The Heavyweight Division is Light
(from FightNews.com)
Morning, world. Meet your new champ:
Hasim Rahman.
If you don't know him, or how to pronounce his name (ROCK-mon), or where he lives (Baltimore), don't be embarrassed. Trust us, you are not alone.
Four weeks ago, the South African media mistakenly identified an African-American priest as the obscure 28-year-old heavyweight, who not so long ago was blasted out of a boxing ring — literally — by that fearsome Russian destroyer of note, Oleg Maskaev.
By virtue of his shocking one-punch KO of careless Lennox Lewis on Saturday night outside Johannesburg, the Rock now belongs to the world. For how long, I don't know. By autumn, I suspect, Mike Tyson will be eating Rahman's lunch and then, quite possibly, his children.
Where have all the great heavyweights gone?
Besides the graveyard, I really don't know.
Maybe they're playing outside linebacker or power forward. In any event, this is what has become of the once-glorious days of boxing's marquee division: Two pedestrian pugilists named Rahman & Ruiz are the torchbearers, complete with cheap, disreputable alphabet organization belts around their waists.
Actually, Hasim Rahman and John Ruiz are proud, likeable overachievers who have made something out of their lives. It's nice to see good stuff happen to a couple of family guys who aren't sucking on crack pipes or beating their wives.
But, truth be told, Rahman and Ruiz could fall out of bed and lose their belts. Rahman isn't even ranked among USA TODAY's top 10 heavyweights. Ruiz is No. 7, right behind something called Mount Whitaker, and, no, the big lug isn't promoted by Vince McMahon.
We are now officially in the bleakest period of heavyweight history, just shy of a full-blown requiem.
Spiraling toward the nadir has been a long, steady process. It's not as if it plunged into the abyss overnight; we had older fakers, guys like Ray Mercer, Oliver McCall and Frans Botha, and a succession of young, would-be pretenders like Andrew Golota, Michael Grant and Shannon Briggs.
Tyson imploded, Michael Moorer got fat, Riddick Bowe kidnapped his family and Evander Holyfield, our modern-day Dorian Gray, crumbled before our eyes.
The line of pursuers to the throne behind Rahman and Ruiz wouldn't exactly scare the trunks off Larry Holmes. I don't mean in his prime — I mean now, at 51. In his salad days, ol' Lar would've whupped both while blindfolded with Rocky Marciano's jockstrap.
For non-boxing aficionados, here are the recognized contenders for the heavyweight crown (Warning: I use the word "contender" the same way Don King uses the phrase, "Honestly, your honor, I swear to God on my mother's life."):
Kirk Johnson, Chris Byrd, Larry Donald, Vaughn Bean, Henry Akinwande, Danny Williams, the Klitschko brothers (Wladimir and Vitali), David Tua, David Izon and, for all I know, David Letterman.
Oh, I almost forgot. I left out Fres Oquendo.
Anyway, the heavyweight division is so flaccid that, any day now, I expect not only George Foreman to put down his wildly successful grilling contraption and launch a comeback, but for Tex Cobb, Gerry Cooney and Scott LeDoux to start their own White Hope Heavyweight World Series. Winner gets Leon Spinks.
I suppose I should just be glad that the heavyweight title is back in America, where it belongs. Lewis' reign from England, the motherland of ring rhubarbs, just may be over for good, though shopworn fighters have a way of reinventing themselves. That's why my favorite to emerge as the undisputed champion is an old name from the '80s, a fighter soon to be 35.
Hold on, world. Iron Mike may be our man. |
