By Bart Barry-
Saturday brought yet another delightful multihour multiplatform celebration of a sport even weekly columnists feared might die four years ago (Pacquiao-Algieri, for bottomwatchers). The World Boxing Super Series delivered another pair of quarterfinal matches on DAZN, late afternoon, and ESPN+ presented an entertaining if not historic scrap from El Paso a few hours later. Our wonderful recrudescence continues Saturday with the return of Oleksandr Usyk on DAZN, in a match to ensure he is recognized as 2018’s best fighter.
Going last to first Mexican super featherweight Miguel Berchelt diswilled Mexican Miguel Roman in a Texas beating brutal as promised. Scottish super lightweight Josh Taylor denuded American Ryan Martin in Scotland. Nonito “Filipino Flash” Donaire benefited from an uncommon bit of bad luck when Northern Ireland’s Ryan Burnett lost his bantamweight title via searing backache.
One of the German philosophers, must’ve been Nietzsche, posited sympathy was the worst emotion because it required its possessor be unseemly superior to its object; a person may feel many emotions towards a person of circumstances superior to his own but sympathy be not one of them. One keeps such a teaching behind his lifelong thoughts after he reads it and especially as he watches prizefighting and especially especially as he watches prizefighting to write about prizefighting. Beatings, hundreds to thousands of them, he witnesses without perching himself highly enough to sympathize with the vanquished because, frankly, why should he? Even the loser of a prizefight has engaged in a display of public courage.
Still, Saturday brought a genuine and weird tingling of sympathy for Ryan Burnett. To see a fighter so dramatically reduced so rapidly through no decipherable fault of his own was unpleasant. So freakishly, too. One sees injured hands, eyes and noses enough to be immune their happenings. Where brittle hands are tragic they’re also to prizefighting what height is to a professional basketball player – sure, theoretically, you could make it to the NBA at 5-foot-9, but it is unlikely your destiny.
But to see a 26-year-old championship prizefighter slip a disk while throwing a cross?
Yet there was Burnett after 10 minutes of movement both mechanically correct and innovative suddenly near paralyzed across half his body. Donaire, having done nothing to cause the injury, had no choice but to exploit his opponent’s weakness unto unconsciousness if possible. Burnett didn’t allow that but neither was he allowed out his corner for round 5 and not too long – though excruciatingly – after that he was wheeled out the arena, unable to make the walk. One winces at thoughts of Burnett’s next week ambling about his house.
Weird and deep as went the pang of sympathy for Burnett, one suspects there was selfishness in the brew. The opening three rounds of Donaire-Burnett were fantastic compelling. Donaire was outclassed but giving an excellent account of himself, and Burnett was beginning to invent and transcend, hitting Donaire disrespectfully and unusually for a fighter his size.
Remember, the last time any aficionado saw Donaire at 118 pounds he was electrocuting Fernando Montiel and unilateraling Omar Narvaez; nobody at that weight who stood and swapped with Donaire did so without fear he’d be Darchinyan’d. Burnett did so fearlessly and creatively. Donaire’s seven years and 15 fights (11-4, 6 KOs) removed from his best bantamweight days, of course, but during lots of exchanges Saturday he was similar enough to prime Nonito – Victor Conte affiliate, future VADA posterboy – to make Burnett look awesome to trained eyes.
No one looked better in a mainevent Saturday than Burnett did those opening 10 minutes against Donaire. The creative way he used the lefthook to corral Donaire into a right uppercut, throwing the 3 as a wide lead, and the way he chalked Donaire with the cross. Then came the cross that felled Burnett, and if you didn’t immediately think “pre-existing condition” you’ve not spent sufficient time round boxers or Democrats. It’s the only sensible explanation that burst over the synapses: Burnett did some sort of campy crosstraining something, whether sledgehammering a tire or pulling a tractor, that made him unright a month out. But with massages, painkillers and pilates, hopes were high things’d hold up. And they did, too, enough for Burnett to move not-gingerly until the moment he was unable to move.
All that is merest speculation but more believable, anyway, than a fighter’s 10,000th thrown punch disconnecting his back from itself.
It was in the shadow of this climactic anticlimax Josh Taylor outclassed Ryan Martin. Readers are duly admonished to suspend judgement on Taylor, as he did nothing more than exactly what he was supposed to do Saturday and in unremarkable fashion. Oh, but his footwork is bewitching!
If that’s true it will manifest itself quickly enough in a tournament designed to reveal character. See, there’s no longer any need to be early on these things. There’s no longer a need to squint at the screen in the hopes of being the only one to see how special a fighter is before he’s proved it, lest he never have the chance to prove it. The WBSS proves it. If your guy is a great fighter he’ll win his season of the WBSS, and in so doing will justify for at least a halfyear your belief in him by being recognized as the world’s best in his weightclass.
Tournament boxing eliminates the matchmaking (cherrypicking) that brought so much misplaced anxiety and argument to Money May’s era and GGG’s middleweight reign. HBO’s gone now, too, so there’s no need to rehash the banal hypothetical hash that became the network’s lowly specialty once Larry Merchant left: Our middleweight champion just poleaxed a welterweight, which proves if he were to campaign at super middleweight he’d have no trouble dominating there, either.
That brings us to Saturday’s third mainevent and a commentary like: Blessed be Timothy Bradley among all ESPN mainevent commentators (Brian “Bomac” McIntyre is fantastic, too, but he does undercards) for realizing our beloved sport is moved on from HBO so there’s no reason to audition for Max Kellerman’s seat, there’s no need to interrupt insights about the present with cliched musings about fighters’ pasts, there’s no need to reargue and reheat and recycle whatever tiny detail your cohosts didn’t buy fully enough, there’s no need to unearth the human condition with every single punch.
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
