By Mike Casey

A big left hook to the jaw last Saturday night made Audley Harrison hit the deck at the Wembley Arena with only marginally less commotion than a giant redwood crashing to the floor at Muir Woods.

It had to happen. It was on the cards from day one, whatever the optimists and the devil’s advocates tried to tell us to the contrary. Nikolay Valuev and Wladimir Klitschko will eventually be chopped down in similarly emphatic fashion when they finally cease to amuse the mischievous children of the gods.

A man cannot fake a love of boxing. If he is blessed with exceptional talent, he can dislike the game and still be a great fighter. But those hybrids are very rare. If the talent is moderate and the desire is weak, the toughest game of all will find you out and unceremoniously send you back to where you came from.

This stone cold fact is of great consolation to this writer as we continue to swim in a heavyweight sea of depressing mediocrity. Boxing’s great and eternal equaliser is its ability to sort the wheat from the chaff. Frustratingly, this can take an inordinate amount of time. Like one of her injured fighters tottering against the ropes, the old fight game can reel and stagger, dawdle and stagnate. But then the cleansing process kicks into motion and the garbage truck carries away the waste.

In the meantime, the eager must curb their enthusiasm and the ignorant must take a little more time to educate themselves. They must learn, for one thing, that carrying 254lbs of beef and a lot of mouth does not get a fighter over the finishing line against fighting opposition. ‘Little’ Michael Sprott gave away nearly 22lbs on Saturday night and put Audley Harrison to sleep for a good few minutes with one good old-fashioned blast to the button.

Yet prior to the execution, we were hearing all the familiar old guff. Audley was back! Well, pardon me, folks, but he was never there. He had some talent, but never exceptionally so. He plodded, he prodded, he pawed and he huffed and puffed, doing as little as possible on the way to a succession of numbingly dull wins against inferior opponents. He blew his fragile, unbeaten record to the erratic Danny Williams in a slow waltz of almost comical tedium, before apparently being re-born and stopping the de-motivated Williams with a few passable biffs in their return match.

Honestly, how can people be taken in by all this rubbish? The old saying goes that a drowning man will cling to a serpent, but are we all so desperate for some chink of light that any old confidence trickster can now hoodwink us?

I pick on Audley Harrison merely because he happens to be the unfortunate man of the moment. The real point here is that Harrison has never truly enjoyed the business of fighting. The same can be said of Valuev, the Klitschko brothers, Jameel McCline, Shannon Briggs and the talented but infuriatingly casual Lamon Brewster.

Rest assured, we will find another Mike Tyson. We will find another young George Foreman. In the meantime, we cannot cower to the blue sky thinkers who move to shut us up whenever we offer constructive criticism.

The poor state of boxing’s flagship division has come about for numerous reasons, which simply must be addressed at some point. Like a cancerous growth, the malaise has come about slowly. Quality has been savagely diluted by the unforgivable fragmentation of the heavyweight championship, once the richest and most valued prize in sport.

Why should a boxer have to fight often these days? Why should he worry too much after a calamitous defeat? Why should he have to sweat and grind and learn his trade thoroughly like the great masters of yore? Because there is always another chance, another tin-pot title to shoot at, another gaudy belt of no significance to strap around the waist.

Take a close look at the old Ring Magazine championship belts. They were things of beauty, lovingly crafted and enduring. Now compare them to the wholesale, jumbo-sized watchstraps of today’s ‘sanctioning’ bodies. Never mind the quality, feel the width. It is richly ironic indeed that these gentlemen should spout such sanctimonious drivel about quality and honesty when the prime symbols of their companies resemble something that a vagrant might wear to hold up what is left of his pants.

Heavyweight boxing, and boxing as a whole for that matter, needs to wake up. The signs are not all bleak. Here in the UK, the very people who drove the sport into a small corner are now discovering that it actually achieved a lot of good. Boxing clubs and gyms are opening up again in cities and towns and youngsters are joining up by the score. Vandalism has decreased in these locations as a result. Ye gods, what a surprise!

We need this trend to continue, especially across the great continent of America, which is vitally important to the game. Hungry fighters don’t have to be starving fighters. We don’t need another Great Depression to winkle out the great and willing talent that waits to hear the clarion call. Young men will have hunger in their bellies if they are sure that boxing is a worthwhile and honourable pursuit. They will have it when boxing reclaims its former standing as a serious competitor to football and baseball. They will have it if there is less hype, less cheap and cheerful tackiness and a premium placed on education and dedication.

As quality and depth increases, the old and the weak and the great pretenders will be rooted out much more quickly. Laziness will be punished by a big tumble down the rankings if the competition is fierce.

Right now, the heavyweights especially are slothful and unwilling because they can afford to be.

Will Audley Harrison come again? Quite probably. Will ol’ man James Toney get another crack at a portion of something? Almost assuredly. Wladmir Klitschko will continue to hammer lesser men until one brave soul finally hammers him. Good grief, it has already happened twice.

Boxers will continue to lay off for a year or so between fights, either to gaze at their navels or to ‘find themselves’. That latter condition I never have been able to figure out. How does a man lose himself in the first place? Does he slip away while he’s not looking?

“A man must fight,” Gene Tunney once said. Thank the Lord, we will always breed those glorious men who have it in the blood. I saw a man who loves to fight on the same Wembley bill last Saturday. Lightweight Graham Earl, a sturdy little battler of remarkable courage and resilience, survived three knockdowns to floor Australian bomber Michael Katsidis and very nearly pull off one of the great comebacks.

Earl’s compassionate corner threw in the towel seconds before the great turnaround, but wise old referee Mickey Vann ignored the gesture. Earl was finally retired after five rounds of breathtaking ferocity, and was clearly unhappy with the decision. The poor kid regarded it as an insult to his pride, even though he had taken some withering punishment from a highly dangerous, natural born puncher.

Graham Earl clearly loves to fight. So does Arturo Gatti, Marco Antonio Barrera, Erik Morales, Miguel Cotto and Antonio Margarito. The heavyweights should be leading these men and showering young prospects at all weights with motivation and desire.
Instead, Audley Harrison is probably still seeing stars and Shannon Briggs is apparently plagued by the triple whammy of ‘aspirational pneumonia’, sleep apnea and asthma. I really must remember never to complain about my mild diabetes again. Shannon has a title defence coming up on March 10 and one rather gets the impression that he is not too enthusiastic about it.

It won’t do, folks. It simply won’t do if we are ever to get back to the promised land. Men responsible for leading the way must have the desire to do so.

In a nutshell, you gotta love it. As Audley Harrison discovered, it’s a damned dangerous occupation if you don’t.

Mike Casey is a boxing journalist and historian and a staff writer with Boxing Scene. He is a member of the International Boxing Research Organization (IBRO) and founder and editor of the Grand Slam Premium Boxing Service for historians and fans (www.grandslampage.net).