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by David P. Greisman - Bernard Hopkins stood about a foot from his red corner, calmly waiting for the ringing of the bell that would start the 54th fight of his 19-year career. In front of Hopkins was Winky Wright, hopping up and down in the blue corner, himself a veteran of 55 bouts, a consummate professional whose 17 years as a prizefighter had taken him to eight countries on four continents.
In the usual build-up of pressers and conference calls, interviews and articles, Hopkins, in his usual loquacious manner, said that he would solve the puzzle that is Wright, making him absorb enough punishment that his face would resemble the swollen mess that Hopkins made of William Joppy’s visage in December 2003. Wright, for his part, said he would dominate Hopkins, shut his trash-talking mouth, break him down and send him “back to the retirement home.”
It was marketed as a high noon showdown, the pairing of two respected clinicians, two practitioners of the Sweet Science who nonetheless, as the slogan went, would be “Coming to Fight.” And for 12 rounds, Hopkins and Wright unleashed their artilleries, but the final bell saw both wannabe gunslingers survive with nary a bullet hole in their vests. [details]
In the usual build-up of pressers and conference calls, interviews and articles, Hopkins, in his usual loquacious manner, said that he would solve the puzzle that is Wright, making him absorb enough punishment that his face would resemble the swollen mess that Hopkins made of William Joppy’s visage in December 2003. Wright, for his part, said he would dominate Hopkins, shut his trash-talking mouth, break him down and send him “back to the retirement home.”
It was marketed as a high noon showdown, the pairing of two respected clinicians, two practitioners of the Sweet Science who nonetheless, as the slogan went, would be “Coming to Fight.” And for 12 rounds, Hopkins and Wright unleashed their artilleries, but the final bell saw both wannabe gunslingers survive with nary a bullet hole in their vests. [details]