The MayPac showdown this weekend may well be the bout of the century so far, writes Oliver Brown from Las Vegas. But the real worry for the tainted sport is what happens next.
Since Floyd Mayweather crows that it is his quest to separate the ordinary from the extraordinary, it follows his showdown with Manny Pacquiao has morphed into a worldwide spectacular, without precedent in either the sums of money being spun or in the lashings of tinselly, technicolour grandeur. Video
“Are we going to do record-breaking numbers again?” he asks, rhetorically, knowing that a $263 million cheque is already his to bank. The anxiety for boxing is the question of what, once the giant fight billboards at the MGM Grand are replaced on Monday by those for a Barry Manilow concert, comes next. Video
For this fight must be the easiest sell since the days when an Elvis ticket in Las Vegas was yours for $20, lobster and steak thrown in. Few sport showpieces besides “MayPac” have their own universally recognised diminutive.
There are signs, too, that the anticipation of Sunday’s duel is having a bounce effect for other boxers. Wladimir Klitschko’s points victory last weekend over the American Bryant Jennings, in a heavyweight grapple-fest so turgid the fighters were booed out of Madison Square Garden, still attracted more than 1.7 million customers on HBO pay-per-view, the broadcaster’s highest boxing ratings since 2012.
The future beyond May 3, after this one-off episode of ring roulette has been resolved in favour of the red or the blue corner, is far less certain. But the likelihood is such a singular production, where Mayweather stands to earn more for one night’s work than Frank Sinatra managed in a 60-year career, will seldom, if ever, be replicated in our lifetimes. Boxing, left to its own devices, will instead revert to the type of internecine strife that leaves the punters bewildered and the protagonists shortchanged.
For an example, just look at the small print on all these “Fight of the Century” posters. The roster of stakeholders is dizzying: after Mayweather Promotions, Floyd’s very own vanity vehicle, come Pacquiao’s people at Top Rank, then a sequence of honourable mentions to sponsors Tecate beer, plus of course HBO and Showtime, the two networks which have signed each fighter to golden-handcuffs deals. As ever in boxing, nobody quite knows who is in charge. Even the list of sanctioning bodies is unfathomable to the layman: IBF, WBA, WBC, WBO, WBZ (no, sorry, that last one is a Boston radio station).
Chaotically and opaquely configured, boxing opens itself to a feeding frenzy by grasping hucksters. Money, increasingly, is its only narrative.
