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As this fight is about to be rebroadcast (FSNY, 9pm east coast) I’m compelled to defend the performance of Shannon Briggs. To the average, casual fan, Briggs might appear to be a huge—albeit plodding and heartless—boxer with the proverbial gift of gab. A close watching of this brilliant chess match, however, illuminates a vast array of subtleties not immediately apparent at first glance.
To begin with, the superhuman, jackhammer-powered jab of Briggs is often overlooked. That he is ponderous with it does not help matters. Anyone can win a fight with one hand (see Klitschko v Austin). But Briggs does not take the easy way out. Never has. Instead, Briggs lulls his opponent into believing the jab is merely a range finder. A pawing and pointless (literally) reflex that serves no real purpose. Meanwhile, it is no less than a sleeping giant one would be wise not to wake. In this particular instance, Ibragimov did well to steel himself while in the vicinity of the hypnotic pendulum that is the man from Brownsville’s left.
Ibragimov’s footwork in rounds one through five brings to mind that of Odysseus in the lair of Polyphemus. It is that careful, that well considered and that well executed.
As the fight progresses, Briggs’ strategy materializes. He appears confused. Frustrated. The look in his eye says ‘bring it’ but his actions, or lack thereof, betray this. He gets popped, repeatedly, and reacts with a sneer. As if offended. Ibragimov circles, lunges, connects, backs off. By round four his confidence is rising. Little does he know, he is playing directly into the big man’s hands.
In round six we see a sudden change. Briggs raises the right. It is ****ed back, ready to fire. But not yet. This is merely a show. A reminder. Had Briggs thrown the punch, his opponent might have been reminded of his power. And the time was not yet right. This was a waiting game for Briggs. A mind game. And he was playing it perfectly.
Round nine. Seemingly well behind on points, Briggs once again raises the right. This time he was brilliantly convincing in his intention to throw it. I admit to being fooled myself, so crafty was this man’s game plan. But again, no. Briggs is a sadist. And he was torturing his victim. The allegations of steroid use, the admitted asthma affliction, the seeming inability to throw a single punch: Ibragimov was falling for it all.
Then, the final round. As Liakhovich had been played by this man as perfectly as anyone has been played in the history of the sport, the moment of Briggs’ symphonic crescendo had arrived. But something went horribly wrong. To reference another myth, Briggs suffered the storied fate of Narcissus. He looked deep into the well of his own strategy and he fell in love with its perfection. He froze in admiration, in awe of his own brilliance. And Ibragimov, pillar of mediocrity that he is, did what he had been doing all night long: he took advantage.
The end result is known to all. But what transpired between the lines of this epic is not often considered. Shannon Briggs had a flawless battle plan and he executed it without a single misstep. And yet… at the sound of the final bell he was left empty handed. He was too perfect that night. He had taken the art of boxing to a level seldom attained. Quite probably into the rarified atmosphere of one-of-a-kind performances within the squared circle. In point of fact, he had gone too far. Again, the Greeks: Icarus comes to mind. Briggs lost the fight. No question. But is it the right question? And if not, what is the answer?
To begin with, the superhuman, jackhammer-powered jab of Briggs is often overlooked. That he is ponderous with it does not help matters. Anyone can win a fight with one hand (see Klitschko v Austin). But Briggs does not take the easy way out. Never has. Instead, Briggs lulls his opponent into believing the jab is merely a range finder. A pawing and pointless (literally) reflex that serves no real purpose. Meanwhile, it is no less than a sleeping giant one would be wise not to wake. In this particular instance, Ibragimov did well to steel himself while in the vicinity of the hypnotic pendulum that is the man from Brownsville’s left.
Ibragimov’s footwork in rounds one through five brings to mind that of Odysseus in the lair of Polyphemus. It is that careful, that well considered and that well executed.
As the fight progresses, Briggs’ strategy materializes. He appears confused. Frustrated. The look in his eye says ‘bring it’ but his actions, or lack thereof, betray this. He gets popped, repeatedly, and reacts with a sneer. As if offended. Ibragimov circles, lunges, connects, backs off. By round four his confidence is rising. Little does he know, he is playing directly into the big man’s hands.
In round six we see a sudden change. Briggs raises the right. It is ****ed back, ready to fire. But not yet. This is merely a show. A reminder. Had Briggs thrown the punch, his opponent might have been reminded of his power. And the time was not yet right. This was a waiting game for Briggs. A mind game. And he was playing it perfectly.
Round nine. Seemingly well behind on points, Briggs once again raises the right. This time he was brilliantly convincing in his intention to throw it. I admit to being fooled myself, so crafty was this man’s game plan. But again, no. Briggs is a sadist. And he was torturing his victim. The allegations of steroid use, the admitted asthma affliction, the seeming inability to throw a single punch: Ibragimov was falling for it all.
Then, the final round. As Liakhovich had been played by this man as perfectly as anyone has been played in the history of the sport, the moment of Briggs’ symphonic crescendo had arrived. But something went horribly wrong. To reference another myth, Briggs suffered the storied fate of Narcissus. He looked deep into the well of his own strategy and he fell in love with its perfection. He froze in admiration, in awe of his own brilliance. And Ibragimov, pillar of mediocrity that he is, did what he had been doing all night long: he took advantage.
The end result is known to all. But what transpired between the lines of this epic is not often considered. Shannon Briggs had a flawless battle plan and he executed it without a single misstep. And yet… at the sound of the final bell he was left empty handed. He was too perfect that night. He had taken the art of boxing to a level seldom attained. Quite probably into the rarified atmosphere of one-of-a-kind performances within the squared circle. In point of fact, he had gone too far. Again, the Greeks: Icarus comes to mind. Briggs lost the fight. No question. But is it the right question? And if not, what is the answer?
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