I’m on vacation this week which means my brain is too, so today we’re going to do something so pointless it’ll make my usual rambling parade of unfocused dipshittery look like Voltaire on an Adderall bender.
First off, let’s get this out of the way right off the hop: I know nothing about contemporary professional wrestling. Sure, like most emotionally unstable adults my age, I was obsessed with wrestling as a kid, but the love affair ended right around the time drugs found their way to my middle school. You do the math.
However, I do not begrudge anyone else’s enjoyment of professional wrestling, adult or otherwise. I’m not one of these folks who ridicule wrestling fans and lump them in with juggalos and carnies. Ok, I mean, I am, but, you know, come on. Most days I simply accept that I am not the target audience. It’s not for me anymore. But like the neglected grandfather you stashed away in that nursing home, I have my memories. Also like your derelict Pop Pop, I think I just shit my pants. Sit tight.
Alright, I’m back. False alarm. Where were we? Oh right.
The gulf between boxing and wrestling isn’t as big as we think it is, and to be honest, professional prizefighting could stand to learn a thing or two from the wrasslin’ business. The drama, theatricality, and fan service are things boxing could use a little more of, not to mention steel chair assaults, and whatever that powder shit Mr. Fuji used to blow into dude’s faces was.
So with that in mind, let’s get dumb. Like real dumb. Super fucking dumb. Let’s construct four Survivor Series teams out of active professional boxers and pit them against each other in a meaningless battle for hypothetical supremacy. If nothing else it’ll at least turn down the demonic voices in our heads until the liquor store opens.
The Rules: I feel like Survivor Series teams are traditionally four or five members but I absolutely refuse to spend one-second researching that so we’re just gonna continue our storied history of doing the bare minimum and settle on four guys per side. We didn’t strictly adhere to any specific weight class guidelines but we tried to have one big guy, one little big guy, one little guy, and one big little guy if that makes any sense. I’m almost certain it doesn’t.
We’re also gonna kayfabe the shit out of this so all one-on-one match-ups will be pound for pound. It would be insanely funny to watch Deontay Wilder just absolutely teeing off on like Jerwin Ancajas or whatever but I’m pretty sure you can get the chair just for thinking about something like that, so let’s keep it level. If size were actually a factor in professional wrestling, Andre the Giant would be history’s most prolific serial killer. Alas, it is not, so it won’t factor into our tournament either.
Each team will be judged on a 10 point scale in five categories: Power, Defense, Skill, Chaos, and Intangibles. An overall score will then be assessed based on their cumulative point total. Trust me, it makes sense. I am the Vince McMahon of this shit, so I’ll bend the rules however I goddamn want.
So without further ado, let’s assemble our teams. This is gonna get weird fast.
THE TEAMS
Team Psycho: Oleksandr Usyk, Sergey Kovalev, Errol Spence Jr., and Carlos Cuadras
This team consists solely of dudes who could believably plead insanity to a future crime spree. Being insane isn’t illegal, but drowning your cleaning lady in a bathtub is, and that seems like the endgame for one, or all, of these guys. Until then though, we’re going to assemble them into a sociopathic Voltron and see what kind of fun we can have with it.
Power: 4.3 – If this team was assembled a few years ago, Kovalev’s power alone would nudge them up two full points. However, since he only knocks out UK jobbers and unrequited love interests these days, he’s actually the weak link here. Spence is the anchor, and both Cuadras and Usyk can throw bombs in the right situation.
Defense: 6.1 – Again, Kovalev drags down the overall score here but not by too much. He doesn’t like it to the body (did you hear about this, folks?!), but the good thing is he’s usually too busy getting knocked out by punches to the head for it to matter much. Usyk and Cuadras are both fine here, and as long as Spence isn’t behind the wheel of a car he’s usually pretty good at defending himself.
Skill: 7.9 – This is where Spence really becomes team MVP. He can do it all. Kegstands, beer pong, body shots… you name it. Oh yeah, and he can box too. Usyk is as sound as they come for a guy his size, and Cuadras was once ranked the number one pound for pound fighter on earth whose back looks like a topographical map of the Himalayas. It’s a formidable group.
Chaos: 8.8 – This is where this crew really shines, though. If they fly to the arena, Kovalev will get kicked off the plane before it reaches altitude. If Spence drives them there, they all die. If they walk to the match, Usyk will win nine dance competitions along the way. If they bike there, they’ll crash into a swamp when their hands all slip off the handlebars from all of Cuadras’ acne medication.
Intangibles: 5.2 – You gotta figure, at some point in these matches, distractions are going to come into play. If they do, and he’s across the ring from the right opponent, Usyk’s seductive lip-licking could be a massive game-changer.
Overall Score: 32.3 – A very respectable score and, quite honestly, much higher than I anticipated. A perfectly balanced squad of unbalanced lunatics. That’ll get you far in this tournament.
Team Drugs: Jarrell Miller, Canelo Alvarez, Brandon Rios, and Yuriorkis Gamboa
You can’t even try out for this team unless you’ve failed a drug test. Or, in Miller’s case, a shitload of drug tests. We’re constantly complaining about the dearth of drug policing in this sport but do the drugs themselves actually even help? By assembling an entire team of these juice bags, we’re gonna find out the answer to that question once and for all.
Power: 6.0 – There was a time when Gamboa alone could’ve jacked this score up to a nine. Unfortunately, that time was midway through George W’s second term. Canelo keeps their score respectable, and Miller could knock out a fucking Stegasauras if he can get his dealer on the line. Rios was never a power guy but he’s got retard strength and that’ll keep you in the game far past your sell-by date.
Defense: 3.2 – You can hit all these guys. A lot. Canelo has tightened up over the years, but financially strong-arming dudes into uncomfortable catch-weights really helps out in that department. Gamboa is gonna hit the deck three times on his way to the ring, and Rios will take a standing eight just changing a god damn light bulb. It’s a gravity challenged bunch if there ever was one. I don’t believe Miller has ever gone down unless you count how he fell for that line of shit his dealer gave him when he sold him those masking agents.
Skill: 5.4 – These guys aren’t exactly Pernell Whitaker, but they’re not Lance Whitaker either. Canelo is considered a top three or four pound for pound guy in the world, and that’s what’s keeping this score afloat, but even he took a few on the chin from Sergey Kovalev, and that’s not a thing that should be able to happen after, like, 2017.
Chaos: 7.9 – For all his last-kid-picked-for-the-kickball-team-like deficiencies, this is where Rios really earns his keep. Maybe he shotguns a beer on your mom’s grave. Maybe he gay bashes a couple of fans. Hell, maybe he does an impression of a person suffering from a physical disability, which used to be considered a dick move but now gets you elected president. He’s an absolute fucking wild card, and let’s face it, that’s why we’re all here.
Intangibles: 7.1 – I’m not sure if I made it clear earlier, but not only are these guys all allowed to piss hot for this tournament, it’s mandatory. You put two drug cheats into a ring together and you’re in for a treat. Put four of them in there? Fucking spring break, baby.
Overall Score: 29.6 – Not great but not terrible. It’s hard to see them getting past any of these other teams but these ding dongs are so gorked up moon rocks and tainted horse meat that they’re likely not to notice.
Team Shit Talk: Tyson Fury, Billy Joe Saunders, Terence Crawford, and Josh Taylor
In wrestling they call it being a good talker. In boxing, it’s just called being a shithead. Either way, emotional abuse is a big part of all combat scenarios, and these lot are elite-level gobshites. Will their ability to humiliate their opponents serve them in this particular setting? Will they turn on each other like an embittered breakdance crew from a shitty 80’s movie? The answer may surprise you: I do not care.
Power: 6.6 – I’m not sure if they just don’t teach you how to sit down on your punches in gypsy camps, but with a combined 57% knockout ratio between them, Fury and Saunders are the weak links here. I’m also not entirely sure if what I just said was racist or not but there’s just no way to check and we simply must move on.
Defense: 8.9 – When you talk as much shit as these loudmouths do, you’re gonna wanna learn how to dodge a punch or two. Luckily, all these dudes did. Some better than others, as evidenced by Fury nearly losing an eye to someone or something called Otto Wallin this past fall, but for the most part this team is going to be able to dodge a pint glass, should you want to throw one at them. And holy shit are you gonna want to.
Skill: 9.1 – Again, when he’s not sexually humiliating the homeless, Saunders is an exceptionally talented boxer. Not the kind you’d ever want to watch ply his trade, mind you, but he knows what he’s doing. Crawford is arguably the best in the world at this whole boxing thing and Fury and Taylor are both elite movers for their respective sizes.
Chaos: 5.2 – Saunders really brings it here. His dipshit rap-sheet is a mile long and he shows no signs of slowing down. The old Fury would’ve forced us to add an extra zero to this score but he’s settled down considerably since he ditched the booger sugar, and well, the actual sugar. Taylor can dish out a nice drunkenly racist diatribe when he needs to, and Crawford already has a bullet in him so there are no slouches here.
Intangibles: 4.8 – What you see is what you get with this crew. It’s a talented bunch of brutish windbags, and they’ve got the warrants to prove it. There’s a Body Count song called “Talk Shit, Get Shot” and these guys do both quite a bit.
Overall Score: 34.6 – Our highest score so far. It’s been a while since we’ve seen Fury’s name next to the word “high” but he’s legacy here, and where he goes, so too does this remarkable group of shitheaded hooligans. What a team.
Team Worldstar: Deontay Wilder, Artur Beterbiev, Teofimo Lopez, and Srisaket Sor Rungvisai
This team punches shit. That’s all they do. If an opportunity arises to do some traditional boxing, ok that’s fine too, as long as it doesn’t interfere with launching their fists into semi-stationary objects. If there’s time for footwork and timing and all that stuff, they’ll look into it. For the most part though, this a world-class wrecking crew and they don’t have time for your useless fundamentals.
Power: 9.9 – This is an absolute murderer’s row of punchers, literally. Wilder claims to want a body on his record, and with his juice, it might not be long before he gets one. Beterbiev likely knows what human flesh tastes like, and same for Srisaket, except rats. Lopez will vaporize anything you ask him to as long as he gets to do a backflip afterward.
Defense: 4.1 – Who cares. No need for it. NEXT.
Skill: 7.6 – For all their pop, this is actually an exceptionally talented group of dudes. Except for Wilder. They all punch first and ask questions second but they’re all sound in their own way. Except for Wilder. If they get into a firefight they’re coming out on top but if it goes the other they can box they’re way out of it too. Except for Wilder.
Chaos: 6.3 – In some countries, when kids misbehave, their parents tell them one, or all, of these dudes are under their bed. It’s a scary group of CTE distribution technicians and watching them turn guys from solids into liquid is what we tune in for. Fuck shit up and let your conscience sort it out later. That’s the rule.
Intangibles: 6.4 – I don’t know if this counts as an intangible or not, but each of these guys has an incredibly punchable face and that plays right into their strategy. I mean, if Wilder walks up and yells “Booooommmmmb Zquaaaaaaad!” at you, is there any thought in your head other than “Oh I absolutely have to punch the face that came out of?” And before you even have a chance to make a fist, your loved ones are sobbing into a pillow while picking out your coffin. Sometimes being incredibly punchable yourself is a puncher’s best weapon.
Overall Score: 34.3 – A truly remarkable score. At first glance, this team is a one-trick pony but look a bit closer and you’ve got a far more well-rounded team that you probably thought. Everyone here holds up their end and then some. A four-headed, cannibalistic, rat-devouring punch monster, tripping over its own feet as it makes its way toward you. I honestly can’t picture anything scarier.
So after tallying up all the scores, it looks like Team Shit Talk barely eked this one out. Believe me, I’m just as shocked as you are. These scores are scientifically calculated though and we simply can’t argue with facts. Besides, this exercise was based on the principles of professional wrestling so there’s absolutely no way the results could’ve been predetermined. *shrug emoji*
(Photos via Boxrec.com)
