By Jason Hirthler: Shakur Stevenson won another decisive victory last weekend. Well, decisive is the debatable word here. Stevenson isn’t a knockout artist; he’s a defensive technician. And as he said after his win over Artem Harutyunyan, in relation to fellow lightweight champion Tank Davis,
“People are blessed with different abilities. He’s blessed with the ability that if he cracks you, nine times out of ten you’re gonna go down. I’m blessed with amazing eyes; I can see punches coming my way and get away from them. They probably are judging me from a scale of him. At the end of the day, he’s a great fighter, he’s a special fighter, but I’m special in my own right too.”
Stevenson, once a flashy, highly heralded supernova from the hardscrabble streets of Newark, New Jersey, is now an established multi-class lightweight champion—who is feeling the heat to improve the entertainment value of his performances.
He hasn’t had a proper KO in eight fights. He’s knocked out less than half of his opponents. He has cruised to victory after victory on the scorecards against fighters who posed little threat to his combination of speed and agility. Harutyunyan was emblematic of a calculated opponent: a viable, hard-working fighter who had absolutely no chance to out-quick or overpower Stevenson and predictably lost decisively on the cards.
Davis, the divisional rival who Shakur should eventually face, knocks people out. There’s a ferocity to his punches, whistling missiles with malign intent, that captivates fans. Brutal demolitions (Leo Santa Cruz), paralyzing body blows (Ryan Garcia), and the like. Davis has knocked out 28 of 30 opponents.
Boxers & Brigands
As time passes, the contrast between Stevenson and Davis is drawn into high relief. It’s not quite the age-old distinction between the slugger and the boxer. Davis is a polished boxer with heavy hands. But the essential opposition is there: the danger of power versus the security of speed, the lurching risk-taking of the knockout artist versus the caution and control of the boxing technician.
It’s hard not to draw comparisons between Stevenson and Mayweather. Doubtless, some will harp on technical differences and declare anyone who suggests such a comparison a ‘casual,’ the all-purpose pejorative for any boxing fan whose opinion offends one’s refined sensibilities.
Nevertheless, as a persona, Mayweather was a supreme salesman who could sell any fight with wit, ridicule, libel, and world-historical arrogance. Then, in the ring, he practiced a wizardly art of negation. He appeared to present himself for damage but never stuck around to receive it. He made talented opponents look like a myopic, plodding one-punch chancers. He negated talent. He stymied skill. Of course, he was a fierce and accurate counterpuncher; it wasn’t all defense.
But the buildup—the anticipation—was often better than the main event. At least in the weeks beforehand, the haters could twist themselves into contortions, attempting to believe the challenger could win. Then, the brutal reality of Floyd’s negative brilliance revealed itself.
It’s much the same with Shakur. I tried to justify Oscar Valdez having a shot against Stevenson, but I knew better despite the smaller man’s grit. There were no such pretensions with Harutyunyan. At least let the lesser man be physically more imposing. Fighting smaller men is a losing proposition from the outset.
Shakur will have to come to terms with the fact that his style is not a crowd-pleaser.
He is Ty Cobb in a world in love with Babe Ruth. A deadeye line-drive hitter in a league in love with the long ball.
He is a midrange genius in a world that only wants to watch Steph Curry drain threes.
He will only be fully appreciated once he invites danger into the ring. Tank, Lomachenko, Keyshawn Davis, and perhaps a healthy Ryan Garcia. Even Navarrete. Then he’ll have to move up in weight and fight bigger men—Isaac Cruz, Teofimo, and then the welterweights.
The Ultimate Test (or Two)
Roberto Duran was probably the best lightweight in history, dominated the division for ten years, but really made his name at welterweight and middleweight, fighting bigger stronger men, half of whom beat him. But he showed his greatness in wins and losses, facing serious danger. His sneering contempt for Marvin Hagler, even in defeat, defined the man almost as much as his bullying conquest of America’s great superstar, Sugar Ray Leonard.
But then Ray used his Shakur skills, speed, and space, to dominate Duran in return. That is Shakur’s challenge. Face down the danger of defeat, of disgrace, of a tarnished record. And then respond.
We never saw Mayweather lose. It would have been fascinating to see how he responded. We never saw Jordan’s Bulls lose a Finals. What a story it would have been watching them try to claw their way back to the summit. Marciano never lost, but Joe Louis did, to Max Schmeling. The rematch was a defining moment for the Brown Bomber. (Interestingly, Louis, who ruled the heavyweights for 12 years, once said, “Every man’s got to figure to get beat sometime.”)
Likewise, or not likewise, we witnessed the upper limits of Deontay Wilder’s talent in the Fury trilogy. The great challenges are not always superable. But greatness requires that a fighter at least face them.
Shakur’s greatness is still embryonic. I for one am excited to see it emerge from its chrysalis. It will either take wing or fall with the weight of gravity, ending either in the stratosphere or on the bloody apron of the ring. It’s time for Shakur to face the challenge, time to step to the edge of the abyss.
Jason Hirthler is a writer and veteran of sports marketing. He has led digital promotions of numerous boxing and mixed martial arts fights. He lives and works in New York City.
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