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The often misnamed Samuel Peter is one of the biggest dilemmas in the open heavyweight division. An imposing, bull-necked brawler with clubbing power in either hand, he’s cherished by a dwindling boxing media hoping that he will be the one to reignite interest in the division.
On the other hand, while his speed is improving, Peter is crude, technically limited and, with his limping gait, has questionable footwork. A powerhitter lacking solid fundamentals, a relatively small (77") reach, and waiting to be dismantled by the first decent boxer-puncher he comes across. Perhaps unfortunately for Sam, Wlad Klitschko may just be the one to do it.
But what really fascinates me about Peter is his own self-perpetuated hype. His popularity has already outreached his achievements to such an extent that he can be ranked in the heavyweight top ten despite having taken on relatively light competition thus far.
Yet there’s a fundamental dichotomy in the way Peter presents himself and what he’s really offering. Billing himself as some kind of pugilistic avenger, he lays out a mission statement to "get what’s mine", echoing the lyrics of the Jimmy Cliff song that leads him into battle. Yet when questioned which of the titlists he would most like to tackle next, he proffers "John Ruiz" as if only too aware of his own limitations.
Then there’s the small matter of his professional nickname. Peter, put frankly, is being served up to the public on the back of base race fear. He’s the "Nigerian Nightmare", a post-colonial "Other" about to be let loose upon the division to provide visceral thrills of this touted "foreign" attacker. He’s a confessed "Nightmare", the ultimate distillation of white man’s fear, claiming the Imperial Gaze behind the safety of the cathode ray tube. Should Peter get a belt the chance to vilify him as a ring monster will take a matter of moments, a gargantuan conqueror there to be force-fed a string of lucrative white hopes while cash registers work overtime. Yet at the heart of all this is a charming, likeable and friendly Christian.
Sam Peter... an unanswered question.
On the other hand, while his speed is improving, Peter is crude, technically limited and, with his limping gait, has questionable footwork. A powerhitter lacking solid fundamentals, a relatively small (77") reach, and waiting to be dismantled by the first decent boxer-puncher he comes across. Perhaps unfortunately for Sam, Wlad Klitschko may just be the one to do it.
But what really fascinates me about Peter is his own self-perpetuated hype. His popularity has already outreached his achievements to such an extent that he can be ranked in the heavyweight top ten despite having taken on relatively light competition thus far.
Yet there’s a fundamental dichotomy in the way Peter presents himself and what he’s really offering. Billing himself as some kind of pugilistic avenger, he lays out a mission statement to "get what’s mine", echoing the lyrics of the Jimmy Cliff song that leads him into battle. Yet when questioned which of the titlists he would most like to tackle next, he proffers "John Ruiz" as if only too aware of his own limitations.
Then there’s the small matter of his professional nickname. Peter, put frankly, is being served up to the public on the back of base race fear. He’s the "Nigerian Nightmare", a post-colonial "Other" about to be let loose upon the division to provide visceral thrills of this touted "foreign" attacker. He’s a confessed "Nightmare", the ultimate distillation of white man’s fear, claiming the Imperial Gaze behind the safety of the cathode ray tube. Should Peter get a belt the chance to vilify him as a ring monster will take a matter of moments, a gargantuan conqueror there to be force-fed a string of lucrative white hopes while cash registers work overtime. Yet at the heart of all this is a charming, likeable and friendly Christian.
Sam Peter... an unanswered question.
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