The heavyweight fight between Dillian Whyte and Ebenezer Tetteh in Gibraltar seemed a bizarre one when first announced and it tonight (December 15) lived up to expectations in both the best and worst way possible.
With both men shattered following the very first exchange, the audience in Gibraltar were treated to the oddly captivating spectacle of two out-of-shape heavyweights – both too tired to protect themselves, much less move – standing in one spot and throwing punches at each other for seven rounds. It was then, after the seventh, Tetteh decided he had had enough and that punching with Whyte was not quite so fun anymore.
Until that point, both he and Whyte had been having a whale of a time. They understood the assignment, they found in each other a kindred spirit, and they tossed away any notion of defence in favour of whacking their opponent with whatever punch was available to them. This led to countless back-and-forth exchanges and it also meant that once both had started to tire – halfway through round one – you would often see one, or both, poke, prod and push out punches just to continue giving the impression that they were busy working.
It was, from the outset, a demonstration of desperation on the part of both. Tetteh, who entered the ring wearing a black polo shirt, has never excelled at Whyte’s kind of level before, whereas Whyte, whose career has stagnated in recent years on account of yet another drugs transgression, is now at the stage where desperation represents his primary driving force. He knows, at 36, that he doesn’t have a lot of time left and he knows, too, that his failure to return clean performance-enhancing drug tests has robbed him of not only a money-spinning rematch with Anthony Joshua, but also additional big fights in the Middle East; which has, during Whyte’s absence, become the go-to place for heavyweights.
Now 31-3 (21), Whyte will hope it is not too late and that he can pimp out his bloated body one more time for a big payday. Tonight’s win over Tetteh, whom Daniel Dubois stopped inside a round, won’t do much for the Londoner’s confidence, nor will it mean a great deal to anyone outside his camp, yet that is not the point. These days all that really matters is that Whyte has a name, some infamy, and now some activity. In time, once people either forget or no longer care, he will be seen once more as just a semi-marketable commodity; the perfect B-side for an Arabian night.
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