Discussing drugs in boxing is no easier than the “sex talk” for which two parents steel themselves, then, once their child is of age, choose to either confront or avoid. Confront it and discomfort is inevitable, the very thing they fear. Yet avoid it, on the other hand, and it can be construed as a dereliction of duty; a parental failing; cowardice.
Nobody knows how to answer tough questions until they are asked, of course, and often the fear of the answer is enough to preclude the question ever being asked. It is easier that way, after all. It is easier to just acknowledge certain things in life without investigating them or wanting to dig deeper and know more. If it’s not your problem in the first place, why go out of your way to then make it yours? Besides, in the end, not knowing keeps you young and dumb and blissfully ignorant. That’s accepted wisdom.
In boxing, whenever a boxer with a performance-enhancing drugs history prepares to fight, it is not a question of “the birds and the bees” but rather the effect of PEDs. Important though it is, rarely is this taboo issue ever mentioned on fight night, either by commentators or pundits, and seldom is it brought up beforehand, whether at a press conference or in interviews. The reasons for this are manifold, but the main reason, one suspects, is because avoidance reduces the chance of discomfort – and who wants to be uncomfortable?
At best, should you ask a boxer about their PED history, you will be greeted with a scowl, an expletive, or an abrupt finish to your interview. At worst, they might get physical – this is, lest we forget, a sport of testosterone/ego-driven athletes – and you might find your access to said boxer restricted. If so, you will at least have your answer. You will know then that honesty is a nuisance and about as welcome as you are. It is a nuisance for fighters who prefer to hide behind dishonesty and it is a nuisance for the ones who run the show, those who are similarly evasive and who, like us, prefer to pretend boxing is a sport.
Whenever honesty is introduced, you see, it strikes a red line through whatever it is all the actors involved in boxing are trying to create. It stops the performance and makes it real for a second. It breaks both the fourth wall and the first rule: Do Not Talk About Fight Club. It also reminds some – chiefly, the ones in positions of power – of their cowardice and their incompetence.
Playing the lead this week is Dillian Whyte, a British heavyweight with more than one failed PED test to his name. He fights Moses Itauma, arguably the best prospect in the sport, on Saturday in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia and will be making a load of money in the process. He will also be adequately protected throughout fight week, both by the people paying him the money and the people who are as grateful as Whyte is to be there. Together, like a 12-step support group, these people will gleefully join hands and help to create a forcefield around Whyte and they will ensure that only like-minded individuals are allowed anywhere near it. There will, inside this hiding place, be no room for either honesty or integrity and the only songs Whyte will hear will be those sung by his favourite voices, all soft and in harmony.
That is not to say it is the job of the media to interrogate the likes of Whyte, by the way. Ideally, if the sport was properly governed, and the right punishments were meted out, there would be no need to belabour a point and keep bringing it up. In that far-fetched scenario, we would instead see boxers serve appropriate bans and suffer reputational damage as a result of their failed test and we would likely feel less inclined to then remind them of it. Give them four years, for instance, and by the time they return to the ring we, the media, may have forgotten about them and the transgression altogether. Wouldn’t that be nice?
As it is, because bans are few and far between, and always short, all we can really do is keep nudging people towards the truth. It is not intended to be a witch hunt, nor is it a personal vendetta against one particular boxer. All it is, ultimately, is both an attempt to remind ourselves of what occurred and do the job those in positions of power are seemingly incapable of doing. Otherwise, without these reminders, it’s as though nothing at all has happened. Time passes. People forget. In the case of Whyte, you might ask yourself this: was he really withdrawn from that proposed rematch with Anthony Joshua in 2023, or did we all just imagine it?
Regardless, it hardly matters now. Whether we remember it or not, Whyte is not only back in contention as a money-making heavyweight but is presently waltzing through fight week among friends, not a single sceptic to be found. All he sees in fact are “WELCOME HOME, DILLIAN” banners and all he hears are voices saying, “We missed you, Dillian. It’s good to have you back. Please get comfortable”.
It shouldn’t take long, either, given the home boxing provides is exactly how Whyte remembered it. It is still the perfect environment for those who want to forget things or ignore them. It is still a home full of rugs. It is still super comfortable.
Better yet, inside this home are only friends and fans; people happy to be there; people happy to sing, dance and reach out and touch hands. Even the few with a modicum of intelligence who know the truth about a situation are no longer incentivized to speak it and are therefore willing to help out, either by lifting rugs or by sweeping. Do that and they get invited back. Do that and they get to fist bump their favourite fighter and call him by his first name.
Admittedly, it is not easy to shine a light on the dark stuff in boxing. Only once, in fact, have I ever had the opportunity and/or courage to ask, in person, a fighter with a checkered PED history exactly what I wanted to ask them to their face. That fighter was Alexander Povetkin back in 2018, and the only reason I felt so strongly about raising the drugs issue with the Russian that day was because David Price, his next opponent, had by then already been duped and destroyed by a couple of drugs cheats (Tony Thompson and Erkan Teper). It felt, in light of that, as though it was somehow my duty to confront Povetkin in Cardiff and assume that nothing, vis-à-vis drug-testing, had been done properly in the lead up to the Price fight (I was right). It also felt bizarre to interview a controversial figure like Povetkin and try to talk to him about all the usual stuff without once mentioning drugs. How’s camp been, Alex? Are you feeling fitter than ever? What attracted you to David Price? He’s rather big, isn’t he? He has six inches on you. Size, does it matter? What will you use for protection?
I wasn’t looking to prove a point, act tough, or provoke Povetkin. I just couldn’t see any other way of starting an interview with him than by asking him if he had been drugs-tested and in turn (hopefully) reminding him of the times he had put the health of an opponent at risk. Interestingly, too, he seemed kind of okay with it. He didn’t whack me, for one. Nor did he cut short the interview and go find more accommodating interviewers elsewhere in the room. He simply accepted that this would always be the line of questioning now and that, by asking him these specific questions, I was just doing my job.
That said, I’ll concede that it is easier with some than it is with others. Some fighters, like Povetkin, have had their careers overshadowed by drugs issues, whereas others have failed only one test, the result of which they may have contested and disputed. In those cases, where the benefit of the doubt is still an option, it is harder to know how or whether to push. Moreover, for as much as I grilled Povetkin that afternoon in Wales, there have been other times when I have interviewed legends – Shane Mosley and Roy Jones, for example – and conveniently forgotten to ask them about their PED history while swallowing every sugary, fight-related anecdote they sent my way. Growing up Jones and Mosley were heroes of mine, of course, and with them both retired it made no sense, I told myself, to spoil the mood. So, I didn’t. In me, they had a safe audience, you might say.
The same goes for Whyte and all the other “popular” fighters who test dirty these days. They clearly have the upper hand on fighters less popular and can find within their popularity a degree of protection. No matter the severity of a failed test, these members of the so-called “in crowd” are soon allowed to get back to business uncontested and are spared the constant reminders wherever they go. It’s why, when you see them, they always appear to be smiling. It’s why some become repeat offenders.
Never will an example be made of a popular fighter, alas, and perhaps therein lies the issue. An unknown Mexican might be pilloried online and blacklisted for testing dirty and bringing the sport into disrepute, yet a well-known and popular fighter will be given license to chill in the lobby of a fight hotel and greeted not as a villain but as a hero. Why? Because just as some drugs are better than others, some drugs cheats are better than others. Or at least more valuable than others.
