By Bart Barry-

Thursday in the co-comain event of a Super Bowl
week fightcard broadcast by DAZN from a shady Miami venue called Meridian at
Island Gardens – check out its Google reviews for a chuckle – super
bantamweight Danny Roman lost his WBA and IBF titles by split decision to Uzbekistan’s
Murodjon Akhmadaliev in a very good fight worthy of a rematch.

They were there to make history, history be
damned.  Akhmadaliev was to break Leon
Spinks’ record, a record few knew existed till DAZN’s promoter unearthed it, and
if that meant the benefit of most every scoring doubt need go the Uzbekistani,
so be it.  Thursday evening’s co-comain
fare was very good, again, but not historic, even if everything broadcast these
days must be.

WBA
Scores Analysis, which seems founded on innovative logic, got the score
right, Roman 115-113, by weighing the three official scorers against each other,
in an ode of sorts to selforganization.  There
are far worse analysis tools out there.

Writing of which, punch statistics, too, appeared
to favor Roman, even if prefight research should indicate Roman did not strike Akhmadaliev
nearly so hard as he got struck by him.  That’s
the thing about research, though.  What
evidence did the eyes perceive that Akhmadaliev hits so much harder?  His was the more marked face at final
bell.  His was the much more fatigued
body for three minutes before final bell. 
And most replays showed him flurrying like a teenager whenever at close
quarters, pepperdusting Roman’s elbows and wrists and collarbone.

Akhmadaliev was not the better prizefighter in
Miami, and Roman, the unified champ, did more than enough golfing Akhmadaliev
with uppercuts to retain his titles on a traditional scorecard.

A note about that. 
Close rounds traditionally get scored for the champ, not the challenger,
because that’s where the eyes fall before each engagement.  I’ve written about this a few times before,
but even if you’re tired of reading it, methinks, I’m not yet tired of treating
it:

A truly objective scorer should begin his eyes in
the neutral space between the fighters and return his eyes to that space often
as possible, too.  From that neutral
space he should track any punch that crosses the threshold and grade its effect
thereafter.

Impossible, you say?  Quite right. 
There are no truly objective scorers.

The fighter upon whose fists a scorer’s eyes most
frequently fall has an appreciable scoring advantage, sort of like, and for
much the same reason, the actor upon whom audiences’ eyes most frequently fall
has a scoring advantage at the Oscars. 
In performance arts they call it presence, and in prizefighting it be
the champion’s gree to lose.  Except when
marketing or gambling concerns make it otherwise.

Such was the case Thursday when the barely tested Akhmadaliev
entered the ring with marketing and gambling concerns in his favor.  Of those two, of course, the gambling
concerns always be more honest, and the chalk had it that Akhmadaliev was
probably something very special while Roman was already something a bit
journeyman.

Instead, Akhmadaliev was a cross between Ukraine’s
Vasyl Lomachenko and Armenia’s Vic Darchinyan, and not the right cross
exactly.  Were a man to mix successfully Lomachenko’s
form and Darchinyan’s aggression he’d be a historic entity.  Trouble is, Akhmadaliev more often mixes Darchinyan’s
form – back elbow cocked for telegraphing – with Lomachenko’s aggression,
ballrooming his way away.

There’s a whiff of autoheadline-reading there; Akhmadaliev
believes he is more than he is by virtue of his historic career, and for reasons
both financial and patriotic nobody round him has yet to say it isn’t so.  Danny Roman kinda said it in round 12,
though, didn’t he?  Whilst Akhmadaliev tried
Will-O’-the-Wisp-ing his way to winning a round without throwing a punch for
its opening 5/6, Roman did the needful, as they say, walking forward and
winning the closing round with classic boxing.

O, but look how much Akhmadaliev did in all the
preceding rounds!  Yes, do.

Thursday’s fight was a modernday Vazquez-Marquez,
was it not?  Larger money, lower stakes, poorer
form, lighter punching, less conclusive ending. 
They aren’t making 122-pounders like Izzy and Rafa these days, even if
they’re commentating like they are.

Still, as Super Bowl fightcards go, this wasn’t a
bad one.  Skipping the amateur boxing on
the card, half the televised matches were good and competitive.

Twelve years ago I covered a Scottsdale, Ariz.,
card the week of Super Bowl XLII and the week before that a local promoter told
me: “They always try to do Super Bowl week, and it never works.” 

That wasn’t the best quote, though – that came
from “El Machito” Hector Camacho Jr., on the card to supply a patronym fiftysomething
East Coast lushes might recognize and pay some slight fraction of what $10,000 the
card’s visiting promoter initially thought he might charge for ringside seats to
a Monte Barrett mainevent in a converted carny tent called 944 Super Village at
Stetson Canal.

“I’ve disrespected the sport of boxing so many
times I’m surprised they let me put gloves on,” said El Machito (44-3-1) at the
Friday weighin, by way of promoting his Saturday afternoon battle with Luis
Lopez (13-11-1).

The reason Super Bowl week fightcards generally
don’t work is because while the Super Bowl attracts men in shiny suits, they’re
bespoke suits, generally, and boxing is decidedly off-the-rack.  By the magic math of a visiting promoter
there are at least 10,000 guys in town who could care less about $10,000, and
if he can just find 20 of them he’s on his way, 50 of them and he’s the new Don
King (who posted a Super Bowl XXX loss of his own 24 years ago in Phoenix on a
card that included famed ticketseller B-Hop). 
Shiny suits and carnival barking.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

SAN ANTONIO – In the center of this city there’s a
Greyhound bus station.  In the center of
most U.S. cities there’s a Greyhound station. 
In the center of most American cities, Anchorage to Patagonia, come to
think of it, there’s a bus station.  Put
a checkmark, then, in the box beside a line that reads: “Begin column with
mundanity.”

What follows might be a treatment of current
events – Danny Garcia or Kobe Bryant, the Honduran refugee crisis or “Dance of
the Clairvoyants” by Pearl Jam – or a treatment of timeless events, the poetry
of Billy Collins or “Emergence: From Chaos to Order” by John Holland, but it likely
won’t fixate on any of these subjects longly because a dissolution of fixation is
what its writer is after.

Back to the bus station.  The cruel events that led wave after wave
after wave of Central American refugees to crash on this Texas bus station have
succumbed to still crueler events that preclude an arrival of successors – we
used to help 50 families of women and children every Sunday and yesterday we
helped exactly one, which is our current government’s solution currently: out
of sight, out of mind.

If that’s a cliché it’s because those six words
gathered thusly have proved elastic and apt enough often enough to be recycled unto
the commons.

We’re still here each Sunday morning because it
satisfies, barely, a philanthropic impulse catalyzed by a karmic virtue like:
Work without expectation of reward.  Too,
because the lead volunteers on Sundays exemplify both wisdom and vocation.  Sister Sharon and I had some time Sunday
morning to discuss my ongoing compulsion re compulsion.  We talked past one another, mostly, like good
Shakespearean characters do; Sister Sharon spoke of a book about addiction
whose author she met at a community gathering Saturday while I made irreverent
if serious inquiries about persons of the cloth who feel compelled to control
events while professing faith in an omnipotent God.  Context is essential here as everywhere: After
20 months of such passing conversations neither of us is faithful nor faithless
as our uniforms imply.

The concentration muscles upon which we call for creative
endeavors are the very same that lead us into addictions.  A capacity for fixation on one’s algebra
homework, say, locking one’s mind away and forbidding distractions, other
thoughts, is a universal virtue the same way fixing oneself on a singleminded
pursuit of heroin, say, is a universal vice – but they’re the same muscles.

Context is essential there as everywhere, even if
only to pettifog (a wonderful verb resurrected last week).

As I type these words spontaneous Kobe Bryant tributes
outbreak everywhere.  These are
sincere.  Soon to be followed by obligatory
tributes, sooner to be followed by insincere tributes overlapped by profit-motivated
tributes.  Competitive grieving, as it were,
an expression of our species’ originality amplified by social media, a
manifestation of our species’ originality.

Danny Garcia fought in Brooklyn on Saturday.  The fewer words about that, the better.

What the Seattle band Pearl Jam just did with its
new single is inspiration remarkable.  Across
29 years and 10 studio albums, three decades, in other words, and five or six
hours of music, nothing anticipated the sound of its new song.  To reinvent a successful artistic specialty
so completely and effectively is a feat and a half.

Billy Collins, twotime American Poet Laureate, is
a wonderful man fully anticipated by his wonderful poems.  I met him in the Mexican state of Tamaulipas 18
years ago at a threeday literary festival headlined by the not-yet-Noble laureate
Mario Vargas Llosa (whom I met in the men’s room the first night, when he was
anonymous as me).  I was in Tampico to
get married, simply, but ever since I’ve enjoyed telling uninterested strangers
I met the American Poet Laureate while honeymooning at a literary festival in
an exotic locale.

A few months later I mailed Collins a letter, and
he replied immediately and graciously and generously.  I’ve been revisiting Collins’ poetry this
week, putting “Aimless Love” in my promiscuous rotation, and while his poems
were primarily humorous to me in 2002 they are quite a bit more than that to me
in 2020.  Of all literary forms poetry is
the one I read poorliest, I freely admit, but I recommend Collins nevertheless
(and I pretty much just got done recommending Pearl Jam, too, without ever
getting a useable note out any musical instrument in my life).

What all this has to do with Santa Fe Institute
and John Holland – a Michigan professor of electrical engineering and psychology
and computer science, all three, amazingly enough – is next to nothing, which
is about how much it has to do with our beloved sport, too, in its winter
doldrums, but I’ve got at least four books on complexity currently colliding
with Collins and others in the aforementioned rotation, so in the name of
selforganization . . .

I’m reading this way, and have been reading this
way for 18 months now, I realize, to dissolve compulsion, an intermediate level
of anxiety one doesn’t come upon till he’s observed his way past a burning
stomach and garrulousness and financed consumption and moral judgment and
travel and some forms of achievement (but before he’s gotten past aesthetic
judgment), and dissolving compulsion currently requires challenging every
thought that endures more than 60 seconds. 
Which makes writing this column during the winter doldrums an admittedly
skittish happening.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday at Philadelphia’s Liacouras Center in a super welterweight title-unification fight broadcast by Fox, Dominican slugger Jeison “Banana” Rosario beat-down Philadelphia’s Julian “J Rock” Williams, stopping Williams in round 5 and snatching his WBA and IBF titles the right way.

In the beginning it had all the trappings of a
homecoming coronation – slick graphics, venue, dazzling biography, management
organization, Watson, sycophantic commentary team – and then a curiosity turned
up in the corner labeled Designated Opponent right about the time introductions
got made.

Sampson Lewkowicz. 
His is not a flawless eye for talent but it’s very close, and multiples
better than PBC’s.  Most famous for his
effective discoveries of Manny Pacquiao and Sergio Martinez, for seeing past
their blemished records, a few years ago Lewkowicz
saw which of the Hermanos Benavidez had the true upside, and when he was right
and promoter Top Rank wasn’t and tried to poach their ways out of such
shortsightedness, Lewkowicz went to the mat with them and won.  Lewkowicz, an Uruguayan, of all things, sees
qualities other talent scouts do not. 
His stable is not huge or assembled at premium prices but comprises a
type of prizefighter you’d be foolish to schedule for a homecoming showcase.

Which is exactly what PBC did, of course.  There’s more to this story, surely, depending
which lens you watch it through – a bout of flu in camp or a hellish style
matchup some sage or other warned somebody about – but there’s exactly no
chance the braintrust at Fox on PBC on Fox, “preeminent” though they be,
anticipated what befell Williams.

What told very early on and does not portend well
for Williams in the rematch is how little Williams’ flush punches affected
Banana.  Despite what trickeration drives
replay selection between rounds Williams’ technically proper rightcross
counters did nothing to shortcircuit Rosario’s attack or even much dissuade it.  Had Williams sliced open Rosario’s eyelid or
had Williams’ own eyelid proved more durable things might have gone differently,
but that’s all in a fight, and if Williams’ sight problems came via reopened
scar tissue, as explained during the broadcast, if in other words Williams was
already accustomed to fighting through blood in his eyes, he sure didn’t act
like it.

Let us not pile on Williams for the sins of his
management company, though; good people opine Williams is good people.  It’s hard to cheer against him as it is to
imagine his becoming a world titlist in a different boxing ecosystem – the
enduring lesson of Pacquaio-Thurman.

In his fascinating book “The Soul of the Ant” suicidal
19th-century South African poet Eugène Marais posits a termitary, the
laboriously constructed habitat of what termites Marais studied for a decade,
functions as an organism little different from the human body, stretching his
metaphor to include termites of ferocious mien acting like white blood cells
whilst constructionworker termites act as red blood cells.  Whatever modern reductionists have proved or
disproved about this metaphor in a century since its publication, it is
wellbuilt as it is imaginative, with cells, in the form of near-mindless
termites, racing through their termitary to ensure its health, like blood
racing through human veins and arteries. 
It calls to mind a similar if more modern metaphor of the world wide web
acting as our species’ brain whilst its billions of cells labor away oblivious
of our contribution to its thoughts or thinking.

So let us stretch these stretched metaphors to
include in our beloved sport’s ecosystem (ostensibly red) blood cells like
Sampson Lewkowicz and Jeison Rosario, cells scheduled for anonymity all their
days till an unscheduled tear happens in boxing’s protective membrane and
suddenly they burst out in violent spurts. 
Rosario, dropped thrice at Sam’s Town Hotel & Gambling Hall in 2017
by Nathaniel Gallimore a year before J Rock decisioned Nate the Great, was
essential as he was replaceable; boxing needs such men to make coronations for
other men but doesn’t expect them to be memorable to any but their friends and
family.

What do you know about, say, Herb “Gorilla” Siler?

He was a 20-12 heavyweight who died 19 years ago
and surely beloved to someone even while anonymous to all but a handful of
aficionados.  Too, he was the first
knockout of Cassius Clay’s prizefighting career – four years before there was a
Muhammad Ali.  Essential as he was
replaceable in boxing’s ecosystem, Gorilla is a permanent part of The
Greatest’s resume even though men like Tony Esperti and Jimmy Robinson were
just as likely to make the same history had their schedules properly coincided.

Let coincidence neither lose an idea like: At
26-1-1 eight months ago in Virginia, J Rock was the homecoming b-side for
undefeated titlist Jarrett Hurd, raised but 30 miles from the EagleBank Arena
where Hurd’s coronation was to happen.  A
less cynical scribe, then, should marvel at PBC’s marvelous matchmaking,
bestower of rich parity, rather than mock the organization for apparent
incompetence.

Well.  In my
defense I watched Saturday’s match live on Fox in the hopes of seeing J Rock do
something ultimately decisive in a competitive scrap.  The scrap was competitive and something
decisive surely did transpire.

I’m on the Banana wagon now, while we wait for
whatever Naoya Inoue does next.

*

Author’s note: Hearty congratulations to us!  As
announced late last week, 15rounds.com was the 2019 home of not only our
sport’s co-best exemplar of courage, Marc Abrams, but also our sport’s co-best
exemplar of benevolence, Norm Frauenheim. 
Two, more-deserving winners cannot be found.

*

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

CHARLOTTE – This city is its state’s largest by
quite a bit, and some years ago the Associated Press offended Charlotteans, if
not all Carolinians, by not-allowing this city to stand without its state’s
abbreviation, “N.C”, so today we’ll remedy that if only because Charlotteans,
if not all Carolinians, seem an increasingly prickly lot.  This has naught to do with prizefighting but
an explanation for why this column isn’t being written with its home byline on
the first week in many it might’ve been.

Because Saturday in San Antonio the weekend’s
biggest match happened at Alamodome – Tijuana’s Jaime Munguia stopping County
Cork’s Gary “Spike” O’Sullivan – and I wasn’t there.  But I was here, in North Carolina, and
haven’t regrets about it, which is odd not because of Munguia-O’Sullivan but
because of missing a chance to converse with Munguia’s chief second, Erik “El
Terrible” Morales, who might well hold a fortuneteller’s insights for Munguia.  As I once wrote quite a bit but stopped doing
years ago, El Terrible is half the reason I began writing about our beloved
sport 15 years ago, and his nemesis, Marco Antonio Barrera, is the other.

As El Terrible’s softened, rounded face flashed
across DAZN’s broadcast I felt a quick if small pang of regret at being
stationed 1,200 miles eastwards, a pang assuaged by a question like: What,
actually, would you ask Morales?  Not
much.  The last thing an interview should
be is an exercise in thanking its subject for the joy he brought the
interviewer, and so there are no regrets at missing a chance to converse with
El Terrible.

What, then, might El Terrible fortunetell for
Munguia?

“Just because you can no longer make junior-[weightclass]
does not mean you are now a proper [weightclass].”

Munguia got the stoppage Saturday when an attritioned
O’Sullivan relented too much and fell to the wrong side of the decisive point,
yes, in a match well officiated by local referee Mark Calo-oy, but a quick
glance at O’Sullivan’s face after being struck regularly by Munguia’s hooks and
crosses for a halfhour and change tells you Munguia hasn’t brought the sum of
his powers from 154 pounds to 160.

About 15 years ago, after losing a controversial
decision to Barrera and winning an extraordinary fight with Manny Pacquiao (it
would take seven years and 15 fights for anyone, much less Morales, to turn the
feat again), Morales ate his way directly out of the super featherweight division
and into a staybusy, vacant WBC International Light Title tilt with a featherfisted
Philadelphia cutie named Zahir Raheem, who conclusively denuded El Terriblemente
Gordo, stopped all his momentum and got him remanded to fatcamp by promoter Top
Rank to prepare for consecutive knockout losses to Pacquiao and a definitive
end to the serious part of Morales’ career.

Munguia is obviously in a different place in his
career than El Terrible was back then, and very much younger in years and
experience, but physical freaks who rely on freakish physicality do not age
well, which is why an inability to scale a lower weight is verily the end of
comparisons betwixt Munguia and his trainer – who was roughly thrice the boxer
Munguia is.

Munguia has improved, though.  His head movement is worth noting because
head movement of any kind influences opponents disproportionately more than it
looks to onlookers.  Any head movement at
all is multiples more effective than no head movement because it can stay an
opponent’s combination fractionally long enough to cancel it altogether.  At any level, but especially professional,
boxing is a sport of rhythm and timing, and if you can make your attacker pause
to reconsider, his reconsideration often as not becomes paralysis.

Coincidentally the way round this paralysis is an
offensive quality Munguia also possesses, something like a burn-the-boats
commitment to whatever combination one decided to throw before his opponent
started moving about.  When Munguia
decides the time has come for 3-2-3 (hook/cross/hook) he throws it and keeps
throwing it till he’s done.  Why is this
anything but stubborn and stupid? 
Because if you can start the third (or more-th) punch in a combination,
you generally can land it.  The reason
most guys do not land the hook in the 1-2-3 or the cross in the 1-3-2 or the second
hook in the (admittedly odd) 3-2-3 is because they abandon the combination
after its first two punches miss. 
Munguia does not.

That’s a winning quality when you are the much
larger man with the greater punch. 
Trouble is . . . well, you get the picture.

Let’s close with a few observations about what can
best be called deep-red states, like this one and Texas, and deep-blue ones,
like Massachusetts, these days.  The red
ones are moving at an accelerating pace towards unfriendliness.

I spent 10 days in North Carolina in 1995, and it
was the friendliest place I’d ever been. 
I grew up in Massachusetts, 1974-1992, and it was the unfriendliest place
I’ve ever lived.  I moved to San Antonio
in 2010, and it was the friendliest place I’ve ever lived.  In the last three months I’ve returned to
Massachusetts and North Carolina and found they’ve swapped places on the
friendliness spectrum.  And San Antonio
is at best 30-percent friendly in 2020 as it was a decade ago.

Some of that is migration: The Northeast has
exported its retirees to the taxfree South, flushing the toilet as it were, landing
population density on cities whose infrastructures and mentalities were
illprepared for it.  But more of it, I
suspect, is about what happens when a state goes halfassed libertarian, cutting
funding for every social service save “public safety” – the population becomes
fearful and tribal, regressing towards a downward spiral of selfjustifying
desperation, wherein a fearful and less-productive populace sees its fears confirmed,
over and over, and commits more and more of its dwindling budget to public-safety
measures that do little but make its populace more fearful and less productive.

Finally, you get what you pay for.

*

Editor’s note: The accompanying photograph is the
painting “Dance Around a Flower” by North Carolina artist Haywood Rivers – part
of an intriguing permanent collection at Mint Museum Uptown.

*

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Editor’s note: For part 1, please click here.

*

Cowboys Stadium be an immense edifice and not
until you are suspended in its gravitational force, postevent, do you realize
the immensity of what inconvenience sportsfans endure to see their teams play –
an hourlong drive and wait to park, a 45-minute exit map, an hourlong drive and
wait to depart – and if you pay yourself only minimum wage that adds $20 or so
to the absurd price you pay for admission and the absurder-still
sustenance-n-libations tariff levied upon you, and it serves mostly to help a
nonfan experience etymology in realtime: “Fan” origin “fanatic”.

Errol won himself no new fans by slap-and-tickling
Mikey in March; those who were his fans already stayed positive, and nigh
everyone else exercised his own selfinterest in evaluating the man and his
performance.

I didn’t drive to the mediacenter hotel Saturday afternoon
and didn’t take the mediacenter bus to Cowboys Stadium (remembering what an
abortive episode that brought during my second time in Cowboys Stadium, after
Manny Pacquiao broke Antonio Margarito’s face, and the busdriver got lost in the
stadium’s catacombs and added an hour to the aforementioned hour) and didn’t
partake of what swill writers get fed – while television eats its a-list spread
– and after collecting a credential I assumed was auxiliary I went for lunch and
skipped much of the PBC undercard’s inevitably dull fare.

Everyone who gathered at Cowboys Stadium assumed
Mikey would fight till unconsciousness if pressed and likewise assumed Errol
was exactly the man to press anyone he faced to that choice, and all of us were
wrong and disappointed.

Saturday afternoon I pressed the Jag’s 510 horses
into action on a freeway onramp that had a seam of sorts, and the Jag hit that
seam a little wrong, and “stepped out” as they say of rearwheel-drive automobiles,
and in the 10 or so milliseconds it took for the car to fishtail and right
itself, I frightened the bejesus out of myself: Kid, this is a luxury racecar,
and you are not a racecar driver, luxury or otherwise.

We’d not read enough volition in The Truth’s
resume before his Mikey match in March, we’d sort’ve figured Spence knew only forwardpressing
destruction, and that lack of imagination told after Mikey landed some defensive,
retreating counters, and Errol performed an obvious calculus (Value of taking
Garcia’s consciousness = Reward for doing so – Personal cost) and relented
quite obviously during the championship rounds.

Time was, were I ever to attain a credential to attend
a prizefight and arrive later than the opening bell of the card’s very first
match, no matter how many halfdays before its mainevent, I’d’ve banished myself
from ringside a year or more, no joke, and yet, there I was in March,
sauntering in the arena four or so hours after my mediabus peers, wearing what
I assumed be a credential to sit in the attic of Cowboys Stadium (for
Pacquiao-Bradley 2, my back was to the wall; a few years after sitting near scorers’
tables round the land, I was remanded to the geometric end of MGM Grand Garden
Arena, a place so far from the action its participants danced below like
electrons in a microscope), and I was rather wrong.

Mikey was what we expected him to be, ultimately.

Nothing about Cowboys Stadium felt electric during
the mainevent, though in the comain David Benavidez stole the show, waltzing
through J’Leon Love way quicker than expected, and it made you wonder how good
Benavidez might be if he were under the same promotional banner as his older
brother, if he were being developed by matchmaking experts in lieu of publicity
ones, but then you thought about how Bud Crawford’s career stalled for want of
available competition and you thought about where Jose Benavidez’s career went
after an incredibly promising open, and you decided, as boxing writers are not
wont to do, you don’t know any better than anybody else where the hell anyone’s
career will go.

After treating his first pay-per-viewers a bit
like rubes Errol turned from charming countryboy to rube himself by the end of
the year, rolling his own luxury racecar several times and being arrested for DWI
in an episode that implied nothing so much as an athlete whose body had
outpaced its mind.

The credential wasn’t auxiliary after all, and when
I was through Cowboys Stadium’s layers of security and riding an elevator downwards
to the floor, the vestigial remnants of professionalism still swimming in my dilletante’s
cells began to fire with horror: I’d not bothered even to bring a stageprop chromebook
to ringside with me, and so there was nothing to be done but lend Norm unneeded
moral support and tweet.

Mikey has done absolutely nothing since Keep Away
with Errol, though he’s scheduled to decision narrowly Jessie Rodriguez at the
Cowboys’ practice facility next month.

Jerry Jones is no rube, so if he keeps hosting
one-off prizefights in his stadiums there must be a larger strategy at work, or
more likely he’s just a gambler with resources to burn.

The Truth won’t fight Bud anytime soon, and it’ll be
a bigger shame than past-their-primes Money and Manny not fighting in 2010 (or
11 or 12 or 13 or 14), but it won’t receive fractionally so much coverage because:

I know we’re supposed to multiply the number of
boxing’s 2019 platforms by the purses fighters now win and declare how healthy
our sport is, but it ain’t so: Boxing’s disinterested media is worse than
decimated by an absence of access and remuneration, it no longer has even
2010’s infrastructure for attracting and uncovering young talent, and that
means its ecosystem is unhealthy – not an obituary but a warning.

Scorecards be already filled for Garcia-Vargas in
Frisco; unless Jessie shows more mettle than Errol, we’ll get a similar fight
with an opposite result and be told it’s all quite a statement.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

We were back at Cowboys Stadium in March to see two
of the world’s best prizefighters scrap with one another in a captivating match
if you overlooked weightclass disparity – if you did tequila shots then
backflips on a trampoline, donned promoter goggles and saw Sugar Ray Leonard outclassing
Marvelous Marvin Hagler on the thirtysomethingeth anniversary of that disappointment
– but I was there only to see colleague, mentor and friend, Norm Frauenheim.

Errol Spence, a countryboy raised a halfhour southeast
of Cowboys Stadium (or whatever they’re now calling it) and a halfhour southsoutheast
of Texas Stadium, looked to be the goods, the one special fighter from Team
USA’s none-too-special 2012 squad.

There is something immediately liberating about
declaring yourself a dilletante among writers – all pressures be eased, all
bylines be forgotten, any insights you make on craft be happy accidents;
barriers needn’t be felled for being never erected.

Mikey Garcia had long since proved himself a
special talent with a talent for selfsabotage, having lost 30 months from
exactly his prime, skwabbing with promoter Top Rank, unknown for losing such tiffs,
and was making battle with a much larger and dangerouser opponent than usual
because the casement window of Garcia’s legacy cranked steadily shut.

There’s a wonderful trust-economy app called Turo,
an Airbnb of cars as it were, that empowers you to rent cars from people, not faceless
and gouging agencies, and it helped me discover a proper travelbudget algorithm
– allocate 70-percent to car rental and 30-percent to accommodations – that arrivaled
me at Dallas Love Field to retrieve my 2010 Jaguar XKR (510-hp / 5.0-liter
supercharged V-8 / 21,000 miles on its odometer) and drive it to a Motel 6,
where the Jag was, ahem, out of place.

Whatever else we opined of Spence we saw The Truth
as a proper finisher, a southpaw who appreciated physicality and its effects
and went through smaller men easily and would go through Garcia, quite
probably, like he went through undefeated Carlos Ocampo nine months before,
when Spence aced his tryout at The Star, Cowboys’ practice facility, en route
to his League debut beneath the Jerrytron.

My first time at Cowboys Stadium, exactly nine
years before, when Manny Pacquiao punched Joshua Clottey on the gloves for 36
minutes, I’d’ve called myself anything but a dilletante: I’d recently cowritten
a book with another mentor and friend, Thomas Hauser, and moved to San Antonio
and joined its esteemed San Fernando gym, and arranged my life mostly round producing
words for a living: For a large bank I was a contract technical writer who was 250,000
words into his weekly column gig and about to begin work on his eighth novel.

Mikey was basic in the best sense of the term, heading
into his pay-per-view match with Spence: He threw the sorts of combinations one
learns his first week in a gym; he was in a way what you’d get if you took a
great athlete at age seven and made him constantly throw 1-2-3s at increasingly
larger men till he was 32 years-old.

Dallas is not enchanting, though it has fine a
skyline as our country boasts, but Fort Worth, its neighbor to the west, supplies
cultural highlights – like Tadao Ando’s Modern Art Museum, an architectural
masterpiece that nearly always outshines its contents, and Louis I. Kahn’s
Kimbell Art Museum, an architectural masterpiece that would outshine most any
collection in the world but the one it comprises (its endowment 40 years ago
was in oil stock, which is to write its budget effectively is infinite, and it
acquires whatever it wishes) – that make quarterly trips northwards worthwhile
in a way Dallas alone could not.

The Truth began “the main event of the first Premier
Boxing Champions on FOX Sports Pay-Per-View event” slowly stalking his much
smaller prey and then continued stalking his much smaller prey and then
continued to continue stalking his much smaller prey.

Friday night I found Norm alone in the media
center well before dark, and it portended institutional interest in
Spence-Garcia, as the same sort of media center in Las Vegas for a Pacquiao
fight, or in the same Metroplex for a Pacquiao fight nine years before, would
be boisterous and filled with folks you only know from television, but in March
was small and empty.

Mikey did what he must to keep Errol off him for
the match’s first half, and eyes began to wander towards Mikey’s corner and his
older brother, Robert, a man The Ring named 2011’s best trainer, and what
adjustments Robert might make as a tactical mastermind or not-make as just
another middling trainer mistaken for a mastermind during his lucky run.

Saturday I attended breakfast in Dallas with an
old friend and confidante and then drove to Fort Worth in the Jag to sample The
Modern’s forgettable collection, and when we walked from the forgettable
collection to the unforgettable automobile, she remarked quite astutely: “This
car is the greatest work of art on the property right now.”

The Truth made his professional debut in
California, 130 miles east of Los Angeles, in November of the same year Team
USA posted another 0-for in its medal count then made his way gradually
eastwards till making his first professional fight in Texas at a collegiate
gymnasium in San Antonio so small its university, Our Lady of the Lake, rents
an eastside rodeo coliseum for graduations.

Friday night Norm and I collected Dylan Hernandez,
a Los Angeles Times columnist who despite his penchant for penning boxing
obituaries is wonderful company, and made our way to a Mexican restaurant in
Arlington, where we sat at the bar and told enchanting stories about Michael
Carbajal and Andre Ward and especially Manny Ramirez, and if there’s any lingering
regret about the evening it’s that we took Norm’s dreary rental instead of the
Jag.

What happened in Mikey’s corner was very little
but a catalyst for considering the difference between Errol The Truth and Bud
Crawford: Errol comported himself as a gentleman should, endangering no one in
La Familia Garcia, when Bud would’ve looked Robert’s way at the end of every
round and promised him: I am going to torture your little brother till you use
that white towel, old man.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

And our king returned on the final days of the
decade to save us.  Exiled 31 months since
a highpaying debacle of a battle for Mexico, Son of the Legend marched on
Phoenix with an army of 12,000 and merely 11 days to go in his decade, to restore
our kingdom with a panache none before him has brought. 

Son of the Legend (VADA ID#:
214371) fought 15 times in his decade, 15 times in 7 1/2 years, 50-percent
more frequently than Money May, mind you, and remained true to himself every
time he blessed a bluemat with his sacred boot. 
Highbrows can argue who was the decade’s best fighter (Roman Gonzalez is
the answer to that riddle), but no one can claim to have been a more apt
metaphor for our beloved sport.

A modern entity whose popularity is fully derived
from his predecessor’s accomplishments, Son of the Legend comported himself
always with an arrogance inexplicable to others.  The way the NHL looks at revenue from Mayweather-Pacquiao
is how 95-percent of the decade’s prizefighters looked at Junior: “Wait, how
much did he make for his pro debut?”

*

We interrupt this homage for some hard reporting.

When Julio Cesar Chavez Jr. faced Ireland’s John
Duddy in Alamodome to christen the new decade, June 26, 2010, some questioned
whether a suspended drug cheat had the necessary mettle to wrest from vacancy
the WBC’s prestigious middleweight Silver title.

For years, Chavez Jr. had waged a reign of terror
on Midwesterners – “kicking the Big Ten’s ass” as one scribe put it – and he
promised to do the same to Europeans if given a chance.

“They want to make money off my name and fame,”
Chavez Jr. said, without a hint of irony in his voice.

Chavez Jr. won impressively against Duddy and Lyell
and Zbik, Manfredo and Rubio and Lee – his record stood at an astounding 46-0-1
on Sept. 15, 2012 – and then he went for the real middleweight championship
against an Argentine named Maravilla.  He
lost every second of the fight’s first 34 1/2 minutes before delivering the
most exciting 30 seconds of boxing’s last 15 years.

Chavez Jr. was too exhausted to complete the
upset, of course, but by surprising everyone, he re-adorned his father’s name
with credibility for years to come.

Chavez Jr. collected a big gift decision against
Brian Vera then ratified it massively back at Alamodome a halfyear later before
stumbling a wee bit against somebody named Fonfara.  The people got displeased, failing universally
to credit his subsequent and huge wins against Reyes and Britsch, and demanded
Junior be fed to Canelo Alvarez, who subsequently refused to sit down, even,
between rounds of their sparring session.

Canelo went on to riches in the United States while
Chavez quietly gathered and perfected himself in their native Mexico.  After squaring off against another highly
regarded prospect in Evert Bravo, Chavez treated Las Vegas drug testers with a princely
contempt then commanded a princely sum to finish his decade in a fight with Daniel
Jacobs.

An influencer every step of the way, Chavez Jr. entered
Friday’s ring in Phoenix sporting a blue birthmark-like stain on his otherwise
platinum head.

After missing weight effortlessly at his Thursday
weighin, Chavez Jr. fought five rounds bravely till his nose got broken then
instructed his chief second to end the match. 
When that didn’t happen, Chavez Jr. made the sort of resounding decision
that separates champions from challengers, calling the referee over and stopping
the fight his own damn self.

An unappreciative Julio Cesar Chavez Sr. buried
his face in his hands.

As Chavez Jr. exited the ring Friday, his appreciative
if rambunctious fans in Arizona showered their returned king in gold.

Chavez Jr. departs his decade having defended
titles valiantly in the following divisions: 172 1/2, 171 1/2, 170 3/4, 164,
175 1/4 and 172 3/4.

*

As the decade in boxing draws to a close we are
right to reflect upon what metaphors Son of the Legend affords us.  Rumor was, Junior once cared about his craft,
whatever we opined of him.  His craft was
enriching himself and financially supporting his father’s retirement by doing
something he was not naturally endowed with a power to do.  He tried to escape boxing at nearly every
interval.

No truer moment in his career happened than when
he snapped at his ringside father’s advice from the stool of his Thomas &
Mack Center performance, yelling at him “¡Ya, Ya, Ya!” before collecting 100
more direct blows to the head from Sergio Martinez.

For beginning 2010 as a grifter, making whatever
promises were needed to keep the grift going, enduring massive and traumatic
abuse from his peers, lying to his fans over and again, cheating on drug tests before
simply failing them, scoffing at every traditional discipline, changing the
rules whenever convenient, and finally fleeing in 2019 his own paying customers
as they pelted him with beer and fought one another like savages, “Son of the
Legend” Julio Cesar Chavez Jr. is boxing’s well-deserved Fighter of the Decade.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

Photo By Ed Mulholland

By Bart Barry-

Saturday at Madison Square Garden in a fight for the ESPN welterweight title Nebraska’s Terence “Bud” Crawford stopped Lithuania’s Egidijus “Mean Machine” Kavaliauskas in round 9, defending his ESPN-pound-for-pound rating and further burnishing credentials Crawford insists are already hall-of-fame quality. Too, ESPN’s Joe Tessitore called the last minutes of Crawford’s ringwalk “precious”?

Bud Crawford is bored. You are bored. Bud Crawford knows you are bored. (And now, humorously enough, he knows you know he’s bored.) That mutual boredom leads a proud man like Bud to do imprudent things for his own amusement and to a lesser extent your amusement. That’s half the reason for Crawford’s poor start Saturday but not the bad half. Boredom can be remedied, after all.

The bad part of the reason for Crawford’s poor start Saturday is that his skills are gradually eroding in the acid rain of average competition.

Boxing is unique among professional sports in its ability to waste a healthy participant’s prime years. By any measure Crawford’s prime is being wasted. That’s boxing’s fault, the system’s fault, much more than any one person’s or organization’s or broadcast network’s.

Boxing does this to many of its participants, but you rarely notice because the case is never obvious as Crawford’s is right now. Generally these things happen to a 29-year-old stuck in a small market and affiliated with the wrong manager, some fighter either too good or too loyal to get the fights a bigger handler might get him. If ever he breaks-through his story becomes an inspirational one of perseverance and seizing one’s chance on the odd chance it is presented and almost never about bad luck and a system that squanders its participants’ primes.

Bud already did his b-side breaking-through years ago. Now his staybusy mandatory defenses illuminate fundamental flaws in our beloved sport’s meritocracy.

Bud’s promoter, Top Rank, knows all this much better than even Bud does, and so it gives him a semiannual pulpit from which to vent on America’s mostwatched sports network. Bud gets the relief of telling ESPN viewers what he opines of PBC’s keepaway game, and the honor of being called boxing’s best prizefighter despite years of middling competition, and Top Rank and ESPN get promotional rights to the world’s best prizefighter. And everybody gets money enough to endure the arrangement another year longer.

But a crossroads approaches for Bud and his promoter, if not his network. Another couple years like 2019 and age and poor competition’ll’ve eroded Bud’s skills to a point Top Rank’s matchmakers’ll know Bud is no longer great enough to justify the risk of putting him in with the world’s best welterweights – not when another two years of revenues can be milked from the ESPN cow, fighting unification matches with Julius Indongo or title defenses with Jeff Horn.

Annual interviews with the perennially aggrieved Dre Ward will feature a tasting menu of early-retirement threats, PBC callouts, legal misunderstandings explained, and commiserating about what untrustworthy media rated both men world’s best, both before and after they deserved it. In between there will be more close calls explained away by Bo Mack – Bud’s charismatic trainer now enjoying his own synergistic relationship with ESPN – and surliness and sadism. At the end of the run there will be 10 impressionable kids saying Crawford is an alltime great for every one of the rest of us lamenting the career Crawford might’ve had were boxing run like football or hockey. Boxing writers’ll selforganize around Bud’s already B-Hop-like autohagiography and bully themselves into putting Bud in Canastota.

There are some risks inherent in Bud’s early retirement threats, though, especially now that he’s spoken them to the aforementioned and early retired Andre Ward: Sometime in the next few years Manny Pacquiao is going to retire, and the very last thing Bud wants is historians placing those two resumes side-by-side.

Again, little to none of this is Crawford’s fault. But again-again, absolutely none of it is our faults as aficionados.

Crawford is neither talented nor lucky as Pacquiao. Were he as talented he’d be fighting Canelo at 168 pounds in May, and were he as lucky he’d have had a trilogy with Yuriorkis Gamboa and a pair of fights with Vasyl Lomachenko and a tetralogy with Errol Spence. Instead he’s stuck reminding viewers Egidijus Kavaliauskas was still undefeated on Saturday afternoon and reviving Money May’s canard about the boxing media not knowing anything about boxing.

We know enough to know Crawford ate righthands Saturday night he’s not proud of this morning. We know that if he tried to race forward willfully against any of PBC’s top four welterweights the way he did against Kavaliauskas he’d have spent more than a flashing moment on the canvas. We know three years comprising John Molina, Felix Diaz, Julius Indongo, Jeff Horn, Jose Benavidez (on one good leg) and Amir Khan is no one’s idea of a path to enlightenment.

And we know Bud knows we know these things, and all of it pisses him off. He’s a great talent and a true fighter, nevertheless. It’s a stain on our sport he’ll unlikely get his chance to be remembered as more than that.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday on DAZN in a rematch of a wonderful June
title fight, Anthony “AJ” Joshua decisioned lopsidedly Andy “Destroyer” Ruiz by
scores nobody should care about. 
Whenever more than 500 pounds of flesh engages in gloved combat and no
one gets felled, the decision is an irrelevance because something much less
than combat has happened.

It was fat guy versus nervous one, Saturday, and
it failed all expectations.  Every last
one.  That includes Joshua’s and even his
handlers’.  As AJ worked the kettlebells
and scaffolding in camp, setting new personal bests on his wearables, everyone
must’ve assumed that at some point either he would tire from his running or his
opponent would, and AJ would return to proper prizefighting form and conclude
things violently enough for all his predecessor crossfitting to be recalled
like so much strategy.  The dope-a-rope,
as it were.

No one, save perhaps Amir Khan, imagined a
heavyweight of such pedigree as Joshua behaving so pathetically for 36 minutes.  Certainly Ruiz did not.  Had he an inkling it was a roadrace he’d
signed for on the dunes he’d’ve taken his obesity elsewhere for a year or two,
making paychecks as the king in exile rather than playing a jiggly game of whatever
it was he and Joshua did.

Not until the match’s final 10 seconds did Ruiz
give expression to every spectator’s every sentiment, when he dropped his
gloves and pleaded Joshua fight at center ring as a giant of a man should do.  Too late. 
Joshua’s conversion from boxing’s next great champion to Wlad
Klitschko’s soulmate was complete.

AJ: Hello.

WK: Hello, Joshua, it’s me, Wlad.

AJ: I am torn, buddy, do I fight Andy like you
fought Sam Peter the first time, or like you fought Tyson Fury?

WK: I have better template for you, Joshua.

AJ: Do tell.

WK: Sultan Ibragimov.  Some change are needed.  But that is template.

AJ: Aye, mate. 
Thank you.

In 2005 Samuel Peter was a better puncher than
Ruiz is and Wlad had fewer athletic tools at his disposal than AJ, but
otherwise the similarities hold – whatever advice Wlad gave AJ.  Anytime Peter got close enough to Klitschko
to make contact he scared the wits out of Dr. Steelhammer.  Wlad’s chest would heave and his eyes would
bug and he would move like a threelegged gazelle fleeing a lion.  Peter hadn’t conditioning enough to throw the
final punch to rid us of Klitschko once and for all, and 12 years later folks
talked of Wlad like the Babe Ruth of boxing.

Y’all can follow that template with AJ till the
cows come home, but count me the hell out. 
I won’t do it again.  I won’t go
through another decade of what contortions and squinting must be done to see a
musclebound man of 6-foot-6 and 240 pounds fleeing another man as anything but
weakness.  Save the talk of strategy;
jab-cross-hook is the only strategy any man, woman or child should expect from
a person Joshua’s size in a fight.  Foot
feints? sideways movement? impressing judges? Jesus God make it stop!

Trust yourself, dear aficionado, trust your gut on
this one.  Don’t let the highbrow set
pettifog you, expressing their sympathy for your ignorance, as they will: “If
you can’t see the craft and discipline it takes for a man like Joshua to run
away from men half-a-foot smaller, I feel sorry for you.”

They’re being paid to say it, every damn one of
them.  The older generation, the opinion
statesmen, they say and write these things because they believe in the
prizefighting ecosystem, were raised on a philosophy of the heavyweight
division as industry leader, and want boxing to stay popular enough to get them
paid.  The younger generation, the media
upstarts, simply don’t know any better; coming of age as young pundits their
mentors had auctioned themselves to the highest bidder – promoter, publicist, broadcaster
– and so the youngsters don’t know enough to feel bashful about their
affiliations anymore; it’s all in the game to them.

But hold no resentments.  A pundit writing or saying Saturday’s fight
was anything better than woeful does so with the same integrity as a waiter
embellishing the daily specials or a flight attendant thanking you for loyalty
to her airline.  The words are sincere
insomuch as their speakers and writers sincerely wish to make a living.

Saturday was just awful.  Take a deep breath and say it with me:
Saturday was just awful.  See that?  You didn’t hurt anyone.  No alarms went off.  Capitalism itself did not implode.  All you did was give a one-star Yelp review
to a substandard product.  The owner
won’t like it, he’ll post a comment under yours explaining your ignorance to
you and inviting you back for a free order of nachos next time, but you’ll feel
a little less dopey the rest of the week for being honest: I was excited about
Saturday’s fight – looked forward to it for about six months – and it was just
awful, and I feel dumb right now, and it’s boxing’s fault.

For if we don’t allow such moments of honesty, if
we shout them down in what faux intellectualism uses phrases like “sweet
science” or “hit and don’t get hit”, we alienate what few serious fans we have
left.  Boxing will not die in a blaze of
outrage about a hometown decision but in a collective shrug about a nervous
giant running away from a fat one.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

GUADALAJARA, Mexico – Sunday nights at Arena
Coliseo, downtown, are noches familiares (family nights) when the lucha libre
begins at 6:00 PM local time.  The masked
luchadores congregate in the lobby whilst ticketbuyers queue and mask vendors assemble
their displays.  If you spring for $10
ringside seats, in front of the chainlink fence, a selfemployed usher shows you
your spot for a small but assumed gratuity.

What follows is 150 minutes of theatrical, performative
violence done by acrobatic athletes. 
What thousand children gather wear smiles, every one.  It’s combat sans sadism, catharsis without
malice.  Most of all it is fun.  Rarely is our beloved sport fun.  Enough alcohol and friends, and our sport has
funny occasions.  But how often does
anyone review a prizefight and think it was a fun evening?  Now take that number and subtract the folks
who feel guilt shortly thereafter – a man could die in the ring, after all, we
remind ourselves tirelessly – and you’re left without a handful. 

With one blessed exception: Ruiz-Joshua 1 – the
rematch of which happens Saturday on DAZN somewhere far away from wherever
you’re reading this.  Ruiz-Joshua 1 was
boxing’s one night of delivering guiltfree jollity enough to be a beersoaked
family night of lucha libre.

That night a made-man got exposed indecently by what
looked like a bellyjiggling toughman. 
None of us gave Ruiz a shot, not necessarily because we didn’t know who
he was or what talent he had but because everything about Joshua’s ascent was
so preform scripted none of us imagined a happening so absurd might befall him;
any man with better than a 1-in-10 shot of beating Joshua, we assumed, had been
filtered before the Madison Square Garden contract collected its ink.

Yet there Joshua was, the prodigy – Olympic gold
medalist, sculpted giant, undefeated collector of men’s souls, unrivaled seller
of tickets – stankylegging his chiseled bulk about the bluemat and transferring
his disbelief to the rest of us, refusing to toe the line in round 7 after his
fourth knockdown.  Then Ruiz jumping in ecstasy,
his back shimmying everywhere like spilled glitter, and his unmanned foe
commandeered the microphone to call him the better man several times and
several more.  Well.

Here are some things that didn’t matter until
Joshua got stopped but matter in retrospect and preview.  Ruiz and Joshua are the same age, 30, but
Ruiz has been boxing twice as long. 
Joshua won a gold medal at London 2012, but Ruiz had more than twice as
many amateur bouts.  Joshua was 22-0 as a
professional before their June match, but Ruiz was 29-0 three years ago.  Joshua is the darling asset of his country’s
best promoter, but Ruiz spent nearly all his career under boxing’s best
promoter.  And as ace writer and editor
Matthew Swain tweeted last week, Joshua may be an athlete, but Ruiz is a
fighter.

That distinction is the one that mattered in their
first tilt and anticipates their rematch. 
Watch the men’s reactions whenever both land stiff shots.  Joshua admires his work and expects to be
left in a quiet, happy place while he does so. 
Ruiz leaps at his opponent with another combination and keeps punching
till the ref makes him stop.  Ruiz
expects to be struck and hard, and if he didn’t quite expect to be nearly decapitated
by Joshua’s round 3 combination, 6-3, uppercut-hook, boxing’s purest combo
according to Joe Frazier (if you land the 6 then you cannot miss with the 3),
he knew exactly how to behave after it came.

Meanwhile it was amateur (half)hour for Joshua thereafter.  He got inside his opponent’s comparatively
tiny range, got slapped silly by a balance shot, and never recovered at
all.  And when he pleaded with his corner
for a tip, he was told “lefts and rights” – which, as this column goes to
print, exhaust the options in boxing’s lexicon; all that was missing from that
show was a waterfilled latex glove playing enswell.

Today Joshua says all the right things, just like
yesterday and yesteryear – back to basics, trust his intuition, go with what
got him there, a brand new fitness regimen. 
None of these things fixes the technical flaws Ruiz brought to light,
much less the mental weakness Ruiz amplified by contrast, much less the experience
of Joshua’s public emasculation.

What hope does Joshua have in Saturday’s rematch?  He retains a ridiculous size advantage,
excellent power, and every sanctioning body’s and broadcaster’s rooting
interest.  Ruiz went for the money and
conceded most everything else, because why not? 
Ruiz’s former promoter, Bob Arum, in an interview with The Ring mischievously
alluded to Joshua’s preference for host countries with lax testing protocols, too,
and Saudi Arabia’s probably couldn’t be looser.

None of those things, though, makes a Joshua
rematch victory probable.  Joshua cannot
outbox Ruiz and would be foolish to try. 
He cannot throw more fluidly in combination than Ruiz.  A chin is not something one acquires in his 24th
professional fight.  And that’s before
one considers Joshua’s evident conditioning issues.  Well before spazzing hither and yon against
Ruiz, Joshua showed selfdoubt against under-40 athletes; he knew better than to
think carrying so much muscle in the ring makes for finessed, lateround
showings.

Jester or otherwise, Andy Ruiz knows exactly what
he is when he looks in the mirror.  Anthony
Joshua does not any longer, if he ever did. 
He knows his career’s greatest advocates either overestimated him or lied
about it.

If Joshua takes an honest inventory of what
mountains of selfdoubt now enclose him and uses that inventory to create
desperation enough to fuel a savage firstround blitzing of Ruiz, Joshua may
well prevail.  Or he may get stretched
again.  But if he cautiously wades in and
lets Ruiz warm, he’ll enroll himself in a game of keepaway he’s too robotic to
win.

I’ll take Ruiz, KO-6.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Thursday at Super Arena not far from Tokyo, Japan’s
Naoya “The Monster” Inoue decisioned “The Filipino Flash” Nonito Donaire to win
WBSS’ bantamweight tournament in a fight that saw the loser dropped by a liver
shot and the winner later treated for a cracked face.

It was splendid, gorgeous, a Thanksgiving-month reminder
to be grateful.  One can leave
of-the-year superlatives to others and say this 2019 match is the one any
aficionado should rewatch first.  This
was the match to show kids who wonder if boxing retains qualities they’ve heard
grandfathers conspire about.

It had class, courage, class, drama, class,
suspense, class, blood, class, concussion, class, bonebreaking, class, violence,
class, violence and class.  It didn’t
make its predecessors or successors worth their suffering because it was an
island, a tribute unto itself of what prizefighting looks like at its very
best.  Notice: It wasn’t horrorflick gory
or WWE paced or Boardwalk Hall thunderstriking – it was proper prizefighting in
a way as recognizable to Benny Leonard as Floyd Mayweather.

Inoue sought and encountered his foil in a way
none of his peers has done.  We now know
he could’ve signed with Top Rank and fought ESPN prelims till 2021 but
self-entered a single-elimination tourney instead to test himself three
weightclasses higher than his debut scaling. 
That’s what a pursuit of greatness looks like.  No cherrypicking, no ask-my-managering, no thank-God-and-Al-Haymoning;
rather, I will fight whosoever draws me and I will annihilate him.

And at tourney start Nonito did not look that part,
as the bracket configuration appeared prohibitive to Filipino Flash.  Three rounds into WBSS’ first round Donaire
looked outclassed enough by Irishman Ryan Burnett to be involuntarily retired before
three, 120-108 scores got read in Scotland. 
Then Burnett suffered a freak back injury Donaire had nothing to do
with, and Nonito was on to the semifinals where he blasted an anonymous
shortnotice sub.  All the while Inoue
stomped to the finals in a series of exertions better captured by punches-needed
than minutes or rounds.

I was ringside for Inoue’s only American tilt, two
years ago, and I did not see anything to make me anticipate the ease with which
Inoue’d go through Juan Carlos Payano and Emmanuel Rodriguez.  This year I went from admiring Inoue’s
character for signing with WBSS to quietly ranking him above Bud, Hi-Tech and
Canelo.  I expected him to blitz Donaire
and bring a mercy stoppage early, definitely before the fight’s mid rounds.  Too fast, too strong, too technically sound
for a 37-year-old returned in 2018 to a division he outgrew in 2011.

But did I remember July 7, 2007, in my
assessment?  Damn right I did.

That extraordinary lefthook against an onrushing
and sadistic savant, Vic Darchinyan, who’d humiliated Nonito’s older brother, Glenn,
then put Victor Burgos in a coma in the two fights that preceded his intended
wasting of Nonito.  Darchinyan’s
signature charge embraced contemptuous entitlement more than strategy, fists not
just waistlow but cocked, when Nonito clipped him and changed both their careers.

True an eraser as exists in our beloved sport,
that Donaire lefthook.  It erased
everything we predicted on Thursday, no? 
It flew in round 1 but got outsped by Inoue’s own eraser, the same way
everything Donaire did most of the fight got outsped by what Inoue did, but in
round 2 it did something wicked.  It
gifted The Monster with a monstrous gash, concussion and facial fracture. 

We hadn’t before Thursday an inkling how Inoue
might react to such trauma and hadn’t much more of an inkling immediately after
it happened; Inoue’s composure revealed that his brow had been sliced, not that
his cheek had been cracked.  In
retrospect and upon review, what is most beautiful about the rounds that
followed is how close the men stood to one another without wasted motion.  No twitching, no hotfooting; Donaire and
Inoue stood inside their arms’ lengths and threw punches at one another.

Donaire knew how good Inoue was, and Donaire gave
him everything he had left.  Inoue did
not know how good Donaire’s chin was, none of us did, frankly, and went after
him imprudently on several occasions but none so predatorily as after blackmatting
Donaire with a precise buttonshot 90 seconds in the championship rounds.  Donaire circled desperately as any man with a
vital organ under direct attack.  Inoue
hunted him with punches fundamentally flawless and a defense that was not.

After 30 seconds of being a prey Donaire let sail
a lefthook that braked Inoue’s engine for their fight’s final four minutes.  If Inoue knew a man is never more dangerous
than when hurt he didn’t feel it till 1:54 of round 11 of the WBSS Final – a
punch he will not forget.  Done were
Inoue’s leads; nearly every punch he threw after that Donaire lefthook got
preceded by a jab, the way you learn your first week in a boxing gym.  If the match’s final round was anticlimactic
it was because the match climaxed four minutes before its closing bell when
both men realized they’d given enough of themselves and enough to one another.

I watched Thursday’s WBSS Final on short rest and 12
hours after an
unsettling adventure with stroboscopic LEDs, so I may be an unreliable narrator,
but Inoue-Donaire was complete a prizefight as I’ve seen in many years.  Bless them both.

*

Editor’s note: This column will return in December.

*

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday at MGM Grand in a light heavyweight title fight
broadcasted by DAZN, Mexican Saul “Canelo” Alvarez discombobulated Russian
Sergey “Krusher” Kovalev in the 11th round of a dull match staged sometime Sunday
morning.  It was an exclamation mark on
the end of a sentence banal as this!

Something artificial pervaded the spectacle
entire.  Nothing untoward, quite.  Nothing worth burning digital bridges
about.  But a weird sensation those who
made the Vegas trip deserved much more than they got for being much more
authentic than what they witnessed. 

Krusher, the psychopath-cum-kitten, fought like a
man worried he might offend his host, his benefactor, his employer.  That would be Canelo.  And Canelo put up with oh so much more from
his new employer, DAZN, than our beloved sport’s flagship man should.

Since when does the a-side glove-up an hour before
he walks?  Canelo ate it in a way Money
May would not have, and that is no compliment. 
To see Canelo’s face as a monitor showed him Krusher enjoying a prefight
siesta about 10 minutes after their opening bell should have sounded was to see
a professional processing how many promises his promoter made to get his
promoter paid so much for delivering him as a fighter.  What the hell else did that flake pledge in
my name?  Time will tell, Cinnamon, for
only time knows.

The match hewed suspicious close to its script.  But allay those suspicions.  No one had to be anything at all other than
exactly himself to end the match exactly when it did exactly as it did.  Referee Russell Mora’s spastic no-count was a
smidgen less than hoped, perhaps, but everyone else played his part perfectly,
right down to a wonderful scorekeeper so nervous his maths might fail him at the
decisive point he gave Canelo the first two rounds at the prefight buffet,
figuring Kovalev’s struggles with weight would bring a slow start and since
nothing much happens in the opening six minutes anyway if he launched his card at
20-18 he could score the rest straight and safely submit a tidy tally.

How about that spot in the middle rounds when
Krusher got himself tangled in a Canelo headlock and began tapping his
employer’s back pleadingly?  It was so
sweet and gentle and tender.  Near an
antonym for the word “fight” as anyone’s done with 10-ounce gloves in many a
moon.  An historic touch on an historic
night.

Not since Julio Cesar Chavez has a Mexican won a
title at 175 pounds, apparently, or else I misinterpreted some of DAZN’s 90
minutes of nonsequitur-filled filler, though not the part where B-Hop talked
nonsensically about himself.  I recall
thinking it odd they’d put one of the promoters beside the broadcasters so
close to the ringwalk.

Hah! 
Yup.  I’m an idiot.  It wasn’t till after the Metta World Peace
interview I realized some programming something was so wrong there was no
choice but to fold: I clicked the Roku to Amazon Prime, started a new episode
of “Jack Ryan” and fell gently asleep about the same moment Canelo reclined
into his own prefight torpor, symmetrically enough.

Here’s what happened when I awoke seven hours
later (and I impart this for your future reference, friends, as goodfolk who might
utilize DAZN’s replay): No sooner did I find the main-event selection on DAZN
than I began some maths of my own, noticing the opening bell was fewer than 48
minutes from the video’s end, instantly rendering all of the match’s scoring
drama an irrelevance.  Which made me
impatient.

Imagine, then, enduring those first two rounds en
route to a knockout.  Imagine listening
to witling chatter about Kovalev’s establishing his pittypat jab while knowing
someone would be stopped by real punches sometime before the closing bell.  Imagine listening to that tedious crew argue
with itself about the definition of a close round.  Imagine watching Kovalev’s fears about his
conditioning mount in the middle rounds while knowing he needn’t go all
12. 

By the end of round 7 here was my greatest
suspense as a DAZN subscriber: Should I continue to skip forward 30 seconds at
a time, at the risk of being bored unto longterm acrimony towards the eventual
winner, or should I pointer-skip ahead full minutes, at the risk of ruining the
grand finale? 

I fearlessly skipped forward and landed between
rounds 10 and 11.  Romance favors the
bold. 

Here’s where I should write a white lie about regretting
my course, something like: Great as the ending was, how much better would it
have been had I let the drama build properly through those 40 minutes!  Nah. 
The ending redeemed the match regardless of one’s investment in it; I
felt my 17 minutes well-spent the same way others felt their 117 minutes
well-spent. 

What I like best about Canelo is his treating this
era as it deserves.  After getting
stripped naked by a 150-pound Floyd Mayweather in 2013, four years later Canelo
knew after 12 rounds with GGG, world’s most-feared fighter, there was nothing
historic about today’s middleweight division. 
So he fought 36 rounds with its two best men, went 2-0-1, signed an
obscene contract, then decided to cherrypick from an equally weak light
heavyweight division.

Canelo can fight any man he wishes at any catchweight
he wishes, and no one will say no to him for the next few years because DAZN is
an infinity-plus-one financier.  Too, if
he fights the cruiserweight winner of WBSS next year, none of us is going to
doubt he could beat Callum Smith at super middleweight – even if he probably
couldn’t.

In flashfreezing Kovalev to win a light
heavyweight belt Canelo made history the way Manny Pacquiao did against Antonio
Margarito.  Canelo could be the next
Pacquiao, in fact, if only he’d had a Barrera, a Morales and a Marquez.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

ATLANTA – Traffic shapes your view of everything
here, and you’re not ready for it. 
You’re a medium-city guy who hails from one and likes others from them,
and you know infrastructure in medium cities is sometimes wanting, especially
in the South, spiritually unprepared as it is for immigration of all kinds, and
yet you’re not prepared for the perilous and timebending nature of this city’s
traffic.

This has something to do with Saturday’s match but
not too much, even if one of its combatants is from the American South.  Scotsman Josh Taylor had something that bent New
Orleans’ Regis Prograis in a way for which he was unprepared, howsoever
well-prepared he thought he was.  And
since I happen to be in Peach State for reasons entirely unrelated to our
beloved sport, why . . .

Class told early Saturday while ruggedness told
later, and that’s not oftenly how it goes. 
Taylor won WBSS’ third Muhammad Ali Trophy by majority-decisioning Prograis
in an excellent fight broadcast by the aficionado’s network, DAZN, from an O2
Arena near enough Taylor’s native Scotland to make it a homegame for the Tartan
Tornado (and since Taylor prevailed, he remains British).

In so doing Taylor joined Callum Smith and Oleksandr
Usyk on a shockingly short list of prizefighters since 2017 who’ve allowed
themselves be matched in single-elimination tournaments against the best
available men in their divisions and prevailed. 
While an argument might be made that Top Rank and PBC assets shouldn’t
be excluded from conversations about the world’s best 168- and 200-pound
fighters in 2018 and best 140-, 130- and 200-pound fighters in 2019, the ranks
of those capable of persuasively making such arguments ain’t exactly swelling.

There was much chatter, for instance, about Top
Rank junior welterweight champ Jose Ramirez, Sunday morning, with Taylor’s
establishing himself as the division’s best. 
Ramirez moves the gate for Top Rank, and the promoter’ll be in no hurry
to risk such prowess against a man who might beat him.  Which brings a very interesting question: Who
of Saturday’s combatants do Top Rank’s matchmakers, boxing’s best for a few
decades at least, think is less likely to beat Ramirez in a way that cancels
future sales?  That question, much more
than belts or rankings, will determine the next direction for the junior
welterweight division.

The aforementioned Smith and Usyk cases are instructive
here.  Both men did everything they might
to scour their divisions, and neither got rewarded with meaningful followup
challenges.  Middleweight champion Canelo
Alvarez decided a match with a 175-pound titlist was more attractive than a
match with Smith, and former middleweight titlist Gennady Golovkin, well, his handlers
now search Twitter profiles for a proximate opponent, #superwelter.  Usyk’s case is slightly different – there was
nobody left when he was done at 200 pounds – but he’s now at heavyweight, where
no champion is matched to lose unless by accident.

The Muhammad Ali Trophy is gorgeous but not magnetized.

Still, what Taylor and Prograis did in its pursuit
merits more words than granted thus far. 
Taylor unmanned Prograis for 2/3 of Saturday’s match by smothering him,
in a twist few anticipated.  Taylor’s
largest liability, going in, was his tendency to defend in the exact manner from
which Prograis’ attack would draw encouragement.

Then Taylor did nearly its opposite.  He introduced Prograis to a degree of
physicality Rougarou did not prepare for. 
What happened eventually, Taylor’s unemployable right eye, was exactly
what Prograis would’ve predicted had anyone told him Taylor’d be brazen enough
to get physical during minutes 4-35, but herein lay the problem for Prograis:
Taylor predicted the same in camp.

Nobody who watched the 12th round of Saturday’s
fight thinks Taylor could’ve prevailed were the match unexpectedly extended to
15 rounds – Prograis won the final round more clearly than either man won any
of its predecessors – but Taylor had a better plan and executed it more
precisely.  Fortune, they say, favors the
bold, and it did Saturday when a nasty gash opened over an eye Taylor wasn’t
using anyway; the southpaw Taylor’d long since replaced his lead eye with tactile
tactics and didn’t bother dabbing at his bepurpled right eyelid while there was
still a chance to counter the southpaw Prograis.

Saturday’s was not a great fight but an excellent
one.  Taylor would not have prevailed in
a great fight, one in which each man was felled or worse; had the match been
any more excellent than it was, in other words, Taylor would’ve been the one
giving a gracious postfight speech rather than Prograis.

A word or two about that, too.  How refreshing was Prograis’ comportment for
an American after losing a decision narrow enough to be attributable to
geography?  He promised no excuses and
made none.  He called his opponent – badly
faded, beatup and blinded – the better man more than once.  Prograis wasn’t chastened in defeat but
noble.  He’d gotten a fight more honest
than expected and talked like it.

That spoke, also, to what Taylor’d done.  When a man skitterskips his way from you,
husbanding his most violent acts for a finalbell chest slap, it’s impossible
not to feel cheated.  But when a man puts
his weight on you, shoulders you and forearms you, gets your sweat cleaned off his
gumshield after a round of knocking it from your head in halos, when he makes
it filthy intimate, that’s another thing entirely.  It’s easier to be gracious after such an
experience – and such things must be experienced to be believed.

Congratulations, then, Josh and Regis, we wish
there were more men like you!

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Sometime last week or the one before, the ballot
arrived for this year’s International Boxing Hall of Fame election.  It had too many great fighters to choose only
five, but rules are rules.  I don’t
recall the other four I chose.  They
weren’t necessarily four who will get in but borderline candidates I hope to
help.  My fifth vote went without
hesitation to a man whose name appeared alphabetically towards the bottom: Israel
“El Magnifico” Vazquez.

This won’t be a persuasive piece, necessarily, so
much as a light exposition, an examination, a chance to write once more about
my favorite prizefighter.

I didn’t vote for Vazquez to be in the IBHOF
because I believe you should, or should agree that I did.  I won’t list the most-prominent fighter on
this year’s ballot for whom I did not vote because I know his misanthropic fans
and haven’t a desire or reason in the world to hear from them again – and he’s
getting in anyway.  I don’t have
reductionist criteria to which I cling for making decisions about who belongs
in a hall of fame or deserves of-the-year awards because I feel no compulsion
whatever to justify these decisions.  I
watch prizefighting often enough to write a weekly column and trust the rest to
intuition.  I don’t argue about these
things, either; this column is an asymmetrical medium.

There is no one I have covered in this, our
beloved sport whom I admire more than El Magnifico.  Nobody I can think of who gave more of the
best part of himself to our sport, either, making naught but world championship
fights in his prime and losing his career and right eye to the quality of
opposition he faced.  And in a sport of
counterintuitively decent men, too, he’s the most decent I’ve met.

My first Las Vegas card I covered for this site
was Marco Antonio Barrera’s 2006 tutoring of Rocky Juarez, and that night’s
co-comain featured the best fight any American aficionado saw live, much less
in person, that year.  Vazquez came off
the canvas twice and ground Jhonny Gonzalez to dust seven years before Gonzalez
put a stamp on Abner Mares.

Man, could Vazquez grind!  He had innate a sense as any of another man’s
accumulating weakness; he saw with a jeweler’s loupe the first fissures in an
opponent’s will.  Once he saw the
fissures he pressured them unto cracks and pieces and pieces of those pieces,
regardless what counterpunches hit him en route.

He had many plans, too, not just a plan A, which
means he was nothing like the kamikaze some wrongly credited him with being.  He stayed on his stool, after all, in the
first of his three fights with Rafael Marquez. 
He wasn’t able to breathe and said he wouldn’t fight on.  If that keeps him off someone’s defunct Gatti
List, so be it.

What it proves is Vazquez’s volition; it proves
that every time he marched through his era’s best super bantamweights he did so
voluntarily, capable as he was of calling-off the match if the contest became
futile.  Oscar Larios (63-7-1, 39 KOs),
Jhonny Gonzalez (68-11, 55 KOs) and Rafael Marquez (41-9, 37 KOs): Vazquez
fought these men a collective eight times and went 5-3 (4 KOs).  He knocked-out two of them in rematches after
they’d stopped him, and in the case of the third, “Jhonny” Jhonny, he
knocked-out Gonzalez after being dropped by him a twotime.

El Magnifico’s legacy is, of course, his trilogy
with Rafael Marquez.  As aficionados
bemoan the recesses and tuneups granted men like Deontay Wilder and Tyson Fury
and Saul Alvarez and Gennady Golovkin, they’re reminded Vazquez and Marquez
fought one another consecutively in three matches that spanned less than a
year.  Marquez stopped Vazquez in March,
Vazquez stopped Marquez in August, and they made the 2007 fight of the year seven
months later.

It’s the best fight in the best trilogy I’ll ever
cover.

You can confirm all that on YouTube.  What you can’t confirm is how ruined, broken
even, Vazquez was in the postfight pressconference after his victory.  There he was, his face like a powdered
Halloween mask – allwhite but for lipstick circles where his eyes and mouth
should’ve been.  He humbly mumbled his
praise of Marquez through torn, swollen lips and graciously ceded the
microphone to Marquez’s jackass promoter and assistant manager and their braying
about protesting some detail nobody remembers. 
Eleven years later, and that scene still boils.

Sixteen months after Vazquez won 2007’s fight of
the year, good fortune put me at a dinner table with him in New York City,
where the BWAA honored him and my mentor and friend Norm Frauenheim.  Who knows how many surgeries Vazquez’s right
eye had undergone by then.

El Magnifico was there with his wife’s brother,
and before dessert Vazquez’s cuñado loped over to take pictures with what
bedizened models accompanied the evening’s presenters.  Vazquez and I exchanged incredulous glances,
and I told El Magnifico his brother-in-law was gaming every woman with a line
about knowing Israel Vazquez.

“Pero, yo soy Vazquez,” he said, and he motioned
to himself and started laughing.  “I’m
Vazquez!” 

I don’t care if empiricism says there are fighters
more deserving of IBHOF induction.  I
don’t care if someone knows so little about prizefighting that he looks at the 27
losses listed above, or the 5 losses (4 KOs) on Vazquez’s résumé, and scoffs at
someone being dumb enough to vote for Vazquez and admit it in a column.  Frankly, I don’t care if this is the last of
my columns you ever read.

Israel Vazquez epitomizes for me everything that
makes prizefighting worth its writing.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday in Chicago, 2018’s best fighter, Ukrainian
Oleksandr Usyk, made his first-yet heavyweight prizefight against former
American contender Chazz Witherspoon on DAZN, the aficionado’s network.  After a yearlong injury layoff Usyk made
Witherspoon quit after seven rounds in a turn unsurprising as it was
undramatic.

We have seen the best of Usyk.  Years from now, after Usyk is at least a
partially unified heavyweight champion of the world and myriad casuals know him
for it, we can look back at the World Boxing Super Series of 2018 and know we
saw the best version of him, the same way aficionados look at 2006 Manny
Pacquiao and know, whatever his achievements in the 13 years that followed (or
23; hell, he may regularly undress PBC welterweights till he’s 50), Pacquiao never
was better than the 130-pounder who stopped Erik Morales a twotime before decisioning
Juan Manuel Marquez and redecisioning Marco Antonio Barrera.  As Pacquiao scaled heavier, questions arose
about his power and durability and agility but no one ever doubted he was a
better boxer than his new foes at lightweight, junior welterweight,
welterweight and junior middleweight (mind the ‘new’ there; never did Pacquiao
outbox Marquez at any weight).

No one, either, will doubt Usyk is a better boxer
than everyone he faces the rest of his career. 
But can his stamina suffer much harder punches from much larger men? can
Usyk suffer their blows while making them suffer enough to suffer him no more?  Those be exactly the questions Saturday tried
to ask.

Witherspoon, a shortnotice opponent in every sense
of the term, was apt an initial interrogator as boxing’s flagship division had
on offer.  Since power is the last thing
to go, at age 38 Witherspoon, who reliably looks like an A-level guy against
C-level competition and loses just as reliably to every B-level man he faces, needed
to put a few good punches on Usyk, which he did, and absorb a few good punches
from Usyk, which he did, and tell us if Usyk’s move to the weightlimitless
division was foolhardy.

It wasn’t. 
Usyk took punches enough from Witherspoon to prove he can take
heavyweight fire.  And he stopped Witherspoon
faster than 2009 Tony Thompson if slower than 2012 Seth Mitchell. 

Saturday answered every question of power, yes,
but asked a brandnew question of geometry we mightn’t have imagined
otherwise.  The cruiserweights Usyk made
his career undoing were physically narrower, as were the heavyweights Usyk beat
to become an Olympic gold medalist.

It became apparent very quickly Saturday the
precise spinning of Usyk’s signature attack was disrupted by nothing so much as
Witherspoon’s simple girth.  The geometry
was wrong; there was now a need to take a wider step round the opponent, which
meant there was no longer the same space between ring center and ropes or corner.  This made Usyk fight in wider circles,
requiring more skipping than stepping; Usyk was no longer transitioning
balletically from spinning trap to spinning counter to spinning departure so
much as moving defensively sideways or moving offensively straight forward.

And moving straight at a 240-pound man who knows
how to punch is a different thing altogether from moving straight at a
199-pound man.  When a cruiserweight
punching up at you hits your gloves, you expense it to the cost of doing
business at the championship level; when a heavyweight punching level to you or
downwards hits your gloves, it hurts your face and jars your spine.

Usyk is fast and athletic but not so fast and
athletic that a nearing-40 Chazz Witherspoon couldn’t countertouch him with
righthands.  Is that a detail ruinous to
Usyk’s prospects at heavyweight?

No, and the reason why came at the end of
Saturday’s match.  The tale was told in
Witherspoon’s stature and aerobics, not his bleeding mouth.  How open that mouth was and how wilted his
posture, both, indicated what made Usyk unique among cruisers and’ll make him superunique
among heavies.  Usyk is an attrition
hunter who runs his prey to unconsciousness. 
An attrition hunter needn’t fell a beast with a single hurl of the spear
– he need only pain his prey enough to make it flee.  Once it runs, he has it.

Witherspoon sagged on his stool after round 7 like
a sealevel mammoth marched up Mount Everest. 
Thirty seconds into its postround rest Witherspoon’s body had yet to
contemplate recovery, certain as it was about drowning.

What does that say about Usyk’s prospects against
AJ?  Everything.  Men with a third Usyk’s talent and craft collaborate
with Joshua’s massive pecs, delts, traps and bis to fatigue him by midfight.  And Joshua’s June (and December) conqueror,
Andy Ruiz, is nothing so much as a fat cruiserweight loosed on giants who are
basic.

Which brings us to the one genuinely compelling
challenge for Usyk: Deontay Wilder.  Nobody
at cruiserweight hits fractionally so hard as Wilder, but no one at heavyweight
is near so physically narrow as Wilder. 
The geometry of Wilder’s width is all right for Usyk, while the geometry
of Wilder’s height is not.  Neither is
Wilder’s conditioning, which absolutely rivals Usyk’s.  A Wilder-Usyk unification match in 2021 will make
the most-athletic heavyweight prizefight in 25 years.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday at Madison Square Garden in a prizefight
broadcast on the aficionado’s network, DAZN, Gennady “GGG” Golovkin (no new ‘i’
needed; we go with birth names, round here) narrowly decisioned Ukrainian Sergiy
“The Technician” Derevyanchenko to retain his HBO Middleweight Championship and
collect an assortment of other belts Canelo Alvarez doesn’t care for.  The match was bloody, rough and suspenseful.

And when it was over and the scorecards were read the
selfstyled Mecca of Boxing booed Golovkin loudly enough to elicit a “c’mon
guys” from boxing’s once-charming malaprop machine.  Then the postfight interview devolved into
the same scattering of the same Google Translate phrases into which every
Golovkin interview devolves, though it wasn’t nearly so amusing this time, was
it, guys?

For this time Golovkin had faced a man his own
size and looked it.  This time Golovkin,
who somehow became The People’s Champion by being unable to stop in 24 rounds a
smaller man who is between 10 and 15 times more popular than he, countered
interesting and relevant questions with his usual dumb phrases, and nobody was enchanted
as before.  All this and more, in a turn
ironic as it was predictable, oversparkled a Golovkin performance that was more
compelling and confirming than its predecessors.

All the booing and dissent served to make and
subvert what was the first underrated performance in Golovkin’s canon. 

From the third round to the closing bell Saturday the
look on Golovkin’s face was exhausted betrayal. 
One doubts Golovkin’s American assimilation comprises cultural awareness
enough to ring an internal alarm like: By jettisoning the handlers who
hoodwinked late-HBO programmers, Comrade Pyotr et al., I put myself in an
unprotected status with a network interested in feeding me to Canelo Alvarez
the way my previous network’s braintrust wanted Canelo fed to me.

Why, that’s madness, you’re now thinking, what
sort of braintrust would wish to see boxing’s one ticketseller from boxing’s one
reliable ticketbuying public mauled by a man from Kazakhstan?

You had to be there.  GGG was a mania.  In 15 years of doing this, the craziest
things I ever heard said by the sanest boxing minds were things uttered about
Golovkin’s prowess.

In this sense, what happened Saturday, what has
happened in four of Golovkin’s last six fights, was a betrayal of sorts to
those men who invested so ferally in the Golovkin legend.  Because each time Golovkin has confronted a
fellow titlist or a proper middleweight recently – notice the ‘or’ there –
Golovkin has looked like much, much less than the most-feared man on the
planet.

Daniel Jacobs, middleweight permacontender, rose
from the canvas 2 1/2 years ago and showed Golovkin’s hypemen how poorly
chopping down a welterweight prepared the middleweight champion for a defense
with an actual middleweight.  Canelo then went 36 minutes with GGG.  Then, as DAZN’s otherwise annoying broadcast
crew reminded us Saturday, Golovkin first got offered a match with Derevyanchenko
but turned it down for a chance to poleax yet another career super welter.  Canelo then went 36 minutes with GGG.  Someone named Steve Rolls got excavated to launch
GGG’s new-network debut.  And then
Saturday happened.  Another career
middleweight. 

There was a particularly disingenuous game GGG fanatics
used to play with the rest of us – a game they learned from The Money
Team.  When you mentioned the HBOGGG tagline
about Golovkin’s readiness, willingness and ability to make war with any
champion between 154 pounds and 168, at those weights, and mentioned your own
annoyance with Golovkin’s only making war on 147- and 154-pound men forcefed to
160 pounds, GGG Nation would start listing titlists at 160 and 168 pounds and
ask you if you didn’t think he could beat them.

Your hypothetical assumption of a hypothetical
Golovkin triumph in a hypothetical fight was proof Golovkin had already beaten
these men, shouldn’t be required to fight them and – this is the richest part –
frightened all these larger men such that Golovkin should only don gloves for
those smaller men brave enough to face him. 
You would try to argue it didn’t matter, really, Golovkin’s ultimate
record against men his own size; you just wanted to see him fight men his own
size before you partook in any GGG Nation naturalization ceremony.

Which is a torturous way of writing this: Golovkin
is not today diminished.  What is
happening to him now is what always would have happened to him.

He hits quite hard but certainly not that much
harder than any other middleweight champion and not nearly hard as the best
super middleweights.  His footwork is
plodding, his punches are often telegraphed, his defense is porous, and his
ring IQ ain’t that high either.  His
vaunted ability to cut-off the ring never was a product of more than his
ability to walk through smaller men’s punches (you should see me cut-off the
ring on my 110-pound wife!).

Saturday Golovkin cut-off Derevyanchenko’s escape
routes often and just as often learned they were traps Derevyanchenko set for
him.  Imagine that.  A prizefighter with a 30-percent lower
knockout ratio than GGG’s, a prizefighter felled in round 1, a prizefighter
bleeding constantly into his right eye, opined so little of GGG’s power he made
strategic retreats to walk Golovkin into counters.  He made Golovkin miss quite a bit too and
bent The People’s Champion in two, too, with a midrounds left hook to the
button.

And Golovkin responded with true heart and
chin.  Two things soft matchmaking and
hard overpromoting deprived us of seeing during Golovkin’s reign of terror as
HBO Middleweight Champion.  That’s the
good news for GGG Nation.

Here’s the bad: Y’all are out of your collective
gourd if you think Canelo “A Side” Alvarez is going to come down from 175
pounds to 160 to redeem Golovkin’s legacy. 
Canelo may well give GGG his badly needed rubber match, but it won’t be
at middleweight.  Eight years and 20
lucrative prizefights later Canelo is going to run a check on that “fight any man
from 154 to 168” credit and see what’s actually in the account.  It says here: Canelo KO-10 is what.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday at Staples Center welterweight titlist
Errol “The Truth” Spence split-decisioned “Showtime” Shawn Porter and unified
the WBC and IBF titles in an entertaining tilt that exceeded expectations by a
margin that was not small.  In Saturday’s
comain former super middleweight titlist David “La Bandera Roja” Benavidez
sliced up WBC beltholder Anthony “The Dog” Dirrell, proving once more how
emphatically class tells over time.

If Benavidez indeed proved the most intriguing
talent on the card, Spence-Porter nevertheless exceeded expectations at least wildly
and maybe more than that.

Here’s the main criterion for such an assertion:
When the mainevent began my eyes were fixed on the favorite, but by round 3 my
eyes were fixed on the underdog, on whom they stayed for most of the next 27
minutes of combat.  That is attributable
almost wholly to Porter’s professionalism and savvy but partially, too, to what
matchmaking woes rendered Spence so vulnerable to a fellow welterweight who
knew how to fight.

For large parts of many rounds Spence didn’t have
much of an idea what the hell Porter would do next and was offended by such
unpredictability.  Most of Spence’s recent
foes were predictable or if not predictable so impotent their capricious attacks
meant nil to the champ.  Not Porter.  Showtime Shawn was big enough and committed
enough and schooled enough – in the crucible of meaningful competition – to
discomfit The Truth quite a lot.

Spence did every technical thing better than
Porter and probably hit harder, too, but he did not set the conditions of the
confrontation the way weak opposition recently accustomed him to doing.  Frankly Porter walked through nearly all
Spence’s best shots and was flashed to the canvas by a fully leveraged Spence left
in round 11 but never imperiled.

Spence did not look invincible Saturday.  Most of us predicted a lopsided, dull affair,
and most of us were wrong.  No, Spence is
not great as we thought; yes, Porter is better than we thought.  A blessing upon both men for being
professional enough to show us these things.

The comain went about as planned, with a result
most predicted, but showed David Benavidez, however-youngest and
however-many-timesest champion, remains a work in progress.

Before I go further, let me confess Benavidez
enchants me like no other prizefighter currently.  He doesn’t know how good he is or how bad he
is.  He’s cocksure more than confident;
he’s pretty sure, where men like Hi-Tech and Bud and Canelo are certain.  Sometimes his smile is not congruent to his
mood.  From his physique to his chief
second’s urban-combat-outfitters attire, everything about Benavidez is
fragile.  To watch him closely is to know
the entire Benavidez train could derail at any moment (it may have derailed
even as you read this, or just before, or just after, or just now) with a drug
test or arrest or worse.

But damn, is he fun to watch.  Such nonchalance, such patience, such willingness.  He didn’t do things all that technically well
against Dirrell, Saturday, in part because he never thought he needed to.  He saw Dirrell as a chatty victim from the
bell’s first tone.  He liked the idea of
Dirrell’s courage and loved giving Dirrell a chance to exhibit it: Go on and
show us how brave you are, Dog, while I go smirky sadist on your right eye.

Benavidez is a natural because you cannot teach
his level of relaxation in a prizefight. 
If you doubt this, go back and watch videos of Oscar De La Hoya’s
greatest hits.  Few fighters of the last
generation had De La Hoya’s natural gifts, but the dude never learned to
relax.  There he is, even in his very
best moments, jaw bulging like a cheeky walnut. 
Which is why the worst moments of De La Hoya’s prime were marked by late-rounds
fading.

Which is also why Benavidez, a guy with all the
upperbody musculature of a prepubescent gamer, doesn’t get tired of punching his
statuesque opponents till well after they tire of punching him. 

Then there’s Sampson Lewkowicz – whose presence in
the Benavidez stable is the main thing allowing a weathered, withered observer
like me to dare stake his afición on a project with future heartbreak’s every
hallmark.  Lewkowicz has had his misses,
sure, but he’s also had Manny Pacquiao and Sergio Martinez when no one else
wanted them.  Benavidez already has tried
to break Lewkowicz’s heart a twopair or better, but Lewkowicz was there in Saturday’s
ring, one of few Red Flaggers without a vest on, and it made you hope reason
might continue to prevail upon Benavidez.

Capitalistic sensibilities, on the other hand,
will continue to prevail upon Errol Spence. 
Saturday’s postfight weirdness proves it.  Danny Garcia – seriously?  A year removed from his loss to Shawn Porter
(yes, that Shawn Porter) Swift came down from grooming One Time to challenge The
Truth before our disbelieving eyes. 
Whose idea was this? is Spence that covetous of Garcia’s WBC silver
title?

Spence is an excellent prizefighter who wants to
prove it.  PBC ought to let him.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday on a “FOX Sports is proud to present PBC
Pay-Per-View events” event in Los Angeles welterweight titlists Errol “The
Truth” Spence and “Showtime” Shawn Porter will vie for Spence’s number-one Ring
rating without jeopardizing Terence Crawford’s number-two pound-for-pound
rating in a match between two good guys whose disparity in talent should
preclude anything too thrilling from happening. 
Fans of thrilling talent should look to Saturday’s comain.

Because the most interesting talent on the card is
WBC super middleweight titlist David Benavidez, an uncharacteristically ascendant
PBC asset.  Spence may be the greater
talent, and well may not be, but he is not intriguing as Benavidez, not after getting
outdone by Benavidez in March.

We probably have seen the best of Spence.  While Manny Pacquiao (along with Floyd
Mayweather) is the greatest talent ever to fight on a PBC card – a sentence
likely to hold up, still, in 2030 – he is far too old to make someone of
Spence’s age and size improve.  Pacquiao
undressed Keith Thurman a few months ago, sure, but does anyone think Thurman
will be better for it?  Pacquiao wants no
part of Spence, either, because of the youngster’s physicality; Pacquiao, way
way smarter than we realized in his prime, knows someone big and vigorous as
Errol can do a lot of things wrong and still win, and there’s no dissuading him
with activity.

There’s dissuading Spence with inactivity, as
Mikey Garcia showed us at Cowboys Stadium (we go with birth names, round here) but
not with an attack.  It’s a reason Porter
hasn’t much of a chance Saturday, but we’ll be back to that below.

PBC hasn’t the stable or matchmaking acumen to
keep Spence on an upward trajectory. 
Spence would be improved by a fight with Bud Crawford, who’s small
enough to see his craft advantage offset, and an eventual move to 160 via 154,
but none of those things will happen in Spence’s prime.  Not while Danny Garcia and Keith Thurman and
Alfredo Angulo haunt the FOX Sports airwaves. 

Which is, in its way, a tragedy.  PBC didn’t really know what it had with
Spence, but soon as it did, it got cautious as could be, feeding him a b-level
vet, a hopeless lad named Ocampo and then a former featherweight.  Subsequently Spence has not felt a punch in
28 months.  That’s no way to season a
prime talent. 

Which is why Benavidez is the most interesting man
on Saturday’s card.  PBC still hasn’t
much of an idea what he is or what to do with him.  None of us has.  Benavidez is loose in the midsection, failed
a VADA test a couple years ago, and Dr?ma adorns his coat of arms.  But he is a natural, and sneaky-ascendant
because he doesn’t look the part.

Our beloved sport’s myriad of hyperbolists begin
their marketability prejudging with criteria borrowed from the late Hugh
Hefner.  Benavidez once was obese, and
extra skin is a mortal no-no.  In this
sense Benavidez is a bit like boxing’s version of golfer John Daly, whose obesity
and publicized vices allowed his sport’s hypemen to overlook Daly’s singular
athleticism.

Really, who the hell ever mistook a rotund
chainsmoker for a great athlete?  I
suppose I just did. 

Next time you see a golf club, or even a heavy
stick, try to get it to the place Daly gets his backswing while keeping your
feet planted.  Never mind maintaining
that balance long enough to hit a ball, never ever mind doing it the exact same
way at age 53 as you did at 23; just try to get your body in that position –
then imagine doing it drunk in front of 50,000 spectators.

Benavidez’s comain foe, Anthony Dirrell, is no
one’s idea of an ascendant asset, but he is a veteran prizefighter who is proud
and has spent his entire career at the same weightclass.  He’s not the better athlete in his family,
but he is the better fighter.  He will
test Benavidez’s will. And that is precisely the test a fighter like Benavidez
needs to improve.

Will Showtime Shawn test Errol’s will?  A bit, yes. 
But barring a sprained ankle or Fan Man type of event Porter hasn’t much
of a chance.  Which is too bad because
Porter is a guy to cheer for.  He’s joyful,
humble, buffoonish, happy, fun.  His
efforts to play an antagonist generally go nowhere because he likes the guys he
makes punches with (when he and Spence “trash-talked” one another before Pacquiao
embarrassed Thurman, Porter couldn’t stay in character long enough to get his
lines right, and both men came off more endearing than fearsome).

Which is a winding path to writing this:
Saturday’s mainevent won’t be very good. 
Styles make fights – have you heard? – and Spence and Porter have
similar styles.  And Spence is better at
every facet of that style, so much so that we miss how similarly he and Porter
are as stylists (too, Porter has been matched much less sympathetically than
Spence lately, which makes Porter look like a flailing volume guy while some
aspiring aficionados might’ve once mistaken Spence for a power-puncher).

I can forgive myself for admitting a year ago
I’d’ve picked Spence to ruin Porter in 10 rounds or fewer.  But Spence’s slap-and-tickle contest with
Garcia weighs heavily on such predictions now. 
Porter should look about twice Garcia’s size and girth swimming his way
towards Spence, Saturday, and we’re not altogether certain how well Spence
fights off his backfoot, are we?  But
lest we forget, boxing’s clown pauper, AB, dropped Porter flat in the final
minutes of their 2015 contest, and one must believe at 147 pounds Spence hits
much much harder than About Billions.

I’ll take Spence, UD-12, in a match not even Ray
Mancini can call a candidate for fight of the year.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Latenight Saturday on ESPN+ lineal heavyweight
champion Tyson Fury will defend his strapless title against an undefeated
28-year-old Swede named Otto Wallin, a man BoxRec’s rankings place squarely
atop the formidable, fourperson Swedish-heavyweight heap (while allowing him to
crack the world’s Top 50 just barely). 
It will be shocking joyful if Wallin featherdusts Fury, and he won’t.

The Fury victory tour continues apace.  He rose from substance abuse to challenge
Deontay Wilder nearly a year ago and rose from Wilder’s wildness to win a
draw.  Those feats and promoter Top
Rank’s feat of finding its way back to a division in which its touch has not
been magical for a decade or two are the reasons we got served the June fight
with Tom Schwarz – ostensibly about a lineal championship (that traces all the
way back to Wlad Klitschko, who beat no one the previous generation considered
great but is brother to a man who gave Lennox Lewis a couple tough rounds). 

Aficionados rightly saw the Schwarz thing for what
it was.  In case they didn’t ESPN, more
camp than champ, saved its greatest enthusiasm for Fury’s ringwalk.

Saturday’s ringwalk better include live dinosaurs
accompanied by the London Symphony Orchestra. 

Less than that mayn’t reinflate the seeping Fury
balloon.  Ratings and press releases and multiplatform
coverage from ESPN will imply something else entirely, of course, but trust
your gut on this, come Sunday morning.

Fury’s style is not conducive to playing the
overdog.  Had he completed his denuding
of Wilder by remaining upright for 36 minutes Fury and his enablers would’ve had
another 18 months of goodwill to tinkle on. 
Alas, “Wilder &” Wilder dropped Fury often enough to dissuade any
loose immediate-rematch chatter from the lineal champ and make Wilder’s standard-loop
claims of being avoided feel a touch credible. 
Wilder’s folks, obviously, are in no real hurry to see their guy tested
again, or they simply do not know what they’re doing – but Luis “El Viejo”
Ortiz is still a more meaningful opponent at 40 1/2 than either of Fury’s recent
foes (if that fight actually happens). 

Which is all a fairly direct route to saying over
and again: Thank heavens for Andy Ruiz!

Ruiz’s stamping CUR on the nearest thing the
heavyweight division had to an undisputed champion is the one gift heavyweight
prizefighting gave us in 2019.  When he
does it again in December he will fairly well cut Fury out of the conversation
altogether.  However much Ruiz’s manager sacrificially
fed him to a rival promoter in June he’s still a PBC asset.  That means when AJ taps out again a few weeks
before Christmas, PBC will have each heavyweight belt except Fury’s imaginary
one.

It will require no imagination whatever for PBC to
host a fullthroated superfight in 2020, crowning a WBC/WBA/IBF/WBO Heavyweight
Champion of the World in a genuinely intriguing unification match between Ruiz
and Wilder.  Fury and Joshua will play
footsie for a year or two about a British-contenders-unite match whose purse
negotiations will not be helped by their post-Brexit economy. 

While the rest of the world forgets who they
are.  ESPN+ will have full coverage of
the negotiations and quite a few features about Tyson’s dad, “Gypsy John”, and
Anthony’s dad, Robert, with the striking, unforeseeable conclusion these men
influenced their sons.  “Not since I
promoted Muhammad Ali . . .” will go many of Bob Arum’s colorful quotes about Fury.

While we’re on about Arum let’s use one of his
best verbs: To dissipate.  About 15 years
ago I had a chance to ask Arum a few questions at a media gathering in a
Phoenix supermarket.  One of those
questions concerned what qualities he looked for in a prizefighter before
signing him, and Arum listed but one: “Does he dissipate between fights?”

If Fury hasn’t dissipated fractionally so much as
expected between fights, interest in his rematch with Wilder sure has.  As goes its flagship division, so goes our
beloved sport.  If there isn’t less
collective interest in boxing in 2019 there most certainly is not more, and
that’s with the full might of late-boom economics driving network acquisitions
and broadcast calendars.

Storm clouds now gather on the American economy’s
horizon, and while a recession may mint a new generation of prospects it’ll do
nil to prod this generation’s fatted calves towards greatness.  Showtime will follow HBO, while Fox follows
DAZN and ESPN to boxing’s destination platform: App Store.  Circus barkers will contrive a new language
of YouTube likes and trailing-month replays, and what few of us still write
regularly about the sport will begin a fifth or sixth search for green shoots while
the BWAA hasn’t a choice but to award boxing’s best tweeters.  Floyd and Manny will make a desperate
cashgrab of a rematch, and the old salts’ll use whatever gaudy revenue number
comes along to do a 27th installment of the Boxing Is Not Dead serial.

Whatevs. 
We’ll always have and must always cherish what Andy Ruiz did to Anthony
Joshua on June 1, 2019.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday a Thames riverboat ride east of London, one
of the world’s five best prizefighters, Ukrainian lightweight Vasiliy
Lomachenko, outfought Yorkshire’s Luke Campbell to collect Lomachenko’s third
of four sanctioning-body titles and defend his (much more meaningful) Ring
championship by unanimous decision.  It
was another test passed by Lomachenko, another test administered by a proctor
much stricter than those subs who passed him so flatteringly at the lower
grades.

The inverse logic of things being what it is an
exodus from the Lomachenko bandwagon is probably underway just when the bandstand
ought be overflowing.  As Lomachenko does
things that fulfill what hyperbole greeted his debut six years back, the
hyperbolists, many now out of business with HBO’s welldeserved demise, turn
their miniscule attention spans to new kids who turn sensational feats against
hopeless opposition.

With each Lomachenko title acquisition the
hyperbolists see more wear, less sublimity, more exposure.  These lads yearn for some highlight-ready
stuff like GGG duly delivers whenever matched at middleweight with welters.  Lomachenko tried that route for a spell – the
Rigondeaux debacle – then took the very next offramp.  If the hyperbolists forget it, the historians
shan’t. 

Rather than stay at his natural weight, blast
journeyman for easy money while occasionally preying on a brandname from a
couple divisions below, Lomachenko went above his proper weight and began to
unify titles by beating men who acquired those titles someway or another.

Luke Campbell is by no means boxing’s most-feared
man but he sure as hell wasn’t a cherrypick either.

While the hyperbolists hop off the Loma bandwagon,
I find myself gradually lumbering on.  I
verily enjoyed watching Lomachenko make battle with a man who did not fear him
or have reason to, a man against whom even the most balletic footwork wouldn’t
forego Saturday’s attrition requirement. 
Just as happened in his other three lightweight matches Lomachenko had
to strike Campbell multiples harder to get any English out of him.  Campbell fighting at home before some of our
beloved sport’s best (if often delusional) fans, too, added another inch and
five or so pounds to the Brit’s dossier.

In the midrounds Campbell did something dastardly
stupid if daring: Throw a halfnaked backhand uppercut whilst moving
forward.  That’s not Boxing-101 verboten,
because you don’t get to learn how to throw uppercuts till Boxing 102.  But no sooner do they put you on the gym’s
uppercut sack than they tell you never to throw the punch moving forward.

History has its share of cautionary clips to
explain why, but let Buster Douglas’ halfnaked backhand uppercut lead against
Evander Holyfield suffice.  Campbell’s
wasn’t telegraphed as Douglas’, no, and for that reason Lomachenko’s counter
left didn’t get leveraged fully as Holyfield’s rightcross in 1990, but it was telegraphed
enough, and Lomachenko looked almost euphoric at Campbell’s plunging forward.

Lomachenko’s counter left chastened Campbell and
then Lomachenko’s professionalism nearly ended Campbell’s night.  Knowing his opponent was gone wobblewoozy
Lomachenko went HAM to Campbell’s body and delivered the Brit to his corner
scrunchfaced wincing.  Had the exchange
happened at even super featherweight Campbell’d’ve seen naught of the
championship rounds.

And we’d be hearing Lomachenko is a force of
nature never before seen with gloved fists. 
But because Lomachenko wants posterity to regard him differently from
his generational peers the exchange happened 10 pounds above Lomachenko’s debut
weight, and Campbell, a significantly larger man, had himself another half
fight to strike and be struck by the smaller champion.

This is why we ask fighters who are not
heavyweights to rise through weightclasses and why even history’s best
heavyweights are underrepresented on all-time lists.  The more the consequences of a Lomachenko misstep
grow and the consequences of a Lomachenko punch diminish the less any of us
cares to hear a 15th recital on Lomachenko’s time in the ballroom.

Lomachenko needs all his wiles, these days, to jab
a fellow lightweight in the first four minutes they share, much less mesmerize
Max and Jim.  And since his opponents are
no longer imperiled by his mere reputation, Lomachenko now finds himself
subjected to what elbows and shoulders lighter men hadn’t the wherewithal to
throw.  Campbell spent a fair fraction of
his Saturday night reminding Lomachenko how many questionable acts might be fit
in the foggy chaos of a championship prizefight, borrowing occasionally from
Siri Salido’s forgotten blueprint.

What Lomachenko did Saturday brought no one to
mind so much as Manny Pacquiao.  He’s the
last man we saw climb weightclasses and so dominate their titlists, even if
there was an occasional cherrypick thrown in. 
Pacquiao is also instructive for this reason: What Pacquiao did and
found himself forced to do against other great prizefighters are why Pacquiao
is thrice the legend for all but the last second of what he did in the sixth
round of his fourth fight with Juan Manuel Marquez than he’d be for icing David
Diaz a dozen times.

Lomachenko is not Pacquiao and won’t be – fortune hasn’t
given him the era for it – but he is now admirably earning the premature
plaudits bestowed on him some years back, even if he’s having to do so in
challengers’ arenas on a mobile app.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday in Hermosillo’s practically named Centro
de Usos Multiples, Sonora’s Juan Francisco “El Gallo” Estrada made a
harder-than-planned first defense of his Ring super flyweight championship
against North Carolina’s Dewayne “Mr. Stop Running” Beamon, on DAZN.  Estrada dropped Beamon twice in round 2 and
punched him till no vim remained in round 9, and Panamanian referee Abdiel
Barragan interceded at the right moment. 
Between rounds 2 and 9, though, Beamon gave Estrada a proper fitness
test.

Estrada is sensational in this way: If you might
employ a hybrid rating system, a blind sampling, that removes size and
ethnicity and purse and broadcaster hyperbole – raw raw, in lieu of rah rah –
he’d be top 5 on any list composed by an honest hand.  He is distinguished by his losses, oldschool
style, much as his wins.

Since 2011 Estrada has lost twice.  His first loss came to Chocolatito Gonzalez
in a fight that helped burnish Gonzalez’s ranking as the world’s best
prizefighter in any weight.  Estrada’s
second loss came to the man who violently stamped the end of Chocolatito’s reign,
Srisaket Sor Rungvisai.  The second loss
narrower than the first, and the first narrower
indeed than scorers had it.  Estrada is
the only Mexican heir in his generation to the master Juan Manuel Marquez;
Estrada somehow fulfilled coach Nacho Beristain’s vision in Sonora, some 2,000
km north of Mexico City, whilst Beristain played celebrity slapntickle with Son
of the Legend and (ghost of) The Golden Boy.

Canelo Alvarez is, of course, Mexico prizefighting’s
greatest financial draw, but despite his admirable pursuit of able competition,
Canelo hasn’t Estrada’s class or mettle. 
After losing to Chocolatito in a world title match at 108 pounds Estrada
fought Brian Viloria for a world title at 112 pounds, five months later, and
won a title Estrada defended five times. 
Then Estrada got outworked by Sor Rungvisai, the man who put Chocolatito
in shavasana pose like a chocolate yogi – not outpunched or stiffened, mind
you, only outworked.  And in April when
the rematch happened with Sor Rungvisai, Estrada went directly at one of our
sport’s hardest punchers and snatched his title.

All of that is a hell of a throatclearing preamble
to writing this: Estrada didn’t look great Saturday against an otherwise-anonymous,
34-year-old Carolinian named Dewayne Beamon (whom the Spanish-language
broadcast assured us gave up promising careers in both basketball [5-foot-5]
and football [114 1/2 pounds] to pursue boxing).  Some of that was Estrada, but more of it was
Beamon. 

Here’s the part that was Estrada.  Making a first world-title defense in his
home state of Sonora since 2015 Estrada found himself subjected to all the
distracting ills of a homecoming – ticket requests, camp visits, interviews
with the local daily.  Those distractions
told in Estrada’s conditioning.  Estrada
would daze Beamon with a counter then unload on him with leads then spend a
bemused next round with his mouth open. 
The oftener that pattern happened, the infrequenter Estrada soldout the
attack.  Often as not after round 4
Estrada didn’t put it on Beamon until or unless Beamon pissed him off.

Beamon, frankly, was too savvy to do that very
often.  If Estrada’s conditioning was
suspect Beamon’s was not.  The Carolinian
trained for a world title challenge in the champ’s hometown and acted like
it.  He absorbed very fine punches from a
very fine prizefighter and didn’t wilt till well offschedule.  Class told eventually, but that eventuality
arrived later than aficionados expected and way way later than Estrada penciled
it in camp.

That tardiness was, in some part, a matter of
class.  Estrada is a masterful
counterpuncher accustomed to landing apex predators on his fists.  Which is to write the force of Beamon’s
attack wasn’t great enough to turn concussively against him – the same way a
hitter might drive an 80 mph fastball to the warning track with the same swing
he’d land a 100 mph fastball in the bleachers. 

Beamon never really got the angle calculated for
his righthand.  While we’re playing with
baseball metaphors, let’s go here: Beamon, accustomed to much lesser hitters,
didn’t hide the ball coming out of his windup. 
However it looked on flatscreen, something Beamon did gave away his
righthand, and Estrada perceived it early every time.  Sometimes Estrada went Mexican with that
perception and ate Beamon’s right glove to emasculate discourage the challenger
a bit.  Most of the time Estrada let the
punch flash over him by the narrowest possible margin.

The two or three times Beamon threw the
telegraphed righthand and neither of the above scenarios played out, the two or
three times Beamon put a sting on Estrada, the champ retaliated swiftly and
disproportionately.

But here’s the thing about Beamon.  He acquitted himself very well in his role of
designated homecoming opponent, giving Estrada far more than his paycheck
anticipated.  Beamon was not going to
decision Estrada in Sonora and he wasn’t going to knock him stiff either, and
if the rest of us knew that during the ringwalk, Beamon surely knew it a
quarterhour before he succumbed.  That
Beamon’s shoulders didn’t sag till round 9 speaks to Beamon’s character and
speaks of it well.  “Mr. Stop Running” –
no, that nickname doesn’t work any more elegantly in Spanish – went in on the
champion, one of the world’s best prizefighters, and got his money’s worth.  A good thing for Beamon, Estrada and the rest
of us.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Editor’s note: For part 18, please click here

MEXICO CITY – Beautiful is a word I didn’t think to
associate with this city before visiting because I’d not heard anyone call it
that, and so perhaps I’ll be its first.  After
nearly a dozen encounters with its airport I am for a first time without its
airport, in La Condesa neighborhood specifically (11 kilometers west of Romanza
Gym), and nearly enchanted by the city’s beauty.

It is doubtful either the Brothers Marquez, on
their first trip to Romanza, or their mentor and trainer, Nacho Beristain, would
recognize very much of their city that I’ve seen and plan to describe.  This neighborhood is “fifí”; a playfully
derogatory Spanish term, like “spoiled” or “snobbish”, that invests its target
with a pride proportionate to its speaker’s envy.  It is Barcelona much more than Ciudad Juarez
and remarkably devoid of what dust and noise dominates most Latin American
capitals from here to Patagonia.

The people are more courteous, or at least less
numerous, than anticipated.  And about
them, here’s an observational parallel: The populations of Mexico’s two largest
cities mirror the populations of the United States’ two largest cities both in
appearance and mien.  Mexico’s
second-most-populous city, Guadalajara, has the beautiful people – just like Los
Angeles.  Mexico’s most-populous city,
this one, has the ambitious ones – just like New York.  There’s a quicker pace here than in Guadalajara;
one imagines it far easier to move from here than to move to here; if few
passersby could pass by beauty alone in Guadalajara, they come from a place
where no one passes by beauty alone.

This neighborhood is aspirational bohemian (a
redundancy in most cases, that) and traffics in the expected incongruencies of
the combination.  Lots of serious eyeglass
frames and fashion beards complemented by an inexplicable tendency to sit among
familiars and exaggerate to strangers – effectively, to care less about the
opinions of those you see daily than those whom you’ll never see again.  In the Massachusetts of my youth we’d’ve
called most guys here “faggy”, but the slur strikes me as entirely
inappropriate today for more than just the obvious reason.

Thirty-five years ago we called each other by gay
slurs in large part because we didn’t know any gay people, or if we did, we
didn’t know we did – I can confidently state I never called a gay classmate by
a gay slur because, by dint of inexperience and misperception, the guys I
targeted went on to have wives and children. 
We used gay slurs to imply something like fifí – delicate, preoccupied
by others’ judgments, unlikely to mate. 
And therein lies an irony one sees quite a bit in this city but especially
in Nuevo Polanco, with its art collections and homage plazas built by Carlos
Slim.

The only obviously mated folks are the gay
ones.  While their ostensibly
heterosexual peers engage with platonic hugs and fraternal banter, the men who
like men are kissing, the women who like women are holding hands, the only
couples anyone can say with confidence are coupled share the same gender.  It’s delicious ironic for an American raised
in the airhead morality of “family values” th’t in 2019 the only men in our
continent’s largest city secure enough in their masculinity to show public love
are those gazing longingly in other men’s eyes.

Dude, this is getting uncomfortable.  Can we get back to Juan Manuel or Rafael?

I thought of them a bit a few days ago in Papalote
Museo del Niño, this country’s largest children’s museum, as the young guides
doggedly presented their educational wares to father and son alike.  Unlike their lessinspired American
counterparts in San Antonio’s DoSeum, a sister venue with a video feed into
Papalote, coincidentally, Mexican guides do not allow failures in their
exhibitions.  You sit at a table, whether
to assemble from papercups a windtunnel-ready flying saucer or to repair a
deadbolt lock, and you do not leave till your work is complete – lest a guide
less than half your age lecture you on what a poor example you’re setting as a
quitter.  And it works.  You feel triumphant when you eventually win
that teenager’s stern approval.

It made me wonder what Beristain told the Brothers
Marquez during their first week in his gym. 
Did he have to tell them the consequences of their new vocation? did he
have to invest them with the seriousness of their hoped-for craft? was Rafael
already the more physically gifted specimen? was it obvious to Beristain?

At Castillo de Chapultepec the next day I thought
of Marco Antonio Barrera, as I often do. 
Also a chilango – and that’s a loaded term, too, as Ciudad de Mexico is
no longer a federal district but recently a state of its own surrounded by a
state named Mexico in a country named Mexico, though a city-cum-state whose
residents may or may not still call themselves chilangos and probably should be
offended if you were to – Barrera somehow doesn’t belong in a boxing gym, in my
imagining of him.  While Juan Manuel
Marquez labors under Beristain’s tyrannical tutelage in Romanza, Barrera gazes
across his city’s extraordinarily large forest park from the ramparts of Maximilian’s
royal home and relies solely on contempt for opponents to prepare himself.

Did you forget Barrera and Marquez fought 12 years
ago?  I had.  Then it came to me while touring the castle,
in a memory of Barrera’s petulant scowl when he dropped Marquez on his gloves
at the end of round 7, paused for two full beats to line him up, and then
clocked his felled opponent with a right uppercut.  Cold contempt, not rage – an almost comical
contempt.

A beautiful city filled with aspirational
inhabitants incubated contempt, apparently, in one of our beloved sport’s
largest brains.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday in a junior welterweight title-unification
match broadcast by the aficionado’s network, DAZN, California’s Jose Ramirez stopped
Texan Maurice Hooker midway through a wonderfully compelling fight that ended with
extraordinary abruptness.  Eighteen-and-a-half
minutes in, the men looked equally formidable. 
Eighteen seconds later, Hooker lay collapsed on the whiteropes, a blueshirt
his only protection from Ramirez’s ferocity.

Both men distinguished themselves by daring to
ratify their once-vacant titles. 
Promoters and their matchmakers are too good to be believed, and so the
winner of a vacant title is not credible till he’s fought a fellow titlist.  We now know Ramirez is the real thing.  And we know Hooker is the real thing, too,
though slightly less of that thing than Ramirez.

If neither man was allowed comfort before the
other, a minutely tally’d’ve found Ramirez acting as discomfitter, not
Hooker.  There was the promise of Hooker’s
substantial rightcross to keep Ramirez sober at every charge, a source of
instant anxiety for Ramirez to be sure, but it was a tool Ramirez solved and
dulled in the fight’s opening quarter.  Ramirez
did this with timing and footwork, somethings he doubtlessly learned before joining
trainer Robert Garcia’s stable.

If you have an amateur pedigree – which means
you’ve involuntarily boxed through your youth against every style and ethnicity
– before you pilgrim to Oxnard, Garcia takes your skillful foundation, puts it
in smaller gloves and commands you attack. 
If you haven’t a skillful foundation, Garcia nevertheless puts you in
smaller gloves and commands you attack. 
As we saw in his younger brother’s spring whitewashing contra Errol
Spence, Coach Robert carries no plans B to ringside in his spitbucket; any exam
question whose answer is not “more aggression” gets left blank for later – a generation
later.

Fortunately for Fresno aficionados Jose Ramirez,
an Olympian, brought skills galore to Oxnard when he arrived a year ago.  That meant Garcia’s plan A, more aggression,
was exactly matched to Saturday’s moment. 
It wasn’t necessarily that an Olympian like Ramirez couldn’t stay
outside and win a boxing match with Hooker, that was about a 40/60 proposition,
it was that there was no reason to try it. 
Hooker’s every advantage disintegrated once Ramirez was within his arms’
length of Hooker.  And Ramirez’s
advantages multiplied proportionate to every inch nearer after that.  Hooker knew this, Ramirez knew this.

Hooker outsmarted himself, though, figuring in round
5 he might do a little sabbatical on the ropes and let Ramirez get tired of
punching.  That was the lapse that cost
Hooker his title.  What happened in a
couple seconds in round 6, Hooker’s straightback headpulling that set his chin
on a tee for Ramirez’s left fist and the legs’ jellying and Ramirez’s swift
adaptation and Hooker’s utter defenselessness, all that, came of Hooker’s vanished
judgement the round before.

There are ways to discourage and fatigue volume
punchers like Ramirez, but none of them permits him to put knuckles on
you.  Knuckling you puts that breed of
man in his most comfortable place.  He’s
no longer burning calories at fractionally the rate you think he is, especially
if you’re a rangy puncher accustomed to throwing on your preferred timetable.

Ali rope-a-doped Foreman, remember, not Frazier.  You rope-a-dope a slugger, and he
autodiscourages by failing to harm you the way experience told him he
would.  You rope-a-dope a boxer, and he
retreats to the opposite ropes, and y’all feint at one another till the ref
starts deducting points.  But you
rope-a-dope a volume puncher, and you leave in an ambulance.

Too soon?

Let’s have a treatment of our beloved sport’s
deadly past week, then.  We are expected
to examine our collective conscience at times like these, I know, perform
public acts of expiation, and especially if we write for daily periodicals
whose pacifistic editors tsk-tsk our ways.

Good news, there.  In 2019 none of us writes for daily periodicals.

That means much of last week’s atonement was
habitual more than sincere.  We know this
because it all reduced to a massive shrug from the moral lowground, or else
niggling about pet safety issues – like tiptoeing a matchstick bridge across a
firepit licking.

Here’s an easier calculus for you, the aficionado:
Do you watch fights hoping to see a brainbleed or death?

No, you don’t. 
Then that’s that.  You’re not
obligated to justify yourself further. 
Those who would ban our sport are unserious; if they coulda, they
woulda.  Those who wish to make
prizefighting safer verily miss the point – our sport survives by dint of its
peril; safe prizefighting is oxymoronic. 

Some primal, though enduring (and thus still not vestigial),
human trait requires public acts of violence. 
In this sense the ban-boxing brigade recalls a Chris Rock joke about
needing bullies, because a couple decades of banning bullying in our schools meant
that when an actual bully showed up in the 2016 U.S. presidential election, no
one knew what to do.

Jose Ramirez would know what to do, and for that
matter so would Maurice Hooker, and if watching them punch one another doesn’t
quite tell us what to do it at least reminds us occasions for punching one
another still exist, however many millennia since our ancestors emigrated from their
caves.  There is real violence within
most of us, and it thrills the spirit. 
That isn’t a solution for prizefighters’ deaths and damages or even a
prescription for a solution.  It is an
amoral report of where and what we are – an act of acceptance, not contrition.

*

Editor’s note: This column will be on summer vacation
next week.

*

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday on Fox PPV in a match for the PBC’s
emeritus welterweight championship at MGM Grand undefeated titlist Keith “One
Time” Thurman got dropped and fairly decisioned by a 40-year-old Filipino
senator, Manny Pacquiao, who struggled to call Thurman even “a good fighter” immediately
afterwards.  Not the always gracious
Pacquiao’s fault, that.  Different era,
different priorities, different metrics.

No sooner does one imagine things going
differently in Thurman’s career were he with different management than he
recognizes different management overlooked him, didn’t it?  If manager Al Haymon plucked fruit from the
Olympic tree – some wellseeded like Errol, most misshapen like Rau’Shee and Terrell
– he discovered Thurman differently, howsoever he did it, which is to write
Haymon outbid the likes of Top Rank and affiliates, almost certainly because
they didn’t bid at all. 

Why is this relevant?  Because at the time Thurman turned pro
(nearly 12 years ago) most every great fighter a young aficionado today can
name got developed by Top Rank, starting with “Pretty Boy” Floyd Mayweather,
the patron saint, emphasis on patron, of today’s PBC stable. 

Whither this rehashing?  It crossed my mind muchly during Saturday’s
match, as it certainly crossed Coach Freddie’s mind and “Money” Mayweather’s
mind, too, at ringside.  Accustomed to
what large-pursed, pillow-gloved, athletic-contest exhibitions PBC bubblewraps
its champions in, Thurman hadn’t an inkling what suffering must traditionally
be endured for a man to call himself champion. 
He knows about it now, though.

Over and again one marveled at how alien a figure
Pacquiao cut on the sanitized island called Premier Boxing Champions.  Like an aged tiger parachuted in the middle
of a clover sheep farm populated only by sheep and clover, Pacquiao, red of
tooth and claw, fists wrapped in Mexican horsehair, not foam, thrilled at
violence as his profession’s only point – not an ancillary unpleasantness to be
got through while doing fitnessy things for large paychecks.

Three times the absurdity of it all manifested on
Thurman’s face: When Pacquiao knocked him asswards, when Pacquiao mashed his
nose through his face, when Pacquiao touched him properly on the button.  First was the look of disbelief then the look
of disgusted betrayal then the look of offended fright.  Thurman collected a righthand and dropped
like he’d been tripped then he spit the yucky taste of his own blood at his
corner en route to his stool then he wheeled away, gumshield in glove, selling a
Pacquiao bodyshot like the foulest of things. 
The last was the caketaker; it was the act of a man unable to imagine in
his 30th prizefight such pain might be delivered by a legal blow.

And all this from a version of Pacquiao five years
past its expiration date, a version of Pacquiao unable or unwilling to contest
more than 45 seconds of a round, a version of Pacquiao much more an ideal of
selfdefense than a predator.

There was Thurman, chastened completely by getting
bluematted in round 1, tentatively pawing and countering through much of the
match, while Fox’s contracted narrative-maker tabulated hundreds of “power
punches”, knowing there was a needle he must thread: Hit Pacquiao enough to
score points but not so much as to make him mad.

Then in your mind flashed Juan Manuel Marquez,
sucking his own noseblood through an open mouth and goading, prodding, goading,
goading, prodding, goading Pacquiao till he lured him, after 125 minutes and 58
seconds of misery and conflict and fear, in the master’s trap to end his era in
ecstasy.  How even do you word such a
contrast between the sinewy savage Pacquaio faced Dec. 8, 2012, and the fatted sheep
he’s seen in 2019?  They are not sportsmen
of the same species, surely. 

O, be not so hard on gentleman Keith; after all,
he comported himself nobly in defeat and gives generous interviews and he’s
telegenic and loves his wife.  Fair
points, yes.  If you are going to lose
there are more ignoble ways of doing it, as Adrien Broner reminds us annually.

O, to hell with that.  This is bloodsport, this is men making their
livings hurting other men. 

Pacquiao just reset the hands on the clock of
PBC’s fraud.  Don’t let Pacquiao’s
reluctance to face Errol Spence blind you. 
Spence is an outlier – PBC doesn’t know what to do with him either.  Thurman was PBC’s champion, Thurman won the
PBC welterweight Super Bowl in 2017, two months before PBC even knew what it
had in Spence, Thurman was the coddled prodigy, Thurman represented PBC’s
post-Mayweather future.  And that future just
spent round 10 with his white tail in the air, skittering away from a
40-year-old.

Because decisioning Thurman this late in the day
marks only about the 27th best moment of Pacquaio’s career, Saturday was not
about Pacquiao.  Saturday was a
fullthroated indictment of the P in PBC.

Be glad “The Truth” was ringside to see it, too,
for the future of our beloved sport.  Now
Spence knows, as Mayweather knew, the PBC on FoxTime belt is a participation
trophy, the glassencased product of a minorleague affiliate, a way to bamboozle
venture capitalists and network programmers. 
Spence now knows if he doesn’t make his manager make a match with
Terence Crawford while both men are still prime Spence’s championship lineage
will run through “One Time” and “Swift”, not “Sugar” or “Sugar”, and a
halfdecade from now some young bodysnatcher will properly coin him “The Fiction”
like Spence properly coined another man “Sometimes”.

Bart
Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday on Fox Sports pay-per-view Keith “One Time” Thurman defends his WBA “Super World” welterweight title against Filipino legend Manny Pacquiao in a Las Vegas match with world’s-third-best-welterweight ramifications. That is, whoever wins Saturday will almost certainly deserve a higher ranking than whoever next loses to Errol Spence or Terence Crawford.

When last we saw Pacquiao he was paddlepurpling About Billions Broner en route to a dull pay-extra-to-view decisioning of boxing’s clown pauper, a man whose schtick in the ring and otherwise has gone wanting since. Pacquiao has that effect when he’s right. He delights, sells tickets, makes lots of money and wins easily without employing any of the brandbuilding antics his PBC stablemates require. If he hasn’t made quite Floyd Mayweather’s career earnings he’s come exponents closer than his stablemates, without having to reinvent himself nearly so often. There has been no one like him since his debut in 1995, and that phrase may hold-up still in the year 2050.

Pacquiao went to PBC because promoter Top Rank ran out of highpaying b-fighters to feed him; if Pacquiao didn’t blame his former promoter for the decision that befell him Down Under two years ago, he didn’t forgive the outfit either. He forewent what desperate warnings Bob Arum surely imparted and handicapped properly the other side of the dial: Yes, PBC on FoxTime has Errol Spence to swerve someday but not till I’ve touched that crew for tens of millions of dollars in peril-less sparrings.

By all accounts Pacquiao is way smarter than the berry-appy mascot he plays in prefight previews and postfight pressers; if he didn’t tell PBC to start heavypursing him with Broner it’s simply because he didn’t have to – his new promoter was benighted enough to think Broner might have him. Time to ringup Thurman next, and after that, win or lose or draw, do a cashout dance with Spence, who’s likely to get softened harder by the tactically limited but physically expressive Shawn Porter than Mikey Garcia’d’ve done him in 100 rounds.

All of this assumes Thurman hasn’t the punch or malice to end Pacquiao’s career Saturday. Five years ago, assumptions might’ve been different. Thurman looked to have skills and temperament enough to bend the next era his way. Boy, was that a long time ago.

Six years in the past Thurman looked awesome in San Antonio, twice, and whetted aficionados’ imaginations. Then he effectively took 2014 off. Then he couldn’t ice little Robert Guerrero at the beginning of 2015, which was a problem. Four months later Thurman collected the WBA’s welterweight belt by giving Luis Collazo his seventh career L, and that was that. He squeaked past Shawn Porter in 2016, squeaked past Danny Garcia in 2017, honeymooned and ashrammed in 2018, and squeaked past little Josesito (Little Jose) Lopez in January. It has been a primesquandering historic for One Time.

But now Thurman takes dead aim at an eighth L on Pacquiao’s resume, a feat for which he’ll garner little praise from aficionados but lots of hyperbole from PBC propogandists and a fat check to cash.

“It’s called prizefighting, dummy” – as Money Mayweather once told Shane Mosley. Thurman gets that in a way generations of prizefighters before him did not. Get the cash and get out, posterity be damned. As a fellow man, few among us could blame him. As customers, of course, we’re entitled to an alternative view: If Thurman wants to make his living nonviolently, he can open a yoga studio, something more befitting his recent mien.

But he’d better not plan to play boxing with Pacquiao. Probably Manny will play boxing back with him, doing something that complements the 60-seconds-per-round workrate Pacquiao has perfected since Juan Manuel Marquez showed him absolute darkness interrupted by a single warm light, but maybe not. Pacquiao knew no exertion was worth extra for icing Broner – if Pacquiao even knew who Broner was before their match. But Thurman is PBC’s welterweight champion emeritus, and snatching Thurman’s 0 should mark at least the 30th-greatest accomplishment of Pacquaio’s career, even if it doesn’t crack his Top 25.

Would stretching Pacquiao 6 1/2 years after Marquez did it mark the highlight of Thurman’s career? Yup. Thurman has never shared a ring with anyone whose greatness is the square root of Pacquaio’s.

More than halfway in his 41st year, Pacquiao hasn’t the reflexes he had while racing through prime Mexican legends 14 or 15 years ago, but he recognizes patterns better than he did back then for having seen so many of them so craftily presented. Stylistically, Thurman is bargain-basement-basic beside Erik Morales or Miguel Cotto, much less the aforementioned Mosley, Mayweather or Marquez. Worse yet, Thurman ain’t that much younger than Pacquiao, and if his reflexes haven’t atrophied with age they’ve certainly rusted with inactivity.

Thurman hasn’t the derringdo to make war on Pacquiao, we know, but he has the tools to keepaway his way to a sympathetic decision, and that’s what he’s best suited to do. Thurman probably has pop enough to put Pacquiao in easymoney mode, the way Mayweather did, but Pacquiao won’t believe that till he feels it, which means Thurman may have to fight Pacquiao off him at some point, a point likely to represent the match’s only entertaining half-round – at the midway point of its fifth or sixth. After that, expect drama and suspense to leak gradually from the ring, punctuated by a forget-me-not flurry in the final 30 seconds of the 12th round.

A week from today, we’ll read Pacquiao has nothing left to prove and ought retire and Thurman has so much left to prove and ought use this narrow victory to springboard his way in a ring with Spence or Bud Crawford. Next year, we’ll read about Pacquiao negotiating a farewell war with Spence or Bud Crawford while Thurman demands a rematch with Lopez or Garcia.

This Saturday, anyway, I’ll take Thurman, MD-12, in a close, dull match one Vegas judge has already scored 117-111 for One Time.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Editor’s note: For part 17, please click here

SAN ANTONIO – This city’s McNay Art Museum, which
has figured heavily (for an art museum) in this ostensibly-about-boxing column,
since 2010, recently opened an exhibition, Andy Warhol: Portraits, that appears
to have no tie-in whatever to our beloved sport.  I revisited the exhibition a few hours before
writing this, unable to imagine a suitable subject, and sat so long at a lobby
table afterwards a friendly security guard came over to tell me I looked tired.  Let that temper what you expect of this.

Nearly a decade ago The McNay had a different
Warhol exhibition that opened round about the time “Son of the Legend” Julio
Cesar Chavez Jr. put the wood to “Irish” John Duddy in Alamodome, in what would
be Duddy’s final prizefight.  The editor
of a boxing magazine asked me to pitch him a unique idea for a story –
“anything out of the ordinary” – and I complied with an idea about this Warhol
exhibition, a visual dissection of Warhol’s fascination with celebrity and its
effect, being open in the same city at the same time as boxing’s greatest beneficiary
of celebrity.  The pitch went nowhere, a
destination shared by the story I wrote instead for the magazine, and I made a
column of the idea.

(Actually, a quick search through the archives
reveals barely half of what’s above is accurate; “Andy Warhol: Fame and
Misfortune” opened in February 2012, not June 2010, and since by then Chavez
Jr. had beaten Duddy and Sebastian Zbik and Peter Manfredo, perhaps a story
attributing the whole of Chavez’s fortune to name recognition wasn’t the crackerjack
idea memory recalls.)

Out of the parenthetical but influenced by it: Memory
is many parts imagination, something confirmed by most adult accounts of childhood
that begin “I see myself . . .” as if that’s what children do when, say, riding
a bike – look at themselves, instead of their front tire or whatever terrain it
touches.

If Warhol never directly addressed memory’s inaccuracy,
and perhaps he did somewhere, prolific as he was, he understood part of the
appeal of his portraits to their subjects lay in a capacity for overwriting
memories.  Warhol was a favorite
portraitist of aging celebrities because his minimalist approach to depicting
facial skin removed wrinkles and most blemishes (except for his Dolly Parton
portraits, which are better than the Marilyn Monroe portraits precisely because
Parton’s face had more imperfections). 
Warhol very much made art for life to imitate and prophesied our
contemporary socialmedia obsession in any of his dozens of commentaries about
Americans and fame.

Floyd Mayweather would look good in a Warhol
portrait, methinks.  I happened on a Fox
Sports promotional movie about Manny Pacquiao last week by accident and tried
to see Mayweather through his fans and commentators’ eyes, being removed as we
are now from the relevance of Mayweather’s schtick.  What I looked for was elegance; what little I
recall of his victory over Pacquiao was Pacquaio’s unwillingness to throw
punches and subsequent inability to strike Mayweather, our defensive wizard.  But what I saw instead of elegance was skittishness.  Not during or after Mayweather got hit but
when the prospect of his getting hit happened: Confident-to-flinching-to-confident-to-flinchyflinching.  It was not elegant.

Of course this was a movie to sell us Pacquiao’s
upcoming tilt with Keith Thurman, and it behooves nobody at Fox to concede
Pacquiao is diminished from the man who got whitewashed by Mayweather, a man
who was fractionally potent as the one who dashed through Barrera and Morales
and Marquez.  Still.  In hyperdefinition, Mayweather’s
squinchyfaced pullback looks nigh bitchy.

Warhol would remove that.  If Warhol was not quite enamored of money as
Mayweather claims to be, he was doubly enamored of money’s effect, and Mayweather’s
selfstyled fixation on money might’ve enchanted Warhol with a question like: If
a man who is by no means the world’s best at making money allowed the last 1/3
of his career to be consumed by making money, a man who was the world’s best at
his actual craft, does that make money omnipotent or the man cynical?

This is why I looked tired in the lobby.  A different range of thoughts happened on the
short, slow drive from The McNay to The Pearl, where this column got wrote: Is
the racing line elegant? is the racing line what Henri Matisse was after? is
Matisse better than Warhol, for eliminating pathways to imitation, or is Warhol
better, for spawning generations of imitators? how much should even a column
such as this be dedicated to a concept, the racing line, you understand at best
partially?

The racing line is a way automobiles may go
fastest round curves.  It’s not the
shortest distance, as that would be the inside line, and it’s not a good way to
go at a constant speed.  Rather, it’s
effectively the straightest way to go round a halfcircle – start wide, cut the
apex, end wide – and by being the straightest line it is the route that allows
the earliest moment of maximum acceleration. 
If you regularly take the racing line against fellow motorists on your
local freeway you will pass most of them so long as you do not use cruise
control (which renders the racing line counterproductive).

The racing line is almost elegant the way Warhol
is almost elegant.  Neither the racing
line nor Warhol is elegant as a Matisse line; the racing line and Warhol do
something worth doing more quickly than other approaches.  The racing line kept through a full circuit
is nearer Matisse than Warhol came; Warhol was the racing line through a single
curve, maybe two.  The Matisse line,
though, is the racing line taken through an unknown circuit drawn but a moment
before.

Tire, tiring, tired.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

There were recent fights aplenty with which a
grateful boxing writer might fashion a column, and this writer should be
grateful as any, writing weekly columns, as he did, through yesteryear’s summer
famines.  But important as it is to write
well about great fights and the courage that makes them so is how difficult it
is to write well about poor fights and the mismatchmaking that makes them so.

One of the Brothers Charlo iced a two-sentence-Wikipedia
opponent a couple Sundays ago, the other Brother Charlo decisioned a
multi-sentence-Wikipedia opponent Saturday, and Demetrius Andrade kept his
resume spotless by keeping away from a featherfisted Pole.  Surely 80 minutes of prizefighting affords
material enough for 1,000 words of opinion. 
Or surely not.

I plead ignorance from the top.  I don’t know enough about either Charlo to
tell one from the other.  Both fought in the
last calendar week, both were defending a title of some sort because the
Brothers Charlo are PBC veterans enough to be titlists, though I can’t say
which Charlo beat whomever to attain whichever title or if either Charlo has
changed weightclasses anytime recently or really was defending a title
(Editor’s note: Actually, never mind).

Full disclosure: The closest I ever followed a
Charlo fight was when one of them sparred writer Kelsey McCarson for charity.

I expected the Brothers Charlo to be fighting on
Fox these days – didn’t they both do so a while back? – but I couldn’t find either
of them on my local Fox affiliate, and I haven’t had Showtime since December.  I watched their joint postfight
pressconference Saturday night on YouTube and came away feeling like I’d missed
not a thing since losing interest in them many years ago during a Houston
undercard or two.

The usual: Everybody respects us, nobody respects
us, the world is going to respect us; we’ve done so much, we’re just getting
started, wait till you see what’s next; nobody knows us, everybody recognizes
us, the people who know us best don’t know us at all; lions only, lions Only,
Lions Only!  If this were an effort to be
mysterious or conflicted or even controversial it would mean something more
than all it actually means, which is the standard and tired marketing fare of
being all things to all people, this time with a scowl of some sort.  One of the Brothers Charlo implied he
might’ve sold so many more tickets if he’d put himself in a larger venue, which
seemed an odd swipe to take at himself or his promotional partner, the other
Brother Charlo, sitting next to him and apparently in charge of booking.

What everyone realizes by now is the Brothers
Charlo and many of their PBC brethren are hamstrung by management.  They can dominate whomever PBC’s network of
matchmakers conjures up and wear whatever belts complicit sanctioners cobble
together, but they’ll not unify anything or attain universal recognition.

They wear the PBC on ShowFox belt, while an ESPN
champion makes war on his network’s nonentities, and a DAZN champ has a modicum
more respect, or much more respect, for having beaten a known opponent – read:
an opponent whose name you knew before the ESPN or ShowFox pressrelease – sometime
and somewhere in the last two years.

This shouldn’t be read, or at least not precisely,
as an indictment of PBC champions.  Most
of their safetyfirst exhibition title defenses happen before unenthusiastic
crowds and overly enthusiastic television crews, perhaps, but at least they’re
getting paid way more than fairmarket value for their efforts.  DAZN champions, meanwhile, are getting
overpaid, too, but with the very real chance they may be upset, through poor
fortune or tournament whimsy.  ESPN
champions get paid about the least and contend with the anxiety of a mercurial
boss and ingenious matchmaker; keep Bob happy and Bruce’ll get you opponents
that make you better, but make Bob unhappy and Bruce’ll get you beat by
Christmas.

Which all adds up to what?  About half a column, according to the count
in the bottomleft corner of this screen.

Then let’s dive shallowly into Demetrius “Boo Boo”
Andrade, the nearest DAZN has to a Brother Charlo of its own (unless you count
Danny Jacobs, whom you probably shouldn’t count because, after all, Jacobs has
tested himself by narrowly losing to his division’s two best men).

So much potential, that Boo Boo!

Literary critic James Wood once wrote, and I could
swear I once quoted but Google does not confirm, that potential is only potent
so long as it goes unused.  Nobody muses today
about Roberto Duran’s potential as a lightweight or Floyd Mayweather’s
potential as a pay-per-view attraction.  Potential
is what we assign teenage prospects, not 31-year-old middleweight titlists.

Andrade gets this. 
If you were to ask him about his potential this morning, probably he
would take it as the insult it intends and tell you how many tickets he just
sold in Rhode Island of all places.  He
should add but wouldn’t: “It’s 20-percent more tickets than Charlo sold in his
hometown the same night, and Charlo’s hometown is 12 times the size of mine.”

The reason he should add that is the reason he
won’t: Charlo, not Canelo, is whom Andrade should target as his breakthrough
opponent.  Who would win that match?  Nobody knows. 
There are potential-fetishists on either side of the debate.

The proper broadcaster for the match, however, be doubtless
– “ShoBox: The New Generation”.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Friday on a Golden Boy Promotions card that DAZN broadcast from Indio, Calif., super featherweight titlist Andrew “El Chango (The Monkey)” Cancio snipped and slipped the stiches from Puerto Rican Alberto Machado in a rematch of their February upset, shortly after Mexican light flyweight Elwin “La Pulga (The Flea)” Soto attritioned Puerto Rican titlist Angel Acosta early in their 12th round.

What Soto did, and Cancio did again, returned meaning
to what was meant by “Mexican Style” before a Mexican-trained Kazakh and his
promotional apparatus borrowed the term for HBO interviews.  Inherent in the term is an underdog status or,
at very least, an evenly matched contest in which a question of mettle must be
answered.

Fighters who employ Mexican Style generally lack
their opponents’ reach or handspeed or power; Mexican prizefighters do not wish
to get struck in the face any more than any other type of prizefighter does but
find themselves at physical disadvantages, realize getting struck they must,
and repeatedly, to prevail, and choose to continue under disadvantageous terms
until the last remaining variable is will.

Here’s what Mexican Style is not: Brutalizing a
20-to-1 underdog recruited from a lower weightclass and so hopelessly outgunned
you can dominate him without risking your own consciousness even a little.  Now that fighters who employ Mexican Style ply
their crafts on the same network as the fighter who uses a Mexican Style hashtag,
it behooves aficionados to continue our reevaluation of all things late-HBO.

In both matches Friday the Mexican Style fighters
had fewer tools than their opponents, both of whom happened to be Puerto Rican
– a detail more ethnic-rivalry coincidental than otherwise.  Setting aside the controversy that properly
accrued round comain referee Thomas Taylor’s premature stoppage – a surprisingly
favorable outcome for Soto, given how much time Taylor bought Acosta with round
3 warnings – the man with fewer tools in the kit all night was Soto. 

Acosta had reach and size advantages, yes, but
also technical advantages and a dandy uppercut boxing’s lexicon suggests be
just the thing to dissuade an over-the-lead-knee grinder like Soto.  The Flea, then, spent most of a half-hour
getting peppered coarsely by a man who knew how.  Yet Soto didn’t relent.  That relentlessness in the face of
unfavorable happenings is a hell of a lot more Mexican Style than making highlightreel
corner stoppages on feckless featherfists who cut quickly. 

Cancio, too, had the same obvious physical and technical
disadvantages in his rematch with Machado as he did in their first tilt.  The result of Cancio’s first fight, though,
the largest upset of 2019 until Andy Ruiz took Manhattan, emboldened Cancio to
reduce his rematch to a matter of willfulness even sooner than he did their
first time.  Machado wanted absolutely
none of it.  The better boxer with the
better pedigree and the better resume, Machado explained away to himself his
first loss like a matter of fitness; he’d nearly missed weight, starved himself
the day before the weighin, faded early and learned his lesson.

But the lesson Cancio gave was one he didn’t
learn.  Boxing circles round Cancio,
having the requisite fitness to hit him and not be hit by him, never was going
to suffice for Machado.  He needed to
hurt Cancio till The Monkey went physically unable to punch back.

“I’m so much better than this guy” – that’s the
trap into which Mexican Style has lured many a flashy prospect or titlist.  Cancio had Machado deep winded after six
minutes.  A deep winded man hasn’t much
left but will, and Cancio thrilled at such a contest 30 minutes early.  He took his time and lined-up the button shot
then watched Machado crumple, rise to a knee and prep for his facesaving 10 1/2-count.

Again, until the world met Andy Ruiz some weeks
ago, Cancio was boxing’s feel-best story of 2019.  Nothing about Ruiz’s ascent diminishes
Cancio’s (or Elwin Soto’s).  Cancio is a
proper workingclass prizefighter, a man you can decision far more easily than beat.

But while we’ve got Mexican Style in mind and
words to spare, let’s return to Andy Ruiz for a spot.  What he did to Anthony Joshua was Mexican
Style not for its toolbox disadvantage but for its colossal physical
disadvantages.  Joshua was much bigger
and much stronger and hit much harder but knew little of relentlessness.  When the time came for teethmarking the
gumshield Joshua made his escape.

Joshua surely awoke that Sunday morning with an
abiding sense of absurdity like what haunted Machado the day after his first
loss to Cancio.  Joshua, with many times Machado’s
sycophantic entourage, invariably learns as you read this the same sort of
wrong lessons Machado gained.

From Joshua’s hangerson we hear about prefight
concussions and the like, which, while quite possibly true, do nothing to
prepare Joshua for what relentlessness Ruiz will show him in their rematch.  Ruiz now knows Joshua’s a flowerchinned wilter
and the directest route to the mettle question should be Ruiz’s line.  If both men hit the canvas in rematch round
1, Ruiz knows, he’ll defend his title in half the time it took him to acquire
it.

But do you expect anyone is telling Joshua this?  Not when there’s a fortune to be made in
excuse-making: “Lucky punch, champ, he caught you cold, we know that wasn’t the
real AJ, can’t trust New York food, don’t know what the ref was thinking, we
know the truth, you wanted to continue – everybody knows that!”

Expect Ruiz to Mexican Style his way through
Joshua in their rematch the way Cancio just did Machado.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Saturday at Arena Riga in Latvia in a pair of
prizefights broadcasted by DAZN the World Boxing Super Series arrived at its
cruiserweight-finals pairing violently. 
Two evenly matched matches ended in competitors’ unconsciousness, with a
Cuban clipping an American’s circuits and a Latvian doing somethings awful to a
Pole.

First, Mairis Briedis’ mainevent manhandling of Krzysztof
Glowacki: In an officiating context what transpired was shoddy-cum-catastrophic
and ought result in a pension for Robert Byrd. 
In a prizefighting capacity, though, it was handsome sporting and
something others might try.

We’ve all seen the preamble hundreds of times:
Fighter A overthrows the right cross, and disbalances himself, while Fighter B
ducks the punch and arrives 90-degrees right of square when he resurfaces;
Fighter A protects his brainstem with his right glove, elbow out, while both
men wait for the ref to untangle them. 
Nearly never does Fighter B wing a left hook at the back of Fighter A’s
head.  But in round 2 Glowacki thought it
a capital idea.

Then Briedis showed us promptly why no one does
this by driving his raised right elbow directly through Glowacki’s unguarded
jaw.  Glowacki received the shot, realized
what’d happened and went full soccer-player. 
This, more than the infractions that preceded it, offended Robert Byrd’s
sensibilities, and he slapped Glowacki on the back and demanded he rise to play
audience to Byrd’s deducting a point from the Briedis tally, without anybody,
including Byrd and Glowacki, realizing how ruined Glowacki was.

A charitable read of what followed is the Latvian
crowd’s zealous disapproval of Byrd’s ruling jarred Byrd such that he was unable
to hear the round’s closing bell.  A
realistic read is that Byrd is too old to be refereeing a scrap between
200-pound, non-English speakers, and Briedis’ scorn for Queensberry’s marquess reduced
Byrd to a doddering elder.

Whatever it was, after Briedis dropped Glowacki on
the blackmat a second time, this time with punches, and Glowacki rose, the
round ended and the Latvian bell began to tinkle, insistently if euphoniously, and
Briedis and Glowacki continued to make war while Byrd went to that tranquil,
nostalgic place grandads do after disabling their hearing aids.  The timekeepers stood and waved frantically,
to no avail.  Fact is, had Briedis not
dropped Glowacki at 3:11, causing Byrd to glance the timekeepers’ way for a
10-count, round 2 might still be happening as you read this.  Briefly returned to lucidity, Byrd
acknowledged the round’s end like an NFL ref stopping the playclock, which
sundry folks, including the Glowacki corner – by then approaching its 30th
second on the apron – understood to be Byrd’s waving-off the fight.

In all of Latvia, only Robert Byrd knew what the
hell Robert Byrd was doing.

Both fighters stood in their corners awaiting a
ruling, and not resting, while the 60-second respite ticked by and Byrd pantomimed
his inability to hear the very bell he successfully heard close round 1.  Glowacki’s chief second ran all the way
across the canvas and pantomimed for Byrd a threeminute duration on his
wristwatch.  Byrd scolded the man then
turned and scolded the timekeeper for not ringing loudly enough a bell everyone
else heard.  Glowacki did not receive
time enough to recuperate from Briedis’ elbow (which, quite probably, Byrd
missed altogether and only thought to penalize via inference) and did not
receive time enough to recuperate from his first legal knockdown.

And recovered Glowacki wasn’t when round 3 began
and Briedis made quick work of his remaining consciousness.  Odds are fair Briedis would’ve won one way or
another had all things happened fairly, and frankly a well-leveraged elbow may
be just the remedy for a well-leveraged rabbit punch; legal or not it’s exactly
what the word “fight” conjures in innocent minds.

But the Byrds must be helped into retirement (yes,
Robert’s wife, Adalaide, and yes, that Adalaide Byrd, was an official
scorekeeper for Saturday’s mainevent). 
Over and again, beginning with the prefight instructions, Robert Byrd
played the role of a senior American who comes upon a foreigner and thinks if
he just yells English at him, rather than speaking it, the foreigner will
understand.  Byrd explained to the
fighters, who’ve been hearing “break” their whole fighting lives, that Byrd
wouldn’t wrestle with them and expected an immediate cessation when he called
“stop” – which of course didn’t happen. 
Then Byrd got his branded-for-TV tagline in, and the fight began.  Then the fight turned into one, between two
large men who knew how, becoming no place for a 74-year-old, something one
assumes the WBSS, if not the Nevada Athletic Commission, will remember henceforth.

Before all that, in the comain and fellow
semifinal, Cuban Yuniel Dorticos drycleaned TMT’s Andrew “Beast” Tabiti with a
round-10 right hand that was gorgeous. 
There was something aesthetically piquant about DAZN’s closeup of Tabiti’s
goldtoothed-vampire gumshield as Tabiti’s involuntary breaths went round it
while his Money Team hangerson sheepishly footdragged to his aid.  They were there for the victory party, not
the cleanup, and hadn’t an inkling what to do while their man spent two minutes
rigid.

What now will follow is another excellent WBSS cruiserweight
final that complements its bantamweight and super lightweight finals.  There’s lots more to be written about the
natural power of selforganizing entities, but for now let us marvel once again at
how much better the tournament format serves our interests, as aficionados, than
what promoter-driven swill generally befalls us.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry

By Bart Barry-

Editor’s note: In what has become an annual
tradition, Bart Barry ran out of ideas for his column.  So we suggested he interview his favorite
subject about his favorite subject, and he acquiesced.  He even used the verb “to acquiesce” in his
reply to our request!

BB: I was watching an interview with Bo Burnham a
couple days ago –

BB: We’ve come a long way from reading interviews
with Richard Ford, haven’t we?

BB: – and he talks about a couple things that
resonated.  One was about feeling
nostalgia for events that’ve yet to happen, and the other is the artist
treating subjects he’s struggling with rather than things he already knows.

BB: Let me guess – that led to thinking how we
might do this with column-writing?

BB: For a few minutes, it did.  Then we came back, yet again, to Harold
Bloom’s old idea about reading in pursuit of a mind more original than your own,
which is a cry for authority.  Satisfying
someone else’s pursuit of authority can hardly begin by not-knowing things.

BB: I inferred from Burnham an unspoken assumption
his learning process is accelerated enough th’t watching him learn a subject can
be entertaining.

BB: I like that. 
Cognition of any adult sort, too, must begin with knowing lots of things.  While nobody wishes to watch a 5,000-hour movie
of a newborn’s journey to his first successful steps, it might indeed amuse to
watch a person who learns quickly use his existing knowledge to learn something
new.

BB: Quite a roundabout way of conceding you don’t
want to write about Gennady (sic) Golovkin.

BB: I added the suffix in there for you.  He’s changed the spelling of his first name.

BB: Part of the first-loss rehabilitation kit.

BB: New trainer, new network, new name, new
weightclass, lots of new tats.

BB:  He
didn’t go full-Cotto, did he?

BB: (Laughing) He really didn’t.  Maybe half-Cotto.

BB: Good riddance to Abel at least.

BB: Abel was part of the packaging.  But HBO was all the packaging.  That’s why I avoided the subject.  I knew it would spin into another acidic
postmortem on the Heart and Soul of Boxing.

BB: Do you feel unheard on this subject?

BB: That’s well-put.  Few things, if anything, look more craven
online than some goofball leading his generic thoughts with “like I’ve been
saying all along” – as if there weren’t a way to verify this if anyone cared to
do.

BB: Is that what’s going on here with GGG?

BB: Could be. 
But it’s late.  The postmortem to
be performed would go something like: Almost everything I believed about
Golovkin’s greatness got told to me by HBO, but during the same time HBO told
me how great Golovkin was HBO steered its storied franchise into a sandbar and
sank, so maybe I should review everything I believed about Golovkin’s greatness
. . .

BB: You say it’s too late for that because nobody
thinks he’s that gullible.

BB: The most anyone might concede is that HBO
introduced him to Golovkin, but he did all the appraising on his own.

BB: And that’s what few evangelists would yet
admit it was a ruse.

BB: Sergio Mora put it succinctly Saturday night: Golovkin
made his legend by annihilating B- and C-level fighters.

BB: That ruse relied, in part, on there being no
available A fighters.

BB: Nobody will fight him!  Nobody will fight him!

BB: Better yet was waiting till Canelo went 12
rounds with him to decide Canelo must be an A-level fighter because he went 12
rounds with him.

BB: A career 154-pounder went 24 rounds with the
most fearsome middleweight since Hagler. 
Who cares about the judging; that argument is sleight-of-hand.  The GGG ruse collapsed when Canelo stood tall
for 72 minutes in front of Golovkin.

BB: Yet we watched Saturday’s sacrifice.

BB: After what Andy Ruiz did, you sort of have to
for a while, no?

BB: Our sport thrives on misanthropy.  No sooner had Ruiz done something perfectly
unexpected but some pundits criticize him and the defenders pile-on.

BB: “Like I’ve been saying all along . . .”

BB: No disinterested party in his right mind
thought Ruiz would win.  So just enjoy
it.  Just laugh at it.  Laugh at anyone who feigns expertise for the
next month or so.  Be happy for
Ruiz.  Be happy for the way the spectacle
razed expertise.  For heaven’s sake,
though, don’t decide now’s a good time to reiterate your own expertise.

BB:  Whither
the state of the craft, our craft?

BB: “Dilettante” – that’s the word.  It’s the perfect word.  And it disarms, too.  No more aesthetic judgements.  The dilettante is not entitled to them.

BB: Are we reading more or less?

BB: Oh much less.

BB: Whither awards?

BB: Thrilled for Kelsey.

BB: The best thing about all these new broadcast platforms
is how little you must think about what you’re going to write, week-to-week.  The defiance of not-writing has dissolved
with that, no?

BB: It has. 
You enjoy watching boxing.  You
enjoy writing.  Howsoever long it has
been –

BB: Fourteen years and change.

BB: – there is no longer any sense of anxiety
about it.  Volunteer Sunday mornings at
the bus station, go home and change into something absurd, drive too fast to
the coffeeshop at The Pearl –

BB: Taking the racing line.

BB: – taking the racing line, yes, and write till
the place closes.  See what happens.  Let the conversations and songs going on
round you flavor whatever comes out.

BB: Do you ever look back?

BB: Not at any of this.  I looked back recently at some of the short
fiction from 2003.

BB: How was it?

BB: Precise. 
It was all rewritten three times. 
That’s the simple mechanics of it.

BB: Want to talk about the publication of that online?

BB: Nope.  It’s
now feasible to publish 100,000 words anonymously.  Fun, too.

BB: Who’s your favorite fighter?

BB: Has to be Usyk.

BB: Not Inoue?

BB: Not yet. 
I’m more likely to miss Usyk’s next fight, though – hell, I’m more
likely to miss my next breath – than Inoue’s.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry