Kevin Mitchell blames the folly of weak and stupid men for a criminal act waiting to happen as they gamble all in Las Vegas
THE brave gentlemen of the Nevada State Athletic Commission, who issued Evander Holyfield with a medical certificate last week clearing him to challenge Mike Tyson for a version of the world heavyweight title, should be looking for a corner in which to hide late on Saturday evening, November 9.
If, as seems certain, the bruised body of the 33-year-old Holyfield is carried that night from the ring at the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas in a distressed state, the world will be witnessing the folly of these weak and stupid men. Down at Heartbreak Hotel, it will be a crime in all but name.
There is abundant evidence to suggest that the former world champion should not only be kept away from Tyson but that serious questions should be asked of a fighter whose physical health hardly matches that of his bank account yet is sufficiently vigorous to let him be driven beyond his fading capabilities because of his courage and, more significantly, his pride.
Goaded by Tyson — who was once a close friend — Holyfield, who is worth $100-million, has succumbed to the pressures of the business and his own ego. All the talk of his big heart (physically flawed, but spiritually Olympian) cannot hide the facts. He has been suspect since his magnificently honed body gave up on him against Michael Moorer in 1994 and he provided different, unconvincing excuses afterwards; he was utterly spent after knocking Riddick Bowe down and almost out in their third meeting earlier this year, before being brutally stopped himself.
Most damningly, Holyfield, an essentially forthright and decent man, has subsequently given conflicting accounts of his problems, concluding with the admission that he did, in fact, have a disease which attacked the lungs and heart — but that a faith healer had now cured him.
Dr Flip Homansky, of the Nevada commission, said the trouble was reflected in “an atypical [electrocardiogram] reading that is normally associated with black males of his age”. Well, that’s all right. “If we deny this man a licence, we can’t license anybody,” said Dr Charles Ruggeroli, a physician for the commission. “Nobody has had the extensive testing of his heart that Evander has.”
Absolutely. Dr Ruggeroli must have seen some of Holyfield’s several wars down the years, often against mediocre opposition, in which his fortitude was tested to the limit, fights in which he soaked up an inordinate amount of punishment, even in victory.
Holyfield was quoted last week as saying: “You can’t just box Tyson — you gotta fight him. In boxing you get hit. It’s just a matter of how hard.”
I wonder, also, if Dr Ruggeroli was at a press conference in Holyfield’s home town of Atlanta during the Olympics in which the fighter was asked about a possible fight with Tyson. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to that,” Holyfield said. “But first he’s got to fight, uh, what’s his name? Eh? Yeah, Bruce Seldon.”
Old What’s-his-name lasted 109 seconds with Tyson earlier this month. And Old Holyfield, who has been in the game since 1984, couldn’t even remember the name of the admittedly ordinary World Boxing Association champion. It’s a bit like Tony Blair not remembering John, uh, Major’s name.
In boxing terms, Tyson-Holyfield is a contest that cannot be justified. Tyson, reinvigorated after a year-and-a-half out of prison and hanging on to his discipline by all accounts, will hurt his opponent badly, while genuine contenders are left to argue in futile circles with the champion’s promoter and lawyers, excluded, in the main, by American television politics.
Heavyweight boxing is up for show somewhere else on November 9. In Tokyo, where he demolished poor Joe Roman more than 20 years ago, George Foreman will defend his World Boxing Union title against the allegedly undefeated Crawford Grimsley, a former kick-boxer who lied about his age and was eventually shamed into admitting he was 34, not 29 — which still leaves him 14 years younger than Foreman.
Foreman said: “If there’s gonna be integrity in boxing, it depends on me.” He did not require an exclamation mark to underline the absurdity of his quip.
Elsewhere, the usual chaos pertains. Michael Moorer, recently having yet another brush with the law enforcement authorities he once proclaimed he wished to join, holds the International Boxing Federation belt, having dismissed the German Axel Schultz, who himself was unlucky not to get a decision over Foreman and exceedingly fortunate to come away from two encounters with the Londoner Henry Akinwande with a draw and a points loss.
There’s more. Akinwande, of course, is the heavyweight standard-bearer for the World Boxing Organisation. Now based in the United States and keen to cash in on the promotional sponsorship of Don King, big Henry, one of the most awkward and accomplished operators in the division, is important to the WBO, who gathered for their annual beanfest earlier this month, this time in London.
It was instructive to see the game’s power-brokers in such smiling mood as a conspiracy of cordiality fell upon the dealings of men who, on occasion, would happily grab each other warmly by the writ. But professional boxing is all about alliances, and those shift like spit in a bucket. In the marbled respectability of the Forum Hotel, mobile phones oozed with offers and deals, the corridors clogged with the buzz of happy money-makers. This was the chummy, grinning face of corporate meat-marketing.
Whatever, the WBO, once professional boxing’s laughing stock, looked to be thriving. Frank Warren held court alongside Naseem Hamed, the British game’s brilliant irritant, without whom British boxing would be irretrievably anaemic.
The Naz Fella loved it. With camera-wielding enthusiasts from Puerto Rico descending on him like crazed groupies — “Over here Naz, please! I’ve come all the way from Puerto Rico!” – — the Prince gave a quick audience.
He was happy to pose with a giant cheque for $1,25-million, an offer in hyperbolic tradition for the estimable Mexican super-bantamweight Marco Antonio Barrera (conveniently, also a WBO champion, like featherweight Hamed) to fight next March, probably at a venue in London.
Warren, still working with Don King, announced another partnership, this one with the French promoter Michel Acaries and his German counterpart, Peter Kohl. They would bring big- time boxing back to Europe, Warren promised, and offer fighters the sort of money they could otherwise find only in the United States. It was all very comradely.
Meanwhile, Mickey Duff, who has had more spats than Liam Gallagher of Oasis, was in rousing form on his mobile down the corridor, no doubt barking instructions to an aide about suing the pants off King. He has good reason.
The grinning guru from Ohio has fiddled Duff about for more than a year over a world title fight for his Telford middleweight, Richie Woodhall. Duff is not chuffed. “I have just sent my 45th very strong letter to King and the WBC,” he said.
Warren, meanwhile, is suing the former cabinet minister Alan Clark for remarks he made in a British Sunday newspaper earlier this month about the Hamed-Manuel Medina fight in Dublin.
Boxing rumbles on like this most weeks of the year. Into the confusion and acrimony move the fighters, willing players whose destiny is marked out by others. Holyfield, though, is different. He could walk away. If only there were a law to save these gladiators from themselves.