NASHVILLE, Tennessee—Saturday night at Breakstone Arena in Nashville, reigning and defending IBF super middleweight champion Caleb “Sweet Hands” Plant (20-0, 12 KOs), the 27-year-old boxer-puncher from nearby Ashland City, celebrated his homecoming as world champion by devouring overmatched Vincent Feigenbutz (31-3, 28 KOs), his 24-year-old mandatory from Karlsruhe, Baden-Württemberg, Germany. Using a blistering array of precision punches, Plant scored a TKO at 2:23 of round 10. With his quick hands, brilliant footwork, and sky-high ring IQ, it’s about time the world stood up and took notice.
Breakstone Arena is on Broadway, the primary thoroughfare through downtown Nashville. It’s a wide street by old-school standards, just two lanes moving in opposite directions. But its idealized main street has gone from yellowing daguerreotype to neon and plastic. Music blares from every doorway. The siren song of commerce beckons. And in the midst of it is Breakstone Arena.
There was no confusion as to who was champion and who was underdog in the main event. Feigenbutz is a good-looking kid, but his 82.35% KO ratio belies the fact he can’t hit a moving target. He tried. Again and again he tried. He even tried harder, but it was a futile exercise against a master boxer blasting his body and scuffing up his face. Feigenbutz busted up early. He bled from his left nostril less than two minutes in. It added color to the proceedings, but in the end was no contest.
The uppermost seating of Bridgestone Arena was blocked off with translucent black cloth. Otherwise the house was full. I expected a ghost arena, a cavern of empty seats grudgingly accommodating a straggle of crazed fight fans. That was not the case. The joint was packed with Tennesseans who have followed Caleb Plant from the time he was a boy. There was always something special about Caleb. He was different. He was the one they talked about, the one they dreamed about, the one in a million who might defy the odds and one day become champion.
I was seated in the fourth row of the press box, forty feet from the ring. Those running the show couldn’t have been more accommodating. Tim Smith, Premier Boxing Champions VP, captained the ship like a seasoned mariner with his eye on a distant shore. When I gave his sidekick Kelly Swanson from Swanson Communications my BoxingNoir.com business card, she looked at it and said, “Boxing Noir? Is that like film noir?” Then she smiled and has since flooded me with emails. Plant is fortunate to have to have a promotional powerhouse of that sort in his corner. Not only are they courteous. They give millions the opportunity to watch Caleb Plant fight on free TV. It’s a smart move. He’s a natural. He’s made for TV. He’s also one hell of a fighter.
Watching boxing on TV is the norm for me and millions of others. There aren’t enough live boxing shows to go around. Boxing is a made-for-TV phenomenon, but live fights are a thing unto themselves. Whatever their relative merit or worth, there’s nothing like seeing two men fight live. Every fight fan should experience it at least once. TV is okay. HDTV is better. Hologram TV will be better still. But there’s nothing like seeing fights live.
The only celebrity I spotted was boxing’s bad boy, Adrien Broner. He and his crew appeared on the floor and fans were on him like a flock of gulls. I was standing 15 feet away and didn’t recognize him at first. With an overgrown beard in need of a gardener obscuring half his face, Broner looked like he never stops eating. He must have weighed 200 lbs. His crew had unruly beards too. They were also overweight. They all dressed alike, like a team or a club or cult, a gaggle of sextuplets with nothing to do but spend money and look for trouble. They had tattoos and pricey sneakers. They wore oversized shirts, colorful Hawaiian-type things custom-made for fat men, festooned with portent symbols and veiled insinuations.
When Broner appeared, the loud music got even louder, louder than an atom bomb, even louder than disco. AB closed his eyes. He tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips and started to sway as if in a trance. Jewelry fit for a bank vault dangled from his neck and swung back and forth across his chest. It glistened in the light, but was a mockery in a time of sexual healing. Dozens of fight fans, with posterity in mind, aimed their smart phones at the celebrity. I had seen enough and began to walk away, but then stole one last glance at Broner. He was humping the leg of a white girl wearing a rawhide miniskirt and cowboy boots.
But the night belonged to Caleb Plant.
