There are moments as a fan, writer and, I guess, participant in boxing when the sport's inherent appeal becomes submerged in the deep waters of the damage and debilitation fighters accrue. On Saturday night, as Fabio Wardley stumbled foward, his face butchered, his senses numbed, boxing won and lost
Saturday night's heavyweight fight in Manchester, England between Fabio Wardley and Daniel Dubois, two British contenders in the prime of their careers and physical prowess, will prove to be one of the most memorable for many who bore witness. The victor was felled twice, the loser stubbornly refused to buckle but was, belatedly, stopped in the 11th round.
Dubois celebrated in that awkward manner of his. "Are you not entertained!", he was urged to bellow to those still gathered in the darkness beyond the ropes. It is one of the gnarly branches of boxing's peculiar ecology that a diminutive, highly tailored figure with a microphone is required to illicit insight about an experience the viewer cannot comprehend nor the subject define. And if he can't extract that meaning, then he must prompt a cliche from the performing hulk.
Wardley congratulated his conquerer with words and the traditional embrace. His presence in the moment surely a fog from the blows he turned toward and the audit of all that was lost, far beyond the unbeaten record and belt he entered with, yet to be conducted. His wide moon-like face disfigured and distorted by Dubois' fists. Blood, gristle and skin torn from bones. The pain barely computed as the adrenalin of battle continued to resist until later when the damage will overwhelm its receding tide.
This pairing always promised the organised chaos of a street fight with rules. Great credit is owed to both men for agreeing to a fight loaded with such risk to their standing. Their strengths and flaws proved a perfect alchemy for a savage encounter.
It delivered and beyond. Beyond, perhaps, that which can be expected or should be permitted in sport's toughest neighbourhood.
Ultimately, Dubois' greater technique over came Wardley's greater will. With Don Charles in his corner, a fountain of wisdom and fundamentals for boxing's mavericks, Dubois is a much more dangerous man. His father's voice quelled in the certainty of Charles' stern dictation, Dubois is able to focus and function. It is the partnership most likely to take the 28-year-old to the limits of his physical potential. Which are considerable.
When there is no room for thought, for pause, the plan plain and simple, confidence fully infused from Charles' certainty, Dubois could beat anyone. As champions once better than him tire and depart, Dynamite Daniel Dubois could yet prove to be the King of the next generation despite the stumbles of the past.
That Wardley even reached this point is miracle enough. A statement which diminishes as much as trumpets. He was close to winning at several points in the fight, even when bloodied and exhausted. The Suffolk man who came in as a champion of sorts is capable of fight finishing blows and has demonstrated it on multiple occasions. It is this reputation that presumably informed the apparent abdication of responsibility by his corner and the third man in the ring, Howard Foster.
Boxing becomes the most barbaric and unhinged version of itself when those employed to protect fighters no longer able to protect themselves from opponents or their own defiance, fail to act. It stops being boxing and becomes a beating from which one man may never be restored.
It is the contract fighters sign, both literally and figuratively. But a fighter's corner men and the official that glides beside them are the small print.
And in any contract, it is all about the small print.