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By Jimmy Tobin-

Saturday night, at the T-Mobile Arena in Las Vegas, Saul “Canelo” Alvarez and Gennady “GGG” Golovkin fought to a most convenient draw. If the fight fell short of expectations (and it did) it is mostly because those expectations, stewing as they had for two years, had become impossible to satisfy without the presence of a ten-count, a capitulatory knee, an urgent physician. Bereft of carnage’s markers, discussion of a bogus scorecard is dominating the aftermath. That is unfortunate, not just in the way those most outraged would have you believe, but because when the sabers rattle about scorecards it means neither fighter was left in a heap. And if that is an oversimplification, go on and rattle your saber about it.

Judge Adelaide Byrd’s 118-110 scorecard is absurd, yes. Should Byrd turn in the same tally with the same action but participants reversed, she would be incompetent. Were she to turn in a different card with that same reversal, she would be corrupt. But Golovkin had 12 rounds to convince two judges of his superiority and couldn’t and Alvarez, yet again, had an unfathomable card in his favor because there is no Golden Boy Promotions without him (in this respect Alvarez is quite right in asserting he is above any need for luck). Neither man is as good as his most passionate supporters or HBO would have you believe, and chopping up those thirty-six minutes into five-second clips that justify your interpretation of the action does nothing to change that. If you wish to harp about a bad card, attend these considerations to your bleating.

The spectacle produced by one of the most intimidating fighters of the decade and the latest Mexican fighting icon was well short on violence. Were there moments where each fighter was hurt? Perhaps, though not so glaringly that one might expect such moments to trigger a sequence culminating in unconsciousness. Golovkin drove home a few signature blows; Alvarez managed to bury this fist or that into Golovkin’s ribs or chin. To say with confidence that either man was hurt, however, required looking closely for evidence, which, considering what the evidence is, should be rather obvious. No, it was a cautious and defensive fight between reputed punchers—did you wait two years for cautious and defensive?

“Cautious and defensive” for Golovkin demands an explanation. Age and the recent improvement in his opponents have tempered Golovkin; the withering body attack that accompanied his arrival to American airwaves has left him seemingly for good. Whatever the reason, a mediocre trainer, a diminished ability to pull the trigger, aversion to the vulnerability bodywork demands against the best, Golovkin has become a headhunter and his two best opponents have benefited mightily as a result. Still, he stalked effectively enough, endlessly enough, that the potential for a stoppage seemed his alone. All the while he was as elusive as a pressure fighter can be, catching just enough of Alvarez’ punches on his guard to nullify one of boxing’s most creative offensive fighters. The subtlety of Golovkin’s defense can be a challenge to appreciate, but his chin, otherworldly as it is, is not what makes him so seemingly indestructible.

Enough about his defense though: it is his capacity for destruction that built the Golovkin mystique, and it was this that Alvarez had to reckon with. Reckon with it he did, (if as little as possible). Sometimes widely, sometimes by but a hair, Alvarez managed to make Golovkin miss punches that have broken lesser opponents. There is a flash to everything Alvarez does in the ring: his combinations are flamboyant, he dispatches spectacularly opponents selected for that purpose, his defense too, has an exaggerated flair. He does not embody the Mexican fighting spirit—there is a striking absence of his culture’s beloved attrition in his game, and too much privilege in his ascension—but he is skilled and professional and connected and those things can take you a long way. He fought Golovkin effectively in spurts, trying, as his promoter once did, to steal three minutes in thirty seconds, a tactic that will serve him so long as he fights for Golden Boy Promotions in Nevada and Texas.

And it served him on this night. If only in a few crucial rounds, Alvarez did what anyone who wants to slow Golovkin’s roll must do: fight back. And while there was a hint of desperation to those flurries—indicative of a fighter trying to fight off rather than fight an opponent—those combinations still stalled Golovkin and brought the crowd to life. Here the advantage of his flashiness cannot be understated. It is easier to appraise Alvarez’ work: his technique is clean, obvious, and it encourages fond assessment thereby.

It would be unfair to reduce Alvarez’ performance to optics, however. Yes, he retreated too often, too obviously to secure a win despite needing to convince but one judge of his superiority. Only one fighter did enough to have his hand raised Saturday, and he left with his belts. But the notion that Alvarez does not belong in a ring with Golovkin is nonsense. Alvarez planted his feet long enough for Golovkin to leave no doubt in the judges’ minds, to live up to his reputation. That he didn’t says something about Alvarez, lest you wish to strip Golovkin of his reputation (and whatever glory Alvarez, whatever victory his supporters, may find in a draw). It says something about Golovkin that Alvarez was anything but bold on a night that demanded it.

And it says too that neither fighter is great. A great fighter would have left no doubt Saturday.

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