Habitually mined as broadcasting gold, vulgarity is a modern commodity. Well-placed in order to capitalise, boxing promotion has foregone decency for the sake of a fast buck. Nielsen ratings have taken priority over ticket sales for the sport’s top earners – however they might be achieved. As a result, successful prizefighting is no longer about how well someone can box necessarily or even their level of in-ring pizzazz.
As rumours continue to flare over a potential money-spinning pay-per-view clash between heavyweight motormouths David Haye and Tyson Fury, and as America’s next top braggart, Adrien Broner, prepares to face blowhard Paulie Malignaggi, it would appear that gutter talk is a more effective knack than a hook to the liver or a stiff right cross.
Haye (pictured) and Fury, British contenders in a moth-eaten heavyweight division, had been, until recently, targeting separate Klitschko brothers — the Ukrainian brood that has held hegemony over the big men since Lennox Lewis ambled into retirement in 2004. Haye had been scheduled to face the unproven Lebanon-born Syrian Manuel Charr in Manchester later this month (a straightforward assignment on paper that would, theoretically, have brought him closer to a crack at WBC titlist Vitali). Fury meanwhile had been negotiating with the baleful European champion Kubrat Pulev of Bulgaria in a bout marked as an eliminator for a crack at the IBF title held by Wladimir.
Haye withdrew from the Charr fight in May, citing an injured left hand. After Fury was unable to agree terms with Pulev, reasoning against its economic viability, speculation mounted that the pair planned to meet instead – a deal the unbeaten giant has suggested is virtually complete.
Interestingly, the seismic purses that have been floated are based upon projected PPV buy-rates. Why, though, are fans expected to flock toward a match between domestic rivals that have yet to pull up any trees at heavyweight?
Boxing has rendered itself so inaccessible — at least to those not entrenched in the workings of splintered titles and diluted weight divisions — that Haye versus Fury provides something of a rarity. Bermondsey’s Haye, a masterful self-publicist, has both infamy and cross-over appeal in his corner. His heavyweight exploits have been promoted on the BBC, while a successful reality television stint introduced him to a national audience. He is a well-known boxer who has C-list celebrity appeal.
The majority of Fury’s career has played out on terrestrial TV. A striking figure, the Morecombe man’s back story, helter skelter performances and bluster — his name even — have all conflated to afford the big man a degree of notoriety. Fans don’t need to read between the lines in order to figure out what is at stake. It is an altogether more welcoming affair than those that have been hawked over recent times.
Both, though, owe a huge debt to bad taste. Haye received more coverage from an offensive t-shirt (featuring the severed head of Wladimir Klitschko) in 2009 than for anything he achieved throughout an admirable stint at cruiserweight. After creating a hubbub in claiming his match with Audley Harrison would be “as one-sided as gang rape” he proceeded to take part in an ignominious brawl with rival Dereck Chisora — a revolting commotion that cut loose before a bewildered German press pack.
Fury is tabloid manna from heaven. He was chastened by the British Boxing Board of Control in March after railing against arch-enemy David Price and light heavyweight Tony Bellew during a live telecast. He regularly offends via infantile social networking rants and can trash talk for Ireland. Oddly his self-aggrandising spiel has developed a number of American affectations of late. A poor mimic rather than an original, he punts a provocative shtick that, ultimately, leads back to Jack Johnson via Gorgeous George and Muhammad Ali.
It is this appeal – that of the shock jock, WWE and lowbrow chat shows — that seems to be driving demand. Fans are licking their lips in anticipation of a protracted media typhoon that tramples convention and wallops taboo. The ability of both men appears secondary here; Haye and Fury will milk outrage dry while lining their pockets.
Controversy is not for everyone, though. Super middleweight king Andre Ward is one of the top men in his field but makes less noise than his peers – almost certainly to his detriment. The latest darling of American broadcaster HBO, Ward is a calculating ring mechanic whose method has been pilloried. Criticised for marring and grappling, he is effective rather than an exciting. That, however, has rarely held back welterweight Floyd Mayweather – currently boxing’s biggest draw – or light heavyweight veteran Bernard Hopkins, who earns well these days in spite of his insipid displays. So what exactly is Ward lacking?
The answer is character. God-fearing and courteous, Ward has it in spades. His personality, though, is a dead duck with consumers. Nowadays being a character rather than possessing the trait is a less arduous trek to prosperity. Mayweather and Hopkins have both bases covered. Variations of the American Dream, they’ve created personas that belie them as artists. Floyd is the ultimate urban playboy – all thug life and dollar rolls – who threatens to annihilate opponents before handing out more muted boxing lessons. Hopkins plays up to his image as a former convict yet fights more Al Weiwei than “Tookie” Williams.
Fury, like Ward, is a devout Christian, yet unlike the Oakland maven, Fury will compromise principles for publicity. In acting like a champion — a role model, in fact — Ward somehow loses out. Even Carl Froch, one of his recent victims, has developed savoir faire. On the eve of his rematch with Mikkel Kessler last month the Nottingham bruiser uncharacteristically growled: “On Saturday night, if I have to, I will kill this fucker.” It was an aberration that turned what had been a largely respectful promotion into something far more sinister, and perhaps, therefore, alluring (the bout marked Sky Sports’ return to PPV).
The aforementioned Chisora has forged a career out of causing a furore. His outbursts are candid, impulsive and usually coarse. Despite losing four of his last six bouts, he remains an attraction for promoter Frank Warren.
On Saturday in New York, months of fevered backbiting will culminate in a boxing match when Cincinatti’s Broner and Brooklynite Malignaggi finally butt heads. In their opening press conference in May, a sorrowful affair laced with insults, misogyny and homophobic remarks, they managed to plumb new depths with a skit about Malignaggi beating up a former girlfriend.
Professional boxing is far from gentile. It a sport based on extremes – from its very notion to the characters that inhabit it. Hang-wringing over such skulduggery must be tempered in accordance. Yet, with instant media either at their disposal, or pointed ubiquitously in their direction, fighters suddenly have an unfettered platform. But is that beneficial, or should freedom of speech be compromised in a bid to future-proof the sport?
In mixed martial arts, the UFC has imposed a code of conduct advising fighters that derogatory conduct including offensive language invites disciplinary action. Boxing, though, is too fractured to regulate in such a manner. While the WBC saw fit to ban heavyweight Chris Arreola for six months after he swore in a post-fight interview they have left more lucrative meal tickets, such as Mayweather, well alone. While a respect agenda would be welcomed, sanitisation would not – there is a balance to be struck.
As for the actual fights: Broner, a former lightweight titlist is untested at 147 lbs. while the feather-fisted Malignaggi has lost to the best men he has faced in Miguel Cotto, Ricky Hatton and Amir Khan. Stylistically, the fight doesn’t figure to be exciting — interest here has been fuelled almost entirely from the poison-tipped arrows that have been slung. Broner is an overwhelming favourite to remain unbeaten.
Haye meanwhile is also short-odds to win. Fury’s erratic technique has left him exposed against more Magoo-like marksmen than “The Hayemaker.” After an excruciating build-up, it could be yet another monumental anticlimax.
Mike Tyson perfected this idea of a bankable alter-ego. In 1997, once his second career had begun to unravel, “Iron Mike”, a one-time ring terror left trading on reputation, adapted accordingly. He unleashed a grotesque caricature of himself that titillated sufficiently in order to buy him some time. In enabling a culture that craves controversy, maybe the only thing these fighters are guilty of is ingenuity? The fact there is an appetite for such material reveals more about society than it does boxing.
