I was largely disappointed in Artur Beterbiev’s performance against Dmitry Bivol on October 12. After the second round, in which Beterbiev looked reluctant to let anything go but his jab, I texted a friend: “I think this is going the distance, Beterbiev has barely thrown a power punch.” This wasn’t entirely prophetic, since Beterbiev outworked the younger Bivol and finished the stronger of the two. But he still didn’t quite look like his best self — he seemed slow to cut off the ring and was reluctant to build upon his clearly effective body work when he had Bivol trapped against the ropes.
Bivol, meanwhile, produced arguably the finest performance of his career. Not only did he become the first boxer to last the distance with Beterbiev in the pros, he didn’t have to climb off the canvas, nor did his legs look unsteady. His face looked shadowed for much of the fight, held tight as it was behind his dark blue and black gloves, making him look curiously impervious to Beterbiev’s punches. He did not quite seem vulnerable in the typical, human sense until the championship rounds, when suddenly his mortality returned.
Though I didn’t score the fight, I expected Bivol to get the nod when the 12 rounds were up. The 116-112 scorecard reinforced that belief. He seemed more successful in his execution of his preferred strategy, whereas Beterbiev had, for once, failed to deliver his clockwork knockout. Beterbiev’s decision win was not a robbery, and the 116-112 card not an abomination, but in the moment I abandoned thoughts of round-by-round scoring in favor of the most visceral and immediate reaction possible: the result just didn’t feel right.
Shockingly, emotional whiplash responses are not reliably accurate, and in boxing, few of those responses have to do with the complicated, often maddening scoring system that actually determines the winners. Those who did score the bout had it incredibly close across the board, with closer to an even split on the victor than the online reaction would suggest.
Perhaps the narrative leading up to this fight was to blame for the disconnect over the scoring. Beterbiev-Bivol was sold as a perfect 50-50, boxer against puncher, with nothing between them, and rarely is this kind of framing justified in hindsight. Terence Crawford eviscerating Errol Spence after years of the boxing world split on who the better man was is still fresh in our minds. Though the marketing for Beterbiev-Bivol proved far more accurate in terms of the result, and was an enticing hook with which to sell the fight, I’m still not sure that it was the correct way to view the bout itself.
Like I imagine a lot of people did, I went in thinking that Beterbiev’s most likely mode of victory was a knockout, and that Bivol’s was on points. For all the talk of Beterbiev’s underrated boxing skills, very few people considered them good enough in actuality to think he could win a decision; I even mentioned Beterbiev might win rounds more easily than expected in my prediction blurb but still predicted him to score a KO.
I then made the error of projecting that perception onto what I was watching. When Bivol escaped a round without seeming badly hurt, as he did so frequently, I mentally classified it as a clear success for him. When Beterbiev was laying into a stationary Bivol on the ropes, I felt he was growing closer to a knockout win. But Beterbiev never came all that close to scoring a stoppage. This was a fighter who had stopped every one of his professional opponents, and here he couldn’t even knock Bivol down. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Beterbiev was underachieving.
Therefore, I’m almost ashamed to admit, I almost entirely stopped thinking about whether Beterbiev was winning rounds. Given that he has only ever trailed on the cards twice when he stopped a past opponent, this is fairly insane — he always had a legitimate chance of winning a decision. Beterbiev’s heavy hands aren’t just good for dropping his foes, they reliably land the most damaging punch in any given round, often helping him win those rounds. What I missed by reducing the fight to boxer vs. puncher was that the puncher was landing the most effective shots, drawing the more significant reactions even with less clean punches, despite the knockout remaining no closer than a dot on the horizon.
Now I find myself wondering whether Bivol ever really had a 50 per cent chance of winning this fight. He had to avoid getting stopped, which proved a Herculean, history-making task all on its own, and required a depth of will from Bivol that no one had forced him to show before. But Bivol also had to win more rounds, and to do so had to hurt Beterbiev more than the vicious puncher could hurt him.
Given the discrepancy in power, that proved too difficult. You can say that Beterbiev had a difficult road to victory himself, in that he had to land on an opponent who was incredibly elusive, and had a solid chin and faster hands to boot. I would argue that their disparate reactions after the fight show that Bivol had the more difficult task in front of him, though. He raised his arms in victory after the final bell, highlighting the enormity of what he had just accomplished, while Beterbiev never looked anything but unsatisfied with a performance that, in hindsight, was no worse than equally effective. Bivol volunteered that Beterbiev’s power had damaged his hand and his face through his gloves, while Beterbiev was reluctant to say that Bivol had been his toughest opponent.
Bivol succeeded in executing his desired strategy, against difficult odds. Beterbiev didn’t. On top of that, Beterbiev was 39 to Bivol’s 33, and was fresh off a meniscus tear and subsequent surgery. Yet Beterbiev emerged the winner.
I’m not sure that Bivol could have done anything more, while Beterbiev’s shortcomings were clear. Bivol’s lower output, especially in the championship rounds, can certainly be criticized. But much of that period required him to use every ounce of his energy just to survive. He may have been hurt, or too exhausted to throw punches, and neither of those problems seems especially fixable in light of the massive punches he’d been subject to for the previous nine rounds. Opening up more in those rounds might have even gotten him knocked out by the onrushing Beterbiev.
With all this in mind, maybe Beterbiev always had the better chance to win. This isn’t intended as criticism of Bivol, and I intentionally avoid saying that Beterbiev is the superior fighter because it seems his main “deficiency” is in natural firepower. Like Beterbiev said after the fight, Bivol may well have the better skills, but power can prove even more important.
And frustrating as it is to some, this outcome is fitting. Beterbiev was visibly not at his best — at 39, he likely never will be again — yet remained incredibly competitive. Bivol produced arguably the finest performance of his career and still could not pull away on the scorecards. Peak against peak, Beterbiev seems like the better fighter, this nightmarish knockout machine who can still box on equal terms with the best available opponents. History will now record him as such, which might just be the correct decision after all.
Reducing the fight to a 50/50, Bivol to a boxer, and Beterbiev to a puncher blinded me to all the minutia. I couldn’t even detect them during the 12 rounds, so fixated was I on Beterbiev’s history of knockout wins. So if there’s a lesson to be taken from this, it’s that narratives are a great help to sell a fight. But once the action starts, it’s probably best to set the marketing aside and let the action unfold.
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