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Anthony Joshua vs. NYC

If you were among those hurrying along Madison Avenue on Saturday afternoon, you might have seen him. He was laid out on the sidewalk under a propped sign, his head on a backpack. He was wearing one of those skinny suits that glint in the sunlight, the ones you usually see in threes on young professionals en route to a collaborative meeting or to entertain some client. This guy was one of them. He should have been up and at it, laughing with colleagues, sneaking looks at passing reflections. Something happened to him. His shoes were missing. Something happened and then something snapped and left him melting into the sidewalk, barefoot, his eyes closed as if to shut the world out. Madison Avenue gave him no more than a glance.
New York, New York, big city of dreams is also a destroyer. It got to a giant Saturday night. It got to him good.
Anthony Joshua was considering Frank Sinatra’s “The Theme from New York, New York” for his ring walk, which would have been the height of irony after that “if” in “if I can make it there” proved bigger than any billboard in Times Square. As it was, his supporters at the weigh-in had too much taste for one thing and not enough for another and shouted down Sinatra in favor of Neil Diamond. So while Joshua was in the dressing room at Madison Square Garden switching out of one groin protector and into another, the rest of us were subjected to a six-thousand-strong sing-along by beer-swilling Brits. “Sweet Caroline” never sounded so bad, so bad.
It was always a mistake to snub Sinatra. In 1969, Jimmy Roselli was a star. He was selling out the Copacabana and television was starting to notice. Then he turned down a request to sing at a charity chaired by Sinatra’s mother. A call was made and the next thing Roselli knew, he couldn’t get a gig or a record deal to save his life. He ended up selling his records out of his trunk on Mulberry Street and driving a delivery truck for Drake’s Coffee Cakes. You didn’t snub Sinatra. It might be worse to snub Sinatra’s ghost.
New York, New York got to Joshua early. Just before making his way to the ring, he hesitated and turned around to take a long swig of water, swishing it around as if he had dry mouth. When he climbed through the ropes and stood under the big lights he seemed to shrink. He was wide-eyed, looking around, chewing on his mouthpiece. He threw a couple of haphazard uppercuts. He took a deep breath. “That’s nerves,” someone said to no one in particular. One of his seconds placed one hand on the top of his head and massaged his neck with the other.
“Six feet six and weighing in officially at two-hundred forty-seven point eight pounds . . . from London England, the fighting pride of the United Kingdom; the reigning, defending, undefeated heavyweight champion of the world . . .” Joshua’s American debut was announced with all the ballyhoo befitting a monolith or a mythical hero. “Nice and relaxed Josh,” his cutman said as he lifted the water bottle to the hero’s lips. “You need a drink?”
Andy Ruiz Jr. walked to the ring wearing a gold and white robe. His pudgy face was a mask of innocence peering out from under a fur-lined hood that recalled those winter jackets kids wore in the 1970s. His goatee was the only indication that he’s old enough to drink. Unlike Joshua, Ruiz wasn’t announced so much as introduced as a personable fellow we should like to get to know. He’s from Imperial, California. He’s fighting for his Mexican heritage. There was a warning there, in that Mexican heritage. It was hidden under drapes of flab and random abscesses and stretch marks. Joshua, already over his head in another battle, couldn’t see the iron; the ethnic pride and unconquerable self-belief.
When the two moved into each other in the first round, it looked like a comedy sketch. Ruiz’s trunks didn’t quite make it over his belly button and he stood no higher than Joshua’s collarbone. Every time he moved, something jiggled. But he was moving fast, shooting jabs at Joshua’s sternum, dipping under big rights. Joshua’s mouth was soon hanging open. The big city was beating him. Ruiz was getting to him too.
In the second round, the 20-to-1 underdog stunned him with an overhand right and his leg jerked out behind him. He was too distracted to adjust to what was happening. Ruiz was disguising his counterattacks with jabs and forays from the perimeter and by punching with him. When caught, Ruiz came storming back with combinations that told of his own dreams. And he wasn’t intimidated by the godlike dimensions in front of him or honking and roaring outside. He wanted to be king of the hill, A-number-one, and this was how to do it. This is where to do it.
In the third round, Joshua landed an uppercut that would have decapitated a middleweight and followed it with a left hook. Ruiz went down. As he was going down, he never took his eyes off Joshua. “I had to get him back,” he said at the post-fight press conference. Scant seconds later Ruiz was up and barreling forward, his dreams barely dented. Joshua landed a right blast and Ruiz surged at him with a left hook and a winging right, then dipped under the incoming counter right and countered that with a left hook. It caught the giant on the temple and triggered the long descent into what was as self-conscious a knockdown as you’ll ever see. Joshua was smiling, embarrassed, but his legs, already shaky, could barely get him upright. Before the end of the round, Ruiz reversed the combination and sent him down again.
The end came in the seventh. Joshua, down for the fourth time in the fight and the second time in the round, got up and lurched from mid-ring to his corner. He could no longer feel his legs and needed support. He needed a drink. He spread his great arms on the top rope and leaned back just as he had during the introductions, a seemingly casual position that’s anything but. The referee saw his exhaustion and ended the fight.
—Ended the fights. Joshua went 0-2 Saturday night.
A panoramic scan of the crowd revealed jubilation and shock; hands aloft, over mouths, clutching hair, clenched at temples, high-fiving. Ruiz was at the center of it all, celebrating with shameless abandon. It was a joy to see; the fat kid we all knew in school (and some of us were) had bopped his way to the top of the heap. Joshua too was caught up in the moment. He took a giant’s step outside of his own ego and smiled down at his unexpected conqueror. Then he embraced him like a friend and a brother. “He is genuinely over the moon for Andy Ruiz,” said Eddie Hearn, “but he’ll be absolutely devastated when this kicks in.”
Will he leave his shoes at Madison Square Garden and melt away on Madison Ave? Not a chance. He’ll make a brand new start of it, in old York or thereabouts.
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A Paean to the Great Sportswriter Jimmy Cannon Who Passed Away 50 Years Ago This Week

“Of all his assignments,” said the renowned sportswriter Dave Anderson, “[Jimmy] Cannon appeared to enjoy boxing the most.”
Cannon would have sheepishly concurred. He dated his infatuation with boxing to 1919 when he stood outside a saloon listening to a man with a megaphone relay bulletins from the Dempsey-Willard fight in faraway Toledo. His father followed boxing as did all the Irishmen in his neighborhood. For him, an interest in the sport of boxing, he once wrote, was like a family heirloom. But it became a love-hate relationship. It was Jimmy Cannon, after all, who coined the phrase “boxing is the red light district of sports.”
This week marks the 50th anniversary of Jimmy Cannon’s death. He passed away at age 63 on Dec. 5, 1973, in his room at the residential hotel in mid-Manhattan where he made his home. In the realm of American sportswriters, there has never been a voice quite like him. He was “the hardest-boiled of the hard-drinking, hard-boiled school of sports writing,” wrote Darrell Simmons of the Atlanta Journal. One finds a glint of this in his summary of Sonny Liston’s first-round demolition of Albert Westphal in 1961: “Sonny Liston hit Albert Westphal like he was a cop.”
In his best columns, Jimmy Cannon was less a sportswriter than an urban poet. Here’s what he wrote about Archie Moore in 1955 after Moore trounced Bobo Olson to set up a match with Rocky Marciano: “Someone should write a song about Archie Moore who in the Polo Grounds knocked out Bobo Olson in three rounds…It should be a song that comes out of the backrooms of sloughed saloons on night-drowned streets in morning-worried parts of bad towns. The guy who writes this one must be a piano player who can be dignified when he picks a quarter out of the marsh of a sawdust floor.”
Prior to fighting in Madison Square Garden the previous year – his first appearance in that iconic boxing arena – Moore had roamed the globe in search of fights in a career that began in the Great Depression. Cannon was partial to boxers like Archie Moore, great ring artisans who toiled in obscurity, fighting for small purses –“moving-around money” in Cannon’s words — until the establishment could no longer ignore them.
Jimmy Cannon was born in Lower Manhattan. He left high school after one year to become a copy boy for the New York Daily News. In 1936, at age 26, the News sent him to cover the biggest news story of the day, the Lindbergh Baby kidnapping trial. While there he met Damon Runyon who would become a lifelong friend. At Runyon’s suggestion, he applied for a job as a sportswriter at the New York American, a Hearst paper, and was hired.
During World War II, he was a war correspondent in Europe embedded in Gen. George S. Patton’s Third Army. When he returned from the war, he joined the New York Post and then, in 1959, the Journal-American which made him America’s highest-paid sportswriter at a purported salary of $1000 a week. His articles were syndicated and appeared in dozens of papers.
Cannon was very close to Joe Louis. He was the only reporter that Louis allowed in his hotel room on the morning of the Brown Bomber’s rematch with Max Schmeling. Louis, he wrote, “was a credit to his race, the human race.” It was his most-frequently-quoted line.
In an early story, Cannon named Sam Langford the best pound-for-pound fighter of all time. Later he joined with his colleagues on Press Row in naming Sugar Ray Robinson the greatest of the greats. As for the fellow who anointed himself “The Greatest,” Muhammad Ali, Cannon profoundly disliked him. He persisted in calling him Cassius Clay long after Ali had adopted his Muslim name.
It troubled Cannon that Ali was afforded an opportunity to fight for the title after only 19 pro fights. Ali’s poetry, he thought, was infantile. He abhorred Ali’s political views. And, truth be told, he didn’t like Ali because certain segments of society adored him. Cannon didn’t like non-conformists – hippies and anti-war protesters and such. When queried about his boyhood in Greenwich Village, he was quick to note that he lived there “when it was a decent neighborhood, before it became freaky.”
Cannon’s animus toward Ali spilled over into his opinion of Ali’s foil, the bombastic sportscaster Howard Cosell. “If Howard Cosell were a sport,” he wrote,” it would be roller derby.”
Cannon frequently filled his column with a series of one-liners published under the heading “Nobody Asked Me, But…” His wonderfully acerbic put-down of Cosell appeared in one of these columns. But one can’t read these columns today without cringing at some of his ruminations. He once wrote, “Any man is in trouble if he falls in love with a woman he can’t knock down with one punch.” If a newspaperman wrote those words today, he would be out of a job so fast it would make his head spin.
Similarly, his famous line about Joe Louis being a credit to the human race no longer resonates in the way that it once did. There is in its benevolence an air of racial prejudice.
Jimmy Cannon was a lifelong bachelor but in his younger days before he quit drinking cold turkey in 1948, he was quite the ladies man, often seen promenading showgirls around town. Like his pal Damon Runyon, he was a night owl. As the years passed, however, he became somewhat reclusive. The world passed him by when rock n’ roll came in, pushing aside the Tin Pan Alley crooners and torch singers that had kept him company at his favorite late-night haunts.
Cannon’s end days were tough. He suffered a stroke in 1971 as he was packing to go to the Kentucky Derby and spent most of his waking hours in his last two-plus years in a wheelchair. Fortunately, he could afford to hire a full-time attendant. In 2002, he was posthumously elected to the International Boxing Hall of Fame in the Observer category.
Jimmy Cannon once said that he resented it when someone told him that his stuff was too good to be in a newspaper. It was demeaning to newspapers and he never wanted to be anything but a newspaperman. He didn’t always bring his “A” game and some of his stuff wouldn’t hold up well, but the man could write like blazes and the sportswriting profession lost a giant when he drew his last breath.
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Arne K. Lang is a recognized authority on the history of prizefighting and the history of American sports gambling. His latest book, titled Clash of the Little Giants: George Dixon, Terry McGovern, and the Culture of Boxing in America, 1890-1910, was released by McFarland in September, 2022.
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Ryan “KingRy” Garcia Returns With a Bang; KOs Oscar Duarte

It was a different Ryan “KingRy” Garcia the world saw in defeating Mexico’s rugged Oscar Duarte, but it was that same deadly left hook counter that got the job done by knockout on Saturday.
Only the quick survive.
Garcia (24-1, 20 KOs) used a variety of stances before luring knockout artist Duarte (26-1-1, 21 KOs) into his favorite punch before a sold-out crowd at Toyota Arena in Houston, Texas. That punch should be patented in gold.
It was somewhat advertised as knockout artist versus matinee idol, but those who know the sport knew that Garcia was a real puncher. But could he rebound from his loss earlier this year?
The answer was yes.
Garcia used a variety of styles beginning with a jab at a prescribed distance via his new trainer Derrick James. It allowed both Garcia and Duarte to gain footing and knock the cobwebs out of their reflexes. Garcia’s jab scored most of the early points during the first three rounds. He also snapped off some left hooks and rights.
“He was a strong fighter, took a strong punch,” said Garcia. “I hit him with some hard punches and he kept coming.”
Duarte, an ultra-pale Mexican from Durango, was cautious, knowing full well how many Garcia foes had underestimated the power behind his blows.
Slowly the muscular Mexican fighter began closing in with body shots and soon both fighters were locked in an inside battle. Garcia used a tucked-in shoulder style while Duarte pounded the body, back of the head and in the back causing the referee to warn for the illegal punches twice.
Still, Duarte had finally managed to punch Garcia with multiple shots for several rounds.
Around the sixth round Garcia was advised by his new trainer to begin jabbing and moving. It forced Duarte out of his rhythm as he was unable to punch without planting his feet. Suddenly, the momentum had reversed again and Duarte looked less dangerous.
“I had to slow his momentum down. That softened him up,” said Garcia about using that change in style to change Duarte’s pressure attack. “Shout out to Derrick James.”
Boos began cascading from the crowd but Garcia was on a roll and had definitely regained the advantage. A quick five-punch combination rocked Duarte though not all landed. The danger made the Mexican pause.
In the eighth round Duarte knew he had to take back the momentum and charged even harder. In one lickety-split second a near invisible counter left hook connected on Duarte’s temple and he stumbled like a drunken soldier on liberty in Honolulu. Garcia quickly followed up with rights and uppercuts as Duarte had a look of terror as his legs failed to maintain stability. Down he went for the count.
Duarte was counted out by referee James Green at 2:51 of the eighth round as Garcia watched from the other side of the ring.
“I started opening up my legs a little bit to open up the shot,” explained Garcia. “When I hurt somebody that hard, I just keep cracking them. I hurt him with a counter left hook.”
The weapon of champions.
Garcia’s victory returns him back to the forefront as one of boxing’s biggest gate attractions. A list of potential foes is his to dissect and choose.
“I’m just ready to continue to my ascent to be a champion at 140,” Garcia said.
It was a tranquil end after such a tumultuous last three days.
Other Bouts
Floyd Schofield (16-0, 12 KOs) blitzed Mexico’s Ricardo “Not Finito” Lopez (17-8-3) with a four knockdown blowout that left fans mesmerized and pleased with the fighter from Austin, Texas.
Schofield immediately shot out quick jabs and then a lightning four-punch combination that delivered Lopez to the canvas wondering what had happened. He got up. Then Scholfield moved in with a jab and crisp left hook and down went Lopez like a dunked basketball bouncing.
At this point it seemed the fight might stop. But it proceeded and Schofield unleashed another quick combo that sent Lopez down though he did try to punch back. It was getting monotonous. Lopez got up and then was met with another rapid fire five- or six-punch combination. Lopez was down for the fourth time and the referee stopped the devastation.
“I appreciate him risking his life,” said Schofield of his victim.
In a middleweight clash Shane Mosley Jr. (21-4, 12 KOs) out-worked Joshua Conley (17-6-1, 11 KOs) for five rounds before stopping the San Bernardino fighter at 1:51 of the sixth round. It was Mosley’s second consecutive knockout and fourth straight win.
Mosley continues to improve in every fight and again moves up the middleweight rankings.
Super middleweight prospect Darius Fulghum (9-0, 9 KOs) of Houston remained undefeated and kept his knockout string intact with a second round pounding and stoppage over Pachino Hill (8-5-1) in 56 seconds of that round.
Photo credit: Golden Boy Promotions
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Jordan Gill TKOs Michael Conlan Who May Have Reached the End of the Road

Fighting on his home turf, two-time Olympian Michael Conlan was an 8/1 favorite over Jordan Gill tonight in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Had he won, Matchroom promoter Eddie Hearn was eyeing a rematch for Conlan with Leigh Wood. Their March 2022 rumble in Nottingham was a popular pick for the Fight of the Year. But the 29-year-old Gill, a Cambridgeshire man, rendered that discussion moot with a seventh-round stoppage. It was Conlan’s third loss inside the distance in the last 18 months and he would be wise to call it a day. His punch resistance is plainly not what it once was.
It was with considerable fanfare that Conlan cast his lot with Top Rank coming out of the amateur ranks. Tonight was his first assignment for Matchroom and his first fight at 130 pounds after coming up short in two world featherweight title fights. And he almost didn’t make it past the second round. Gill had him on the canvas in the opening minute of round two compliments of a left hook and stunned him late in the round with a right hand that left him on unsteady legs.
He survived the round and for a fleeting moment in the sixth frame it appeared that he had reversed Gill’s momentum. But Gill took charge again in the next stanza, trapping Conlan in the corner and unloading a fusillade of punches that forced referee Howard Foster to waive it off, much to the great dismay of the crowd. The official time was 1:09 of round seven.
Released by Top Rank, Conlan trained for this fight in Miami, Florida, under Pedro Diaz, best known for rejuvenating the career of Miguel Cotto. But the switch in trainer and in promoter made no difference as Conlan, who won his first amateur title at age 11, was damaged goods before he entered the ring. It was a career-defining victory for Jordan Gill (28-2-1, 9 KOs) who was not known as a big puncher and was returning to the ring after being stopped by Kiko Martinez 13 months ago in his previous start.
Semi-wind-up
In the “Battle of Belfast,” undefeated welterweight Lewis Crocker seized control in the opening round and went on to win a lopsided decision over intra-city rival Tyrone McKenna (23-4-1). Two of the judges gave Crocker every round and the other had it 98-92, but yet this was entertaining fight in spurts. McKenna had more fans in the building, but Crocker, seven years younger at age 26, went to post a 7/2 favorite and youth was served.
Other Bouts of Note
Belfast super welterweight Caoimhin Agyarko, who overcame a near-fatal mugging at age 20, advanced to 14-0 (7) with a 10-round split decision over Troy Williamson (20-2-1). The judges had it 98-92 and 97-93 for Agyarko with a dissenter submitting a curious 96-94 score for the 31-year-old Williamson who wasn’t able to exploit his advantages in height and reach.
Sean McComb, a 31-year-old Belfast southpaw, scored what was arguably the best win of his career with a 10-round beat-down of longtime sparring partner Sam Maxwell. Two of the judges gave McComb every round and the other had it 99-88. McComb, who has an interesting nickname, “The Public Nuisance, successfully defended his WBO European super welterweight strap while elevating his record to 18-1 (6). The fading, 35-year-old Maxwell, a former BBBofC British title-holder, lost for third time in his last four starts after winning his first 16 pro fights.
Photo credit: Mark Robinson / Matchroom
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