DETROIT – At 7:00 AM on Sunday, Timothy Bradley walked gingerly through the Southwest terminal of Metro Airport. He was anonymous. I deposited my luggage and strolled over to congratulate him. He was affable but subdued. He thanked me. We conversed briefly.
Bradley was exhausted, busted up and bandaged, his left eye swelled shut from accidental collisions with Devon Alexander’s head. He was also the world’s best 140-pound prizefighter – if anyone cared.
It appeared no one did. And that was fitting a footnote as any to the weekend’s depressed and depressing event, a spectacle billed as “The Super Fight” that filled little more than five percent of Silverdome’s available seats in Pontiac, Mich. Bradley versus Alexander – a match Bradley won by technical-decision scores of 97-93, 96-95 and 98-93 – will not be remembered as a super fight at all. How much boxing itself will be remembered is now in play, too.
“The Super Fight’s” host city is forgotten. But for a Marriott village southeast of its downtown area Pontiac is in hibernation with no hint of springtime. Pontiac is not a dangerous place, though; it’s too listless for that.
Rumors of an art gallery in the Business District sent me to downtown Pontiac. At 2:00 PM on a Saturday, at Saginaw & Pike Street, a complete inventory of open businesses went: Pontiac’s Pawn Stars, a bail bondsman, an award-winning trauma center and a ceramics shop.
I drove a mile down Cesar E. Chavez Avenue and came to the first open restaurant I’d seen in 15 minutes. Chili Bowl, a 12-seat diner in a cinder-block box painted a cheerful yellow, will be 60 years old in November. Its grillman cheerlessly recounted what he’d heard about downtown Pontiac: Two years free rent for anyone who’ll open up shop, and still no one comes.
That’s a stark departure from the optimistic literature you find 30 miles south of Pontiac. In this city, folks are divided between native Detroiters and new arrivals. The natives are clamped-down, girded for the worst and suspicious of your curiosity about their infamous economy.
Then there are the young professionals, a sunnier bunch, many sporting law degrees, most aflutter with talk of “amazing” nonprofit opportunities and signs of rebirth.
Trust the natives. They’ve seen this before and now wonder about the nature of altruism itself. Why would you leave a comfortable life somewhere else to come help less-fortunate folks? Because you have a good heart? Yes, maybe. Or is it because the life you’ve left isn’t comfortable as advertised and directing your energy at other folks’ troubles is easier than tackling your own?
Hard to say. There are smart folks working in good faith towards the common good, here. But some of them are defensive, unrealistic and emotionally unstable.
At least they’re energetic. That much could not be said of Silverdome, Saturday. Its ring tucked deep in a corner of the field where Barry Sanders once galloped and juked, Silverdome had enough available floor space to store five trailers, including HBO’s production truck. It barely had enough heat from human bodies to keep the mercury above 60 degrees, though, contributing to its funereal ambiance.
The announced attendance was over 6,000. That was an unlikely number even if you counted credentialed media, Silverdome staff and every motorist who drove past the stadium between the hours of 6:00 PM and midnight.
Timothy Bradley was the favorite in the main event because Devon Alexander really isn’t that good. Yes, he has quick hands, a great biography and a trainer who’s a former cop. But he also has a predictable delivery, a floating chin and a left guard that wanders away from his face when he jabs. Did Bradley notice this? Damn right he did.
Eight hours after he finished whacking Alexander with fists and cranium, Bradley and I chatted a spot about what he’d seen Saturday.
Me: Did you notice Alexander’s guard flies off his face when he jabs? Is that how you cracked him with right hands?
Bradley: That’s right, I did. And I cracked it – no I cranked it. Just cranked that right hand.
Bradley’s delivery was wide open, awkward and at times pedestrian. It relied on ineffective aggressiveness and some defense. He made Alexander miss and walked him to the ropes. Once there, he flared a meaningless jab wide, corralled Alexander to his right, then blasted him with one punctuating cross or hook every three minutes.
Alexander was out of his depth, discomfited throughout. Bradley was too far away, too near, and never where he wanted him. The rounds were close, but you could argue Alexander didn’t win any of them. Then head butts took his mind away.
Bradley crouches and leaps inwards. Shorter than most junior welterweights, his head comes from an awkward angle and leads the charge. There’s no science or malice to it, though. Against any southpaw, his style is bound to cause butting.
Bradley got as well as he gave. Again, his left eye was useless, too, Sunday morning. But Bradley was able to win ugly. Alexander was not.
Like Andre Dirrell – a Michigander at ringside Saturday – Alexander is a great athlete who knows how to box. He is not a fighter.
Bradley is a fighter, which is good because he’s no clairvoyant. During promotion of “The Super Fight” he predicted Saturday’s scrap would be so phenomenal both he and Alexander would emerge superstars. Fact is, neither man came out of it great as he went in.
And so began boxing in 2011. Most pre-fight criticism of Bradley-Alexander concerned its promoters’ choice of venue. That was unfair. After 2010, an empty building in a dilapidated American city was the exact spot for our sport to showcase its wares.
Bart Barry can be reached at bbarry@15rounds.com.
