“Super Six”! How about “Halfway Decent Two or Three”?

Common wisdom says sporting events are better in person than on television. I’m not sure. With boxing it depends on what you look for. If you like the bacchanal of violence and vicariousness that assembles at prizefights, being there is better. If you like jab-cross-hook, you probably prefer home – though you can’t hear the punches.

For me attending fights is about renewal. It is about seeing how fighters interact with one another and what they say to trainers just after and their postures as they visit the Commission’s table and collect their stipends. It reminds me that – no matter the venue, fans, promoter, writers or judges – prizefighters are the most decent folks there.

That’s why I bypassed the first installment of Showtime’s “Super Six World Boxing Classic” – a tournament I support wholeheartedly – to attend “Phoenix Rising” at Celebrity Theatre, Saturday. It was supposed to be about local boxing beginning a latest rise from the ashes, a clichéd play on the state’s capital too obvious for first-time promoters to resist.

Coincidentally my need for renewal was related to Showtime’s tournament. I watched the preview show, “Fight Camp 360°”, with an even measure of admiration and horror. The admiration happened whenever one of the six super middleweights was shown plying his craft. In a documentary that gave equal billing to promoters, you can well imagine whence the horror sprung.

The best that can be said for most promoters is that they are a necessary evil. Whatever they actually are as men there’s no chance they are what they say they are at any moment. The closest any of them comes to truth is embellishment. The rest of the time it’s a lot of stuttering and staccato delivery complemented by “y’know” and “basically.” Keep your ear on “basically”; it’s the new trigger. Soon as you hear “basically” you’re about get a doubling-down, an exaggerated retelling of whatever claim preceded it.

Don’t ever attend a fight card because of what a promoter tells you. Attend cards to see fighters and trainers. While you’re there watch for themes, not stories. Boxing is filled with good stories, the sort crafted and managed in telephone interviews with reporters. But boxing’s themes – unscripted gems – are why you want to be in attendance.

Saturday’s card in downtown Phoenix had its unscripted goings-on. We were ostensibly gathered to see former cruiserweight world champion Vassiliy Jirov end a 27-month time away from the sport, and see former WBO heavyweight champion Shannon Briggs end a 28-month hiatus of his own. We saw one of these happen. It was not triumphal.

Jirov, a supremely honest fighter whom everyone genuinely likes, was on the canvas thrice against Jonathan Williams (7-7-1). Two of those were ruled as slips (all three might have been) and Jirov’s worn-out boxing shoes did not in fact have any tread whatever. But when a 35-year-old former master is on the canvas three times in two rounds, there’s just no way to pretend his legs are what they once were. He’s still hard-punching and relentless as anyone in the cruiserweight division, but his reflexes are calcified, not rusty.

He won by second-round knockout and immediately asked James Toney for a rematch of their 2003 fight of the year. One aficionado told me afterwards, “I almost feel bad for buying a ticket, like it’s going to keep (Vassiliy) fighting.”

Toney was there playing “James Toney”, a character who spits increasingly unintelligible venom from a thickening tongue. The venom was amusing, not frightening. Toney hung-out in Jirov’s dressing room and made the ringwalk with him and even seemed to have trouble donning his costume of menace – especially since these days it’s a little baggy.

Shannon Briggs was at the Friday weigh-in, signing autographs. By Saturday afternoon his fight was off the marquee either because his opponent had eye problems or Briggs had bicep problems.

By way of explanation one boxing insider joked, “Briggs went to sign the check for Saturday, saw how small it was, and jerked his pen away so quick it tweaked his arm.” Could be. Healthy and friendly as he looked Friday, though, Briggs’ll be back soon enough.

He’ll be back, in some part, for the same reason Jirov returned: “To finish my way.” So long as things are going a fighter’s way, though, he never finishes.

Saturday we also got a reiteration of an oft-forgot theme: Boxing is not bodybuilding. Brice Ritani-Coe entered the ring 100 pounds heavier than Richard Hale, with less muscle. Then he relaxed, moved forward, guarded his tucked chin and flattened Hale. A left hook that caused the sort of knockdown only heavyweights can – when a very large man goes horizontal and the canvas rushes upwards.

Too, we had an abortive homecoming when NABO featherweight titlist Rafael Valenzuela made his first Phoenix fight in 50 months. He was the larger man and beating Luis Angel Paneto when he got overaggressive or careless. He caught Paneto with a right uppercut to the top of Paneto’s cup and caught a point deduction. Then he caught Paneto square on the cup with a right cross and caught a disqualification.

Valenzuela’s career misfortune has become a tragic metaphor for his hometown’s fight scene.

I was home round 11:30, in time to watch the second delayed telecast of Abraham-Taylor and Froch-Dirrell. The Taylor knockout was ugly; you never want to see a man on his back, arms outstretched as if still defending himself from fists six feet above. Andre Dirrell, meanwhile, had me asleep before the seventh round.

I can’t wait till Showtime’s next installment of “Super Six”, but if there’s a local card that night I will not regret attending it instead – no matter who’s fighting. Local cards are like much of life. You don’t know exactly what to make of them, and at the time you’re not even sure you enjoy them. Then the next day comes, and you miss them.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter.com/bartbarry