By Bart Barry-
Saturday in Brooklyn welterweight “Showtime” Shawn Porter outworked Philadelphia’s Danny “Swift” Garcia for the WBC’s suddenly coveted iteration of a 147-pound title. The scorecards were fair, and the fight was even enough a draw wouldn’t have outraged anyone who wasn’t already outraged by other goingson. But the fight otherwise adhered to Premier Boxing Champions’ strange template of abundant drama followed by little suspense but Jimmy Lennon Jr.’s cardreading.
Until the final halfminute when a bang of heads caused an abrasion halfahead from Garcia’s chin and some blood meandered its way to Garcia’s cheek in time for the final bell it had been another miraculously bloodless and upright championship match for PBC. Were the manners reversed – were prizefighters unable to break smoke rings suddenly starching fellow champions – conspiratorial thoughts would bubble. But this PBC conspiracy is something else entirely (and counterintuitively): Howsoever do so many competitive 12-round fights with men who can crack end so anticlimactically with their fighters no more scarred, severed or swollen than chiefseconds?
There has long been suspicion PBC’s founder is a pacifist – so drawn he is by defensive specialists and quicktwitch feinters. But even so, how does he get contracted agents to comply? Perhaps by the sublime oddity of his request.
A thought like this happened between one of the 12 selfsame rounds of Saturday’s comain, when Cuban Yordenis “Yawn” Ugas got beseeched by his corner not to be such a nice guy to Argentine Cesar Miguel Barrionuevo.
Anyone else find this curious?
OK, anyone else make it through half the comain?
Men by their 23rd prizefights may have adopted all type of bad habits, but excessive sympathy is a rare one. Maybe Ugas’ tenure on La Finca taught him boxing’s only point was points, and his knockout record does betray this, but how did anyone rub the bad intentions off Garcia’s and Porter’s gloves before Saturday’s main?
By moving one up in weight, is the likeliest answer. Porter has never struck hard or accurate as champions do, but Garcia sure as hell once did.
Oh, good point: Not at welterweight. Garcia’s greatest gambles and payoffs happened at 140 pounds, where if he wasn’t an A fighter he at least never let anyone prove it publicly. He’s been a B- since scaling those seven pounds. He hits hard enough to stand pocketwise and torque the right shoulder backwards but he barely dissuades other titlists now and chloroforms nary a contender and never a champion, which is altogether too bad.
I find myself pulling for Garcia for the purest of reasons. We have nothing in common, not age or ethnicity or home decor; gravity makes Tyson Fury a more weight-appropriate avatar for me than a guy at 147; and frankly the Puerto Ricans with whom I often watch fights make only nominally more claims on Garcia than Kermit Cintron. But I verily love Garcia’s composure when blitzed. It enchants me how he stands and fixates on cocking his left shoulder and another man’s chin even while that other man helicopters right at him. If it’s not the opposite what life’s conditioned me expect from a man in animal prints, it’s at least refreshingly different. It’s an irregular type of fearlessness but it’s certainly fearless more than cerebral.
Garcia, it bears repetition, fights nothing like a six-toed weirdo in a Phantom mask – he plants and preys. He’s a faith if he can get you to throw your best punch at the moment he throws his best punch his will snatch your consciousness and often gives the impression he doesn’t much care what befalls his own consciousness in the offing. The rest of the time, admittedly, he’s quite average. He’s not bad, of course; he’s contender-level in his other facets but nowhere near so special as when he wings the lefthook, and admittedly admittedly, he no longer wings it gorgeous recklessly as once he did. Another unfortunate consequence of his outgrowing 140.
Let this not detract from Showtime Shawn. He is a coach’s overachieving fantasy and the nearest thing we’ve had to Timothy Bradley since Manny Pacquiao ankled Desert Storm in 2012. Saturday Porter wanted it more than Garcia enough to overcome Garcia’s palpable pride and more-palpable delta of talent above Porter’s.
But a confession: I didn’t watch Porter much. There was a string of rounds, latemiddle, when you couldn’t watch the combat and set your eyes elsewhere from Porter, but most of the rest of the match’s 25 minutes it was easier to watch Garcia loadspring his traps. Which Porter navigated expertly. It appeared Porter took Garcia more seriously, as an adversary, than Garcia took Porter. Some of that is style much as temperament – Porter must prepare himself for a specific opponent where Garcia needn’t – but some of it is mean will. Porter bounced in Saturday’s ring imploring the boxing gods like: Let all other things be equal, tonight, and I’ll do the rest with desire. Garcia slid through the ropes like: All other things aren’t going to be equal, Shawn.
Both men fought best they could and executed about as expected, Porter busier, Garcia sharper. Both men had their frustrations, Porter neutralized, Garcia unconcussive. In a fair if close accounting, though, Porter’s evening won the quotient; slightly more execution, slightly fewer frustrations.
For purposes of forecasting, too, one sensed Porter thought his evening might’ve gone even better whereas Garcia was complacent about his work if not the judges’. Garcia might yet jinx some overrated prospect as he hardens in his welter-gatekeeper role, à la Robert Guerrero or Luis Collazo, but he’d need a titlist’s offnight to win another belt at 147 pounds. Porter, meanwhile, promises to make a fun scrap with anyone but especially Errol Spence whose canned postfight callout Saturday suffered in equal parts from his decency and Porter’s. Spence should win that fight with Porter, since they’re effectively the same fighter and Spence is better, and it, too, should prove surprisingly bloodless.
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
