Tim Tszyu and the price of respect

All of the goodwill Tim Tszyu has both earned and attracted with his fighting heart and spirit will likely count for little today.

It is a lonely place, being Roosevelt’s Man in the Arena.

Rocked and dropped repeatedly by Bakhram Murtazaliev at the Caribe Royale in Orlando, Florida, on Saturday night before losing in the third round, the Australian star is today perched on boxing’s scrapheap – a social media whipping boy who, it turns out, was naïve, foolish and reckless in steering his ship towards Murtazaliev in the aftermath of the only previous defeat of his now 24-2 (17 KOs) career.

Beforehand, Murtazaliev served largely as an afterthought – a championship wearing-B-sider on hand to cede his title and bring Tszyu back from his loss in March to Sebastian Fundora. 

Afterwards, on X – of course – Tszyu was being kicked while he was down.

“Tim thought he had an easy one,” wrote Terence Crawford. “Took this dude lightly and was worried about other fighters.”

Sergio Mora added: “Tim Tszyu coming off a tough SD loss against a 6’6’ SOUTHPAW with 80’ reach and what does he do next? Decide to fight a strong, undefeated Russian champion.”

Had Tszyu won, those tweets – Mora’s specifically – would have had a different feel. The context transforms them from complementary to critical. 

Facing the undefeated Murtazaliev was never a gimme. It was bold, daring and adventurous but not the kamikaze mission many today suggest.

As is his custom, Tszyu started off the fight as he does, trying to make an impression and forging forwards.

Despite the destructive nature of his defeat, he was not caught cold, for he absorbed a steady beating for the opening three minutes – eating clean shots as if he had an unyielding appetite to do so.

He was one-paced and one-dimensional and he will surely be disappointed by his approach. The damage, though telling, was not then catastrophic. It became catastrophic next.

Dropped for the first time in the contest from a left hand, Tszyu rose with a glassy tint of respect in his eyes, clearly wary about what he was going to face when he stood.

The IBF junior-middleweight champion clearly harbored no such concerns. Murtazaliev stepped in behind gloves laced with malice and the most discourteous intentions. Tszyu had to hold and maul.

Murtazaliev shortened his hooks, attempting to tear holes through Tszyu’s body and again dump him to the canvas.

Tszyu’s attempted rockets were already mere distress flares. He desperately tried to even up the knockdown tally but his bravery was reckless and uncultured and a right hand-left hook deposited him once more. 

With a minute to go of the second round, his legs had an uncertain look to them, and his eyes carried an unconvincing glaze. His hopes were pinned on careless ones and one-twos but they left him with a creaking vulnerability that Murtazaliev attacked with the ambition of a man who has waited for such a platform for years.

The last 20 seconds of the third made for uncomfortable viewing. Two left hooks slammed into the side of Tszyu’s unprotected face and, as he resolutely tried to fire back – all heart, no tactics; all courage, no thought – Murtazaliev stuffed a right hand into the side of his head and Tszyu was down a third time. 

When Tszyu stood once more, there was a haunted look in his eyes, like a prey realizing he’s in the same room as a predator and that the exits are sealed.

He had numerous opportunities to sit it out – to say he wanted no more. Some might contend that would have been the smart move. 

”Courage isn’t having the strength to go on,” Napoleon once said. “It is going on when you don’t have strength.”

Tszyu was increasingly sapped, yet each time he trudged forwards, naivety in every step but his heart pumping defiant breaths that were growing more feint with each sickening blow that thudded off his shaved skull.

“You’ve got to protect yourself,” Tszyu was told in the corner before the third. 

He was given additional moments to survive a doctor’s inspection to open the round, which might not have been afforded to fighters of lesser fame. A flashlight shone into his sad eyes as a cacophony of boos surrounded the ring, replaced by bloodthirsty cheers when Tszyu was summoned back into the fray by the referee Chris Young. But the inevitable was only delayed. 

The crushing walls began to close and no matter where Tszyu tried to go, Murtazaliev blocked his path with force, purpose and a pole-like jab that set just about everything up. 

Tszyu was also a glutton for the left hook around his right glove – he was unable to turn the tide, or even to stem it. And just when he escorted Murtazaliev to the ropes and he might have felt his territorial success would spur a new dawn the fight was ended – not that it was not already over – by a chopping left hook that dumped him once more.

How Young allowed it to continue after that, only he can answer. The look on Tszyu’s face bore signs now of worry and pain. 

His legs were left jittery from a right hand, and he was swaying uncontrollably as Murtazaliev crashed away with both hands.

It was at that point that the towel of surrender finally came in – and it should never have been left to his corner to put an end to the slaughter.

Tszyu sat on his stool, lamenting the previous 10 minutes. His mind and future both far less clear than they had been beforehand.

Murtazaliev had never looked better. There certainly were not many heralding him as such a dangerman beforehand. Instead, much of the talk was about whom Tszyu would go on to fight once he had won.

Hindsight was the powerful theme of the aftermath, and it was not something Tszyu will have wanted or perhaps expected. 

His lingering search for respect will go on. Whatever motivates him, whether it is national pride, the approval of his Hall of Fame father Kostya, the creation of his own legacy or an inner drive only he knows, feels and understands.

Tszyu’s behavior as a fighter also commands respect. The featherweight contender Alex Dilmighani offered a differing view on social media when he posted: “Respect to Tim Tszyu. A guy who always goes out on his shield and takes on all comers. Fighters like him should be celebrated but instead are being criticised by those who don’t know what they are talking about.”

And those who should know better.

The business is unforgiving enough, but for a fighter to be demonized for going back in hard – to be condemned for challenging himself and then hung out to dry – creates a fear factor that filters down. The price of daring to be anything other than mediocre is too high, given the criticism that will come their way should they have the temerity to fall short.

Instead of focusing on Murtazaliev’s shining star, boots are put in with venom and gusto.

To his credit, Tszyu was also faultlessly sporting afterwards, but real damage had been done.

We want our fighters to be true, honest and brave. We slam the businessmen with gloves – those who move up and down in weight, stack the deck in their favor, look for a way out, don’t take on all comers – and yet when someone bites down and snarls at a challenge we condemn them.

From the wreckage Murtazaliev labelled Tszyu a warrior, but that line was in too short a supply the morning after.  

“Boxing’s not meant to be perfect,” said Tszyu. “You live and you learn.”

Coming from the forlorn and vanquished challenger, it was a perfect statement about a night which had been anything but.