Mus Mus Tail

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Mayweather knocks Hatton out in the 10th. Everybody who's always hollering about Mayweather not being "classy" enough: did you guys watch the post-fight press conference? Did you hear Mayweather give Hatton his propers for having knocked out Castillo, which Mayweather'd been unable to do? Did you not see the class, and the respect, and as much humility as you can reasaonbly expect from a dude who just knocked out a previously undefeated fighter? News flash, people: pre-fight taunting occurs because smart fighters and managers know you have to put asses in seats, and that pay-per-view's been sagging badly in recent years. Mayweather does his job, which includes being the heavy. Congratulations from Mus Mus Tail to Mayweather for remaining undefeated, and to Ricky Hatton for ten hard rounds.

Long Shot

So, they ask me, they do. "John," they say, "do you like Mayweather or Hatton?" And because la casa del Mus Mus ain't got no cable, we usually answer "when the hell is that fight, anyway?" But even the profoundly unconnected know it's soon now, because the pitch is going into its final-hours whine. People who hadn't even heard of Ricky Hatton last month have an opinion about him now (not that there's anything wrong with that - you gotta start somewhere).

Mus Mus Tail would like to senselessly boast that we got on the Hatton train a while back. Hatton v. Tszyu? We took pleasure in watching the boxing pundits eat humble pie. Hatton v. Maussa? We called that fight and were only off by one round. And whatever things Manchester may or may not have to answer, umm, for, its boxing history isn't one of them. Its traditions are the stuff of legend. But Mayweather isn't Maussa, or Tszyu; Mayweather beat De La Hoya, and Zab Judah the Giant-Killer. People use the phrase "best pound-for-pound" like it was his middle name.

My head tells me this fight goes to whichever fighter has a greater horror of losing, and I suspect that's Mayweather. But Hatton has shown a remarkable instinct for rising to an occasion. If the fight were in Manchester, I'd call it Hatton by knockout. In Vegas, where the oddsmakers unanimously favor Mayweather, it'll be a lot tighter. Dudes in Vegas don't know Salford from Cincinatti. Still. I like a dark horse, and I don't mind being wrong every once in a while. Hatton by decision.

Short, Sweet

Speaking of the ever-estimable East Side Boxing, we have an early candidate for story of the year. The story's of no importance, really, and a copy-editor could have punched the presentation up considerably, but the economy of expression in this short piece is really a marvel. Why do I love boxing? Because alone among sports, it willingly embraces its own rhetoric until there is no longer any distinction between the description and the thing-described.

We are breaking our one-graf rule here to promise that there will never, ever be another entry on this site as thick-monocled as the one you've just read. Thank you for your time.

Next Question

Samuel Peter is an overweight, slow, rather graceless fighter whose jab happens to be the most violent thing this side of a Takashi Miike flick. Mus Mus Tail endorses Samuel Peter as the most entertaining heavyweight on the scene, not because his fights are that interesting (they're not) nor because he's gonna revitalize the division (he ain't) but because in addition to his economical and efficient punching style he gives good press conference. He splits the difference between jovial and diplomatic. One gets the sense that he wants to beat a little ass not out of meanness, but out of a sense of duty. Let's listen to the master at work as he addresses not the question he's been asked but the question he'd rather answer (from a conference call at East Side Boxing; emphasis added):

Question: Sam, you won the fight and thought your next fight would be for the WBC title, but the WBC mandated a rematch with Toney. What was your initial reaction to it and what is your reaction now?
Peter: I am not from here, but from Africa. It is the only thing I can do. I am not the WBC; I am fighting for the WBC title.

Man Down

Pour out liquor for Trevor Berbick. The 80s heavyweights: there's rather a lot to say about them, and it's becoming harder and harder to know where to begin.

Endless Love

Every time Mike Tyson opens up his mouth to speak, my heart breaks a little more. People laugh at him; he knows it; he's marching into the darkness with his aging eyes open and a panoramic view of the loss that started occurring more or less on the day of his birth, and that seems to have compounded itself with every opportunity fate or talent presented him. It'd be one thing if he didn't know. But he knows. People think he doesn't. People are assholes.

You're Kidding

Nobody ever loved Evander Holyfield more than I did, but E-van, do you not read Ecclesiastes? "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven," man, and the age of 43 is past the time of the purpose for heavyweight boxing. You and your crew are right: you can do what you want to do, and there'll always be doctors who'll clear you if the price is right. Besides, it's your body, right? Sure sure. Bu it's the $44.95 price tag that gets me. You can fight until your brain starts leaking from your ears and there's nothing anybody can do to stop you. Fleecing the people who want to see you do it, though, is a little beyond the pale.

Mother Russia

"...all four versions of the world heavyweight title are now held by East European-born fighters," writes The Guardian, by which they mean "the Russians now have the heavyweight division locked down". Anybody who tells you he saw this coming five years ago is a liar. Historically speaking, this is weird, and would set the stage for some completely awesome stuff, if 1) the Americans or the English had anything to offer and 2) the press could be bothered.

Third Uncle

Almost zero mainstream interest in this one, but there's something of a narrative to be teased out from Floyd Patterson's nephew fighting Roy Jones tonight. The tricker part of it would be somehow making Boise a pivotal part of the story, like say if Floyd Patterson changed trains in Boise once and met a guy in the station who taught him back up his jab, or if he maybe told somebody that he'd buried a box of gold somewhere nearby before moving on to his destination. These scenarios and more would be a little more interesting than billing the fight as, and here I quote, "Hold Nothing Back!" - presented by Xyience, Inc. I mean...honestly.

Money's Worth

I don't know that I've ever been more disgusted with a judges' decision than I am tonight: Naoufel Ben Rabah took Juan Urango to school for 12 rounds, displaying style and intelligence and even wit. The fight was never even close, and an initially pro-Urango crowd, along with Teddy Atlas calling the fight, all expected to hear the cards read out unanimously for Ben Rabah. The cards were unanimous, all right - for Urango, who landed something like 18% of his punches. Urango claims the now vacant IBF welterweight belt, a belt about which nobody who gives a Mus Mus Tail about the sport should now have any reason to care.

Sleeping Pills

I don't just want to like Calvin Brock; I want to love him, and cheer for him, and watch him bring a unified heavyweight belt home to North Carolina. In interviews, he's the nicest, most interesting fellow, and if you watch a Brock highlight reel, you'll see some knockout punches that'll make a believer out of you. But I happened to be in a Wilmington hotel with HBO on Saturday night, so I saw the much-touted Brock-Ibragimov fight. That was the most boring fight I've ever seen. I fell asleep during the tenth round, and only woke up to hear the decision. If Brock's going to revitalize the heavyweight division, he'll have to force the issue in fights like this one, not settle for a win on points. But I hate to criticize the man; he's so damned likeable. How, after all, can you not love a boxer whose chosen nickname is "the Boxing Banker"?

Big Fish

Was really enjoying an interview with Antonio "Magic Man" Tarver about the upcoming rematch with Hopkins — Tarver's really smooth and engaging on the mic, and actually answers questions, which is a nice change from the usual stick-to-the-script routine most guys give. Then the reporters asked him for a prediction on the fight, and he said Hopkins wouldn't see the sixth round. Stand away from the paint fumes, Antonio Tarver! Hopkins may be 41 years old, but he's one of the few boxers around whom you might actually refer to as a "warrior" and mean it. My heart's with him — even though he whines when he loses, he punches all my sentimental buttons: stylistically, personally, sartorially — but good sense says Tarver's youth and speed and overall momentum will carry the night. Tarver by decision. If Hopkins can't knock him out in the late rounds, which is the longshot chance given Tarver's recent dramatic weight loss after beefing up to play a heavyweight in the next Rocky movie. Ahh...multitasking!

Tree Falls

In a story whose opening line is just bracingly gorgeous, the Manila Post reports on the training plans of Erik Morales. A third Pacquiao/Morales fight would be an easy candidate for "fight of the year," but "fight of the year" is only slightly more presitigious than the the OBIE award (not to be confused with the genuinely presitious Obie Award - go figure). Everybody should care about this fight; they should show it on ABC's Wide World of Sports; films of the fight should show in movie theaters for weeks afterwards, with exciting second features about dangerous excursions to the Congo and so forth. But fight films died out in the 1940s and are mainly remembered as an obscure footnote in the history of race relations and interstate commerce, and Wide World of Sports has been walking wounded for years. So much the better, maybe? After all, Manny and Erik will both get plenty paid; who suffers if most of the world doesn't notice one of the most exciting rivalries in years? Conflicting impulses here. Best wishes to Erik Morales, anyhow, enjoying all that mountain air.

Against Ingrates

Do your thing, man. Picture of the year, according to the staff here at MMT.

Final Count

Rest in peace, Floyd Patterson. A class act by most accounts, though yet another in a long list of boxers who didn't know when to say "when."

I lost my aunt this week, too - any stray readers around these parts, think kindly of her; she deserved better than she got down here.