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By Bart Barry-

Saturday at Barclays Center overweight Ohio junior welterweight Adrien “About Billions” Broner lost a majority draw to Jessie “The Pride of Las Vegas” Vargas in a pair of unique six-round prizefights the men split, more or less, 6-6. Vargas brought a jab and proper technique, Broner supplied reflexes and a chin, and each man showed plenty of will. Neither man, though, willed himself to a convincing win in round 12, so a draw was just and just fine.

AB was in another excellent fight. That’s not all there is to it, not for this era’s sportsfan and not with a whole lot of blank page between here and column’s end, but that’s what’s important to this and any who should read this.

Broner grates on everyone – lest you think it’s an ethnic thing, look at Sam Watson’s uncharacteristically grim mug leaving the ring Saturday – and if such grating’s not exactly Broner’s appeal it is a sizable part of his staying power, and howsoever unjust it makes the universe, Broner does have staying power. Broner is a ham and a fraud. He’s been those things since we met him on HBO seven years ago, but by virtue of our still watching him seven years later, no matter how maniacal our hopedfor schadenfreude, he is a ham whose hamfattering overcomes its fraudulence in a reflexive way; the object of his hamming is retained visibility no matter how poorly he does at his dayjob. And check this: he’s a perfectly mediocre 6-3-1 (2 KOs) in the last 4 1/2 years and still attracting 13,000 Brooklynites to a catchweight match. He’s got something, in other words, tangible or otherwise, that makes him watchable, the genetic structure of which fully eludes men like Guillermo Rigondeaux and Erislandy Lara – men who follow the rules and bore our pants off.

The day Broner quits on his stool everything dissolves for him, and he absolutely gets this. So long as he gives us the pleasure of his atonement by ordeal every halfyear we inadvertently forgive his criminal acts and bottomless boorishness by paying him in the ratings currency that now rules the American realm. And before any fellow American takes his hindlegs to teeter on principle like a fatigued crossfitter at the stability ball, look around, look at our infatuation with branding, look at our President – in the world’s eyes AB isn’t nearly so much of a caricature as we content ourselves to think he is.

“Not my champion!”

You sure about that, bruh?

In this way Broner’s chin is his best asset; we may not relate to his buffoonery but when we allow our hypothetical selves to be him (and we should, too) we probably conclude like: I’d never wish to arouse so much disgust in so many strangers, but if by chance I did, I would hope I’d make it to the closing bell each time I got tested.

Perhaps by this model featherfisted Jessie Vargas was not the ideal inquisitor, no, but Mikey Garcia was, and Broner toed the line 12 times, then, too. Vargas, himself a mediocre 2-2-1 (1 KO) since 2014, transcended himself a goodish bit Saturday, and had he kept his jab pistoning he’d have won a decision lopsided. Instead he succumbed to who he is and will be: a 144-pound fighter who, on his best night, is equal to Adrien Broner. Every single round Saturday opened with a 10-second forecast of itself. If Vargas landed a jab, he won the round on any honest card. If he did not land an early jab, he made scoring the round the sort of subjective thing that invariably favors a ticketseller.

This was because Broner has no transition, defense to offense. Broner’s defense is a terrible mess concealed by a fabulous chin (which, were it found on an upstanding lad’s pink face, honestly, we’d attribute to incredible conditioning wrought by otherworldy discipline). Broner gets unsettled and imbalanced by other men’s punches so thoroughly he resorts to avoiding them by pocketing his gloves or throwing them overhead while he yanks himself backwards. There isn’t a contortionist the circus over who can throw from such a windup.

That Broner’s perennially overrated new trainer, Kevin Cunningham, installed no patches for this flaw in Broner’s operating system is likely the reason Broner, when asked to list Cunningham’s greatest effects, postfight, named only Cunningham’s giving Broner the chance to thank Broner’s old trainer for his graciousness. However uncouth Broner may be, he has a very high physical IQ – you cannot have his poor form and survive the opponents he’s survived without you read and understand other men’s bodies at least as well as they understand themselves – and Broner intuitively senses his technique is not improved and won’t be by an hysterical disciplinarian like Cunningham.

As an aside, how uncouth is Broner, truly? He appreciates another man’s graciousness, after all, and remains friendly with his former opponents, and holds Jim Gray in contempt.

A quick few words about that: Gray is now the only point of weakness on boxing’s best broadcast crew. Best by a noticeable margin. Al Bernstein has never not been better than Max Kellerman, and Paulie Malignaggi is three times better than an HBO threeway parlay of Jones-Ward-Hopkins, which brings us to Mauro Ranallo. He is hyperbolic at every turn, admittedly, but his heart is in the right place, he cares deeply about the language, and he makes his teammates look good. He is now better than Jim Lampley in the exact proportion Showtime boxing is better than HBO’s.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

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