By Bart Barry-
Saturday begins an eight-day Soviet-boxing siege on HBO.
No, you’re right, “siege” is more than a bit over the top, and the Soviet Union survives today only in the American minds of Cold Warriors and millionaire defense-contracting executives, and what politicians and media outlets they employ, but those clicks count much as others in online-traffic ratings, so let’s let it roll. This siege, in the form of warmongering by Kazakhstani middleweight titlist Gennady “GGG” Golovkin and Russian light heavyweight titlist Sergey “Krusher” Kovalev, will be conducted in Manhattan and Atlantic City, respectively, and will mark an act of belligerence perpetrated not on America but our Australian allies, in the form of New South Wales middleweight Daniel Geale and Victoria light heavyweight Blake Caparello. HBO will be promoting, er, reporting, from the front.
Far as manias go, this Russian invasion of our sport is a bit short of maniacal. More frustrating still, it does not appear either its participants’ faults, exactly, that our current era produces so little in the way of meaningful opponents for network-anointed lions to feast upon. Spotchecking the records of the Aussie dishes undergoing preparations for Golovkin and Kovalev, one finds bland fare not to be improved with spice or garnish. This is their time, Geale and Caparello, which sounds like a name for a tandem of hardhitting talkshow hosts more than hard hitters, and while they are not prepared for GGG and Krusher, they are ready as they’ll ever be – that inane little cliché anxiety drives persons to use just before they confront an obstacle fated to be insurmountable: When you ask someone’s fitness for a task and he says he is “ready as I’ll ever be,” hedge your bets, because the only acceptable answer is “yes.”
That’s the answer you’d draw from Golovkin or Kovalev, in part because the word accounts for no less than 10 percent their working English vocabularies, which is a refreshing twist that ought delight their comrades in the former Soviet Union much the way Julio Cesar Chavez and Felix Trinidad delighted their Spanish-language followers by sticking to the mother tongue, regardless how it enkindled publicists and whatever mousy-faced retread anticipated Showtime’s Jim Gray. The pressure is ever on athletes who ply their craft in the United States to speak English, a nearsighted demand that misses the point nearly every time it’s made, since these men are not interested in assimilation – they aren’t allowed in this country for it, either – but rather performance; they are here to provide a spectacle experts assert an American could not. That is particularly true of Golovkin and Kovalev, two men whom American Andre Ward would beat if he still fought, but since he no longer does, P1 visas are granted the former Soviets because, in a twist Chavez fans can appreciate, they are willing to do the sort of work Americans won’t.
The plea for more words in English is trite and misplaced because having a man speak to you in sounds connected to no moral force for him or you is just noise better communicated with Golovkin’s disarming smile or Kovalev’s menacing everything. Let that remind us, too, ever and again, the only thing one should value of a fighter as an individual is what he does between the ropes and bells. If you are flummoxed by an athlete not speaking your language because you think he’d make a great role model for your son if only your son might feel a native-language connection, your perspective is wanting.
These men, to paraphrase Charles Barkley, whose 1993 Nike commercial set a candor standard never since approached, are paid to bludgeon with their fists half-naked men to unconsciousness; some of that dwells in all of us, yes, being as we are the descendants of those willing to brain man or beast for food, but we’re all better served by keeping such impulses in vicariousness’ fantastic arena. The profession of hurting other men chooses and is chosen by a special sort of athlete, a neanderthal type better captured by Kovalev’s resting posture, still coiled, than Golovkin’s goodnatured grin, the sort of man a father instinctively knows will protect his daughter as a wife till the day she needs protection from him, and no amount of heuristics or memorized English phrases will bring aficionados any nearer the reality of a man like that than what that man does during 36 minutes of sanctioned violence thrice a year.
Or has the last decade of Manny Pacquiao saying “happy” helped you cultivate a deep, meaningful connection with the Filipino’s soul?
On paper, Geale looks the better, more tested sacrifice, he hasn’t taken an opponent’s consciousness in four years but still, and Caparello looks like Kovalev’s least-hopeful HBO opponent yet. Kovalev’s fights are no longer about anything meaningful as anticipating the next match bound to anticipate the next anticipatory match for an anticipation-filled match with the guy who left HBO, but they’re nigh tolerable as Golovkin’s because, for reasons that might reduce to simple publicity, Kovalev’s prizefighting image floats upon a hyperbolic cloud fractionally puffy as Golovkin’s. Not in recent memory, or distant, has a fighter won so many hypothetical battles in the minds of experts while winning so few actual ones.
The “most feared” label is by nature fraudulent – right, Erislandy? – and most commonly evinces a promoter unwilling to pay opponents a fair wage. Odds would say every Floyd Mayweather opponent hospitably entertains the high probability he will lose to Mayweather, and yet never do we hear Mayweather called “most feared” because opponents win career-best paydays by losing to him.
Either HBO’s parsimony is impeding Golovkin and Kovalev’s fighting appropriate opponents, or else neither man is interested in climbing weight classes till he comes to someone who wrongly views him as a sure-thing. Regardless, both men, victims of circumstance perhaps, now make haste solely for footnote status in the Manny & Money Era.
Bart Barry can be reached at bart.barrys.email (at) gmail.com
