Tweet
Oscar is trying really hard to promote this as a fair fight.
Big edge
to Oscar?
By Don Stradley
Let's go to the history books:
The impending clash between lightweight titleholder Manny Pacquiao and box-office leviathan Oscar De La Hoya has set off the usual round of discussions about good big men versus good little men. Quite a few Internet message boards have been spackled with the word “mismatch,” and most fans are in agreement that the big man usually prevails. Perhaps you have already been cornered by an uncle who remembers when Bob Foster, the great light heavyweight, met the much heavier Joe Frazier and was nearly drilled into the canvas.
But what’s forgotten is that the little guys win some of these matches.
When Mickey Walker, a former champion at welterweight and middleweight, failed to take the light heavyweight title from Tommy Loughran, he stepped up and challenged the heavyweights of his day. Sometimes outweighed by as much as 50 pounds, Walker won bouts over Johnny Risko (twice), K.O. Christner, Bearcat Wright, King Levinsky, and Paulino Uzcudun. Walker’s reign as a giant killer ended in 1932 when Max Schmeling stopped him in eight, but within three months Walker was at it again, destroying 223-pound Arthur “Coo-Coo” DeKuh at 1:48 of the first round.
“It was my idea to fight the big guys,” Walker told author Peter Heller in 1970. “I was the one who sold (manager Jack) Kearns the idea. I wanted to fight the big guys to see if I really could. As a kid, I found it was easier to fight the bigger guys.” Walker’s reasoning? “The big guys were slower.”
Walker, who was well into his 30s when he tackled the heavyweight class, was successful because of his hell-bent style. He’d simply wade in throwing punches until the job was done. Jack Sharkey once said of him, “He was a murderous hitter, and tough … he would bounce off the canvas without taking a count and tear into you with a left hook. Man, he was tough.” Sharkey and Walker fought to a controversial draw; most thought Walker deserved the nod.
Sharkey was a favorite target of smaller fighters, including Mike McTigue, Jack Delaney, Tony Shucco, and Loughran. He won some, he lost some. Perhaps Sharkey attracted these lighter challengers because he was only a modest puncher—the “Boston Gob” scored only 14 career knockouts—or perhaps it was because he, like many heavyweights of the late ’20s and early ’30s, tended to underachieve. With such uneven performers as Sharkey, Max Baer and Primo Carnera at the top of the division, is it any wonder that so many lighter fighters invaded the heavyweight class? In fact, a fighter’s decision to fight a much larger opponent has often been dictated by his era.
The first prizefight to garner international interest happened to be a big man versus a little man. It took place in 1860 when England’s bare-knuckle hero, Tom Sayers, accepted the challenge of America’s John C. Heenan. Sayers was outweighed by nearly 40 pounds, but he gave as good as he got until Heenan started strangling him. The ensuing melee at ringside caused the world’s first “Fight of the Century” to end in a draw. In that antediluvian era it was not unusual for a man Sayers’ size, 155 or thereabouts, to compete against 200-pounders.
Three decades later, 160-pound Bob Fitzsimons kept up the tradition, regularly fighting men much larger than him. Fitz needed less than two rounds to kayo Ed Dunkhorst, “The Human Freightcar.” Dunkhorst’s weight was sometimes listed at 260. He retired to a career in vaudeville immediately after Fitz humbled him.
News accounts of the day paid scant attention to Fitzsimmons’ weight, as if it didn’t merit attention. But when he lost the heavyweight title to Jim Jeffries, most felt it was because he couldn’t overcome Jeffries’ 40-pound weight advantage. What Jeffries had, though, along with his bulk, was incredible resilience, which allowed him to outlast Fitz.
The 1900s was an era when black fighters were discriminated against and had to take bouts wherever they could find them. The original Joe Walcott, known as the “Barbados Demon,” was a 5-foot-2 welterweight whose record included wins over bigger men like Joe Choynski and Dan Creedon. Walcott outdid himself in 1902 when he battled Fred Russell, who stood taller than 6-4 and weighed nearly 250 pounds. The bout went into the record books as a draw, but most newspapermen had the windmilling Walcott getting the best of it, even if he had to leap into the air to land his punches.
By the 1930s, when the original eight weight classes were firmly in place, Henry Armstrong found himself fighting in the shadow of Joe Louis. Armstrong’s managers wanted him to stand out, so they hit on the idea of holding world titles simultaneously in three different divisions. While still holding the featherweight title, Armstrong defeated welterweight champion Barney Ross and two months later beat Lou Ambers for the lightweight crown. It was an astonishing feat, but had he not been fighting in the Louis era, he might not have bothered.
“Homicide Hank” spent most of his welterweight reign weighing approximately 135. He consumed steak and beer for almost every meal, but still struggled to reach the welterweight limit. On the day of a weigh-in, Armstrong would guzzle water until he could be heard sloshing up to the scales like a giant water balloon. Just to make sure Armstrong would reach the agreed upon weight, his trainer would stand behind him, stepping on the scale to add a few pounds. Armstrong weighed only 142 when he challenged Ceferino Garcia for the middleweight crown. Armstrong nearly won that title, too, but had to settle for a suspect draw.
Armstrong, like Walker and Walcott, was successful against bigger men because of his buzz saw style. Advantages in size go out the window when you’re faced with a punching machine. Pacquiao has a buzz saw style of his own, and no one doubts that he will come at De La Hoya in the best Henry Armstrong tradition.
What people worry about in regard to Pacquiao is that he began his career as a junior flyweight, raising questions as to whether his tiny frame will measure up against De La Hoya, who started out as a junior lightweight. But Pacquiao’s dizzying ascent from boxing’s second-lightest weight category is not unprecedented.
Big edge
to Oscar?
By Don Stradley
Let's go to the history books:
The impending clash between lightweight titleholder Manny Pacquiao and box-office leviathan Oscar De La Hoya has set off the usual round of discussions about good big men versus good little men. Quite a few Internet message boards have been spackled with the word “mismatch,” and most fans are in agreement that the big man usually prevails. Perhaps you have already been cornered by an uncle who remembers when Bob Foster, the great light heavyweight, met the much heavier Joe Frazier and was nearly drilled into the canvas.
But what’s forgotten is that the little guys win some of these matches.
When Mickey Walker, a former champion at welterweight and middleweight, failed to take the light heavyweight title from Tommy Loughran, he stepped up and challenged the heavyweights of his day. Sometimes outweighed by as much as 50 pounds, Walker won bouts over Johnny Risko (twice), K.O. Christner, Bearcat Wright, King Levinsky, and Paulino Uzcudun. Walker’s reign as a giant killer ended in 1932 when Max Schmeling stopped him in eight, but within three months Walker was at it again, destroying 223-pound Arthur “Coo-Coo” DeKuh at 1:48 of the first round.
“It was my idea to fight the big guys,” Walker told author Peter Heller in 1970. “I was the one who sold (manager Jack) Kearns the idea. I wanted to fight the big guys to see if I really could. As a kid, I found it was easier to fight the bigger guys.” Walker’s reasoning? “The big guys were slower.”
Walker, who was well into his 30s when he tackled the heavyweight class, was successful because of his hell-bent style. He’d simply wade in throwing punches until the job was done. Jack Sharkey once said of him, “He was a murderous hitter, and tough … he would bounce off the canvas without taking a count and tear into you with a left hook. Man, he was tough.” Sharkey and Walker fought to a controversial draw; most thought Walker deserved the nod.
Sharkey was a favorite target of smaller fighters, including Mike McTigue, Jack Delaney, Tony Shucco, and Loughran. He won some, he lost some. Perhaps Sharkey attracted these lighter challengers because he was only a modest puncher—the “Boston Gob” scored only 14 career knockouts—or perhaps it was because he, like many heavyweights of the late ’20s and early ’30s, tended to underachieve. With such uneven performers as Sharkey, Max Baer and Primo Carnera at the top of the division, is it any wonder that so many lighter fighters invaded the heavyweight class? In fact, a fighter’s decision to fight a much larger opponent has often been dictated by his era.
The first prizefight to garner international interest happened to be a big man versus a little man. It took place in 1860 when England’s bare-knuckle hero, Tom Sayers, accepted the challenge of America’s John C. Heenan. Sayers was outweighed by nearly 40 pounds, but he gave as good as he got until Heenan started strangling him. The ensuing melee at ringside caused the world’s first “Fight of the Century” to end in a draw. In that antediluvian era it was not unusual for a man Sayers’ size, 155 or thereabouts, to compete against 200-pounders.
Three decades later, 160-pound Bob Fitzsimons kept up the tradition, regularly fighting men much larger than him. Fitz needed less than two rounds to kayo Ed Dunkhorst, “The Human Freightcar.” Dunkhorst’s weight was sometimes listed at 260. He retired to a career in vaudeville immediately after Fitz humbled him.
News accounts of the day paid scant attention to Fitzsimmons’ weight, as if it didn’t merit attention. But when he lost the heavyweight title to Jim Jeffries, most felt it was because he couldn’t overcome Jeffries’ 40-pound weight advantage. What Jeffries had, though, along with his bulk, was incredible resilience, which allowed him to outlast Fitz.
The 1900s was an era when black fighters were discriminated against and had to take bouts wherever they could find them. The original Joe Walcott, known as the “Barbados Demon,” was a 5-foot-2 welterweight whose record included wins over bigger men like Joe Choynski and Dan Creedon. Walcott outdid himself in 1902 when he battled Fred Russell, who stood taller than 6-4 and weighed nearly 250 pounds. The bout went into the record books as a draw, but most newspapermen had the windmilling Walcott getting the best of it, even if he had to leap into the air to land his punches.
By the 1930s, when the original eight weight classes were firmly in place, Henry Armstrong found himself fighting in the shadow of Joe Louis. Armstrong’s managers wanted him to stand out, so they hit on the idea of holding world titles simultaneously in three different divisions. While still holding the featherweight title, Armstrong defeated welterweight champion Barney Ross and two months later beat Lou Ambers for the lightweight crown. It was an astonishing feat, but had he not been fighting in the Louis era, he might not have bothered.
“Homicide Hank” spent most of his welterweight reign weighing approximately 135. He consumed steak and beer for almost every meal, but still struggled to reach the welterweight limit. On the day of a weigh-in, Armstrong would guzzle water until he could be heard sloshing up to the scales like a giant water balloon. Just to make sure Armstrong would reach the agreed upon weight, his trainer would stand behind him, stepping on the scale to add a few pounds. Armstrong weighed only 142 when he challenged Ceferino Garcia for the middleweight crown. Armstrong nearly won that title, too, but had to settle for a suspect draw.
Armstrong, like Walker and Walcott, was successful against bigger men because of his buzz saw style. Advantages in size go out the window when you’re faced with a punching machine. Pacquiao has a buzz saw style of his own, and no one doubts that he will come at De La Hoya in the best Henry Armstrong tradition.
What people worry about in regard to Pacquiao is that he began his career as a junior flyweight, raising questions as to whether his tiny frame will measure up against De La Hoya, who started out as a junior lightweight. But Pacquiao’s dizzying ascent from boxing’s second-lightest weight category is not unprecedented.
Comment