By Bart Barry-
SAN ANTONIO – This city shouldn’t’ve had to factor in this column. With a soldout heavyweight title fight in a Welsh rugby stadium Saturday there should’ve been no room for a treatment of comedian Bill Burr’s new material. Yet here we are.
The plan, I suspect, was to write all about the incredible spectacle that just happened in Cardiff, an Easter-themed heavyweight resurrection tale about what hopefulness now visits all aficionados but especially those of us who make weekly filings, but instead there came an -egghunt for some way to embellish both Joshua-Parker and Bill Burr and set them together in a messy, vital basket. Neither of them inspired the passion requisite for fashioning 1,000 words from 300-word subjects. And as I write this without knowing how those 1,000 words’ll get achieved, I can’t be certain their combination’ll turn the trick either (but in a meta twist, these 100 or so words of anxiety about getting 1,000 words reduce the trick to 900 [actually 875]).
Saturday’s was AJ’s first mediocre showing on sport’s biggest stage. It’s tempting to write it made a unification match with Deontay Wilder more likely. Let’s succumb to that temptation.
Joshua didn’t show any new physical vulnerabilities, exactly; he’s still a touch chinny and stiff. But Joseph Parker’s jab and counterpunching might’ve excavated a bit of psychological fragility previously unknown to Joshua’s growing legion of American fans (Brits generally seem keener and more-interested observers of their prizefighters and may have noticed this wrinkle years ago). When Parker soldout and went after Joshua, driving forward hastily and perhaps carelessly, Joshua was available to be moved if not always hit.
Moving a heavyweight prizefighter is difficult work – you’re up against an unsurpassable sum of human will and inertia. Joshua went backwards to the ropes several times and revealed his sole strategy for dissuading an onrushing Parker was to set Parker in a leftarm headlock and try to clock him with a right uppercut on the way out. Not a bad strategy against a shorter man. Also not a strategy to try against a taller man. And certainly no way to dissuade a 6-foot-7 lunatic like Wilder.
What I think I sensed in Joshua, and this may all be grasping projection, was a light dusting of Sonny Liston’s aversion to crazy people. Joshua has remarkable composure and grace. Where you look for hints of fear or weakness in many fighters’ ringwalks, a compensatory need to not be overwhelmed by the moment or enjoy it too much, in Joshua you watch to admire its manly comportment, its nonchalance, its unaffectedness. He is being Anthony Joshua. Life for AJ is a meritocracy; he’s the biggest, strongest, bestlooking man in his noble profession so there’s little wonder 80,000 people attend his events.
Deontay Wilder scatters much of that. Joshua’s a better boxer? Sure, like every other guy Wilder has haywired. Joshua is a gold-medalist? Wilder was so shocked by his bronze medal he named himself after it. Joshua casually strides into combat? Wilder anger-thespians his way to the ring in a garish mask.
And if you go straight back when Wilder activates the acid windmill you get bladed like a bather beneath a propeller.
None of these thoughts occurred to me till Saturday. Wilder’s weardown of Luis Ortiz made it possible to imagine there was some reason in the Alabamian’s rhyme, yes, but most of us still imagined Joshua casually 1-2-3ing his way to Wilder’s unconsciousness. I’m less certain now. After how conclusively Parker’s jab stalled Joshua’s pace and aggression I’m slightly open to a Ricardo Mayorga vs. Vernon Forrest scenario – whereby rage, inefficiently applied power, and desperation-of-intent overwhelm craft, reason and preparedness.
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None of that has a smidgen to do with the dateline above. There’s no symmetry between what happened Saturday evening in Cardiff and what happened at Majestic Theatre’s early show, so let’s not be insulting and pretend there is. Just this: I watched Saturday’s fight in bored silence with a friend the same way I watched Saturday’s standup show in general mirth with a few thousand strangers.
Bill Burr’s latest is not his best. This can be measured by an insightful metric he provided not long ago: When a comedian awakes with a sore throat it means he’s been yelling a lot because his material is not strong as it should be. Burr’s throat was doubtful sore Sunday morning, but it was nearer to sore than his Netflix specials anticipate.
There’s a novel sort of arc Burr employs across an hour of comedy: He ingratiates himself with his audience then insults his audience then rescues the show by reingratiating himself with the audience. It’s a seduction technique that works like a threepunch combination: The closer will always land if you have the balls to commit fully to each maneuver no matter how iffily their predecessors go.
San Antonians proved, by Burr’s onstage admission, both too initially accommodating and too difficult to insult. Not until he did his antihero bit – there’s nothing heroic about being the sailor on an aircraft carrier who points the way to war for fighter pilots – in a place that last year trademarked itself “Military City USA” did Burr’s insults gain much purchase. And even then it was a lone, virtuesignaling voice, offpace enough with the rest of the polite South Texas crowd to feel like a plant. Burr now struggles, when he struggles, for the same reason every comic does: With our current overabundance of information it is increasingly difficult to say something that is both genuinely surprising and genuinely funny.
In order to make a redneck rendition of an AR-15 rifle riff surprising, in other words, you now must spice it with so much twang and obliviousness as to miss spontaneity, by way of caricature.
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One last thought about our recrudescing heavyweight division. Much as there’s a chance Deontay Wilder crazies his way past Anthony Joshua there’s a chance Tyson Fury crazies his way to a 12-0 shutout of Wilder. Then Joshua outbusies Fury.
All of these fights happen in soldout arenas and stadiums in the U.S. and Europe. And suddenly we have at least a silverish era in the heavyweight division.
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
