Swindle, young man, swindle!

By Bart Barry-

Saturday on a Showtime pay-per-view broadcast for the gullible and nostalgic Filipino great Manny Pacquiao decisioned American mediocre Adrien Broner by unanimous scores way closer than what action they appraised. Make or break, do or die, verb or other verb, Pacquiao-Broner finished a latenight show that was simply awful.

It was a lowbudget swindle, top to bottom, a return to the days when Showtime was the scrappy underdog, productionwise, while being so very far removed from that, qualitywise. Saturday’s was the work of a rubberstamp applied to a starmaking enterprise without an element of quality control in its ranks. What caustic commentary follows about the undercard is necessarily limited to a foiled plot to miss the whole damn thing, which be nigh impossible when the comain goes off a halfhour after the mainevent should.

In fact, start there: What possible demographic do you sate with a live sports event that concludes at 1:30 AM ET, last-call whoremonger? Stack the undercard a hundred fights deep, à la Don King, if need be, but don’t subject viewers to it; because it sure ain’t our problem PBC has more talent than it can afford to fight annually.

Comain victor Marcus Browne may be an exception to this, he’s on the rare PBC biannual plan, but he’s not exceptional. Perhaps it was the hour of his antics, but there’s something aesthetically offensive to a spectacle such as: After cautiously playing keepaway with a man so bloodied by his own wound even Tony Weeks tries to get the doctor to stop your fight, after wheeling shamelessly in the final 30 seconds from a man blinded by his own blood, you then perform the wrath of Achilles a halfsecond after the final bell frees you from the possibility of being punched again.

An apt leadin, that, for Showtime’s shopworn aping of HBO’s moribund model. Commercial, commentary, movie, national anthems, movie, ringwalk. National anthems, apparently, intend to announce: This is a serious event. But there’s no such thing as a serious event after midnight, that’s when, according to Eric Clapton, one merely chugalugs and shouts, which mightn’t actually be the worst way to describe AB’s performance in the main.

Broner is an entertainer who fights, not a fighter who entertains, and he’s not that entertaining either. He captures Floyd Mayweather’s schtick successfully enough to capture PBC funds, captured from Showtime, but not well enough to capture an audience. Mayweather long sold the prospect of comeuppance, a chance to see a boorish lout lose his undefeated record, maybe violently. But we’ve now seen Broner lose every way it can be done consciously, and the catharsis is long gone: There are committed if casual boxing fans among us who’ve watched hours of his fights live and have yet to see him win. Broner’s a conman who’s not conned anyone but his employer in a halfdecade. Because he rightly distrusts his conditioning, Broner makes dramatic fights that lack suspense and increasingly lack drama, too.

AB’s latest personal trainer, Kevin Cunningham, has collected a couple plump checks for bringing Broner in on-weight and fiercely performing empty orations, the sort of no-nonsense, give me 10 more reps, former-cop, cliche-gushing pap hardboiled sportswriters used to go cuckoo over.

After losing all but a handful of Saturday’s 36 minutes Broner leaped on the turnbuckle like an adolescent thespian following unclear stage instructions – over here, hands raised, OK? Pacquiao, who, a career ago, took the primes from three hall-of-famers seven times in five years, watched it all with a shrug: I guess this is the thing at my new circus, and the money’s nice, so, sure.

A certain barely detectable sadness now accompanies Pacquiao in the ring (or perhaps that’s projection); the men whose vanquishings made him a legend are already in Canastota, or just about, moved on to roles more permanent if less prestigious than Pacquiao’s senatorial gig, while Pacquiao plays acoustic renditions of his greatest hits with inferior and comparatively anonymous bandmates backing him. Maybe Manny needs the money, but more likely he just loves to play, and if the songs don’t have yesteryear’s force they still beat the hell out of silence.

In some odd way it brings to mind Marco Antonio Barrera’s bewildered look in Manchester a decade ago, after Barrera’d left his partnership at Golden Boy Promotions to contract his services on a fight-by-fight basis to whomever would pay for a legendary name on his inferior fighter’s resume, and a cut suffered early but allowed to bleed till Amir “Tomato” Khan could get his Barrera stamp happened, and Barrera absolutely could not have cared less. Fifteen months later Barrera was in San Antonio, going through the motions now with Top Rank, and he wanted to talk about the late Edwin Valero (with whom Barrera’d prepared for his uninspired 2007 rematch with Pacquiao) more than himself, and his cadence resembled that of Manny’s prefight chinwag with Showtime’s never-not-insufferable Jim Gray, Saturday.

It’s not that Manny’s not still fun to watch, he is, and it’s not that someone ringside for his best matches feels Manny’s new PBC tour is demeaning, not really, it’s that Manny himself seems to feel demeaning. Like he feels sorry for anyone gullible enough to swallow Saturday’s swill and call it otherwise.

Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry