By Bart Barry-
Saturday on ESPN+ Nebraska’s Terence Crawford won his first welterweight title the right way. He beat to relenting titlist Jeff Horn, the Aussie who upset Manny Pacquiao in 2017.
Crawford is everything.
He came in our collective consciousness the right way – making his television debut on short notice in a higher weightclass, then winning his first title in another country. He understands fighting at its genetic level; he is good enough at fundamentals to find space enough between confrontational moments to ask himself what-if questions that reveal new options, some of which improve him (the route to better ideas, firstly, comes of having more ideas). He has a high physical IQ; he senses another man’s intentions at least as soon as those intentions get set. He keeps his personality out the way – he knows what it is and requires to be great at something and knows th’t he, like most of us, hasn’t the resources to make a great spokesman. He takes chances, hitting and getting hit early in matches, the faster to assess the men across from him. He is ambitious; much lesser talents than “Bud’s” have made gainful livings staying in one weightclass to gorge on smaller men.
And he is mean.
There are myriad socioeconomic factors that make Crawford the perfect concoction this moment locates him as, but not one of them needs excavation here.
(Been thinking a good bit about machine learning lately, and its contemporary sexed-up alias, artificial intelligence, and the more seriously one considers such things the quicker and more frequently he returns to Arthur Samuel’s checkers-playing program, nearly 60 years-old now, and an idea occasionally lost in contemporary celebrations of Samuel’s other remarkable ideas like alpha-beta pruning. The idea goes like this: The entirety of any piece’s relevant history in a game of checkers is contained in its current position on the board. Human minds have way, way more processing and storage power than Samuel’s hardware did, obviously, and likely way more processing power than even today’s liberal approximations assign them, but the metaphor is instructive just the same: Everything that made Terence Crawford what he is was cumulatively contained Saturday in the 26 1/2 minutes he spent unbelting Horn.)
There may be contentment or at least satisfaction in relating things Crawford did to their histories but not joy. Here’s joy: When Crawford stuck Horn to the body in round 8 and an instant later you chucklecoughed or whistled alone in a room. That moment for one, other moments for others, canceled the argument – no conditions, no comparisons, no reductions, no history.
We are blessed as aficionados right now to have at the highest level of our sport – a level shared by Crawford and Vasyl Lomachenko, hard stop – two men who cancel the argument for those of us who enjoy sports primarily for their making us present, not giving us identities (I’m someone who knows things) or outlets (helps me forget the ways others have wronged me) or income.
Crawford did so many things so well Saturday. He placed fast, precise combinations – middle knuckle of fist within a quarter’s radius of intended target – and converted possibilities to openings. He bullied the larger man, walking Horn backwards without once pleading backwards for official intervention; he took Horn’s initiative, to remind Crawford every second he was in a fight, not an athletic spectacle, and amplified it, ensuring Horn felt in every clinch Crawford’s sinews. No give, no defensiveness.
He remanded Horn to a corner every three minutes for 60 seconds of doubting his handlers’ expertise – yes, I will leap off this stool filled with positive thoughts, I promise I will, but in another minute or two, that guy you told me wasn’t my better is going to start hitting me again, not you, so thanks for the water, I guess?
He lashed Horn’s belly with left crosses and hooks and uppercuts no one hit Horn with before. Horn reacted like a man prepared to be hit in ways he didn’t prepare for, prepared to remind his body everything was all right with stiffening thoughts galore, but since you can’t outthink a feeling no amount of thinking could enduringly offset what painful signals Horn’s body sent in torrents.
This is where physical IQ trumps intellect in every fight; Bud Crawford probably couldn’t put it in a poem or a paragraph or a painting (nor could Horn), but in hot blood Crawford’s mind knew where to put his knuckle on Horn’s body to stop the flow of actionable thoughts to and from Horn’s brain, a brain, one must remember, roted to continue that flow of actionable thoughts no matter how torrential the signals bubbling up from his body. Horn didn’t interrupt Crawford’s thoughts but a fraction so often.
Crawford enjoyed Horn’s diminishment. He felt Horn relenting and smiled.
This is what makes men like Crawford (or Mayweather or Marquez or Hopkins) exceptional; where something like empathy for a man being stripped publicly of his dignity begins to drain others, such a stripping makes the purest fighters euphoric. It transcends professionalism: I’m not doing this because it’s my job, no, I’m doing this because I like hurting you. You can’t really teach this; for who that knew how to teach it could conscience doing so? Those who would say they can teach it mistake sadism and chance for a template.
Herein lies the distinction between Crawford and Lomachenko, the world’s two best fighters, ranked numbers 1 and 1: Where one senses Lomachenko learned to hurt men for glory’s sake, Crawford glories in hurting men.
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
