Usually when one hears that Fighter A has beaten Fighter B “at their own game”, it relates to the clashing of styles inside the ring. It means, a lot of the time, that an inside fighter has found their equal and is suddenly not quite so strong and dangerous in that terrain. Or, if not that, it might mean a fleet-footed boxer has been outboxed by somebody they erroneously considered only a puncher or a brawler; the counterpuncher counterpunched.
Sometimes, though, beating an opponent at their own game has nothing to do with what occurs in the ring. Thirty years ago, for instance, Irish super-middleweight Steve Collins successfully beat Chris Eubank at his own game without having to throw a single punch. Twice, in fact, Collins beat Eubank before they had even set foot in the ring and before styles had become a factor.
To understand how Collins achieved this feat we must first remember how Chris Eubank, back in the 1990s, was perceived as both an opponent and a personality. He was, with good reason, viewed as a bit of an enigma, Eubank; somebody hard to read and hard to understand. This mystique, mixed with undoubted charisma, not only brought the WBO champion plenty of attention, but it left opponents of his always wondering how he would approach things on fight night. After all, you could easily train for Eubank the fighter, and spar with boxers who resembled him stylistically, yet it was another thing trying to second-guess what was going on his head or what mind games he had up his sleeve.
“I had to beat him mentally,” admitted Collins, reflecting on his two fights with Eubank in 1995. “Physically you can beat him, but you have to beat him first mentally. He always led the game when it came to the mental stuff and I’d see him beat opponents before he even stepped in the ring with them.
“Chris was the one everybody watched and he knew they were all watching him. I had to turn the tables on him and give him that inferiority complex a lot of his opponents had going into fights with him. Being the centre of attention was one of his greatest assets and I had to remove that from the equation.”
Most boxers carry with them a superiority complex whenever preparing for a fight. It’s what gets them to the gym. It’s what gets them to the ring. It’s what has them to believe – that they will win, that they will make it out alive. In the case of Chris Eubank, there have been few fighters more complex, generally speaking, nor as welcoming of attention and the pressure it brings. Beneath the spotlight he would never shrink, as some might, but would instead get bigger and smile more broadly. Scrutinise him and he couldn’t wait to perform. Doubt him and he couldn’t wait to prove you wrong.
Collins, meanwhile, was in some ways similar, though he presented quite differently. He too liked to be the centre of attention and he too seemed to feel invigorated when his back was against the wall or people said he couldn’t do something. More importantly, though, Collins knew what he saw when he looked at Eubank and was able to work out the Eubank antidote long before meeting him in the ring.
He was not shy or precious about it, either. In fact, before their first fight on March 18, 1995, Collins was happy to go into detail about how he had prepared to fight Eubank and what, in his eyes, would in the end be the difference between them on the night. It boiled down to just one word: psychotherapy. Or an even better word: hypnotism.
“I used to work with sports psychologists who practised a form of hypnosis and they’d be using all sorts of relaxation and concentration methods,” Collins explained. “I was the one telling them how I feel and what I needed from them. If they’d have come to me, they wouldn’t have had a clue. Only boxers can relate to boxers and no amount of psychology degrees can change that. I used to work with Alan Heary, a guy from just outside Dublin. I liked him. He was honest and ambitious and had a bit of knowledge. And he listened to me. So he’d come to Jersey and we’d do stuff together.
“You could get someone like Paul McKenna to come along and spend weeks convincing you that you can get into the ring and knock out Lennox Lewis, but you won’t. You might kid yourself for a little while, but it can’t give you something you haven’t got. There are a lot of distractions in boxing and this kind of stuff just helps you centre your mind and focus. Otherwise, distractions can run all over you and take you away from what’s important.”
Hypnotism had and still has certain connotations. It was, to most, an alien term and concept, which is perhaps why, in ’95, Collins chose to weaponise it ahead of fighting Eubank. The merest mention of it had Eubank, unbeaten in 43 pro fights, suddenly unsure of Collins’ intentions and his own safety. Now it was Eubank who struggled to understand the man with whom he was set to share a ring. Now it was Eubank who was seen as “normal” in the presence of something “abnormal”.
“I wanted to call the fight off,” said Eubank on the night of their first encounter. “I’m going into unknown territory. Forty-three fights in the past I’ve always known what I was dealing with. I don’t know what I’m dealing with tonight. I’m fighting someone who is mechanically orientated and that is just an unknown area. It’s not fair that I should be put in this situation.”
By contemplating an exit for fear of what was around the corner, Eubank had unknowingly given Collins the very reaction he had wanted. Better yet, it gave Collins the licence and motivation to up the ante and his unpredictability on the night. If, say, Eubank wanted to come to the ring on a Harley Davison, which he did, he would then find Collins sitting on his corner stool, hood up, eyes closed, headphones on. Simply the Best? Collins never heard it. The top-rope jump? Collins never saw it.
“I knew Eubank was reeling the night before the fight when I dropped the bombshell on him,” said Collins, who remained “asleep” throughout the pre-fight introductions in Millstreet. (Only when asked to meet Eubank for the referee’s instructions did Collins’ hypnotist, Tony Quinn, remove the challenger’s headphones and his robe.) “He wanted to blow the fight and he listed all the reasons why he should pull out.
“At that point I knew I was in his head and that all I had to do was better him physically the next day. I still had to fight him, and when that first bell rang I knew he’d come out on instinct and do what he always did, but he didn’t seem like the same Chris Eubank anymore. If he had five great assets, I’d now taken one away and now he’s down to four. And if I can take one or two more away from him, the odds start becoming stacked in my favour.
“I’d no control over the judges or referee, but everything else was there to be won, so I tried to win it all. I wanted him to feel defeated in every battle we had, both before and during the fight. It’s like cutting down the ring on an opponent. You don’t just rush in and look to finish them with the first punch you land. You have to make investments. You sort your feet out, close off the ring, cut off the corners and then begin to touch them up to the head and then whack to the body. You try to slow them down. Only then, once a breakthrough has been made, do you step on it and start shutting them down completely. You work in stages, though.”
Today it’s less surprising to hear of a boxer working with a psychologist or even a hypnotist before a fight. Some boxers have been known to employ professionals in those fields for an entire camp and some will even undergo sessions on the day of the fight, just to ensure they are in the right frame of mind.
In 1995, however, the relationship between men – particularly boxing men – and psychologists was not often spoken about, much less explored in any great depth. It was, in the eyes of Chris Eubank, something akin to witchcraft, which meant Steve Collins, rather than a title challenger from Ireland, was, by virtue of him dabbling, something else, something extra, something other.
“It was all down to the psychology of the game, more so than jabs and right hands,” Collins recalled. “When I made him uncertain and when I dragged the focus away from him, doubt started to creep in and it was there throughout the fight. I could see it written on his face for every single round I shared with him. Every round was something new and unexpected. He didn’t know what was going to happen; he didn’t know what I was going to do. And Chris hated that. He loved being the one in control. He had never had that doubt before.
“Like any boxing match, if you take someone out of their comfort zone and put them in a place they’ve never been before, there’s a good chance they’ll break down and malfunction. Now, Eubank was very experienced in the ring and could do most things reasonably well. He could box and he could stand and punch. But nobody had ever tried getting into his head and fighting him outside the ropes first. Nobody had ever taken him out of that comfort zone. As a result, he didn’t see it coming. He thought he had me all figured out, just like all his other opponents.
“Nervous energy can bring down any fighter and Eubank was no different. If something feels unfamiliar or not quite right you burn up nervous energy and you ask yourself questions. Add to that the fact that Eubank was a great thinker anyway and you can imagine what was going on in his head throughout the course of those two fights. All of this weakened his focus and distracted him from the figure in front of his eyes. It’s like a bag of water with holes in it; all the water escapes until there’s eventually none left. That’s what Eubank felt like on the night of the fight. The whole thing was leaking and he didn’t know how to stop it. Before he realised what was going on, it was over. He lost his title.”
The second time they boxed, on September 9, 1995, the fight went the same way. This time Eubank knew more about Collins, both his tricks and his best punches, yet still the Irishman was in his head and, for 12 rounds, on his chest. Seldom, in fact, did Collins ever leave Eubank alone or give him a moment’s rest.
It caused Eubank great discomfort, this approach, and it led to another decision win – split rather than unanimous, as was the case six months prior. It also led to a great mutual respect.
“I just remember him being a guy that would stand with me and trade when most others wouldn't,” said Collins. “I could hit him and he’d hit back every time. Even up to the last minute of the last round, he had that determination, strength and power. He was just as stubborn as I was. I knew he didn’t want to lose either. It was nice to meet my equal in a sense.
“The difference was that I’d been with the Petronellis [Goody and Pat], [Floyd] Patterson, [Freddie], Roach, and [Freddie] King, and I knew so much more than he did. It didn’t matter how many faces he pulled or how determined he appeared to be, he could only fight one way, whereas I had options. I could change everything mid-fight; switch from Plan A to Plans B, C and D. Chris could only ever fight the same way round after round. That was fine when the going was good and he was winning, but against me that wasn’t the case. I had a style that could shut down his attributes and then leave him needing more.
“At the end of a round I might go back to Freddie [King] and say, ‘Look, Freddie, this guy’s strong inside, I'm not sure I can stand with him,’ and then he’d calmly tell me to switch to boxing a bit behind the jab and be busy from the outside: ‘Don't spend so much time lingering in clinches.’ Then, when I gained the upper hand in that area, and began to frustrate Chris and tire him out, I could revert back to Plan A and slug with him some more. I’d keep switching the script on him, keep him guessing. Chris didn’t like to be the man kept guessing. He liked to have all the answers.”
Ironically, despite all the emphasis on the psychological side of things, the 24 rounds shared by Collins and Eubank in ’95 will forever be remembered for how physical they were. Indeed, 30 years after the fact, what sticks with Collins when he remembers Eubank and their fights is the physical nature of them and how otherworldly tough Eubank was – both physically and mentally.
“I was never in the ring with a tougher man than Eubank,” said Collins. “I mean, I had tougher fights – in terms of styles – but I never hit someone as hard and tough as Eubank. He was there for the duration and I knew it. It became abundantly clear just seconds into our first fight that he wasn’t shifting for anybody. He was going to stand there with me and punch when I did and go blow-for-blow the whole way. I caught him with shots that I know hurt him – and I could point out those shots to this day – but because he’s such a tough guy, mentally and physically, most people watching at home would never realise he was hurt. It’s only because I was right there with him – feeling everything he felt, sharing the same experience – that I could sense he was hurt. Even then, within half a minute of me sensing he was hurt, he’d be chucking dangerous right hands your way, hard enough to take you out. That's a very rare ability.”
True of all great fights, and all great rivalries, Collins vs. Eubank lives as much in the body as in the mind.
