Showing “negativity”

In covering the Froch-Dirrell fight that composed half Showtime’s kickoff of the “Super Six” tournament two Saturdays ago, British sportswriters loved the term “negativity” for describing Andre Dirrell’s fighting style. A contextual definition of negativity might go: Any tactic a prizefighter employs that does not bring him closer to an opponent’s unconsciousness.

Reading this clever and appropriate term – at once denotative and connotative – sets one to imagining how Dirrell’s fighting style could look if it were an opinion column, trying to persuade the way Dirrell fought while using Carl Froch’s style as its contrast to show both negativity and positivity. It must be tried.

I am the writer to try it. I have a larger vocabulary than others. I have better sentence structure. I hear words when I write them, making superior combinations. Do I utilize the first-person? Sure. Third-person, too. I like to switch. I was taught my talent allows me to write whatever way feels comfortable. It makes me better than another sportswriter who’d go about the job like this:

“Englishman Carl Froch, 32, successfully defended his WBC super middleweight title in the Trent FM Arena of Nottingham two weeks ago, decisioning 26 year-old American contender Andre Dirrell. Despite being favored by bettors, Froch initially struggled against the generally negative Dirrell.”

See that? It’s not stylish. There’s the lead-footed stalking of a nut graf, a typical get-me-over way of stuffing the opening paragraph with data galore. It’s writing meant to be read in 30-second bursts at the morning breakfast table, a fleshed-out scorecard. Better that I present Dirrell’s taunting of an outmatched opponent than waste 40 words on setup:

The man who calls himself “The Matrix” and walked to the ring dressed as an American soldier, complete with boxing shoes like wheat-nubuck Timberlands, realized immediately he had more flair and quickness than Froch. So he taunted Froch. The Englishman kept his right glove pinned to cheek while Dirrell glided sideways and flashed his tongue. His negativity took the form of a meandering disengagement that Froch couldn’t overcome because even though nobody was landing punches and
Dirrell was the prizefighter clearly not pursuing contact there’s a whole amorphous scoring criterion called “ring generalship” which, however unofficial scorekeepers describe it, probably reduces to something like: Who is happier in the fight?

“Froch’s forward movement and rough tactics began to take their toll on Dirrell in the fight’s middle. Neither fighter landed many clean blows. But Froch was the one making a fight of it, even if that meant fouling Dirrell. This impressed judges; apparently they wanted to see a fight after all.”

A semicolon? Are you kidding me? I can’t believe an editor would let anyone get away with a semicolon. There’s a tacit rule against semicolons. Use a dash. Start a new sentence with a conjunction. That semicolon cannot stand!

“As the American tired in the seventh, eighth and ninth rounds, Dirrell’s negativity became obvious. He leaped at Froch, throwing pieces of combinations, then hooked the Englishman behind the elbows. With his opponent’s forehead in his chest and gloves wrapped behind his back, Froch showed frustration at being unable to fight.”

Dirrell’s use of negativity became more pronounced after the seventh round. Evidently he was tired. He bounded inside, tucking his head against Froch’s body. He looped his arms round Froch and walked him backwards.

Hold on, you see why clinching is a negative thing? It slows the action. It precludes either man from damaging the other. It impresses only family at ringside and bores everyone else. By the way, am I at 1,000 words yet? Barely 600? Uh oh.

All right, back up and think this one through. When you’re holding, you see, you’re not punching. Your hands are in fists for a reason. Grappling in mitts is dull even for your dedicated fans at home watching on TV. Another way of thinking about this is . . .

(Editor’s note: This column just suffered a one-paragraph deduction. Barry has been warned several times for making the same argument different ways, wasting words and space to try to get to the end of his piece.)

“In the 10th round, his tally one fewer because of excessive holding, Dirrell engaged Froch. He hurt the Englishman, buckling Froch’s knees and forcing his retreat for the first time in the fight. At once, the American’s hand speed and alternative style, used positively, made progress.”

Positivity is the pursuit of your opponent’s unconsciousness. It is a tactic for chasing the only definitive conclusion a fight can have: a knockout. When a fighter eschews self-preservation as the highest ideal, putting himself at risk so as to endanger his opponent still more, he fights positively. It is the pleasing act of a man who realizes entertaining in the ring is a surer path to stardom than entertaining in a pre-fight conference-call, whatever his handlers have told him.

When Dirrell tucked his tongue in his mouth and his chin on his chest and threw well-leveraged punches, he was the superior prizefighter. But it took a point deduction to bring the positivity out of him. He did not deserve to be awarded Froch’s championship belt in Froch’s hometown because – however much we endorse impartiality – there is something unseemly about rewarding a man who visits another man’s hometown and fights as Dirrell did.

That negativity found no reward two Saturdays ago in England is a positive development for the “Super Six.” It instructs super middleweights, if no one else, that gaming judges with the flashes of hand speed American laymen so enjoy will not do.

There, that’s all I wanted to say. But it took till the final paragraphs of my column to move positively towards my point. Next time, I’m going to stay in one voice, first-person or third, organize my ideas better and just move forward with the argument.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter.com/bartbarry