The seven-day stretch in mid October that began the Saturday Timothy “Desert Storm” Bradley decisioned Juan Manuel “Dinamita” Marquez in Thomas & Mack Center ended with a more brutal stoppage victory over “Mile High” Mike Alvarado at 1stBank Center in Broomfield, Colo., a GPS-defying suburb of Denver, than even sadists anticipated, and transformed Ruslan “Siberian Rocky” Provodnikov into prizefighting’s looniest bogeyman, the sound of whose punches still carry for those at ringside that night an especially unforgettable brand of acoustic menace.
The Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art in Las Vegas featured a display of American pop-star Andy Warhol’s finest Western-themed works, including a pair of Dolly Parton portraits excellent as they are obscure, and Denver Art Museum proved itself an architectural marvel more even than anticipated.
Desert Storm, Dinamita, Siberian Rocky, Mile High, BGFA and DAM – they made Oct. 12-Oct. 19 my favorite week of 2013.
Fightweek has changed for boxing writers, changed dramatically and with dramatic rapidity, from the celebratory sort of thing that began on Monday afternoons and included free room and board at the host casino, to a pay-it-yourself model. It is but one more unpleasant turn for a profession whose best days will not return, though with one ancillary benefit: When a writer is compensated only for what words he produces within an arena, his time is his own when he is without the arena.
Saturday in Las Vegas began with a long-awaited lunch at Wynn’s Botero – a restaurant named after Colombia’s foremost living artist – continued to Bellagio’s Warhol display, crescendoed with three judges’ deciding for Timothy Bradley and concluded with another wonderful postfight meal among mentors and friends.
Friday in Denver began among the confounding angles of Polish architect Daniel Libeskind’s masterwork, DAM’s Frederic C. Hamilton Building, and continued to an overcrowded downtown weighin, where Mike Alvarado’s scale struggles afforded an hour with boxing’s best matchmaker, Bruce Trampler, and matchmaking’s greatest character, Jim Smith, anticipating fantastically a Saturday morning drive westward and Provodnikov’s Saturday night triumph.
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The seven-day stretch in mid October that began the Saturday Timothy “Desert Storm” Bradley decisioned Juan Manuel “Dinamita” Marquez provided a resilient sort of joy, a kind Bradley might appreciate, joy by way of resilience, followed by the shocking clarity of Colorado light, pristinely dry for being ever cold, and an overwhelming form of violence no prizefighter recognizes as his own till he becomes its prey.
Before Juan Manuel Marquez stormed to his dressing room yet again while boxing’s malcontent knowers filled online forums with certainty, there came an unusual occurrence to ringside in Las Vegas: Silence among writers between the closing bell and reading of scorecards. Some had opinions of who’d won the 12-round contest, but none had anything like television’s certainty.
As Saturday became Sunday, I sat in Zoozacrackers, Wynn’s deli, across from Thomas Hauser and beside Norm Frauenheim, and I gratefully marveled, as I try often to do, at what an unpredictable but absurdly wonderful – and absurd and wonderful – thing is life.
Promoter Bob Arum, too, was surprised by the way Nevada’s judges found for Bradley in a fight that saw more ineffective aggressiveness and inactivity than expected, but like many others he had a job to do between the overstuffed walls of Diego’s Mexican Food & Cantina the following Friday, promoting alongside Banner Promotions’ Art Pelullo at a weighin the fire marshal closed a half hour before Alvarado missed weight by a pound and Provodnikov struck his signature bellowing-most-muscular pose, and Arum’s job hardly comprised an expression of grief for the surly Mexican who flattened Top Rank’s 2013 revenue projections with a single right hand in Las Vegas 11 months before.
Saturday’s main event began with a look of acute squeamishness and pain, an actual wince, from Mike Alvarado, an aptly tatted and troubled representative of Denver’s rugged and weird interior, and ended with Alvarado, many times more intelligent and athletically gifted than his detractors or rap sheet know, broken on his stool and making an unexpected and prudent decision not to defend his 140-pound title from Provodnikov in their match’s championship rounds.
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The seven-day stretch in mid October that began the Saturday Timothy “Desert Storm” Bradley decisioned Juan Manuel “Dinamita” Marquez marked a vindication for both Bradley and Provodnikov, the Russian who lost a fight-of-the-year decision to Bradley in March while likely reducing Bradley’s future lucidity and life expectancy and proving the Californian as spirited and well-conditioned an athlete as this era will know. Bradley, a man unfairly and ceaselessly maligned for collecting a decision win over Manny Pacquiao 16 months before, received the benefit of most every doubt against Marquez, immobilized by what upper-body musculature absurdly topped Marquez’s 144 1/2-pound physique, surprising Marquez with elusiveness and a counter left hook in their final 15 seconds of belligerence, once that sent Marquez stumbling backwards and Bradley’s gloves prematurely and unadvisedly high in the air.
Enamored as he was of a stalactite-like shape for his titanium-plated edifice at DAM, Daniel Libeskind, one fears, followed contemporary architecture’s tendency to see contemporary art as clutter, detritus detracting from what answers architecture provides light’s riddle – composed of particles or waves? – and made an exhibition hall too exhibitionist to exhibit anything but its own enchantingly crinkled cants.
One needn’t travel 50 miles west of Denver to see vistas unique in all the world, and these vistas begin with Idaho Springs, Colo., a spot placed first on a list of recommended Centennial State destinations by the matchmaker placed first on lists compiled by his peers, and so I went to behold the Rockies and their majestic clarity.
I had watched Mike Alvarado for 7 1/2 years by the time he got brutalized by Ruslan Provodnikov, first covering Alvarado’s own brutalization of Maximo Cuevas in the light of a searing Tucson sun as it set over the empty parking lot of Club Envy in 2006, but not until I saw Alvarado reduced to a frightened target did I realize how much affection I’d developed for him.
And how much I fear news will come of his tragic end before this decade is out.
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Editor’s note: Part 2 will be posted next Monday.
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Bart Barry can be reached at bart.barrys.email (at) gmail.com
