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A big left hook to the jaw last Saturday night made Audley Harrison hit the deck at the Wembley Arena with only marginally less commotion than a giant redwood crashing to the floor at Muir Woods.
It had to happen. It was on the cards from day one, whatever the optimists and the devil’s advocates tried to tell us to the contrary. Nikolay Valuev and Wladimir Klitschko will eventually be chopped down in similarly emphatic fashion when they finally cease to amuse the mischievous children of the gods.
A man cannot fake a love of boxing. If he is blessed with exceptional talent, he can dislike the game and still be a great fighter. But those hybrids are very rare. If the talent is moderate and the desire is weak, the toughest game of all will find you out and unceremoniously send you back to where you came from.
This stone cold fact is of great consolation to this writer as we continue to swim in a heavyweight sea of depressing mediocrity. Boxing’s great and eternal equaliser is its ability to sort the wheat from the chaff. Frustratingly, this can take an inordinate amount of time. Like one of her injured fighters tottering against the ropes, the old fight game can reel and stagger, dawdle and stagnate. But then the cleansing process kicks into motion and the garbage truck carries away the waste.
In the meantime, the eager must curb their enthusiasm and the ignorant must take a little more time to educate themselves. They must learn, for one thing, that carrying 254lbs of beef and a lot of mouth does not get a fighter over the finishing line against fighting opposition. ‘Little’ Michael Sprott gave away nearly 22lbs on Saturday night and put Audley Harrison to sleep for a good few minutes with one good old-fashioned blast to the button. [details]
It had to happen. It was on the cards from day one, whatever the optimists and the devil’s advocates tried to tell us to the contrary. Nikolay Valuev and Wladimir Klitschko will eventually be chopped down in similarly emphatic fashion when they finally cease to amuse the mischievous children of the gods.
A man cannot fake a love of boxing. If he is blessed with exceptional talent, he can dislike the game and still be a great fighter. But those hybrids are very rare. If the talent is moderate and the desire is weak, the toughest game of all will find you out and unceremoniously send you back to where you came from.
This stone cold fact is of great consolation to this writer as we continue to swim in a heavyweight sea of depressing mediocrity. Boxing’s great and eternal equaliser is its ability to sort the wheat from the chaff. Frustratingly, this can take an inordinate amount of time. Like one of her injured fighters tottering against the ropes, the old fight game can reel and stagger, dawdle and stagnate. But then the cleansing process kicks into motion and the garbage truck carries away the waste.
In the meantime, the eager must curb their enthusiasm and the ignorant must take a little more time to educate themselves. They must learn, for one thing, that carrying 254lbs of beef and a lot of mouth does not get a fighter over the finishing line against fighting opposition. ‘Little’ Michael Sprott gave away nearly 22lbs on Saturday night and put Audley Harrison to sleep for a good few minutes with one good old-fashioned blast to the button. [details]