By Jim Cawkwell

 

Oleg Maskaev’s procession of machinelike punches removed not only measures of consciousness and dignity from Hasim Rahman, but also the final finger of America’s weakened grip on the heavyweight championship. Prone to such capitulations even when favored, Rahman was no standard bearer for a proud fighting nation. As ever he has, Rahman will attempt to rebuild himself; meanwhile, overrun by champions that call the former Soviet Union home, American heavyweight boxing is ill-at-ease with its fall from grace. Before the year is out, we will be witness to its first wave of retaliation.

 

Unsurprisingly, the banner under which this resurgence begins belongs to the man voted most likely to brandish Old Glory for impromptu displays of American patriotism. Conveniently enough though, Don King also controls two of the current Eastern European champions. Whether or not the Americans are ready to reclaim that which they feel is their own, the flag which King flies highest will be lined with dollar green.

 

A key to being indisputably the most successful and recognized boxing promoter of the last thirty years has been the ability to aggrandize the inadequate, illegitimate, and sometimes, the downright odd. As such, King proclaims Belarusian Sergei Lyakhovich as the world heavyweight champion, and conspires with his German counterparts to bring about the stateside championship debut of “Russian Giant,” Nicolai Valuev.

 

Promotional duties aside, one wonders where Lyakhovich and Valuev would rank on King’s priority list had he been able to secure himself the services of consensus heavyweight champion, Wladimir Klitschko of Ukraine.

 

Despite being outgunned in the ring, American heavyweights can still claim a token victory: The battle of publicity fought in conference rooms and over international phone lines. The requisite environment of loose lips and stinging quips in which today’s fights are publicized seems an encumbrance to the current breed of champions.

 

In his element, the loquacious King holds court while the Russians sit in silent contemplation; they have come to punish their opponents, but only succeed in brutalizing the English language. In these early stages, King’s superlatives have a considerable distance to travel in order to convince dubious onlookers of Soviet legitimacy. However, nimble as King’s selling instinct is, credence will not be granted until the fighters produce worthy performances. They are mere titlists; we now look to see what kind of champions they might become.

 

Wrested from Lennox Lewis in a courtroom by King’s surreptitious means, the WBA heavyweight championship knew a muddled lineage until it arrived in the hands of Nicolai Valuev. His gigantic form presents a monstrous physical challenge to opponents, and a modicum of intrigue to fans that wonder if he possesses the talent to match his overwhelming size.

 

Examining Valuev’s pugilistic offerings thus far, one would have to say that he does not. It is unheard of for a fighter of such immense proportions to carry the desired fluidity of movement in his massive limbs, or retain cohesive coordination between hand and footwork.

 

Of course, the giant enjoys the benefits of a staggering eighty-five-inch reach, as he paws forward with his lead hand, offsetting his opponent’s balance and disabling their rhythm. So great is the distance that Valuev is capable of keeping himself from danger, that in attempting to cut down Valuev from the body, Owen Beck lunged forward with right hands to the ribs that swung entirely past Valuev’s abdomen.

 

Offensively, Valuev lacks the foundations that transform a fighter into a concussive puncher; his power is only as formidable as the sheer size of his body allows. Right hands and uppercuts are his weapons of choice, but central to his success is that incomparable size, and a phenomenon that has seen otherwise capable fighters apparently lose any semblance of craft and tactic when faced with him. One senses that Valuev’s good fortune relies not upon any remarkable talent, but the inhibition that his intimidating size imposes.

 

Scalping the undefeated records of Dominick Guinn and Owen Beck acquired New York’s Monte Barrett a reputation as somewhat of a gatekeeper in the heavyweight division. And though he will be the first to oppose the Russian heavyweight regime, it’s difficult to imagine that he will deviate from the script intended.

 

“Big Red October” is King’s way of welcoming Valuev to America, while introducing America to the fighter most whispered as a sideshow; Barrett is a perfect specimen for the realization of King’s devices. Barrett’s only distinction lies in his heart, but so overwhelmed in size and strength, he won’t have the chance to question Valuev’s.

 

Meanwhile, another son of Brooklyn prepares his own assault on the fractured championship. In his finest moment, Shannon Briggs’ hand-speed was too much for Lennox Lewis. That was until Lewis began to demonstrate the difference between contenders and champions. When the heat rose, Briggs withered down, out, and never recovered. In Sergei Lyakhovich, Briggs faces his first prime championship caliber opponent in eight years.

 

Ever the braggadocio, Briggs foretells that fighting Lyakhovich for the WBO heavyweight title will be the culmination of all the right elements falling into place in his favor. But he was always a fighter that struggled for stamina, and now, perhaps forty-pounds heavier than in his defining moment, Briggs will suffer if taken beyond a five-six round comfort zone.

 

The last three years of Briggs’ career have seen him dispatch a bland conscription whose place in his designs were to fall before a certain point. Lyakhovich has proven that while he holds no spectacular blend of science, nor irresistible potency in either fist, he is game and tough enough to stage a grueling distance fight that would suffocate Briggs.

 

If this writer’s predictions hold true, the Red reign will go undisturbed, until perhaps November 11, when a southern gent goes up against the best heavyweight in the world. Nothing more can be said of Calvin Brock; there’s nobody left for him to fight; whatever else we wish to glean of his abilities as a fighter will be revealed when he challenges Wladimir Klitschko for the IBF heavyweight championship.

 

Having all but written the fistic obituaries of Fernando Vargas and Arturo Gatti, and seen Rocky Juarez brought down in flames - not to mention offloading lightweight champion Juan Diaz to King - it’s no understatement to say that Main Events are sending Brock into battle with Klitschko with much of their future hopes resting on his broad shoulders.

 

Both are educated, well-spoken individuals that have respectively held the title of heir apparent. As Lennox Lewis’ successor, Klitschko enjoys a renewed education under Emanuel Steward, evermore resembling the former champion through his patient technique and chilling power. Less organized and given to brawling, Brock’s potential is redeemed through his own sporadic displays of brute strength.

 

Perhaps the nearest similarity between Klitschko and Lewis is that which offers Brock his greatest encouragement: An Achilles Heel for a chin. Knowing Klitschko’s quality is to expect his dominance; however, that it may be undone at any moment makes this heavyweight title fight perhaps the most unpredictable and compelling of all.

 

Lucrative athletic alternatives have seen the number of quality American heavyweights dwindle to a shocking premium. Those few still plying their trade have become spoiled and complacent towards preparation, allowing themselves to be usurped. We still wait for the young, implacable phenomenon to emerge from the shadows to recapture past glories; until then, we will see if what remains of the American heavyweights has the pride and courage to make a stand.

 

Contact Jim Cawkwell at jimcawkwell@yahoo.co.uk