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by David P. Greisman - Joshua Clottey hit Diego Corrales with left hooks that pushed him backward and pulled him into a life-and-death battle. He hit Corrales with right hands that swiveled his head and wobbled his knees. He hit Corrales with uppercuts that snapped his neck and rolled his eyes.
He hit him with reality.
There will be no easy bouts at welterweight for Corrales, not when the opponents are bigger and stronger than before. He will, as always, take punishment in order to give it, but now his opponents’ punches are that much heavier, their chins that much sturdier.
100-87. 98-89. 97-90. The three judges saw Clottey winning in convincing fashion, but nobody needed the official tallies to see that. Not when one could look at Corrales’ face.
His lips, swollen. His jaw, possibly broken. A cut above his right eye sent a river of blood flowing down his face. And as the rounds progressed, one could tell that Corrales was essentially swimming upstream.
Corrales went ten rough rounds. He went to the body. He went to war. He was active and aggressive, but his combinations either bounced off of Clottey’s guard or were shrugged off and answered with violent volleys. Against a lightweight, Corrales would have ended up with his hands raised in the air. Against this welterweight, he instead found himself on the canvas, overpowered and overwhelmed.
Corrales hit the mat in the ninth, floored as much by the combination as by the accumulation of punches that were still hard and still coming. It was the twelfth time in his professional career that he had been sent down, and as always, he got to his feet. But the look on his face was of a man beaten up, a warrior struggling to survive.
Corrales went down again in the tenth, crumpled by a Clottey counter. The referee need not have asked whether Corrales wanted to continue. He’d go out on his shield, even one that had been shattered to pieces by bomb after bomb. The man, himself, could never be broken. [details]
He hit him with reality.
There will be no easy bouts at welterweight for Corrales, not when the opponents are bigger and stronger than before. He will, as always, take punishment in order to give it, but now his opponents’ punches are that much heavier, their chins that much sturdier.
100-87. 98-89. 97-90. The three judges saw Clottey winning in convincing fashion, but nobody needed the official tallies to see that. Not when one could look at Corrales’ face.
His lips, swollen. His jaw, possibly broken. A cut above his right eye sent a river of blood flowing down his face. And as the rounds progressed, one could tell that Corrales was essentially swimming upstream.
Corrales went ten rough rounds. He went to the body. He went to war. He was active and aggressive, but his combinations either bounced off of Clottey’s guard or were shrugged off and answered with violent volleys. Against a lightweight, Corrales would have ended up with his hands raised in the air. Against this welterweight, he instead found himself on the canvas, overpowered and overwhelmed.
Corrales hit the mat in the ninth, floored as much by the combination as by the accumulation of punches that were still hard and still coming. It was the twelfth time in his professional career that he had been sent down, and as always, he got to his feet. But the look on his face was of a man beaten up, a warrior struggling to survive.
Corrales went down again in the tenth, crumpled by a Clottey counter. The referee need not have asked whether Corrales wanted to continue. He’d go out on his shield, even one that had been shattered to pieces by bomb after bomb. The man, himself, could never be broken. [details]