Rios vs Alvarado II: Soul-cleansing violence and the blood of boxing

There was a spot just behind the forward-leaning right glove of Mike Alvarado's guard that, in the earliest rounds of Saturday night's contest, may as well have had a bullseye painted on it.

His opponent, the heavy-fisted, iron-jawed Brandon Rios, aimed his left hook at that spot every time he was close enough, and one couldn't help but wince every time he torqued it around Alvarado's hand with brutal affect. He hurt Alvarado badly with a stiff jab in the second, and for a minute it looked like the fight might end earlier than it did the first time the two met in October of 2012, when Rios stopped him in the seventh.

"Mile High Mike," as the Denver-native Alvarado is called, would not be so easily dispatched, though. Smiling and grinning through the worst of Rios' barrage - whistling in the dark, some might say, but still - he came back in the later rounds, moving and boxing with the clean footwork that gave him his best (and maybe, only) chance at beating the fearsome puncher.

His movement confounded Rios, kept him off-balance, and wouldn't let him land anything more than a one or two-punch combo. No combinations meant few openings. Few openings meant that Rios' city-wall-shaking left hook stayed in its holster.

All the while, Alvarado strafed him with Diego Corrales-style looping right hands that whipped the Californian's head to-and-fro and dragged attention away from his own face, which was a swollen, bloody mess by the final bell.

One wound up with the interim WBO super-lightweight belt. Both went to the hospital. Neither had serious injuries. Everyone - and I mean everyone - won.

Too many times do boxing fans (casual or otherwise) walk away from a much-hyped fight with a sense of disappointment, a lackluster apathy that drains the energy from a sport built solely upon the electricity inherent to a good brawl. Too many times do we fork over too much money to watch men who care too little move too much and take too few chances. But once in a while, we're reminded why we love it. Saturday night was why we love it.

Welterweight champ Timothy Bradley put it succinctly afterwards when he called the affair a "bloody war" that saw "both fighters put their lives on the line."

It wasn't just hyperbole. When a man's face - inflated with blood and decorated with a scalpel cut over the left eye that looks like it's going to make the whole thing burst - looks like Mike Alvarado's did, and when you see Brandon Rios take flush shots that would lay low lesser men, have no doubt that there are indeed lives on the line.

It was all of the black beauty of this sport, rolled up into one night. And boxing, which so often likes to jam its own hand in the garbage disposal just because it feels so good when it stops, didn't fuck it up. No $70 pricetag, no anti-climactic ending, no shaking your head at 12 a.m. and wondering, "Why do I even watch?"

Fights like this are the lifeblood pumping through every vein of the sport. They lend inspiration to every amateur who spends his Friday night with his head tight against the side of a heavy bag instead of a bottle of whiskey, every kid shadowboxing in the mirror pretending he's Rocky. They create new boxing fans instead of disgusting the old ones, and build legends instead of destroying them.

Fights like this, as Roy Jones Jr. said, are what movies are made of. Fights like this blow MMA out of the water.

And we cannot forget that men like Brandon Rios and Mike Alvarado are the ones who make this sport what it is, even when "what it is" might not always seem clear. It's not Floyd Mayweather and his rap sheet or Manny Pacquaio and his swarms of hangers-on, not David Haye and his bluster or Wladimir Klitschko and his overwhelming ... prudence. It's the simple, brutal violence that cleanses the soul and reminds us just how brave some men are.

There will, inevitably, be a rubber match between these two; after 19 rounds of carnage, it's only right that it, of course, happen again. When it does, take a second to truly appreciate the lengths to which these men are going to in the name of sport and victory; not many will willingly hasten their own deaths by fighting with reckless abandon and declaring, "Fortune, it is you I follow!"

In reality, that's what these two are doing. And we the fans are lucky to be watching.

http://www.badlefthook.com/2013/4/1/4169610/rios-vs-alvarado-ii-soul-cleansing-violence-blood-boxing

Boxer Bobby Gunn gears up for bareknuckle brawl

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 3, 2011

BY STEVE JANOSKI

When one hears the phrase "bare-knuckle boxing," it might bring to mind the antique photos of the legendary John L. Sullivan, standing bare-chested with his fists held high in front of his enormous handlebar mustache.

Rightly so, of course; Sullivan was the last of the bare-knuckle champions, and there has not been a sanctioned bare-knuckle bout since the "Boston Strong Boy" defeated Jake Kilrain in a 75-round marathon in 1889. While there have been plenty of other bare-knuckle matches, they've all occurred in a shady underworld that's far removed from professional boxing's flashing lights.

One man, however, is trying to bring this manly art back above ground after a century-long decline, and on Friday, Aug. 5, he'll be stepping through the ropes in Scottsdale, Ariz., to fight under the old London Prize Ring Rules in the first public bare-knuckle bout in 122 years.

Bobby "The Celtic Warrior" Gunn, 37, has been fighting since the age of 6, and as a seven-time cruiserweight champion with a pro record of 21-4-1, he's already proven himself time and again in the squared circle.

Although originally from Canada, he now lives in Rochelle Park, and shoots back and forth between the Ringside Gym and the Rocky Marciano Gym, both in Jersey City, to work with his trainer, Dominick Scibetta in preparation for the 10 round bout.

In order to keep his hands from breaking during the 90-second rounds, Gunn has been using old-school fist-hardening methods such as punching the heavy bag without wraps and plunging his hands into a bucket of rice and grasping the kernels to strengthen his grip.

He works with 30 pound medicine balls, throwing them as far as he can to develop explosiveness, and takes a sledgehammer to a tire to increase his endurance; he will not, unfortunately, be growing out the handlebar mustache.

In a way, he said, fighting without gloves makes the sport more safe — less head shots, less overall punishment, and (in his experience) less critical injuries.

"Guys get bloody lips, bloody noses, but I've never seen a fighter collapse and never be the same again on the bare-knuckle circuit," he said. "Everybody I've seen has walked away."

"Bare-knuckle boxing is more of an art; you don't want to get hit, believe me," he said. "You wrap my hands and put that 10-ounce glove on me, I feel like I can punch a door off the hinges, but barehanded, I've got to pick my shots."

His motivation to bring back bare-knuckle boxing stems from his harsh experiences with pro boxing's business end, which has left him jaded after a long career.

"There's so much garbage in boxing…I've been involved in fights that put a bad taste in my mouth," he said.

Some ask why he wouldn't just go to Mixed Martial Arts, which uses both smaller gloves and a smaller rulebook.

"I think it's a great sport…but I believe that the fans are more excited when fighters are standing and trading (rather than grappling)," he said.

Although he was understandably reserved about stating when and where the matches took place, Gunn said that he has already participated in over 60 bare-knuckle fights in the underground circuit, and made a point to say that the events were well organized and used referees.

"These are no barroom brawls," he said.

His opponent on Friday will be Chris "The Butcher" Thompson, who Gunn said is a sort of folk hero in the South African bare-knuckle circuit.

If all goes well, he believes that bare-knuckle boxing could turn into a "sport to be reckoned with," and maybe even draw some fighters from the MMA world in.

"They'll want to test themselves; this is a real manly sport right here," he said. "(MMA fighter) Chuck Liddell said he could fight any striker in the world, well by golly my pal, you want to do it the door's open."

"Even the guys that tell you they wouldn't watch it because it's barbaric, well, when their doors are closed, you can bet they're putting on the Pay Per View," said Gunn. "This is going to attract the world."

He profusely thanked his team, made up of Dave Feldman, George Kokkalenios, Alvin Roth, and Kyle White, and said that the fight will be available through the website UStream.tv.

Those who tune in will be watching a piece of history.

E-mail: janoski@northjersey.com

The noblest parts of the hardest game

BY STEVE JANOSKI
Wednesday, September 29, 2010

The first professional fight I ever watched was on Cinco de Mayo, 2007.

That night, a few friends and I had gone to a seedy bar in a rough section of town to watch Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Oscar De La Hoya go to war.

There had been a lot of hard talk before the fight, and I had just begun learning to box myself at the time, so I figured I should watch one or two fights to see what the top dogs did.

It was hardly a memorable fight— a mundane split decision victory for Mayweather that featured a lot of movement and very little brawling.

Regardless, it captivated me, as fighting in any form often captivates young men.

Growing up shorter than the rest of the crowd in my youth, I'd lost my first fight in kindergarten and faired only mildly better in many affairs after, so I knew what it was like early on to get hit.

Why anyone would want to make a profession of such a thing escaped logic to me, but I came to understand it that night.

It was the atmosphere around the ring, which, though filled with movie stars and former fighters and politicians, also has an electrical energy in it, a deadly calm that occurs on the seas right before a hurricane hits.

And then, for its flash and fanfare and fame— then, the brutal, unadulterated violence explodes.

It seems like a simple sport, the base of which comes down to "hit the other guy more, and harder, than he hits you." That's probably why every guy thinks he can do it, or that he knows what he's talking about when watching a fight.

The truth is that they can't, they don't, and that boxing is possibly the most complicated, subtly nuanced sport ever invented.

Even with the advent of Mixed Martial Arts, which seems to be overtaking part of boxing's market, there still is no question which is the "harder" sport.

MMA athletes are warriors just the same, but there are ways in MMA to dodge the brutality that's simply inherent in boxing.

Don't want to get hit in the face? Shoot for his legs. Take him down, make it a grappling match. Try and "tap out" the other guy.

In boxing, you can't tap out. The only way to tap out is to take a knee and let the referee stop the fight, but for real men, literally bowing in the face of an overwhelming opponent can be a soul-shattering experience.

And so we have fighters, guys like Micky Ward or Arturo Gatti or Diego Corrales, who made careers out of being known to never, ever quit, and to go out on their shield in the most literal sense of the term, finishing the fight either standing up or knocked out.

That's a lot to ask for when, after round upon round, you know you're not getting knocked out but the bones and your face feel like they've melded together in one mushy, painful pile, and that one more shot might blow them apart.

Boxing represents all that has left our society, and what lies in the souls of fighters is not found in the souls of those who play basketball or football.

When one of these players spikes the ball in the endzone or dunks on another guy, he's saying, "I've won. I'm harder than you, I'm more of man than you."

Sometimes the dunked on player will take offense, and a shoving match will ensure, maybe even a full blown fight. Because really, that's what all of these games come down to — who's more of a man, and who is the alpha dog.

And when you're looking to settle who is king of the mountain, well, that's settled with fists.

The spectacle of a boxing match is what forms the base for all of these other games that are trying to show who's king without getting beaten to death while doing it — this is why nobody "plays" boxing.

This society as a whole has become overwhelmingly frightened of violence. A cross word can get you sued, dodge ball is banned in schools, and HR departments and "mediators" settle disputes that once might have been settled the old way.

But in truth, a little violence is a good thing.

It's good to know where your limits are, what it feels like to get hit, and the sense of accomplishment you get from being so tired that your lungs are gasoline burnt and you can't hold your arms up and a fighter is trying to kill you…but you still made it through.

That's the kind of thing that boxing slams on the table and shoves towards you. There's no plaudits for those that can't make it, no participation trophies for the "B" level fighters.

Don't want to get hit? Get out of the gym. Not hard enough? You'll get knocked stupid, and no trainer will waste his time on you.

And if you do lose, you've got to admit that there's at least one guy out there who probably could have killed you if he didn't let up or the fight wasn't stopped.

This is one of most sobering thoughts that a human can have.

Email: Janoski@northjersey.com