That One Time Keith Thurman faced a true champion

By Bart Barry-

Saturday on Fox PPV in a match for the PBC’s
emeritus welterweight championship at MGM Grand undefeated titlist Keith “One
Time” Thurman got dropped and fairly decisioned by a 40-year-old Filipino
senator, Manny Pacquiao, who struggled to call Thurman even “a good fighter” immediately
afterwards.  Not the always gracious
Pacquiao’s fault, that.  Different era,
different priorities, different metrics.

No sooner does one imagine things going
differently in Thurman’s career were he with different management than he
recognizes different management overlooked him, didn’t it?  If manager Al Haymon plucked fruit from the
Olympic tree – some wellseeded like Errol, most misshapen like Rau’Shee and Terrell
– he discovered Thurman differently, howsoever he did it, which is to write
Haymon outbid the likes of Top Rank and affiliates, almost certainly because
they didn’t bid at all. 

Why is this relevant?  Because at the time Thurman turned pro
(nearly 12 years ago) most every great fighter a young aficionado today can
name got developed by Top Rank, starting with “Pretty Boy” Floyd Mayweather,
the patron saint, emphasis on patron, of today’s PBC stable. 

Whither this rehashing?  It crossed my mind muchly during Saturday’s
match, as it certainly crossed Coach Freddie’s mind and “Money” Mayweather’s
mind, too, at ringside.  Accustomed to
what large-pursed, pillow-gloved, athletic-contest exhibitions PBC bubblewraps
its champions in, Thurman hadn’t an inkling what suffering must traditionally
be endured for a man to call himself champion. 
He knows about it now, though.

Over and again one marveled at how alien a figure
Pacquiao cut on the sanitized island called Premier Boxing Champions.  Like an aged tiger parachuted in the middle
of a clover sheep farm populated only by sheep and clover, Pacquiao, red of
tooth and claw, fists wrapped in Mexican horsehair, not foam, thrilled at
violence as his profession’s only point – not an ancillary unpleasantness to be
got through while doing fitnessy things for large paychecks.

Three times the absurdity of it all manifested on
Thurman’s face: When Pacquiao knocked him asswards, when Pacquiao mashed his
nose through his face, when Pacquiao touched him properly on the button.  First was the look of disbelief then the look
of disgusted betrayal then the look of offended fright.  Thurman collected a righthand and dropped
like he’d been tripped then he spit the yucky taste of his own blood at his
corner en route to his stool then he wheeled away, gumshield in glove, selling a
Pacquiao bodyshot like the foulest of things. 
The last was the caketaker; it was the act of a man unable to imagine in
his 30th prizefight such pain might be delivered by a legal blow.

And all this from a version of Pacquiao five years
past its expiration date, a version of Pacquiao unable or unwilling to contest
more than 45 seconds of a round, a version of Pacquiao much more an ideal of
selfdefense than a predator.

There was Thurman, chastened completely by getting
bluematted in round 1, tentatively pawing and countering through much of the
match, while Fox’s contracted narrative-maker tabulated hundreds of “power
punches”, knowing there was a needle he must thread: Hit Pacquiao enough to
score points but not so much as to make him mad.

Then in your mind flashed Juan Manuel Marquez,
sucking his own noseblood through an open mouth and goading, prodding, goading,
goading, prodding, goading Pacquiao till he lured him, after 125 minutes and 58
seconds of misery and conflict and fear, in the master’s trap to end his era in
ecstasy.  How even do you word such a
contrast between the sinewy savage Pacquaio faced Dec. 8, 2012, and the fatted sheep
he’s seen in 2019?  They are not sportsmen
of the same species, surely. 

O, be not so hard on gentleman Keith; after all,
he comported himself nobly in defeat and gives generous interviews and he’s
telegenic and loves his wife.  Fair
points, yes.  If you are going to lose
there are more ignoble ways of doing it, as Adrien Broner reminds us annually.

O, to hell with that.  This is bloodsport, this is men making their
livings hurting other men. 

Pacquiao just reset the hands on the clock of
PBC’s fraud.  Don’t let Pacquiao’s
reluctance to face Errol Spence blind you. 
Spence is an outlier – PBC doesn’t know what to do with him either.  Thurman was PBC’s champion, Thurman won the
PBC welterweight Super Bowl in 2017, two months before PBC even knew what it
had in Spence, Thurman was the coddled prodigy, Thurman represented PBC’s
post-Mayweather future.  And that future just
spent round 10 with his white tail in the air, skittering away from a
40-year-old.

Because decisioning Thurman this late in the day
marks only about the 27th best moment of Pacquaio’s career, Saturday was not
about Pacquiao.  Saturday was a
fullthroated indictment of the P in PBC.

Be glad “The Truth” was ringside to see it, too,
for the future of our beloved sport.  Now
Spence knows, as Mayweather knew, the PBC on FoxTime belt is a participation
trophy, the glassencased product of a minorleague affiliate, a way to bamboozle
venture capitalists and network programmers. 
Spence now knows if he doesn’t make his manager make a match with
Terence Crawford while both men are still prime Spence’s championship lineage
will run through “One Time” and “Swift”, not “Sugar” or “Sugar”, and a
halfdecade from now some young bodysnatcher will properly coin him “The Fiction”
like Spence properly coined another man “Sometimes”.

Bart
Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry