By Jimmy Tobin

Were Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000-hour theory more true than useful, this year would have seen many of boxing’s devotees fall just a few days short of becoming world class negotiators. Falling short of being world class is something not uncommon in boxing these days, despite publicists, promoters, trainers, and networks doing their absolute best to convince you that being one of the best anything in 2016 is qualification for being one of the best ever, and so there is a nice, deserving symmetry there.

While this second, propagandistic component makes sense—people who profit from boxing are compelled, rather easily, to telling fractional truths and whole lies about it—the first is harder to understand. Why the preoccupation with boxing negotiations? The simple answer is that in recent years there have been fewer and fewer barriers to information and more platforms for bantering about it. Why wouldn’t someone presented with a free and accessible opportunity to pursue an interest avail himself of it?

Except that is not what happened over the past year, where the motives for immersing oneself in the ins-and-outs of inking fights had very little to do with learning. No, the motivation this year—assuming, perhaps generously, that what transpired was not born primarily of so many having so little else to do—was rooted in prosecution and defense.

Nowhere was this clearer than in the (inevitably) failed negotiations for a Gennady-Golovkin-Saul Alvarez fight (Oh, and is that order of names, okay? Because even such minutiae matter when held aloft by the swaying arms of acolytes). Whatever the reasons, Golovkin and Alvarez—who each fought twice in 2016, finding among their four hapless opponents two welterweights to ragdoll—could not make the fight Golovkin wanted more than any other, the fight Alvarez professed no fear of.

Apologists for Alvarez had their reasons at the ready, all complimentary of the Mexican fighter who professed to “not fuck around” before ditching the title Golovkin was the mandatory for and spending his year fucking around with the chin of a twice-flattened welterweight and the flanks of someone called “Beefy”. And yet to focus on Alvarez’ conduct, his supporters will tell you, is to take your eyes off the real culprit, off Golovkin, who, according to sources as credible as they need to be for the purpose of supporting a doctrine presented as an argument, declined the opportunity he professed to so deeply covet.

What truth there is to any of these accounts is, as with too many things in boxing, mostly a matter of opinion. Like Gladwell’s theory, much of this grist derives its value not from its veracity but from its usefulness in pushing forth an idea, perhaps that Team Alvarez is staying his execution, or that Team Golovkin’s difficulty securing fights is their own doing.

That the fight, the event actually worth talking about does not happen gets lost somehow in the discussion about who is more to blame for it not happening, with the answer to that question of guilt reflecting little more than allegiances pledged long ago. Some consolation that is.

It would be bad enough if people could find the negotiations of a fight more interesting than the fight itself. Except it’s not about interest at all, not in the eyes of those devoted to fighters, even to promoters. Instead, they interpret in boxing’s failure to make fights something other than failure, finding instead hypothetical victories for fighters whose meaningful victories are delivered only by their fists and promotional outfits who should be judged by their ability to deliver intriguing fights.

Strangely, the response to failed negotiations is not a collective shoulder turn on all parties involved. Granted this response is extreme, but at least it is sensical: why support entertainers who disregard your requests for entertainment? Isn’t responding in disgust better than making excuses and attributing blame and doing so with a fervor typically found in support of the action? That these excuses come adorned in whatever information and misinformation those in the know actually care to reveal hardly makes them any better. Given the traction this blaming and absolving gains, making the fights people actually want to see seems almost counter-intuitive: if people find satisfaction in arguing about why fights are not made, if they are going to direct their hostilities at differing opinion rather than at the people perpetually kicking the chair away, why make fights?

The trendy retort here is to say that boxing is a business and that understanding its complexities both allows and demands a more nuanced response to disappointment than turning away. And there is some truth to that, as boxing requires among other things a tolerance for rigmarole and an appreciation for peculiarities that fly in the face of competition (like the fact that, however odd it may sound, rarely is matching two men at the height of their powers a priority). That is hardly a justification, however: boxing can be both a business and entertaining and to simply lower the first characteristic like a gavel on the discussion is to justify the status quo.

It should come as little surprise that if those drawn to boxing for reasons beyond a violent spectacle were to determine the sport’s fate it would look very much like it did in 2016.

By Jimmy Tobin-

Saturday night, at The Forum in Inglewood, California, Bernard Hopkins tempted boxing’s unwritten rules for the last time. Inviolable as they are, those rules made an example of him. Hopkins’ farewell fight ended with the 51-year-old where he planned to be: beyond the ropes, surrounded by his supporters, the object of every fixed gaze in the arena. Except he reached that position courtesy of union construction worker, Joe Smith Jr., who hammered Hopkins through the ropes and onto the floor below, handing “The Executioner” his first stoppage loss in his very last fight.

Retrospectives aplenty are promised in the coming weeks, and Hopkins’ career is rich enough that sifting through his past for celebratory moments presents a unique challenge. Every fighter has such moments—Smith himself, despite being a relative unknown last year, now has two—but unlike so many of his contemporaries, with Hopkins it is selecting from abundance, not scarcity, that provides the challenge.

Reference to his protracted dismantling of Felix Trinidad—a flawless performance with few rivals since—will figure prominently, as will his humbling of self-proclaimed “Legend Killer” Antonio Tarver, so completely embarrassed by Hopkins that night he was reduced to asking trainer Buddy McGirt for ways to simply survive. Perhaps Hopkins’ one-armed destruction of Antwun Echols will also be romanticized and retold. More recently there is this: in 2014, Hopkins, at age 49, lost a unanimous decision to Sergey Kovalev in the fight that ratified the Russian. It speaks poorly of the division that a win over a man near fifty could serve such a purpose, though it is testament to Hopkins’ mystique that in his career’s third decade he remained a standard for more than longevity.

Even the version of him that fought Kovalev did not step through the ropes in Inglewood, however. And if Hopkins should choose to fight on he will do so knowing that the ring no longer welcomes him. Smith put Hopkins on borrowed time with a short right hand early, and what followed was all-too-inevitable. Hopkins lost the fight, his aura of indestructibility, and some of his dignity to a fighter who would not have ferreted a round from him in his prime.

The headbutt that opened a cut over Smith’s left eye seemed barely to register with the Long Island fighter, nor did the lead right hands that Hopkins bounced off his head once or twice a round. Kovalev suffered perplexing moments against Hopkins, Jean Pascal seemed to mentally unravel when Hopkins employed his intimidation tactics. Smith, however, perhaps because he knew there was but one path to victory for him, knew that, having interpreted the effect of his blows, that path was the only one he would need, betrayed not a tremor in his resolve. He simply followed the aged fighter around the ring, kept Hopkins at the end of his punches, and swung with the express purpose of bagging a trophy kill.

That says something about Smith, about how he will comport himself—if not fare—against the better opponents he has now earned the right to face. But it also speaks to how little Hopkins, his body softer, beard grayer, had left. Smith crossed his feet in pursuit, yet Hopkins had not the legs to escape him; Smith telegraphed his punches, yet all Hopkins could do was steel himself against their effect. Take nothing away from Smith, who did what a professional fighter should to an opponent who had little business sharing the ring with him. If Hopkins does not belong in the ring with Smith, however, he certainly does not belong in a ring in a prime television slot on a premium network. That has been the truth for years, given Hopkins’ spoiling tactics, his preservatory style, and there is no longer sufficient argument to suggest otherwise.

The image of Hopkins careening through the ropes, sent there by the fists of a man with “The Future” emblazoned on the front of his trunks is lasting. So too was Hopkins’ response. A survivor par excellence, Hopkins’ interpretation of his final departure from the ring is both untenable and predictable. Asked about the action that precipitated his trip through the ropes, Hopkins suggested Smith shoved him out of the ring, so frustrated was he by Hopkins’ right hand, elusiveness, and body work. No manipulation of the facts can support such an interpretation: Smith knocked Hopkins senseless with a right and did not stop punching until Hopkins had fallen out of reach. When Hopkins came to he was in no shape to continue, and he knew it; knew too that the insult visited upon him exceeded his injuries. So he fabricated a story absurd even by the standards of a man concussed. To witness how deeply wounded Hopkins was by the outcome of the fight is to understand that he will cling forever to this revisionist history—and do so knowing full well the truth.

The truth is Bernard Hopkins took a professional prizefight in his fifties, miscalculated, and was treated as any fighter in his fifties should be, less boxing become so talentless that even a man half a century old can mock its ranks with his presence. It was a humiliating defeat, one that will haunt Hopkins not only for its result but for what that result confirms: the even he must bend to the rules.

By Jimmy Tobin–

Saturday night, at the USC Galen Center in Los Angeles, California, Jermall Charlo defended his sliver of the super welterweight championship by fifth round TKO. The victory came at the expense of earnest but overmatched Julian Williams, who, provided the opportunity to make good on a year of bold proclamations, delivered a belligerent moment or two where it actually mattered, before leaving the ring with his head barely attached.

What Charlo-Williams offered, what aficionados are offered too infrequently, is an evenly matched prizefight on a premium network; a fight where the winner is in doubt both before the opening bell, and frequently enough during the fight to imbue not only the exchanges but those tense moments of inaction with a drama so often absent from the inevitable. Never mind that both fighters were undefeated—an undefeated record is as much a masking agent as an indicator of merit. And never mind that Charlo held a title, given that he won that belt over a man in his forties, and first defended it against someone named Wilky Campfort. What mattered is that within minutes of them keeping no company but each other, Charlo and Williams recognized the quality of opponent before them and were concerned but unbowed by that knowledge.

There is no moment in the fight more significant than the one that saw Charlo roll Williams’ right hand and counter it with an uppercut. That punch, the beginning of the end, set Williams’ head at an angle almost perpendicular to his neck and drove him so forcibly to the canvas he nearly bounced up to his knees and elbows. Williams played off its affect as best he could, bringing to mind fellow Philadelphian, Eric Harding, who, ruined by Antonio Tarver’s left hand, offered the utterance, “I’m from Philadelphia” as justification for fighting on. Fight on Williams would, but only until Charlo, swinging not to prompt the referee’s mercy but to leave Williams in a heap, tumbled him to the canvas once more.

Whatever blows they exchanged prior, including the Charlo jab that floored Williams with in the second round, and the counter crosses Williams chased Charlo’s jab back with, were evidence enough that both men understood what tools might serve them best against each other and that none of those tactics would come free of charge. It was a fight fought evenly until, in a flash, one man could fight no longer, and since what matters most always transpires between the ropes, Charlo’s landing his decapitator is the defining moment of the night.

And yet, it may not be what he is remembered for. At least not entirely.

In the aftermath, Charlo, still burning, refused to accept Williams’ congratulations, a move that drove the crowd to boo him for his lack of grace. Asked by foremost expert in classlessness, Jim Grey, whether his poor sportsmanship might detract from his victory, Charlo responded: “Detract from what? I knocked him out?”

It is a fair question to ask, however unpopular it may have been to a crowd that responded to Charlo’s asking it like it should have been issued a trigger warning.

Williams, who became Charlo’s mandatory in March, dogged him for nearly year, calling Charlo out and promising to take his title. His bandwagon—strangely full for a fighter who, beyond being accessible on social media and having an appealing moniker, had done little to justify many of the absurd claims made about his ability—also got in on the act from bathrooms, bus stops, and bar stools across the country. That ten-month keyboard assault fueled Charlo, who remained at 154 pounds only to shut Williams’ mouth. That he made good on that opportunity hardly means he need be friendly to his tormentor afterward, and if that does not fit into some romantic notion of how a man who is stripped near naked and sent out to leave another unconscious should act, so what?

The challenge the Charlo twins always faced, quite understandably, was that they were near indistinguishable from one another; a problem exacerbated by the absence of star power in their division and the fact that neither had a signature moment in the ring. But that is no longer the case. Jermall is now the Charlo brother who turned “J-Rock” to rubble and then reveled in it with zero regard for decorum.

Had Charlo responded more graciously people might have felt better about enjoying the spectacle of one man beating another to the ground with his fists. But if one of the goals a fighter has is to leave the crowd wanting to see him again, that approach would have done less for Charlo than his heel turn. And proof of that is that days later, people are not still talking about how Charlo planked Williams: they are talking about how Charlo planked Williams then acted like a goon, and whether such behavior did him a disservice or otherwise. True, Charlo will squander all that buzz if his next fight is unremarkable, but his behavior Saturday with fist and microphone in his face make that fight worthy of anticipation.

Sergey Kovalev can attribute much of his popularity to his maliciousness, so too can Terence Crawford, who interestingly enough, was considered a bore until his mean streak became an undeniable fixture in his performances. Perhaps Charlo too has this uncomfortable yet alluring quality about himself, and all that was needed was a night of genuine enmity to usher it forth. If so, may he harbor such ill will toward all of his coming opponents.

By Jimmy Tobin-

Saturday night, at the Cosmopolitan in Las Vegas, junior lightweight, Vasyl Lomachenko, made a quitter of Nicholas Walters in one of the most anticipated fights of last year. Walters found reasons enough in seven rounds of exposure to Lomachenko to suffer the fallout of an ignominious defeat rather than be further toyed with or worse.

Quietly ended a rivalry that would have provided greater drama had it played out at featherweight, where Walters—yet to lose a title on the scale, yet to suffer a draw a lightweight, still brimming with confidence from running roughshod over the worn and washed tributes offered to his mystique—was his most imposing. Perhaps too, had Walters not spent eleven months doing anything but fighting, doing whatever it was that made ominous the pictures of him as the weigh-in loomed, he would have mustered a better showing. Alas.

To conjure up a charitable narrative on Walter’s behalf seems like primarily the work of those embittered by the result (a Lomachenko victory even before a Walters loss). But what might they say?

Faced with a fighter near impossible to hit, it could be that Walters turned his back on his opponent, on his promoter, on a fight he never cared to participate in. Perhaps when Lomachenko unfurled his full arsenal, when he spun and struck Walters to dizzying effect in the seventh round, it was then that Walters decided that, while willing to endure 12 futile rounds he would not suffer another like the last. Maybe pride brought him to tell referee, Tony Weeks, he had no interest in fighting on, so humiliated was he by the prospect of being reduced to a sparring partner, a mere tool for practice.

Any one of these explanations is in keeping with a telling moment at the end of the fifth round. Lomachenko stood still in the center of the ring, and Walters, rather than seize the opportunity to walk Lomachenko down merely mirrored his opponent; when he did move, his first step was backward, away from Lomachenko, away, really, from any regard for the fight’s outcome. As the bell sounded to end the round, Walters simply shrugged his shoulders.

Walters had his reasons for quitting and so too will he have his consequences. The comeback trail for a fighter complicit in his defeat, a trail that already features less money and fewer television dates, is unlikely to be understanding let alone forgiving; nor, for that matter, is the collective pile-on that is the viewing public.

Underlying all of these interpretations of Walter’s conduct is Lomachenko, a generational talent, if not yet a great fighter. Fittingly, he went about his business last night in trunks and gloves patterned in a style resembling the work of pop artist, Roy Lichtenstein, who once said, “Art doesn’t transform. It plain forms.” Lomachenko is not transforming, altering, or changing his legacy so much as forming it in accordance with the ambition and talent he is endowed with. He is not held to the standards of a fighter with eight professional bouts because that would be an insult to him. And yet, it is important to keep that number in mind, because in that short span of time he has already beaten Gary Russell Jr., Rocky Martinez, and now Walters, which, while not the stuff of legend, is a feat unrivalled by any of his peers when they had less than ten fights. Even Lomachenko’s loss to Orlando Salido, which despite Salido’s manipulation of sportsmanship ended with the iron-willed Mexican on the brink, looks good.

It is not always a question of whether you win but how you do that matters, however. And while Walters must own some of the blame for the lack of fireworks Saturday night, Lomachenko’s performance was less riveting than his unmaking of Russell or his destruction of Martinez. And yet it was vintage Lomachenko (for better or worse).

Again Lomachenko erased the line between defense and offense as only he does: where punches are followed by defensive maneuvers that position him for further offense and so forth, all at the expense of opponents who are spun like flies in a spider’s web as the fatal bite closes in. Walters cocked his vaunted right hand repeatedly in the early rounds, but rarely threw it, nor did he stalk Lomachenko as he had even the most dangerous fighters he’d faced. He did not have to. Instead, Lomachenko brought the fight to Walters—and when that fight become its most intense, Walters capitulated. Here then, is the transformative element in Lomachenko’s work, best found on the bodies—in their wounds, in their language—of his opponents. Still, there are further transformations that need to take place for Lomachenko to monetize his talent.

Lomachenko’s mastery leaves some wanting more. Perhaps it is the incremental and protracted way he works, starting first with range and defense before incorporating his more hurtful—and compelling—elements of his game. Indeed, there is at least a moment or two in most all of Lomachenko’s fights where it is fair to ask why he is still fighting. He looks near flawless when he is shifting on opponents, slashing at them from improbable angles, but perhaps a little less precision, and a little more recklessness and savagery, would help him better resonate with the public. He is not a defensive fighter—his defense is a conduit for his offense—but his calculated attack understandably leaves the bloodthirsty cold.

There is a solution to his problem that requires Lomachenko make no stylistic concessions, however, one that could entrench him in a collective consciousness that extends well beyond the dwindling ranks of those who still turn to the ring for entertainment: seek out those fighters who fight with a passion you reserve only for your preparation, those fighters who carry both the hopes of a nation and a cultural obligation—and cut those men to ribbons.

By Jimmy Tobin-

Saturday night at the T-Mobile Arena in Las Vegas, Nevada, light heavyweights Sergey Kovalev and Andre Ward provided a proper prizefight for those weary of a year blighted with fights of little consequence and even less intrigue, of diluted titles both real and fantastic. To the surprise of many—including Ward, if anything can be read into the expression he wore as the victor was announced—and the disgust of plenty, Ward was awarded the victory by the narrowest of margins: 114-113 on all three cards.

The outcome is likely to be debated long after Ward and Kovalev have put the fight behind them; and for the most tenaciously outraged, perhaps even after the rematch—which there almost certainly will be—has provided some vindication. Because the explanation for Ward sweeping the last six rounds on two judges’ cards and picking up five of those six on a third, is near impossible to find in what transpired in the ring. This is not to imply judging corruption, only a sort of laziness, the judge’s fallacy that reasons that since Fighter A is no longer having the same success he had in the early rounds Fighter B must be winning. While it is true that Ward adjusted to Kovalev, and those adjustments got Ward back in the fight, the case that they won it for him was made most forcefully by people other than the “Son of God.”

Of course, a Kovalev victory in the rematch would not retroactively correct any perceived error in the scoring of the first fight; a clear, decisive (deserved?) second victory for Ward would not make his first any less controversial; nor, for that matter, should anyone expect anything more definitive in the sequel. If this is unsatisfying it is perhaps helpful to remember that, whatever your feelings on the outcome, the only nemesis either fighter has managed to find he found in the ring Saturday; and the animus they showed each other was born of respect.

Respect is something grudgingly given to Ward, who can be supercilious beyond the ropes, tedious between them, and until last night, was so far removed from a win worthy of comment he might well have been forgotten had HBO not paid so dearly for his services. But he is a great fighter—to suggest otherwise is to concede that Kovalev could struggle with anything less. Are you willing to make that suggestion?

When Kovalev sent Ward to his knees with a right hand in the second round, it seemed very much like the whispers of Ward’s decline had been right. And yet over the next ten rounds, things became more difficult for Kovalev—not easier.

Proof of this shift bore out in the clinches. Unhinged by Kovalev’s power, Ward’s early wrestling was preservative, which was telling considering his ability to work inside the clinch—and outside the margins of sportsmanship—figured to be his most glaring advantage. But as he calibrated his own offense to that of Kovalev’s, Ward turned the clinches in his favor. Working with his head on Kovalev’s shoulder, hitting while Kovalev wrestled and always delivering the last punch, Ward taxed the monster before him. That Ward managed as much while brandishing zero threat of a right hand, that he ostensibly defused a bomb with only his left, warrants praise that should not be denied him.

The effect of this inside work was nevertheless exaggerated by Max Kellerman, who approached each round like a 49er panning through the action looking only for those bits of it that allowed him to preserve a set narrative about Ward’s greatness. Kellerman also tried to dismiss the effect of Kovalev’s punches, as if his ability to force Ward to repeatedly retreat and reset was somehow inferior to the punches Kovalev calmly walked through. The commentary team’s efforts to guide rather than describe reached its low point during an absurd discussion about winning moments, as if the winner of a round could be determined by dividing each round into 360 or so moments and tallying, without any regard for quality, who earned more.

For those disgusted by Kovalev suffering so unconvincing a first loss there is this: the fight revealed that people will never see in Ward what they do not want to see and confirmed that there is more to Kovalev than the rhetoric about him suggests. Prior to the fight, it seemed plausible that his inability to put away Bernard Hopkins, a much older, slower, version of Ward, boded poorly for Kovalev’s chances. But he was better against Ward than he was against Hopkins because the moment demanded as much. As he did against Hopkins, Kovalev scored an early knockdown, and again, that knockdown came because an opponent underestimated his quickness. Unlike Hopkins, however, Ward fought to win, not stay upright, and when the outcome of the fight was thrown into doubt Kovalev responded with the type of comportment he need never have shown against the likes of Cedric Agnew and Blake Caparello. He is more than his puncher’s reputation reflects, and he out-boxed the boxer even if he could not overcome the judges.

Prior to Saturday night, Kovalev and Ward occupied somewhat tenuous positions in a sport that in lieu of quality matchups, devolves further and further into a mere cult of personality. Ward was preserved by a reputation that persisted despite his not engaging in a fight worth mentioning since 2012. But his effort Saturday night, if not the way it was awarded, provides little reason to further a grudge against him. Kovalev’s best win was a decision over a man half a century old, but if Kovalev is for you an overhyped product of HBO’s infatuation with Eastern Europeans, his disputed loss to Ward undermines your claim. Perhaps any new animus directed at them too, will be born of respect.