By Matthew Hurley
I was sitting in a rather uncomfortable chair in the casino sports book of the Mirage Hotel this past weekend with my notebook and pen in hand in preparation for the Floyd Mayweather vs. Zab Judah fight. It wasn’t a fight I was particularly looking forward to. In fact I had decided not to attend the bout at the Thomas and Mack Center (my gracious editor Rick Reeno had a pass at the ready for me). I just couldn’t get psyched for a fight that I thought shouldn’t have even been taking place in light of Judah’s loss to Carlos Baldomir.
Put simply, Zab Judah drives me crazy. So much potential; such a waste of talent. That’s my opinion.
So there I was and as I sucked down beer after beer I looked up at the betting board and saw the odds on the upcoming fight between Antonio Tarver and Bernard Hopkins.
Hopkins, for the first time I can remember, is a significant underdog. As well he should be, considering that he lost his last two bouts against Jermain Taylor – both of which I thought he won – and is moving up to the light heavyweight division to take on, arguably, the best fighter at that weight. I should add that I think, at this time, Glen Johnson is his equal despite losing his rematch to Tarver. But it wasn’t the odds on the bout that struck me; it was simply Bernard’s name on the board. My god, I thought, the “Executioner” has been around forever!
It suddenly occurred to me just how much I admire Bernard Hopkins. Having come of age in the boxing world during the last golden era when Thomas Hearns, Marvin Hagler and Sugar Ray Leonard dominated the sports pages, I realized just how significant the former middleweight champion is in the annals of boxing history. He may well be our last touchstone to that period in the eighties when great fighters truly bit down on their gum shield and fought for both glory and money (along with Erik Morales, Marco Antonio Barrera and Manny Pacquiao).
Back then, when I saved up my paper route money to buy pay-per-view events such as the Hearns – Leonard rematch, I didn’t care how much it cost because it was an event. In fact, the Hearns – Leonard rematch was the first fight I ever wrote about and the first press conference I ever attended. I even endured a lecture from Bob Arum about why T shirts for the fight were so expensive. Everything was just, well, so damn exciting.
Perhaps I’m a bit jaded now, but as I stared at Bernard’s name I got that same sense of satisfaction I had when I shook Thomas Hearns’ hand and told him to knock Ray Leonard out. My journalistic approach back then left a lot to be desired and, when it comes to my favorite fighters or my beloved Boston Red Sox, I must admit I do tend to lose objectivity. By the way, Tommy told me he would knock Ray on his ass and damn it all if he didn’t do that, twice!
But why should Bernard Hopkins instill that same sense of drama in my pugilistic soul that Tommy Hearns did? He’s never been particularly exciting, even when he’s punched in his signature victories. He’s methodical, technical, cautious and very often boring. So why was I smiling to myself as I jotted down the odds on his fight against Tarver? It was because of professionalism. Regardless of all the self-referential lunacy that erupts from his mouth Bernard Hopkins is one of the last true professionals of the fight game. His dedication to the sport demands respect.
In fact, if James Toney had half of the discipline that Hopkins has he would be as popular as Sugar Ray Leonard at his apex, or at least as popular as Ray’s sugar substitute Oscar De La Hoya. Bernard is a blue collar, workingman’s fighter. And having slaved through every menial job under the sun, from that paper route to slinging fries at Burger King, I love blue collar fighters. Which is probably why I smiled when I saw his name on that betting board as I pondered whether or not to even watch two pampered, egotistical braggarts like Mayweather and Judah square off against each other.
Perhaps I’m being a bit too harsh in my judgment of “Pretty Boy” Floyd and “Super” Judah, but Vegas is a town that can draw you in with its glitz and glitter and then chew you up and spit you out on the curb with an empty wallet and stale perfume on your lapel. I’d much rather watch Micky Ward launch left hooks in a dingy club in Boston than Zab Judah flaunt his jewelry and waste what’s left of his potential in Sin City.
So, I ended up staying at the Mirage on Saturday night. I got myself a skyscraper of a corn beef sandwich at the Carnegie Deli, downed a few too many beers, lost a few hundred bucks at black jack and flirted unsuccessfully with several scantily clad women. Floyd won a unanimous decision, as I knew he would, and I flew home to Boston on a cramped plane sitting next to comedian Steven Wright. The two of us nodded politely to each other, both hoping the other wouldn’t try to open up a conversation. For six hours we didn’t say a word. Maybe it was the blue collar misery in us that kept us quiet.
And all through that tumultuous flight home I thought about Bernard Hopkins and his hall of fame career. I thought about what an inspirational sports figure he truly is, coming from where he did and demanding of himself that he stay blue collar and place pride on being thrifty and professional.
Boy, Vegas can sure make you appreciate where you come from.