OK, I tried. I really did.
I sat in front of the TV the other night, stopped flicking when I came to Spike, and decided I’d finally give the violent phenomenon known as “ultimate fighting,” or whatever it’s called…a legitimate chance to impress me.
The referee signaled for the first five-minute round to begin, and the combatants – a short, solidly built dark-haired guy and a tall, pale shaven- skulled fellow – stepped toward each other with what seemed to be bad intentions.
So I sat up, grabbed hold of my cherry-flavored Coke Zero and anticipated tumult.
Problem is now, a full 36 or so hours later…I’m still waiting for the payoff.
Rather than the torrent of punches, kicks and body slams promised by breathless radio spots and other over-the-top ads for the upcoming “UFC 27,397” on pay-per-view, my 10-minute or so viewing stint was much more indicative of gay hotel porn.
After a brief hand-to-hand engagement in center octagon, the bald-headed fighter fell voluntarily to his back, lifted his knees to his chest and seemingly waited for his foe to dive headlong on top of him for a drawn-out session of ineffectual on-canvas writhing.
And while I’m sure what seemed like a submissive acceptance of his, errrr… opponent…was in reality a deft strategic move by a highly trained athlete, neither it nor the repetitive scrum that followed left me believing this “sport” was actually the “next best thing.”
If anything, by the time I went back to “Miami Ink” at 10, I was sure boxing was safe.
Though a high-profile fighter like Kermit Cintron might one day return to wrestling roots and become the first to try crossover success, until then it’s an “establishment/wannabe” comparison reminiscent of the short-lived NFL/XFL football debate of 2001.
When matched up with a similarly stationary and neck-challenged competitor, the elite-level players in UFC have a perfect chance to flex peaked muscles and look menacing in the short-burst, rough-and-tumble world of three-and five-round bouts.
Put them in with athletes named Mayweather, Klitschko or Pacquiao, however, and it’d be difficult to tell which was more painful to the UFCers…the untrammeled flow of leather to the face or the gasping ignominy of spent lungs and dragging tongues in the “championship rounds.”
From “He Hate Me” to “He Whipped Me” in 12 three-minute steps.
Mean time, the latest fight to “save” boxing meant different things to different people.
To me more than anything else, the right guy won. The split decision was a little narrower than I expected after scoring it 8-4 for the “Pretty Boy,” but inaccurately close or not, it was nonetheless a valid affirmation for his continued status as the preeminent boxer on the planet.
Still, as I said last week, it’s likely to take a first-round KO of King Kong to decisively sway the masses. Even after claiming his fifth weight-class scalp – that of a legitimate Hall-of-Fame foe coming off an impressive win of his own – at least one early critique of Mayweather claimed his career grade was nonetheless still “incomplete.”
The only grade for that nonsensical assessment is “ridiculous.”
Unlike De La Hoya – whose “six weight class” title claims are reduced to dubious after closer examination of “championship” wins over barely warm- bodies Jimmy Bredahl at 130, Jorge Paez at 135 and Felix Sturm at 160 – Mayweather has beaten much closer to the best of the best for each of his five belts.
He stopped one-loss Genaro Hernandez to win laurels at 130 and later unified them with a clinical destruction of unbeaten Diego Corrales, before heading five pounds north for a pair of decision wins over pound-for-pound top 10 resident and lightweight king Jose Luis Castillo.
A vicious backyard beating of Buddy McGirt-reinvented brawler Arturo Gatti earned a title at 140, which he followed with a virtuoso house-cleaning at 147 that included both former undisputed champ Zab Judah and his tough-guy Argentine successor Carlos Baldomir, who’d not lost a fight in 10 years.
Add a bigger and supposedly rejuvenated Oscar – fresh off a highlight-reel hammering of handpicked junior middleweight foil Ricardo Mayorga – and Mayweather’s 38-fight run takes another step closer to the “all-time great” stratosphere he simultaneously covets and claims.
Even if he keeps his word and walks away from the teeming mass of inferiority at 147 and 154 without another victory, the 30-year-old Michigan phenom turned-Vegas legend has done everything needed to warrant mention alongside such recently vintage brethren as Leonard, Hearns, Duran and Arguello.
And if he comes back…he’ll stop Kong in 8.
Forget the Golden Boy…he’s now the “Golden Goose.”
HBO executives announced Wednesday that pay-per-view numbers for the De La Hoya-Mayweather bout smashed previous industry marks for both number of buys and generated revenue.
The event, which also featured a pair of comparatively anonymous 12-round undercard matches, garnered 2.15 million buys and translated to nearly $120 million in revenue at a list price of $54.95 a pop.
The standing marks heading into the weekend had been the 1.9 million PPV hits generated by Mike Tyson’s 1997 rematch with Evander Holyfield and the $106.9 million raked in for his failed title challenge of Lennox Lewis in 2002.
The estimated $19 million live gate at the MGM Grand is also a Nevada record.
With the receipts, De La Hoya leaps past Tyson and Holyfield into first place on the career pay-per-view drawing card list with $612 million in sales. He’d entered at $492 million and needed at least 965,000 buys to pass Tyson ($545 million) and Holyfield ($543 million).
HBO will rebroadcast the main event Saturday at 10 p.m.
The network’s next live show is set for May 19, when middleweight champion Jermain Taylor defends against former welterweight and junior middleweight title-holder Cory Spinks. The show will also include a bout between 160-pound contenders Edison Miranda (28-1) and Kelly Pavlik (30-0).
Its next foray into pay-per-view is scheduled for June 9, when Miguel Cotto defends his WBA 147-pound title against the aforementioned Judah at Madison Square Garden.
It’s a shame when anyone dies.
An old person. A young person. Doesn’t matter. It’s tragic to someone.
Recently, though, as three 29-year-old men I’ve read about have died under very different circumstances, it’s an appropriate time to point out what seem to be applicable standards of sadness. Or at least what seems appropriate in this space.
Boxing lost Corrales, a former two-division champion, on Monday when the motorcycle he was reportedly riding at an exceedingly high rate of speed was involved in a collision in a Las Vegas intersection, leaving the native Californian with fatal injuries.
Eight days earlier, Major League Baseball veteran Josh Hancock died on a Missouri highway when his vehicle hit the back of a tow truck. The Auburn grad was apparently intoxicated, in possession of marijuana and on a cell phone at the time of the crash.
Closer to home for me on Sunday was a death far more tragic in nature.
Suburban Philadelphia school teacher Robert Massaroni, a life-long fitness buff whose career path had driven him to instill a similar love for athletics in his students, collapsed and died after crossing the finish line at the annual “Broad Street Run” 10-mile race.
The collective hand-wringing over the first two men’s demises has been plentiful.
If you ask me, though, far more effort should be expended in celebrating the latter’s life and tearfully mourning his death. After all, unlike the others, his only endeavor in what turned out to be his final hours was to continue the strong example he’d set.
It’s not that I wish any ill will upon Corrales, Hancock or their families. Diego was a fine fighter who seemed like a decent, courageous guy, and Hancock was a popular teammate who pitched well for two seasons with my MLB favorites – the Cincinnati Reds.
But their losses were as much the products of arrogance as tragedy or cursed fate. There were no unforeseen circumstances or unavoidable conflicts, instead simply ill-advised decisions by two men long conditioned to feel athletically superior and bulletproof.
Their ends, while surely sad…were completely preventable.
Lyle Fitzsimmons can be reached at [email protected].
