by David P. Greisman
Though he had been a Southern Californian for all of his 37 years, the arena crowd, 20,820 strong, were not in his favor. This was not his home.
Though “Sugar” Shane Mosley had laced up the gloves in and around Los Angeles since his amateur days, fighting in the region for nearly half of his professional fights and headlining the first-ever boxing card at the Staples Center, he was the B-side in the main event. This was not his ring.
The hero, the favorite, was Antonio Margarito, a Mexican fighter who, like Mosley, had been born outside of the City of Angels. Margarito came in with newfound popularity, with the fame that long eluded him, the number-one welterweight in the world, the man who would shrug off punishment before closing in on his prey, who became a star by doing just so last year, thrilling the masses by making Miguel Cotto quit.
Margarito, 30, was younger and taller. He was seen as being toward the top of his game, rising up the mythical pound-for-pound ladder while Mosley had long since begun his descent from a similar standing. Margarito was the now – the best at 147, the owner of a world title. Everything about Mosley was not now, but then – a former world titlist at 135, the former world champ at 147 and 154.
This was not his home. This was not his ring. This was not his prime.
This was his night.
Though he was the underdog, there was nary a moment of doubt that Shane Mosley would come out victorious. For 32 minutes and 43 seconds, during the three-minute stanzas in the ring and the minute-long rest breaks in the corners, one truth was quite clear – Mosley had tamed the Tijuana Tornado.
This was not the same Mosley who lost a close decision two fights ago to Miguel Cotto, nor was this the same Mosley who looked wary in his previous outing, against Ricardo Mayorga.
This was a Mosley who threw punches in combinations, who did not limit his offense while loading up on power punches but instead mixed in heavy hands with speedy shots. This was a Mosley designed to make sure Margarito was not the same destroyer, the same unceasing, unstoppable pressure fighter.
Miguel Cotto had attempted to outbox Margarito, but at 5-foot-7 – four inches shorter than Margarito – he remained in range, soaking up as much damage as he was delivering. When Cotto could no longer elude Margarito, he wound up trapped, defenseless, absorbing crushing blows while offering little in return.
Mosley, at 5-foot-9, is two inches shorter than Margarito. But his reach, 74 inches of wingspan, is two inches longer. With slight changes in distance and direction, he could move just out of reach of Margarito’s slower shots, countering with crisp crosses, following with flurries and finishing with hooks. As several rounds came to a close, Mosley would land one last right hand, a message, a memory for Margarito to take with him and mull over for 60 seconds.
Margarito had been bothered before by hand speed. Two years before, Joshua Clottey had proven effective at teeing off on Margarito with good counters. But the Tijuana Tornado, as he had done in so many fights, would storm back, breaking down his opponent and taking the win.
That would not happen this time.
Mosley tied up Margarito on the inside, smothering long arms that needed just a bit more room in order to dig to the body. Margarito threw less than usual, landing little, hitting Mosley with just 22 percent of his shots and 26 percent of his power punches. Mosley, meanwhile, went to work on Margarito’s ribs, chopping away until the head was ready to follow.
That head would be there to be hit all night. Mosley’s jab was the table-setter, the backbeat to his rhythm. He sent out 267 jabs, landing 60. His main course, his power chords, were the hooks to the body and head, the straight rights that were on target nearly half of the time. Mosley threw 240 power punches, landing 118.
The most vicious of those 118 came in the final minute of action.
In the closing 10 seconds of the eighth round, Mosley landed a left hook on Margarito’s face, following up with another left hook that sent Margarito falling backward into the ropes. Mosley moved forward, unleashing a right hook that left Margarito reeling, another right hook that had him ready to go and one more right hook that put him down on all fours.
Margarito was up at seven, unsteady on his feet, looking nothing like the granite-chinned man who had withstood sledgehammer shots from Kermit Cintron and Miguel Cotto and had essentially laughed them off.
“I’m okay,” Margarito was translated as saying in the corner between rounds while his team worked to revive him.
“No, you’re not, son,” one member of his team replied. “That’s it.”
“No, please,” Margarito said.
Margarito did enough to convince his corner to send him back out, to face what was coming to him. Mosley was eager to oblige, forcing his depleted, defeated opponent to the ropes, lashing out with left and right hooks and leading the referee to step in out of mercy 43 seconds into the round.
Margarito dropped to the mat, done, just as he had left Cotto last year.
As the largest-ever crowd at the Staples Center filed out of the arena, they passed a statue of Oscar De La Hoya. In his only appearance in that building, De La Hoya had lost, dropping a decision against Shane Mosley on the inaugural Staples Center fight card.
Mosley was 29 at the time, new to the welterweight division, an undefeated fighter whose victory launched him into stardom. He was the now. But that was then. In the eight-and-a-half years since, he had lost five times. He had looked older and slower.
But though this was no longer his prime – and though the crowd and circumstances meant that this was neither his home nor his ring – this would not be his end.
The 10 Count will return next week.
David P. Greisman is a member of the Boxing Writers Association of America. His weekly column, “Fighting Words,” appears every Monday on BoxingScene.com. He may be reached for questions and comments at fightingwords1@gmail.com
