Few things in sport nauseate me more than a boxing entourage – that useless collection of superfluous handlers, hangers-on, go-fers and jock-sniffers you find attaching themselves to a fighter like so many leeches.
Manny Pacquiao
They were at their upchucking nadir before, during and after last week’s Manny Pacquiao-Ricky Hatton fight.
For starters, there were about 20 of them in each dressing room before the contest, mostly just using up oxygen.
Then, when the boxers made their grand entrances, each was accompanied by a phalanx of “protectors” – all wearing tough guy faces while jostling for location in front of the TV cameras.
One of Pacquiao’s posse was none other than the wrestler Batista, taking time out from mat mayhem to do a little bandwagon-boarding.
Before many fights – but not so much this one – many of these nobodies accompanying the fighters are talking smack en route, about kicking butt, etc.
Thing is, most of these toads couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag.
Equally annoying: the “team” concept, when handlers all wear matching jackets emblazoned with, for instance, “Team Pacquiao” – like they’re part of the actual fighting.
And it sickens me no end, when members of a fighter’s camp use the term “we” – as in “We’re gonna knock this guy out.” Some trainers are especially good at this.
What a pathetic joke the jacket-wearing set and such gum-flapping trainers are!
Are they the ones on the receiving end of punches like the left hook that rendered Hatton unconscious? Of course not – you’ll find them tucked safely behind a ring post.
If entourage members had to take such blows to attain “team” and “we” rights, I guarantee those jackets would disappear immediately and “we” would quickly become “he”.
Boxers are, and always will be a one-man team.
Once inside the pre-fight ring, there were so many hangers-on present each fighter barely had room to loosen up.
But that was nothing compared to after the bout.
The victorious Pacquiao, while being interviewed on TV looked like a Tokyo rush-hour train passenger, engulfed by sponsors and patrons – entourage: suit division – all aping and mugging for the cameras.
Then, of course, there was Pacquiao promoter Bob Arum interrupting the interviewer to proclaim his man as the greatest fighter in history.
I can recall instances where Arum was nowhere to been seen after a fight – the first rat off the ship of a defeated meal ticket.
Meanwhile, vanquished Ricky exited the ring with but one handler, wearing only a baseball cap.
His caretakers didn’t even bother to wrap him in his robe to protect him against the drafty chills of the tunnels at Vegas sites.
His entourage was all over the sponsorship cap thing. But measures to protect Ricky’s health? Fuhgettaboudit.
I felt bad for Ricky, a thoroughly likeable chap – if you’re not in the ring with him.
Seeing Hatton deserted like that, I recalled what my boxing manager Dad did with one of his fighters after the guy had won his pro debut.
Pop took his boxer out of the winning locker room, packed with boisterous backslappers vying for the privilege of carrying the victor’s gym bag out of the arena for him.
Dad then led his fighter into the loser’s dressing room. It was quiet and empty, save for the boxer’s manager and trainer.
The loser would be carrying his own bag.
The message was clear: when times are tough, only your manager and trainer will be there for you – maybe. In some cases, they may be jumping ship as well.
How long do you think Ricky’s mouthy trainer Floyd Mayweather, Sr. will stay aboard HMS Hatton?
Afterwards, Mayweather, Sr. immediately blasted Ricky publicly for not following instructions – instead of later quietly counselling him on the side.
To tweak an old joke about lawyers: What do you call 100 boxing entourage members wearing cement shoes at the bottom of the ocean?
A good start.
