Category: Fight Reports

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.

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Joyce’s chin, otherworldly, is an asset and a deterrent

The weekend reluctantly succumbs to a grumbling Monday, children scramble onto back seats and the drizzle of late September sneers at those too lazy to cut the lawn the day before. In the ensuing silence, thoughts, ideas compete, ebbing and flowing for those of us wrestling with obligation, the should dos afforded by time and solitude.

Boxing lurches in to frame among the unwashed breakfast pots, the dogs that need exercise and the bill that needs paying. It isn’t always this way. Golovkin and Canelo III came and went leaving little fat to chew on by the Monday, despite the generational greatness of the pairing. A tired episode in a great rivalry. The money laden, but inferior, Godfather III if you will. Years too late.

Into the wash of their encounter stepped Shakur Stevenson, the next, next Pretty Boy. He has predecessors as would be successor to Floyd and his Uber-wealth. 25 years old and 22 ounces over the limit. He won. Cemented his status. But missing weight brought more headlines than the fight. The nature of the modern mediums. Words, failure, toxicity create more wake than quality, preparation, success.

And so it fell to the heavyweights in Manchester, England. The two nice guys called Joe, Joyce and Parker, met in a crossroads bout. Was this the top of Joyce’s arc or could he continue his climb versus Parker, a man who had soared with Joshua and Ruiz already? Expectations had been modest. Joyce, huge, lumbering but effective. Parker, stout, sharper and seasoned.

Both excelled. And their bruising encounter revealed a new player at the top of the division.

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When the time comes. Golovkin and the age old problem

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, 
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 2

I sat perched on the edge of the sofa, waiting for one of the three greatest middleweights of my life time to enter the ring. Twenty or more title fights sprawled out on his record, a long sequence of victories, a red mark or two failing to diminish a reputation as the best 160 pounder of his generation. And perhaps, whisper it quietly, the best of all.

Aged 40, doubt remained. Such was my intoxication with boxing, the 4am ring walk, the obscure channel, the pay per view fee, nothing would dissuade me from tuning in. A dangerous opponent, younger, fresher, stronger too maybe? He had it all to do.

The year was 2005. The fight was Hopkins versus Eastman. Much has changed since. Much has stayed the same.

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Usyk glowers, grins and out-wits Joshua once more

No man who is occupied in doing a very difficult thing, and doing it very well, ever loses his self-respect

George Bernard Shaw, Playwright 1856-1950

As I glared at the blank screen before me, thoughts on Oleksandr Usyk’s triumph over Anthony Joshua still swirling. Theories, meaning, the rumination of others flitting in and out of view and ear shot. The starkness of the victory I had seen, the troubling thread of doubt dangled by one or two who’d witnessed a closer fight weaving through my mind. Happen-chance and necessity led me to a live BBC concert from the Royal Albert Hall. An exceptionally gifted singer, Shelea, was shaking the old dome to its foundations. Performing in the long shadow cast by Aretha Franklin. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. She sounded uninhibited, undeterred by the shoes in which she trod. Empowered by the responsibility. Emboldened by the audience before her.

It struck me that the quest for the respect of others, of history, of his rivals, of those who would take what he had, of the street life he hoped never to disgrace but eternally escape, of being validated by wealth, influence has been a constant in Anthony Joshua’s professional career. A weighty burden too.

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Fury dominates and then destroys Whyte in six

First appeared on BigFightWeekend.com

It would be cruel to suggest 76 years young singer Don McLean moved his feet quicker in his pre-fight rendition of American Pie than London bruiser Dillian Whyte did before being struck by a Tyson Fury right uppercut, but it wouldn’t be far from the truth. Deconstructing Whyte’s reputation based on the ease with which Fury deposited the floundering challenger on the canvas in front of a baying Wembley crowd, high on freedom and other confections, will be a popular undertaking but unjust too. Observers are encouraged to refrain.

The division today isn’t 1970s deep. It never was before Ali, Foreman and their many contemporaries and it likely never will be again, and as such the perennial comparison is redundant. Within his generation, Whyte possessed a credible record and a consensus place in the top half a dozen big men.

That Whyte failed to land a punch of note in six rounds speaks to Fury’s dominance of that same generation more than the limitations of the self-made ‘Body Snatcher’. But defeat brings cynicism. Dominance, as Fury’s predecessor, Wladimir Klitschko found, invariably does too.

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Khan and Brook cast long shadows from their last sunset

Ageing is natural. It happens to all of us. I just always want to look like myself, even if that’s an older version of myself.

Halle Berry, Actor (1966- )

In the summer of 2004 a boxer called Amir Khan, aged just 17, the possessor of unfathomable hand speed and armed with a quiver of jabs, a favourite grandson’s smile and a vest beneath which beat a fearless heart, became a household name in Britain when his voyage to an unlikely Silver medal at the Athens Olympics was broadcast live on terrestrial television. Fight fans, sports fans, grandmas, uncles, friends, all bore witness to Britain’s sole entrant.

On Saturday night, much closer to home than the Greek capital and now a retired veteran of 35, Khan climbed the steps to the ring for the final time. The loneliness of his entrance in to the public’s consciousness as a boy all those years ago reflected back in a brutal departure from the prize ring. Referee Victor Loughlin showing sufficient mercy to save a wilting Khan from a pitiless and increasingly rampant Kell Brook in the sixth round.

A fight 17 years in the making was over in 17 minutes.

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Cheeseman and the deal with the devil

Every fighter has a relationship with sacrifice. Offering something of their unseen tomorrow for the conspicuous glory of today. As a witness to the transaction, boxing fans marvel at the willingness of those inside the ring who make the exchange for our entertainment. Light-Middleweight Ted Cheeseman, who succumbed to the fists of the Troy Williamson and relinquished his British title last night, is a man that embraces this truth.

Not for the first time, the courageous former champion departed from the stage a little less than he’d entered it. The crowd and the audience at home staggered by the action Cheeseman and Williamson had provided in 10 gruelling rounds of thudding combat.

Cheeseman’s tumultuous encounter with Williamson evoked memories of those in whose footsteps they trod, Jamie Moore and Matt Macklin most prominent among them, and proved a fitting prelude to the night’s main attraction over in Las Vegas, where a fellow brother in arms willingly gave a piece of his future self in the pursuit of his own glory.

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Usyk the Great uproots the Joshua tree

And so it was, the giant visited by defeat once more. Anthony Joshua lost for the second time and the collection of party garlands he’d hoped to parlay into an undisputed clash with Tyson Fury at some future point were passed to a new custodian. The fight proved revelatory for those trusting in the age old adage “a good big un beats a good little un.” and, further, revealed limitations in Joshua’s technical competence and confirmed Oleksandr Usyk’s unquestionable superiority.

As night follows day, the dissection of Joshua’s performance began before it had even ended. Sport in the spotlight insists all losers are finished, all conquered champions exposed. It is an incessant and usually unqualified scrutiny. True, problems have grown like weeds around and within Joshua’s performances; where once there was a youthful vigour and self belief, knots of indecision and timidity now prevail.

Joshua remains a dangerous heavyweight and there is scope still for improvement on the disappointment of Saturday,. Boxing fans must be wary of dismissing those who venture to fight their peers, and lose. He took his lumps and bumps, his defeat, with humility and grace.

They too, are admirable qualities.

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“I coulda had class”. Fighters, films and the fix

The Prizefighter and The Lady

For cinema goers, the image of a boxer being coerced into losing a fight or consoled in the aftermath, is all too familiar. A convenient vehicle deployed by film makers, since the advent of ‘talkies’ in the 1920’s. From John Wayne to Charlie Chaplin, actors have been knitting their brows as earnest pugs buckling beneath the guilt that ensues. Electing to forgo the integrity they cherished, in exchange for easy money or the promise of richer fruit down the line, is a choice much easier to reject in theory and detached from the starkness of life as a prizefighter from the 1930s to the late 1950s.

As Brando immortalised in The Godfather, fighters, like others in position of influence and value, were made offers they couldn’t refuse.

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And the band played on. Boxing’s voyage to the abyss

Rogers Morton, a prominent figure in American politics in the 1970s, once said, while serving as Campaign Manager for Gerald Ford’s ailing push for the White House and pressed on how he intended to salvage lost momentum; “I’m not going to re-arrange the furniture on the deck of the Titanic.” A quote that would outlive the Statesman, both in political influence and life, he would succumb to cancer in 1979, and one that became synonymous with actions deemed superficial and redundant in the face of impending disaster.

As a 58-year-old Evander Holyfield clambered back down the ring steps in Florida this weekend, a state which withdrew his license to box 17 years ago on the grounds of his diminished ability, it is easy to clamour for boxing to do something, to intervene. Thousands added their voices to the cause in the days before the ‘fight’, screened by Triller (no, me neither) and commentated on by former president and the doyenne of delusion, Donald Trump. They urged ‘boxing’ to change course, to come to its senses.

Gratefully, it took but a few seconds for Holyfield to be separated from his, if he wasn’t detached from them, or at least reality, when he arrived.

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Liam Williams secures his place in a gallery of the gallant

Andrade proves too elusive for Williams

Explaining the status of any individual fight, the sense of the significance it should be afforded in the wider boxing landscape, is an undertaking for only the boldest and most patient among us. This intractable maze also makes it impossible to define fighters in the way they once were. Any argument about a fighter’s world class credentials must first be preceded by agreement on what world class actually means.

Is losing a world title fight enough or must you win one? Ken Norton never did but would give any heavyweight in history an argument. What is a world title anyway, if there are four available and others competing to be recognised? The WBA routinely acknowledge three of their own in a single weight class and list ‘champions’ few have even seen fight.

As Demetrius Andrade distorted Liam Williams’ face on Saturday night, in the way a potter might when throwing wet clay on a wheel, the notion of what makes a world class fighter, or how such status is earned, ebbed and flowed. A WBO title fight is rarely the platform for greatness, though exceptions exist, and the organisation’s mandatories, of which Williams was one such example, are not typically drawn from a consensus top 10.

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Rampant Benn wrecks Vargas in 90 seconds.

Conor Benn demolishes Samuel Vargas

The acceleration in Conor Benn’s progress as a fighter is, frankly, astonishing. Samuel Vargas is not Carmen Basilio, but he’s rugged, durable and still held aspiration. He was obliterated in 90 seconds by a 24-year old with the patter of a superstar and a magnetic persona to match.

Vargas protested the stoppage, Colombian’s from the North American circuit expect to box on unless they’re laid out flat, but a degree of compassion will serve him well in the long run. There was the sense Vargas let the enemy in through the front door and Benn ran rampantly through the opening. Right hands, uppercuts and left hooks. Vargas’ eyes looked to the lights, the end would have followed had Michael Alexander not intervened.

For Benn, as with all prospects, contenders, matchmaking is key. If left to the protagonist, it will be ambitious.

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