By Bart Barry–
Saturday at MGM Grand Garden Arena in a rematch few aficionados demanded, fewer still watched, and fewer yet found entertaining as its predecessor, American welterweight and super welterweight titlist Floyd “Money” Mayweather unanimously decisioned Argentine Marcos “El Chino” Maidana. After promising to prove himself to himself, not you, by stretching Maidana, Mayweather finished the fight circling shamelessly away from his limited, winded opponent, citing numbed fingers in his left hand. Maidana, who cares no more if he’s called a dirty fighter than called an Argentine, apparently crushed Floyd’s fingers in his mouth during an eighth-round clinch.
The entire “Mayhem” spectacle was subdued in a way Mayweather fights have not been since the Carlos Baldomir farce of 2006, and one briefly wondered during the ringwalk, when Mayweather was accompanied by his two mountainous bodyguards instead of musical mascots, if early revenue projections might have slashed the budget for Team Money Team; or if perhaps Floyd, having publicly provoked men professionally obligated to take every provocation in petulant and personal a way as possible, couldn’t find a Canadian castrato or Southern stereotype brave enough to accompany him in public; or if, most charitably, Floyd was determined to be determined and have his fate determined by himself alone. The last interpretation is the best interpretation, one hoped and hopes, and Floyd’s stark entrance was a stark reminder how incredibly lonely a boxing ring can be.
One doesn’t get to the championship level of this hurting business without being able to read other mens’ bodies fluently, and Floyd’s capacity for processing every tick and twitch is among his greatest predatory assets. But mirrors are strange things, and Floyd, publicly vulnerable even when he wishes not to be, is no longer reflexive or interested enough to be impenetrable while he penetrates others’ weaknesses. It didn’t take a minute of Saturday’s fight to see Floyd’s legs were, in a word, soggy; though his footwork remained impeccable, he moved round the canvas like it was memory foam over the ring’s plywood base, not an inch of padding. He was skittish as his movements were laborious, and one now wonders what might have happened if an enhanced Maidana answered the opening bell, rushing him disrespectfully as he rushed Adrien Broner 10 months ago.
Floyd was waiting for that, yes, but he was waiting for it their first fight, too, and it made precious little difference. No one likes to be struck in the face, but it hurts Floyd doubly for denting both his face and deep pride at once. Like any champion prizefighter, Floyd’s opening tactic is requesting his opponent’s metaphorical signature on a tacit contract that reads: “You may strike me here and here, but not there.” Floyd is all fighter, and he expects to be hit. On his terms. Maidana, with his skyhook right and his frequently thrown forearms and elbows, violated a contract Floyd had far more accomplished fighters like Oscar De La Hoya and Shane Mosley and Miguel Cotto sign. Worse yet, when Floyd, enkindled by the Argentine caveman’s impertinence, sought to castigate El Chino, he did not at 147 pounds have the power or accuracy to imperil the Argentine and as always had to worry about his brittle right hand in the event he did land it flush on anything but Maidana’s lightswitch.
Every other round, when Floyd’s age and (over)training regimen made him rest, he looked singularly uncomfortable. He was not enjoying himself before or during or after his rematch with Maidana, especially when an unfortunately close shot of his postfight interview showed Floyd’s swollen and misshapen lips quivering involuntarily. Maidana, face clean after 36 minutes of sanctioned assault by Mayweather’s fists as it was during his ringwalk, showed Showtime’s buffoonish inquisitor exactly the respect Jim Gray deserved, irreverently lying to him in Spanish, in a reminder it would be nearly impossible for a Spanish-only Argentine to care less what a c-level American journalist from a b-side American cable network opined of his forthrightness or general mien.
Commentator Paulie Malignaggi was the only one who caught the face-smothering tactic Mayweather employed in order to wedge the fingers of his left hand between Maidana’s eager teeth. Malignaggi caught Mayweather doing it to Maidana the same way Malignaggi caught Mayweather doing it to Saul Alvarez a year ago; being suffocated sucks, and that’s the reason Canelo fired his right fist at Mayweather’s cup and Maidana chomped down.
One foul begets another, this is fighting after all, and much as Maidana’s impertinence flummoxed Mayweather for a minute or so, you knew immediately Floyd would not refuse to fight on so long as referee Kenny Bayless took his stern warning like a good supplicant. Floyd’s point was not made to Maidana – there was no reaching El Chino, after all – but to Bayless who, true to form and expectations, ensured the rematch comprised a ratio of athleticism-to-menace more favorable to Floyd than Tony Weeks’ unforgivably permissible performance did in May.
Provided Manny Pacquiao does not look too good in his upcoming match with Chris Algieri, a probable thing, that, as Algieri has some tools to make Pacquiao’s night a long one, Floyd’s advisor should begin negotiations with Pacquiao’s team, secretly, and use Floyd’s diminished reflexes, and both men’s diminished drawing power, to find something close enough to common ground to get signatures on at least one of Don King’s old blank contracts. Fill it in later, once casual fans find inspiration enough to care again about the last fight they wanted to see, and finally make a match that hasn’t looked this likely to entertain in five years.
Floyd will win – forget not how steadily Pacquiao declined after his night in Cowboys Stadium with Antonio Margarito four years ago – but there’s no shame in admitting this much: There were a few moments during Saturday’s match, when Marcos Maidana feinted an old Floyd Mayweather to the ropes and hit him with everything he threw, we all might have taken Pacquiao, even money.
Bart Barry can be found on Twitter @bartbarry
