“I’m very tough, you know,” Carl Froch said Saturday, after he ruined Lucian Bute. “I’m a bit of an animal.”
It was the sort of self-assessment that, when unleavened by criticism, comes off as boorish and predictable sales-speak intended to preclude fisticuffs more than promote them. But from Froch’s mouth, which bears a frank tongue that quickly, and consistently, conceded the man who decisioned him in December, Andre Ward, was, is, the better man, the statement had exactly the right panache. In Froch’s Nottinghamshire, that is, in a place Ward has not been and will not be seen, Froch is the world’s most ferocious 168-pound man.
He proved that by tearing through IBF super middleweight champion Lucian Bute, Saturday, in England’s Capital FM Arena, and stopping the undefeated Romanian-born Canadian southpaw at 1:05 of the fifth round, when American referee Earl Brown, shaken by the sight of Bute’s head nearly touching his shoulder blades, waved-off the fight, restarted the fight, and had his authority usurped entirely (and appropriately).
There is plenty to be said for making fights to please fans, to fill arenas, to ensure future generations’ writers shake their heads at modifiers’ inadequacies as they happen off the fingers. But there’s one other thing to be said for making fights, and it is a thing that is occasionally lost for good reason. Because prizefights weaken their participants – alter their motor skills, shorten their lives, reduce their abilities to associate thoughts that aren’t immediate familiars – it is intuitively advisable to have an athlete make few of them as possible en route to comfortable a retirement as possible, with comfort defined in realms both physical and financial. This is truer the older a fighter gets; who would begrudge Evander Holyfield or Roy Jones Jr. a retirement party now?
But when an athlete is still prime, there’s a different strategy to consider: Fight more because you will fight better. Most arguments for increased volume are made by aficionados for self-interested reasons. We wish to see better spectacles more often while enjoying an ancillary chance at converting laymen to devotees. Nothing wrong with a little self-interest, of course, but in Carl Froch’s case, it misses the point – as Froch reminded us while uttering this clause at the end of a postfight answer, Saturday: “Most importantly, that’s what I want.”
What Froch wants is to be a great prizefighter, an international item, an immortal – a thing over which he has almost no control. Barring that, he wants to be an improving prizefighter, and in a twist that is proper, not ironical, Froch’s activity has brought that very effect. He has matched himself as a prime fighter against other prime fighters, and he is a better fighter right now, this very moment, than he was before he did. All clichés about styles aside, there is a very good chance the Carl Froch who engaged in that aesthetic disaster of a Super Six opener with Andre Dirrell 31 months ago would not have done to Lucian Bute what Froch just did.
The lesson of that fight with Dirrell, that some men who place a premium on trap-setting and reflexes are athletes not fighters and need to be gone-through not abided, changed the way Froch approached his opening minutes with Bute – a man superior in both reflex and athleticism. And the fight that came after Froch-Dirrell, the close decision loss to Mikkel Kessler that put a first blemish on Froch’s record and saw Froch, in its fifth round, land a buckling right hand then do a moment’s showboating with his right glove, taught Froch a hurt man is more interested in his continued consciousness than you are, and must be treated accordingly.
At a fundamental level that stylists often shun, a choice must be made in a prizefight that is otherwise even. It is a calculation of what a man will sacrifice – what percentage of his dignity and health – to undo an opponent. From the opening round, when Froch swam at Bute, throwing the right hook then crossing his feet over and crunching misplaced limbs one against the other, Froch proclaimed: All of it; I will sacrifice all of it in my hometown, right now, in the next instant even.
It has been written of Froch that he badly wants to fight even if sometimes he does not appear to know how. There were moments of that, too, in Saturday’s match. But the hardiness of his offense and the thrill Froch evinced in round 1 when Bute caught him with what Froch might call “something sweet” and both men paused to mark how comparatively little it affected the Brit, those were things for which Bute, whatever his class, was unprepared. Or so he looked – unprepared, uncomfortable, overwhelmed.
We must honor Froch as a bulwark against the rising and increasingly persuasive tide of the hypothetical. Had Froch not swapped blows unsuccessfully with Andre Ward six months ago, right now, on the virtue of what Froch did to Bute – widely considered no worse than the world’s second-best super middleweight – we’d be making a hypothetical Froch-Ward match in which even Ward’s supporters would concede that, if in the unlikely event their man could steal a decision from Froch, Ward would be hurt worse by Froch than any opponent before or after.
Instead we know exactly where we stand. Froch, to his resounding credit, fought both Ward and Bute and stated rather plainly before and after both occasions he was at his very best. Ward is definitively better than Froch, and he will be tomorrow. Froch is definitively better than Bute, and he will be until the men retire.
We do not believe that, or present persuasive arguments about its likelihood – silly rhetorical exercises that disintegrate into ad-hominem suspicions if not attacks – rather, we know it. Bless Carl Froch for providing that knowledge.
Bart Barry can be reached at bart.barrys.email (at) gmail.com
