. Things new can still be great and may one day, if we are spared long enough, be the fixations of our future. Best to embrace the enjoyment they provide as if still young ourselves, than diminish them in the kangaroo court of our rose-filtered nostalgia.

Saturday’s knockout win, accumulated with a single right hand that travelled around 18 inches, continued to confirm that future history will smile on Deontay Wilder in much the same way it romantacises those bygone gladiators.

Continue reading “Veteran Wilder punches toward future greatness” →
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