By Norm Frauenheim
Legacy is this generation’s tired cliche. Actually, it’s more than just that. It’s silly, a refrain repeated by fighters more idle than busy. Legacy has been transformed into just another argument, which makes it about as cheap as another title belt. Just about everybody has one, or thinks they deserve one.
But there is an exception:
Oleksandr Usyk.
His decision — unanimous on identical scorecards and tactically thorough throughout 12 rounds — over Tyson Fury last Saturday has led to a yada-yada debate about his place in heavyweight history. He’s an all-timer. No, he’s not. Hell, yes, he is. Opinion, more plentiful than even those aforementioned belts, is also like legacy these days. On social media, everybody has one. A boxing acronym would say it’s mandatory. Meaningless, too.
Usyk, I think, knows that. His voice is missing from the debate his victory ignited. Above all, he has already delivered a solid argument, one that will be fairly judged and best decided over time. He has beaten Fury twice, nearly stopping the much bigger man in their first encounter and dominating him on the cards — 116-112 on all three — in the second.
Each fight provides a further look at Usyk, whose ring persona is beginning to say a lot about who he is outside of the ropes. In his two fights against Usyk, it’s clear — make that undisputed — that he fights with purpose. As a tactician, he possesses some deadly determination. He’s stubbornly sure of himself and what he can do. Nothing Fury said or sang could interrupt a focus that was evident on any television screen. What’s more, it was there, from Round 1 to Round 24, in Fury’s face, a mix of confusion and frustration
Fury’s clowning is a lot more than a lousy lounge act. It’s been a Fury tactic, effective against Deontay Wilder and others. Distract the opponent, anger him and then turn him into the punch line. But Usyk would not fall for the Fury feints and foolishness. In effect, Usyk turned the stand-up routine in Fury’s skillset into a significant, perhaps, fatal weakness.
Simply put: He wouldn’t allow Fury to be himself. That’s an art, performed only by some of the all-timers. Muhammad Ali did it to George Foreman with the Rope-A-Dope on a 1974 night in Africa forever memorialized in the film, When We Were Kings.
I don’t know if Fury will be back. Maybe, he returns for a fight against Anthony Joshua or somebody else who would fall for his tricks, a show that still sells.
I don’t know if Uysk will be back. Maybe, he goes back to cruiserweight. He talked about it. Maybe, he fights Daniel Dubois, who made a fool of himself when he climbed into the ring and tried to goad Usyk into a rematch.
It was a flashback to the aftermath of his split-decision over Joshua in a rematch August, 2022. Joshua, acting very much like a big toddler throwing a heavyweight tantrum, threw belts out of the ring, grabbed the microphone and later cried at the post-fight newser. All the while, Usyk, looking like the only grown up in boxing’s overgrown kindergarten, remained patient, poised and ever purposeful.
During Saturday night’s aftermath in Riyadh, there was a further sign — a powerful symbol — that Usyk is fighting for something more than just another belt or some more Saudi cash. Instead of a belt, he held an ancient sword above his head. The saber, according to Ukrainian media, belonged to Ivan Mazepa, a warrior who used it to fight for Ukraine’s independence from Russia three centuries ago.
It’s a story I didn’t know. It’s a story boxing fans beyond Ukraine’s bloodied front lines don’t know. It’s a story that today’s Russians are trying to bury in their ongoing war against the Ukrainians
It’s also a story worth telling, one that helps explain Usyk, a fighter with a purpose bigger than himself and one that will eventually put him among the all-time greats, no matter what is said today.
