Last Tuesday, Bernard Hopkins walked through Quebec City’s airport wearing a hunting cap with ear flaps, his face exposed the way it was never exposed when he used to make his ring walks wearing an executioner’s mask. Perhaps it’s a sign of age that “The Executioner,” whose 175-pound body is all muscle, tapered down to a twenty-seven inch waist, had refrained from wearing costumes in some of his recent fights. While he once complained that he didn’t receive the respect or recognition he deserved, while he once needed to rely on a killer’s finery to hype the killer inside him, Hopkins is now one of the most recognized and revered fighters in boxing. Of course, Hopkins still talks tough, and as he strutted into the city that would soon deny him a historical win, he exclaimed, “Saturday night you will see something unique. A 45-year-old man in a young man’s body is an amazing thing.” Hopkins, a master of his anatomy and a master of his art, knows his boxing history, partly because he has fought and beaten many of its modern legends; Roy Jones, Jr. (the second time around), Oscar De La Hoya and Felix Trinidad, have been felled by this executioner’s sharp axe. Going into his fight with Jean Pascal, Bernard Hopkins was well aware that a victory would break George Foreman’s miraculous record and that he’d become the oldest man in history to win a title.
For his ring walk into the Colisee Pepsi, Hopkins wore a ski mask, the Canadian version of an executioner’s hood, but when the mask was lifted his eyes appeared calm. And why not? He was coming into the fight with 51 wins, and in his 5 losses he had never been stopped, hardly hurt. He was the notoriously crafty fighter who knew every trick inside the ropes and many tricks outside the ropes, the sign of a veteran who has been there and done that. He had won titles in three weight divisions and reigned supreme in the middleweight division for an impressive ten-year stretch. And waiting for him in the ring was Jean Pascal, hardly a household name. The number in Pascal’s win column was half the number on Hopkins’ ledger, and Pascal’s only big win was against Chad Dawson, who appeared lackluster and frustrated when the two met in August. But Pascal had two advantages going into the fight. He is an awkward, often unorthodox fighter and Hopkins has been troubled by such fighters in his past. The second advantage: youth. Pascal is 28, seventeen years younger than Hopkins, which is the equivalent of two boxers’ lifetimes.
Before referee Michael Griffin signaled the fighters to the center of the ring, Pascal stayed in his corner, getting his face greased, stretching against the ropes, as if he had all the time in the world. Intentional or not, this cocky display suggested a young man’s ignorance about the passage of time. The elder Hopkins was ready to get things started, a seize-the-day mentality that comes from knowing time doesn’t hang around. Finally, instructions were given, gloves were touched on the second attempt and the time keeper rang his bell, starting the clock’s inevitable tick forward.
For the first three rounds, it looked like the inevitable would finally take place; that is, for three rounds Bernard Hopkins looked a little too old, a little too vulnerable against the younger man. Round 1 saw Pascal moving around the large ring, a home court advantage that favored the more fleet-footed Canadian, landing one crisp left, then another and then a big right hand that seemed to bother Bernard. In the final seconds, Pascal hit Hopkins with a right behind the head, the part of the head Hopkins offered him, and the older man went down for only the second time in his career. It had been sixteen years since Hopkins tasted the canvas, and it had to taste bitter, but Hopkins got up immediately, unhurt, unfazed and smiled like it was all sweet, just another day at the office. In Round 2, Pascal moved confidently, keeping his distance, now and then jumping into Hopkins’ territory and landing looping left hands. Pascal stayed with the left in Round 3 and connected with a shorter punch that put Hopkins down. Again, Hopkins quickly stood. Again Hopkins smiled, unfazed. With thirty seconds left a street fight broke out and Hopkins landed some hard shots before the bell rang
Three rounds down and Hopkins was five points down. Another knockdown and the fight would pretty much be over on the scorecards if it went the distance. But between rounds, having tasted some bitterness of his own served by Hopkins, Pascal’s young face revealed much. His eyes looked concerned. He had a welt under his right eye. He certainly wasn’t smiling.
The fight changed in Round 4. As if injected with water from the fountain of youth, Hopkins came out hard and stayed busy. He launched a body attack, he kept the fight rough, and while he slipped to the canvas for a moment, Hopkins mostly stood tough and tall. Round 5 was all Hopkins. He kept the tempo his tempo, a seasoned jazz player’s slow and steady rhythms instead of a kid’s hip-hop rush, and continued to punish Pascal downstairs, knowing the dividends a long-term investment might pay. When the fifth ended and Hopkins went back to his corner, Nazeem Richardson told his fighter, “We will put small shots underneath. We’re not going big. He’s going big and that’s why he’s going to get tired.” Sage words from an experienced trainer. And a round later, after Hopkins won the sixth, Richardson quietly declared, “This is the round we go to work.” The halfway point was over, and the long night for Pascal that Hopkins had promised before the fight, was indeed starting to look long.
The work was body work. Hopkins didn’t look like the older man anymore. The younger man had stopped fighting and it was Hopkins moving forward, Hopkins landing body shots, Hopkins mocking his opponent, face forward, chin out, Hopkins being Hopkins, fearless. There were moments when Pacal got in the pocket and traded, but only moments. In Round 9, Hopkins moved from ground work to head work, landing a vicious right that stunned Pascal and tattooed more doubt behind Pascal’s eyes. The round ended with a good exchange, but the ninth was clearly Hopkins’. This time Nazeem’s assessment was even more succinct. “This kid is bullshit.”
Round 10 was close with Pascal pushing the fight, hoping to get the crowd back on his side, but Hopkins landed some hard lefts at round’s end. Round 11 was a good one for both fighters, Hopkins resuming his forward motion, Pascal willing to trade more, Hopkins going upstairs and down. With one round left, Pascal’s corner was worried, admonishing their fighter that he needed the last round. But it was Hopkins who came out strong in Round 12, his legs still alive, his eyes still clear, and Hopkins stayed busy, as he’d stayed busy since the fourth, especially impressive because Hopkins has never been known for his work rate. In a reversal of age, it was the old fighting hungry and the young man holding onto the old. Pascal had his moments, and there were flurries of action, but Hopkins was the aggressor. Hopkins took the twelfth.
I’m not a fan of punch stats, which often don’t tell the true story of a fight, but this fight’s stats were impressive if only because they quantified the youthful exuberance of a 45-year-old man, who many predicted, including myself, would turn old on this cold Canadian night. Young Jean Pascal threw 353 punches. Old Bernard Hopkins threw 445. As for the numbers that truly counted, I had the fight scored 115 to 112 for Hopkins, who dominated from the fourth round on. History, it seemed, was about to be made and Hopkins would become the oldest man to win a title.
Then the scores were announced. First a teaser, 114 to 112 for Hopkins. Then two dampeners. 113-113 and 114-114. A majority draw. One of the draw judges is Canadian. The other is Belgian—a country where forty percent of the people speak French. This wasn’t quite home-cooking since the fight was close, but if the boxing public is the true barometer of winners and losers, I believe Hopkins will have his hand raised, if only figuratively, by the fans. While the crowds’ boos that followed the decision could be interpreted as disappointment that their Canadian son had not won, the better read is that the boos were aimed at the judges, who snatched history from a veteran’s gloves.
There’s a famous poem by Andrew Marvell titled To His Coy Mistress about an experienced man who convinces a young woman, partly through flattery, partly through scare tactics, to seize the moment with him, to carpe the diem, but the poem really speaks to the reality of mortality right from its first hypothetical phrase, Had we but world enough and time. Hopkins has seemingly been everywhere and fought everyone and, by boxing’s standards, he’s been fighting forever. But forever runs out for mortal men. Not so tonight. In an impressive performance, Hopkins did not look old. He did not look ready to retire. He surprised us once again in a surprisingly entertaining fight. Hopkins was disgusted with the decision, but he was also stoical. He has seen it all in boxing and he knows the disappointments and dangers of this hurting business. “I had the guy beat up. I dominated the fight. Look at his face and look at mine. I’m too dangerous for anybody. It was a robbery. He should get some good shots in on an old guy. But you don’t see Pascal jumping around happy.”
The poet Marvell ends his poem by comparing time to a winged chariot hurrying near, a chariot that inevitably runs all men down. On this Saturday night, the inevitable was put on hold; Bernard Hopkins continues to outrun time’s chariot. The tough man who started fighting in the tough streets of Philadelphia, who learned life lessons in prison, who had the strength to break the statistics of recidivism, who had the stamina to forge a long career in a profession that quickly cuts men down, and who had the talent and perseverance to become a champion and stay a champion, continues to give time a run for its money.
