By Bart Barry-
NOT ARLINGTON, TEXAS – Saturday Mexican junior middleweight Saul “Canelo” Alvarez toed the line against former Commonwealth super welterweight titlist, former BBBofC British super welterweight titlist, former WBA Continental super welterweight titlist, former WBO Inter-Continental super welterweight titlist, and reigning and defending WBO World super welterweight titlist, Liam “Beefy” Smith. Canelo prevailed by ninth round knockout, nevertheless, a result that suffered nary a moment’s doubting since their contract was signed.
Canelo selected Beefy, softened Beefy, slipped Beefy and stabbed Beefy – in a spectacle ending with a left hook to the liver and resembling more nearly a bullfight than a competitive athletic contest between men. The bullfight metaphor holds as a way to impart what our sport’s championship matches have become in the Mayweather and post-Mayweather eras, because if Saturday’s attendance figure in the former Cowboys Stadium can be believed, the real problem most of us had with Mayweather fights were not their lopsidedness or handicapping but rather Mayweather’s ineptitude at the estocada – an ungrateful and graceless unwillingness to risk himself slightly enough to thrust his sword in a hopeless opponent.
We didn’t mind Mayweather’s taunting the dimwitted creature in a corral beforehand just as we didn’t mind Mayweather’s attention to securing his traje de luces just as we didn’t mind Mayweather’s picador jabs to soften the flailing beast just as we didn’t mind a festooned decoy like Joe Cortez on standby in case things got unexpectedly competitive, none of it, but we were deeply insulted by Money’s failure to square his shoulders to a dying creature and give us our catharsis by taking its consciousness. Not even a billion-dollar purse would buy Mayweather that ear.
Canelo conversely thrusts his sword with precision and aplomb, and in an era when competitiveness is not demanded by consumers the Mexican’s habit of closing fights imperatively rather than dully or via his opponent’s trainer makes him an exceptional draw, along with Mexicans’ extraordinary appetite for a sport that is now much less than they deserve. Less explicable is Brits’ passion for a sport in which their exports fare so poorly at the international level; where the Mexican retains a still-justifiable belief his country’s best fighter in a weightclass may well be the world’s best fighter in that weightclass it’s hard to imagine a British aficionado who believes likewise very often.
But still we get Khans and Brooks and Smiths and Murrays served to Canelo and Gennady Golovkin because of their reliable fanbase and predictable fighting styles; they are toros bred to lose valiantly, not gore. No banderillero is needed in these bullfights because no bull is eligible for import to a corrida till figurative spears decorate his nape – it is best if he is slow of foot and quick to bleed but if not his chin should be suspect, and if somehow he is both nimble and durable he’s put in the ring with a man much too large for him to render unconscious.
“Brook landed some great combinations in that round!” we say; “Smith really showed valor when all was lost!”
All was lost for Smith throughout but he absorbed a beating gamefully and soon was distracted by futility enough to mistake Canelo’s retreating as opening, and Beefy remained so confused through three rounds and two knockdowns he’d still be tripping the Mexican’s every trap as you read this had Canelo not put his middle knuckle on the button, that quarter-sized opening to the liver that resides between the right hipbone and lowest rib, in round 9. Smith crumpled as every man does when struck there, and Canelo had another knockout victory that in another era would corrupt his legacy more than burnish it. Or as Saturday’s commentary crew might put it: What combination punching! what red hair!
We cloak fated mismatches like Canelo-Beefy with lore to obfuscate what we know they are, recollecting for our friends that time the underdog did this or the favorite broke his hand doing that or statistics showing, historically, being a torero is a dangerous trade whatever the fraternity’s record against its opposition. Our matadors play along best they are able – taking a backwards step every other round or bleeding every third or fourth fight – but ultimately their contempt tells, contempt for their opponents’ weaponry, mostly, but also contempt for their promoters’ embellishments and contempt for fans who would reward them so longly for such short risk.
Then we tell ourselves Canelo and GGG deserve their riches because any man who steps through the ropes blah blah blah without mentioning how complicit we’ve become in the brutalization of these victims trotted to the ring for b-side paychecks. Perhaps it’s better Mayweather was so professionally opposed to risktaking schemes, then, doing enough to subdue and humiliate his toros but nothing so personal or sadistic as clipping their consciousnesses.
This whole ugly flesh trade was more honorable, frankly, when promoters matched two men of equal ratios of talent and size then bought judges’ favoritism; spectators at least enjoyed 36 minutes of competition before getting outraged at official scorecards. Today’s opposite of that: Imagine for a moment promoter Oscar De La Hoya feeling desperate enough about Liam Smith’s chances Saturday to waste money ensuring a decision victory for Canelo by bringing, say, Chuck Giampa out of retirement. At long last we’ve come to the clean sport Oscar promised us a decade ago.
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
