They argue that it is bringing eyeballs to boxing. But who are they?
They argue that it is saving boxing. But saving it from what?
They tell us that this is the modern white machine grandpa. So sign up, click to download ya coupons, subscribe for perks and benefits, enjoy discounts on pizzas and Uber Comfort, scan a QR matrix to unlock vouchers, and unsubscribe at any time…
“Holyfield is somehow standing up to the onslaught from Bowe. Look at Holyfield, what a warrior. Reversing the tide of the battle. The champion now has Bowe wobbling. This round should be greeted with a standing ovation at the end. Round 10 continues after the bell…”
After a few weeks of clickbait thrown from gilded buckets of slop out into the salty seas of a pandemic shattered, conciseness scattered sportstainment universe – Jake Paul, a former Disney fidgeter, come content creator extraordinaire took on the once-solid UFC welterweight champion for sure, Tyron Woodley in what they span out as a cruiserweightish box off.
Woodley, at 39, looked the part, spoke the speak, and probably had enough in truth to defeat the bumfluff, dayglo tsetse fly in a merry-go-round of baseball caps that is Paul Junior. But save a scraping hook up the earhole in the fourth that had the Paul kid scrambling, Woodley trod the same glue of trigger shy stagger that saw his illustrious MMA career end with four straight defeats.
Let’s be clear – Jake Paul can’t box at anything approaching professional level right now. He’s as starchy and upright as that ding dong of a robot that he parades about like a bad shadow at contracted media obligations.
In fact, FYI for any future opponents – imagine fighting that robot thing. Push it over. Push Jake Paul over. Simple – I am Freddie Roach.
“If Micky Ward wants to come to you, he will walk through a hail storm of punishment to do it. Oh, what a haymaker by Gatti and Ward just comes right back. Big left hook by Gatti. Ward just says I’ll walk with you over here. Relentless.”
You could argue that it is easy to criticize this oil slick creep of boxing-related content which takes in everything from Mike and Roy flexing their 50-something veins to the Paul brothers fannying around to David Haye about to ping pong with his slippery nightclub mate underneath De La Hoya flailing about with the steroid riven eye reaper in Vitor Belfort…
Boxing is no joke, and before long, someone underqualified is going to get very badly hurt. And whilst those that are fuelling the demand for content that presents an actor or a basketball player, a lounge singer or a god knows what fighting against their equivalent who has more training infrastructure, don’t really care. Some son’s mother ultimately will.
So all rambling aside, is there a point to this article? Let’s find a point.
I am sure that I am not alone as a forty-year boxing fan to find the likes of Jake Paul and his avatar of a brother earning seven-figure purses a shattering insult to the leaders and bleeders, dreamers and achievers, warriors and saviors that populate the boxing world from Detroit to Darlaston in the god damn West Midlands of the United Kingdom.
“Leonard standing there willing to trade. Well, that’s a mistake. Petronelli tells Hagler to slug. Get out there and put some pressure on, be aggressive and brawl with him.”
So, what is the end game?
Should I even be giving this canker growing out of the traditional trunk of genuine boxing any oxygen? No, probably not, but it seems that brother love’s traveling salvation show is going to keep on trucking for at least a little time still.
So do we lobby for Canelo to pick up some dollars easier than against Kovalev in eviscerating one of the Pauls? Put Josh Taylor and KSI in a ring together with the rights to sweep up the aftermath tendered out to Scottish butchers. Or even exhume Sonny Liston from that pauper’s plot in Old Vegas, ‘A Man,’ and prop him up against a 60” Smart TV to trade punches with a holographic Cassius Clay once again…
Sound extreme? Maybe ridiculous?
You said it.