By Bart Barry
HOUSTON – Minute Maid Park, home of the Astros, made a fine fight venue, even, or perhaps especially, when its retractable roof winked at its anxious media section, water dropping from the sky, papers rising from the table, before shutting once more just before the main event. Mexican Saul “Canelo” Alvarez then knocked Texan James Kirkland stiff in the last minute of round 3. And fans who’d been fed, by that late hour, 10 hours of inedible slop, left overjoyed by the spectacle because, whatever Floyd and Manny may opine, positively nothing beats a knockout.
The end came in slow motion at ringside, the better for savoring it. Alvarez set his eyes and head exaggeratedly low, fixing them on Kirkland’s chest – because, as the old timers know, it’s one head’s length from the breastbone to the chin – and then he took his time cocking the righthand. Kirkland, reflexes impaired, already nigh drunk from blows to his skull, picked-up the punch an instant late, exactly as Alvarez intended. Kirkland dropped his hands to the very spot Alvarez’s eyes set. Then Kirkland realized he’d fallen for a feint and hoped without hope he might chasten Alvarez’s aggression with a lunatic lefthook counter. But Kirkland had time only to get the punch started and complement the aesthetics of Alvarez’s perfectly structured right by flailspinning over Alvarez’s properly lowered head, winning for Alvarez Knockout of the Year even if we’re not yet to the ides of May.
It was a right remedy for the disaster of May 2, and it was right th’t a Mexican brought it to us. It was a right remedy, too, for Alvarez’s own terrible showing against Mayweather some time ago.
It brightens the spirit to think Mexicans might have a genuine article, finally, in Alvarez, a man who, if he’s never quite the world’s best prizefighter, is now Mexico’s best prizefighter, not merely its most popular. Popularity, as Edward Norton’s accomplished character in “Birdman” so aptly puts it, is the slutty little cousin of prestige, and while Alvarez has never wanted for popularity, a debt owed more to Mexican daytime television and haircolor than fistic accomplishments, he now has prestige, an order of merit greater because it’s how the meritocracy of boxing would order it.
Alvarez may not yet deserve 30,000 fans in Houston or 40,000 in San Antonio, not when Mayweather and Pacquiao gather half that many at MGM Grand, but the Mexicans gathered in Houston on Saturday absolutely deserved the fight, and ending, Alvarez gave them. Beleaguered as they have been with Son of the Legend, the Legend’s disaster of a son – and the Legend, self-oblivious a sporting legend as you’ll find, was in lock-Tio-Julio-in-the-basement broadcaster mode from ringside Saturday – the Mexicans, boxing’s one reliable demographic in sickness and in health, finally can embrace Alvarez with a clean collective conscience, setting aside Juan Manuel Marquez’s enduring and caustic criticism of Alvarez: one more resentful riff from Mexico’s best prizefighter of the last generation, and best resenter too.
Alvarez does not yet show a spot of resentment, nor should he, and that is a fine thing. Son of the Legend, setter of an entitlement-to-accomplishment ratio that may never be surpassed, came into the sport already resenting every interview his duties caused him to suffer ungladly. In this respect, Alvarez, when compared to Son of the Legend, is a consummate professional. But again, that phrase, “when compared to Son of the Legend, is a consummate professional”, is now elastic enough to accommodate everything from the housekeeping staff at Sheraton Four Points to the waistband of Junior’s next pair of raspberry-pink cotton briefs.
I have interviewed Canelo on the phone twice, and both times were marked by their courtesy and professionalism. Of a culture that values time differently than ours does, Alvarez was the exception to Mexican prizefighters: He called at the appointed time, to the minute, and was entirely cheerful and unassuming. His answers were unremarkable, since child stars in any culture come deprived of what challenging experiences make many adults at least initially captivating, but as that is a thing he cannot control, and as it is ungracious, after all, to blame dullards for their condition, I recall him fondly for his punctuality. And for one other reason: Asked in Spanish if he sees nostalgia, a cognate that works equally well in both languages, in the eyes of his expatriated countrymen when he attends publicity events in, say, Texas, Canelo’s voice rose, and his sincerity gleamed off the edges of a rare, unrehearsed answer:
“Those men, to see them after they work, those men, those . . . If solely you knew how hard they work. Those men are heroic to me.”
Dullard or otherwise, Alvarez has character, and he fights with character. Every other Money Team retread misuses the word “fearless” – attrition hunters who gambol away from opponents till they’ve reduced them, via boredom or exhaustion, to targets, and then roar their imitation of bravery – but Canelo’s selection of opponents has shown no fear whatever. Glance through the rankings of his division and find someone you think could beat him whom he’s avoided.
Austin’s James Kirkland may not have been in top condition, and may not have sold a fraction the tickets in Houston he’d have sold in San Antonio, either, but he brought real violence from a real junior middleweight, Saturday, and Alvarez did not wilt even slightly. Alvarez treated Kirkland like a heavybag for practicing creative combinations on, even while Kirkland bulled and leaned and whacked, in rounds 1 and 2, and Alvarez had the balls to throw a dozen right-uppercut counters, too, exposing his head fully to Kirkland’s left hand.
Alvarez gave a fitting performance to our sport’s fittest fans.
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
