Good riddance, Floyd

By Bart Barry

Saturday at MGM Grand Garden Arena, American Floyd Mayweather decisioned American Andre Berto in a historically awful match Mayweather promised will be his last. By the late rounds, Berto, as near to an infinity-to-one underdog as pay-per-view has yet uncovered, compromised Mayweather’s attention span long enough to strike him cleanly perhaps a half-dozen times, and that was that. Berto called the fight “great” immediately after Mayweather called himself “great” immediately after another Las Vegas crowd booed itself hoarse through another final round of another Mayweather fight.

As he said himself after the absurd session with Berto: Floyd Mayweather is the best ever, just like Jim Gray – the man Showtime employs to hector punchdrunk fighters. Hell, in honor of the moment, we should go a bit further: Floyd Mayweather is bester than Jim Gray – who’s not even average. In fact, in a competition between the two record holders, Floyd for being the nth fighter to win 49 fights in a row and Gray for being the first interviewer realtime-bounced from World Series coverage for being a jackass, it’s not unreasonable to declare Floyd altogether bestest.

Repeatedly in that postfight flirtation, Mayweather referred to his records, plural, as opposed to his record, 49-0, which is his record the same as tens of thousands of fighters have their records, 0-1 or 27-3 or 173-19-6 (108 KOs) – Sugar Ray Robinson’s, for whatever it’s worth, which is probably quite little to The Money Team, no matter Robinson’s having well more than twice as many knockouts as The Best Ever has victories – and that might have prompted Gray to ask Floyd about his other records, but never mind. Floyd has boxing records, plural, in the equivocating, prepositional, SportsCenter-sense of the word: Floyd retires as the greatest fighter, to call Las Vegas home, after relocating from Michigan, while fighting in the last 25 years, after having been taught by his father, during a troubled childhood, before winning an Olympic bronze medal, without having beaten a single great fighter in his prime.

Someday, after Floyd is forgotten, a thing that will happen with lightning rapidity in the next decade, an enterprising young sportswriter in the year 2050 or so will decide a biography of Floyd is just the thing – and by then biographies will probably be virtualreality videogames in which the reader lives the subject’s life for a day or two – and he’ll marvel at his great good fortune at being the first man to have an idea like committing some years of his life to preserving the official record of a flamboyant American athlete who wore a gaudy cap with “TBE” on it (and whose father wore a Canadian-themed “TMT” hat in his corner during the final match of his career for reasons that, however unknown and unimaginable, somehow feel wonderful). What that ambitious young author will find on digifiche at his local bibliotech is a lack of quality writing about Mayweather that is disproportionate to Mayweather’s record.

“Surely,” he’ll think, “a black man beating everybody he fought and making hundreds of millions of dollars while calling himself ‘Money’ must’ve inspired soaring prose and an insight or two about the human condition.”

Actually, no. Actually, no, not at all. There were, are, plenty of excellent writers plying the craft during Mayweather’s career, but not one of them would call anything he wrote about Mayweather his life’s best work. The passion talented writers feel for Mayweather is akin to the passion Mayweather feels when seeing a new zero on the end of his savings-account balance: a jolt of energy followed by thoughts about more substantial things.

For there is something insubstantial about Mayweather and his record and his legacy and the current incarnation of the sport he now leaves. When I endeavor to think about memorable moments from his career – as I hope, after this column, to honor his retirement by never writing about him again – very little comes to mind. I thought about it Saturday night, and had an idea, and now it is Sunday morning, and I cannot remember even that idea. Let’s go freestyle and see if it comes: He bought some cars and won some bets and didn’t knock-out anyone but Victor Ortiz and said the same thing over and over and over and – wait, yes, now I recall.

It was during his award-winning (another record!) autodocureality-thing he did for Showtime during one of his forgettable promotions, and no matter how much money he flashed or slogans he shouted or hangerson he fluffed, always, in seemingly every scene, there was someone, and quite often most everyone, asleep in the peripherary. There would be Floyd, racing hither and yon round his Big Boy Mansion, riding his Big Boy Elevator, bouncing on his Big Boy Sofa, ordering his Big Boy Burger, courting Big Boy Bieber, and inevitably, someone in the shot would be acting sleepy. You can’t buy a personality, the subtitles read, and evidently Floyd hasn’t one.

I remember this too: I interviewed Floyd once – after waiting hours in the South Texas heat for Floyd to bless us, each journalist was allowed to ask Him one question – and when I asked about the epidemic of African-American incarceration by a for-profit prison system, Floyd told me he likes to focus on the positive because it’s not a black-and-white thing. It wasn’t just a thoughtless answer to the question I actually asked him; it was a witless answer to whatever voice played in Floyd’s head while I spoke. My interview with The Best Ever ranks about 93rd or so – give or take where Saturday’s match lands on an entertainment spectrum for anyone who’s been paying to watch boxing since Mayweather turned pro.

Since Floyd Mayweather asked the public to rank him immediately after his final match, here goes: Top 10 talent, Top 25 accomplishments. The end.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry