By Lucas von Brasche:
At last, a semblance of calmness has been restored. The hype was fulfilled. Froch v Groves was huge.
The masses, whoever they are, had their pantomime passions truly aroused. Look behind you George, its Howard Foster! And in the aftermath, everyone, it seems, trumpets their opinion while being deafened by everyone else’s. We’ve filled our boots on “yes he was, no he wasn’t” and variations of it. The penny-a-line tabloid hacks have eeked out everything they could. The fighters have spilled their guts to Boxing News. Eddie Hearn, pound signs in his eyes, has smiled a lot and huffed and puffed and offered soothing, mockney, truisms that cover most angles. The referee has been berated, Paddy Fitzpatrick has become a minor celebrity, Robert McCracken has spoken like a man who crawled out of multiple-car-pile-up-inferno without a scratch and Adam Booth has come across as some sort of wry mystic. The angry fans of cyberspace have choked the internet with hot bile for more than a week and still no-one can seem to agree on exactly what on earth it all means.
Wonderful.
Boxing needed this.
Never mind that Tony Bellew, taking on Mission Impossible in Canada at the weekend has been virtually ignored. Put to one side the impressive performances of Andy Lee and Scott Quigg on the undercard, even bury thoughts of Darren Barker’s brave first defence against Felix Sturm this Saturday in Germany. The sad fact is, noteworthy though all these boxers and events are, the general British public don’t give a stuff about any of them. Froch v Groves was the first British fight for a very long time to transcend the sport. Old ladies are talking about it. And tiresome though the unending bickering may be, it is a fabulous thing for all of us involved in the fight game, particularly those who remember the days when Henry Cooper, Frank Bruno and even Chris Eubank were household names. More nights like that and we could have a new golden era on our hands.
The buzz around Froch v Groves has, to some extent of course, been artificially generated. The pre-fight publicity painted George as the urchin upstart with ideas above his station and King Carl as the noble knight. But it also created such a fuss because the action itself, epitomizing the best, most compelling elements of boxing, stirred up such conflicting emotions.
This wasn’t just two guys hitting each other, it was a vivid documentary of human extremes. In the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald, “show me a hero and I’ll write you a tragedy”, an epithet fit for many a boxing great. And as thrilling as it was to see the speed and tenacity of the young challenger burst onto the world stage, Carl Froch, a champion of supernatural toughness, put on a performance laden with doom. As he struggled with his opponent and himself, we saw shadows of his retirement and maybe more sinister things in that Manchester ring. Cheered into the arena but booed out of it, knocked down in the first round, staggered in most others, the warrior who demolished Lucian Bute was gone, replaced with a gangly, tentative prodder.
After the appalling disappointment of the final Act, featuring the intervention of our villain, Mr Foster, an outcome was contrived which made losers of both men. Froch sat ringside, still suffering the effects of concussion. Unable to remember that he had been knocked down, Carl spoke through balloon-lips and poured forth a terrible, whining, self-serving monologue. Groves bit back tears.
“Those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make mad.” Immune to the boos, Froch bleated on, living that line from Eurpides, as almost every word hurt himself in the way his fists have hurt opponents. It was career-crash TV. And even since the adrenaline of the night has faded away and the champion has had a chance to reconsider, his comments to the media have done him no favours. Worryingly detached from reality, bitter despite his achievements, demanding adulation beyond what he has already received, in one night and even through victory, the ‘Cobra’ has turned himself from potential national treasure to recipient of disdain.
Watching, aghast, as Froch metaphorically heaped up wood for his own funeral pyre, bruised mouth slurring his speech, you couldn’t help but remember the two fights with Kessler, the ones with Ward, Dirrell and Taylor. On Saturday night, Groves probably did more harm than any of them. Forget the rubbish he has talked, for a moment. Durability has made Carl Froch an undisputed British great, worthy of applause and acclaim, but boxing heroes whose prime attribute is an iron chin don’t tend to have happy retirements. Ask the family of Jerry Quarry.
Even for those who quit the sport with their faculties in tact, retiring gracefully is not always easy. Another lesson for the young could be learnt in Manchester last weekend. Once a Prince of featherweights, now a King of self-indulgence, Naseem Hamed appeared at ringside, playing the role of bloated has-been extraordinaire. The arrogance and in-your-face manner had charm when he was whip-thin and dancing crazy circles around the world’s best 126 pounders, but when clinically obese and offering analysis to TV cameras, it fell flat. Still only 39, a few birthdays past Froch, Naseem cut a sad figure. Rich beyond most people’s dreams, Naz got out at the right time. The voice may be coherent but high living has turned him into a cartoon caricature of himself – a once great athlete cannot be happy like that. Health problems surely beckon. “The problem with Hamed” ex-opponent Kevin Kelley once said “is he really believes the hype. He’s nowhere near as good as he thinks he is.” Perhaps the same could be said for a certain Super Middleweight from Nottingham.
Ego is a necessary evil, especially in high level boxing. But too much can be a dangerous thing. Its consequences can be lasting. We see it time and time again.
I fear for Carl Froch, it may already be too late for him. He kept his titles, but lost the public. The pantomime season may not be over for him yet. Another fight or two to salvage his reputation and by middle age he will be a ghost, floating behind shaking hands and a vacant stare, still brooding about those deafening boos. For new hero, George Groves, with flashing hands and sharp tongue, there is still hope. Hope that he can forge a great career without succumbing to the deadly pitfalls that an excess of self-love, or fragility of mind can bring. As he clamours for a rematch, amidst a mixed reception from the boxing public, he treads that fine line between hero and villain. Lets hope that as time passes and the dust settles, he and all the rest of us grow to understand what the pantomime is really all about.
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