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At six feet tall and a solid 220 pounds, he is actually a quite imposing figure. The first time you meet him, that realization comes almost as a shock, because of all the things written and said about Chris Byrd, it’s how small he is.
Of course, size is relative, and in the context of today’s crop of heavyweights, Chris Byrd is certainly no giant, a fact that was never in greater evidence than last November 13th., when Byrd put his IBF heavyweight title on the line against friend Jameel McCline. McCline was six inches taller and, at 270 lbs., fifty-six pounds heavier than the defending world champion, the fourth-greatest differential in heavyweight championship history; and yet, despite being crushed in the second round by a giant right hand that sent him to the canvas and temporarily relieved him of consciousness, Byrd planted his feet, stood in the pocket, and willingly exchanged punches with his massive opponent, landing blistering combinations to McCline’s chin, actually stunning the challenger in the eleventh and pulling out a close but deserved points victory.
It was Byrd’s best performance since dominating Evander Holyfield to annex the IBF heavyweight championship in 2002. That belt became available when Lennox Lewis surrendered it after the Las Vegas-based southpaw became his mandatory challenger following a systematic undressing of David Tua in August 2001.
Lewis insisted that his abdication was purely to sidestep a mandated mismatch; but the consensus opinion was that the big Brit simply did not want to risk embarrassment against the slipping, sliding, defensive mastery of Byrd, a man who had grown accustomed to making his foes look foolish as he stood with his back to the ropes, shifting his head and shoulders just enough to make an apparently inviting target disappear as if into thin air as his opponents threw ineffective combinations at the spot where he had just been.
“I’m not gonna let you hit me,” says Byrd. “I’m gonna embarrass you. We call it clowning. Guys would rather be knocked out than be clowned on.”
So much so, in fact, that, even since winning the title, Byrd has had trouble finding opponents. He took a lot of heat for making his second defense against Andrew Golota, a man whose boxing career was seemingly finished after a series of in-ring violations, including being disqualified twice against Rid**** Bowe, freezing against Lennox Lewis, and quitting against Michael Grant and Mike Tyson. Prior to meeting Byrd, Golota had had just two relatively minor fights since coming back from a self-imposed hiatus following his debacle against Tyson—when he walked out of the ring to a shower of beer cups after deciding he didn’t want Tyson to hit him any more—and critics argued he had done nothing to deserve a title shot. Byrd countered that none of the other available contenders had done much of note, either, and that those who might be considered more deserving were doing all they could to avoid him.
“We’re trying to fight somebody, not only in the top fifteen, but in the top twenty-five, thirty,” he told me before the Golota fight was made. “These guys are not even on their way going anywhere, and they still won’t fight me. Turning down a fight, a fight for the heavyweight title. C’mon man! What else you got next? Fighting on the undercard for ESPN2? Making $5000, $3000? What else you got?”
It isn’t just finding title challengers. It’s difficult enough at times to find sparring partners, and always has been, from the time he first turned professional as a middleweight in 1992:
“Oh yeah. I can’t even get people in the gym. No one will spar with me. Never did. I went to Washington, DC, once after the Olympics, and this guy wanted to sign me and he said, ‘OK, get yourself some sparring.’ He wanted to see how I looked. None of the light heavyweights would spar with me, so I tried to get heavyweights to spar with me. I weigh 170 lbs. And they’re like, ‘Nah, nah, that’s alright.’ Heavyweights!”
Byrd took a silver medal in the 1992 Barcelona Olympics as a middleweight, and in his first professional fight, in a night club in his native Flint, Michigan, he weighed 169. The stage on which he turned pro was far smaller than that of some of his more celebrated fellow Olympians—most notably a certain Oscar De La Hoya—and Byrd realized that, to secure a similar level of attention and celebrity, he needed to move up in weight.
“I was a super middleweight my first fight, at 169, then I fought at, my next fight was 172, then I fought 193 and from then on I was, like, you know, heavyweight,” he recalls. “And it worked out. I’m a Christian—at that time, I gave my life to the Lord, and I said, ‘Lord, you make me a heavyweight, I will honor you by—because heavyweights get all the attention—by always representing you well when I come into the ring. Whatever I do, I will represent you well.’”
Of course, size is relative, and in the context of today’s crop of heavyweights, Chris Byrd is certainly no giant, a fact that was never in greater evidence than last November 13th., when Byrd put his IBF heavyweight title on the line against friend Jameel McCline. McCline was six inches taller and, at 270 lbs., fifty-six pounds heavier than the defending world champion, the fourth-greatest differential in heavyweight championship history; and yet, despite being crushed in the second round by a giant right hand that sent him to the canvas and temporarily relieved him of consciousness, Byrd planted his feet, stood in the pocket, and willingly exchanged punches with his massive opponent, landing blistering combinations to McCline’s chin, actually stunning the challenger in the eleventh and pulling out a close but deserved points victory.
It was Byrd’s best performance since dominating Evander Holyfield to annex the IBF heavyweight championship in 2002. That belt became available when Lennox Lewis surrendered it after the Las Vegas-based southpaw became his mandatory challenger following a systematic undressing of David Tua in August 2001.
Lewis insisted that his abdication was purely to sidestep a mandated mismatch; but the consensus opinion was that the big Brit simply did not want to risk embarrassment against the slipping, sliding, defensive mastery of Byrd, a man who had grown accustomed to making his foes look foolish as he stood with his back to the ropes, shifting his head and shoulders just enough to make an apparently inviting target disappear as if into thin air as his opponents threw ineffective combinations at the spot where he had just been.
“I’m not gonna let you hit me,” says Byrd. “I’m gonna embarrass you. We call it clowning. Guys would rather be knocked out than be clowned on.”
So much so, in fact, that, even since winning the title, Byrd has had trouble finding opponents. He took a lot of heat for making his second defense against Andrew Golota, a man whose boxing career was seemingly finished after a series of in-ring violations, including being disqualified twice against Rid**** Bowe, freezing against Lennox Lewis, and quitting against Michael Grant and Mike Tyson. Prior to meeting Byrd, Golota had had just two relatively minor fights since coming back from a self-imposed hiatus following his debacle against Tyson—when he walked out of the ring to a shower of beer cups after deciding he didn’t want Tyson to hit him any more—and critics argued he had done nothing to deserve a title shot. Byrd countered that none of the other available contenders had done much of note, either, and that those who might be considered more deserving were doing all they could to avoid him.
“We’re trying to fight somebody, not only in the top fifteen, but in the top twenty-five, thirty,” he told me before the Golota fight was made. “These guys are not even on their way going anywhere, and they still won’t fight me. Turning down a fight, a fight for the heavyweight title. C’mon man! What else you got next? Fighting on the undercard for ESPN2? Making $5000, $3000? What else you got?”
It isn’t just finding title challengers. It’s difficult enough at times to find sparring partners, and always has been, from the time he first turned professional as a middleweight in 1992:
“Oh yeah. I can’t even get people in the gym. No one will spar with me. Never did. I went to Washington, DC, once after the Olympics, and this guy wanted to sign me and he said, ‘OK, get yourself some sparring.’ He wanted to see how I looked. None of the light heavyweights would spar with me, so I tried to get heavyweights to spar with me. I weigh 170 lbs. And they’re like, ‘Nah, nah, that’s alright.’ Heavyweights!”
Byrd took a silver medal in the 1992 Barcelona Olympics as a middleweight, and in his first professional fight, in a night club in his native Flint, Michigan, he weighed 169. The stage on which he turned pro was far smaller than that of some of his more celebrated fellow Olympians—most notably a certain Oscar De La Hoya—and Byrd realized that, to secure a similar level of attention and celebrity, he needed to move up in weight.
“I was a super middleweight my first fight, at 169, then I fought at, my next fight was 172, then I fought 193 and from then on I was, like, you know, heavyweight,” he recalls. “And it worked out. I’m a Christian—at that time, I gave my life to the Lord, and I said, ‘Lord, you make me a heavyweight, I will honor you by—because heavyweights get all the attention—by always representing you well when I come into the ring. Whatever I do, I will represent you well.’”
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