Safe Side Of The Ropes

Everything had been set. Shoot down to Manchester, flight to Frankfurt and the ICE train up to Düsseldorf whereupon I’d meet a good pal of mine and we’d paint the town red……purple……ginger….bloody cerise if I had my way! You see I’d never fully forgiven myself for pulling out of David Haye’s previous foreign excursion at the last minute, the time he wrenched the Cruiserweight title away from Jean Marc Mormeck in one of British boxing’s greatest ever away days. This time I fully intended to be front and centre, no matter how debilitated or inebriated I’d managed to make myself along the way, to witness phase one of what could potentially be Britain’s last assault on the heavyweight championship in my lifetime.

Only I forgot.

I completely forgot to book tickets, much to my (and especially my Deutschland dwelling compadre’s) chagrin. The fact that Haye versus Klitschko, a fight in the dullest and most moribund heavyweight division since ‘The Boston Strong Boy’ started it all by punching out Paddy Ryan in 1882, then went and completely sold out a 60,000 seater football stadium….in the middle of a credit crunch…..left me incredulous. For a time I toyed with purchasing inflated tickets from those wretched online touts (the hit to my wallet would teach me a lesson I assured myself) until my rescue operation was finally scuppered when the cost of flights exploded. As a consolation (a scant one may I add), I organised to watch it with the fellas and a few gallons of loopy juice, the way we always used to do it, back when heavyweight championship fights still held a modicum of gravitas.

Of course Haye withdrew and Ruslan Chagaev stepped in. Hundreds of Brits were given no choice but to make the pilgrimage to Germany to witness an Uzbek tussle with a Ukrainian after their pre-booked accommodation and flights proved too difficult to cancel. Thankfully yours truly wasn’t amongst those poor souls. In what I have already convinced myself is very likely the early onset of Alzheimer’s (not being one to blow things out of proportion of course), my failing memory had saved the day and I was pardoned the ordeal of watching Wladimir Klitschko attempt to prove that a one armed man could in theory win the heavyweight championship of the world.

In what was, by and large, another Wladimir jab-a-thon, the big man in the blood red trunks proved that he is indeed the heavyweight champ, Ring magazine sanctioning the battle as being for their dormant title and ushering in a new championship era. The performance was proficient, methodical, technically very good and completely uninspiring.

As far as ascents to the throne go, it was hardly one to remember.

Ali created shockwaves, forcing Liston to quit on his stool; he later managed to go one better in Zaire. Frazier, Liston and Tyson ripped through Ellis, Patterson and Berbick. Marciano’s ‘Suzy Q’ knocked the underrated Jersey Joe Walcott out of the fight and very nearly into the middle of next week. Foreman bounced Joe Frazier around the ring like a cat playing with a ball of string. Holyfield starched Douglas and Johnson played with Burns, Dempsey meanwhile thrashed Willard to within an inch of his life. Bowe and Lewis had to overcome two very different versions of Evander Holyfield, both formidable, both in different ways. Louis whacked out Jimmy Braddock, and Tunney outmanoeuvred Dempsey. Holmes meanwhile, never one to receive much luck in the way of career breaks, had to pick apart the broken down shell of his idol.

A few of these coronations were mind boggling, some good, others sad, however all, at the very least, were newsworthy. The fight on Saturday night passed by almost anonymously, the result battling for column inches with Wimbledon prelims and Premiership footballer’s wage demands. A sign of the times or perhaps more to do with the manner of the new champion’s performance?

Klitschko is a decent fighter, however displays a distinct lack of passion for his trade. Has there ever been a heavyweight champion more averse to being hit? His physical attributes almost demand that he excels in sports, however I have to wonder if his mindset is really that of a fighter. If only he possessed some of his brother’s devil to marry up with his marvellous technical skills, perhaps then we could be assured we were finally over the post Lewis hump.

As it is, we have no choice but to take him for what he is, a phenomenal athlete and a heavyweight champion who, although one of the least colourful and least entertaining in history, will be a hard guy to beat. In the face of widespread criticism he refuses to go about his business in any manner other than the inimitable way he’s made his own and he’s winning at a canter. The rest of the rabble need to start shedding some flab and developing some skills if we are to avoid embarking upon the most tedious title reign in the long and storied history of heavyweight boxing.