Comparing Hopkins with history
— -- "Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought." -- Emily Dickinson
The boxer moved on leaden legs, the bald spot on top of his head clearly visible from the upper reaches of Madison Square Garden. Fighting more from memory than motivation, he held off his swarming assailant for seven rounds. But no man can hold back the hands of time indefinitely. Not even a living legend.
And when a haymaker sent him sprawling through the ropes and onto the ring apron in the eighth, it was only the helping hands of the ringside media that stopped him from falling completely out of the ring. He came to rest on his back, with his right leg resting on the bottom strand, arms outstretched over his head and mouth agape, looking eerily like a fallen soldier in a Matthew Brady photograph.
It was not, however, a musket ball that put him down for the count. It was a blockbuster of a right hand delivered by Rocky Marciano that did the deed -- the Sunday punch he called his "Suzie Q." There was no count. The referee gently helped the stricken fighter back inside the ring, as men wearing white sweaters with "JOE LOUIS" written on the back rushed to his aid.
Louis' knockout loss in the final bout of his career almost felt like a death in the family, and Marciano, like so many others on the night of October 26, 1951, cried unashamedly for the old champ who had meant so much to so many for so long.
It's unlikely that such a heartfelt outpouring of grief will be forthcoming if Bernard Hopkins meets a similar fate this Saturday when he faces undefeated knockout artist Sergey Kovalev in their light heavyweight title unification bout. Louis was beloved; Hopkins is not. But should boxing's contemporary Methuselah come a cropper at the hands of the Russian, even his critics would have to admit it's the end of one of the most extraordinary sagas in the annals of the sport.
Louis was 37 when he lost to Marciano, which was considered ancient for a fighter in the 1950s. Hopkins will be less than two months shy of 50 when he steps into the ring at Atlantic City's Boardwalk Hall to face Kovalev, an astonishing age at which a boxer would try to compete at a world-class level regardless of the era in which he fought. In fact, it has never been done before.
The average life expectancy for a male living in the United States in 1951 was 65.8 years, while today it's 78.8. This is something worth keeping in mind when comparing Hopkins to other famous fighters who fought successfully at an advanced age. But in cases such as, this numbers alone can be deceiving. Context is everything.
Until Hopkins broke his record as the oldest fighter ever to win a world championship, George Foreman was the standard-bearer for geriatric prizefighters. His one-punch knockout of Michael Moorer in 1994 to regain the heavyweight title, which he'd lost to Muhammad Ali 20 years prior, was nothing short of mind-boggling. It put the 45-year-old Foreman in a class of his own -- a hero of near-mythical proportions who seemed more akin to John Henry than a link in the chain of heavyweight champions.
When the 46-year-old Hopkins won the linear light heavyweight title with a unanimous decision over Jean Pascal on May 21, 2011, Foreman was among the first to congratulate him. As one of the few great fighters to walk away on his own terms, he could afford to be magnanimous.
At first, it seemed odd when Foreman abruptly retired after losing a controversial decision to Shannon Briggs in November 1997. A rematch would have provided a handsome payday and most likely a return to the throne. But Foreman claimed that he "couldn't afford not to leave boxing" because it was "taking a lot of time away from [his] business interests." And considering that he has made an estimated $200 million from endorsements, there's no reason to doubt his sincerity.
Prior to Hopkins and Foreman, Archie Moore and Jersey Joe Walcott usually were the ones cited when talk turned to fighters who had extended their careers beyond the norm. Until Foreman regained the title, Walcott, who was 37 at the time, was the oldest man to win the heavyweight championship when he knocked out Ezzard Charles in July 1951. Moore, who was born in either 1913 or 1916, depending on which source you use, was 36 or 39 when he won the light heavyweight title in 1952 and 45 or 48 when he made his final defense in 1961.
Among others who defied the calendar was Bob Fitzsimmons, whose career trajectory took a unique turn toward the end. First, the former blacksmith won the middleweight champion and then, seven years later, in March 1879, he dug his left into Jim Corbett's solar plexus and became heavyweight champion.
By 1899, however, Fitz was an ex-champion. James J. Jefferies knocked him out to take the title, and when the "Boilermaker" did it again in the rematch, "Ruby Robert" decided a change of scenery was in order. He moved down to light heavyweight and relieved George Gardner of the title in 1903 at the age of 40. It was a pugilistic hat trick that has yet to be equaled, more than 100 years later.
Yes, Roy Jones Jr. won titles in the same three weight classes, but the heavyweight title he captured by outpointing John Ruiz in March 2003 was bogus. Lennox Lewis was the legitimate champion at the time, and Jones' foray into the division was blown out of proportion by a story-hungry media and Roy's legions of starstruck followers. Fitzsimmons did it when there was only one champion per division.
Jack Johnson was almost as old as Hopkins when he tallied his final victory at the age of 48. But by then, the first black man to win the heavyweight championship was scratching out a living on the ham-and-egg circuit south of the border, fighting in places such as Nogales and Juarez, Mexico. Hopkins is still competing at an elite level and earning millions.
If there is a common thread among these time bandits it's that they all, with the exception of Fitzsimmons, were master craftsmen whose technical expertise was a significant part of the reason they were able to do what they did. There is something universally appealing about an athlete that performs well at a high level past the age when most of their brethren have gone to pasture. From George Blanda (who played in the NFL for 26 years and was 48 when he finally hung up his cleats) to Satchel Paige (who spent most of his career playing in the Negro Leagues before he became a major league rookie at the age of 42), every sport has its metabolic marvels. Generally, boxing's elder statesmen have been a lovable lot, but only partly because of their late-career accomplishments. Image also played a major role.
Louis presented a humble and dignified persona, and became a reassuring presence who did as much to improve race relations in America as any athlete before or after. Walcott was a hard-luck veteran who was easy to relate to -- a likable guy who failed the first four times he challenged for the heavyweight title but never stopped trying until he got it right in his fifth attempt.
Inside the ring, Moore was a wily predator who lured his foes into traps from which they seldom escaped. Outside he was a witty sage with a twinkle in his eyes and a flair for self-promotion.
Moore helped train Foreman during both incarnations, but it was during Foreman's second career that he developed a personality and fighting philosophy similar to Moore's. It helped transform him into a modern-day folk hero whose ability to laugh at himself was as key to his newfound popularity as his thunderous punch.
Hopkins' prickly temperament never morphed into a less confrontational disposition as he aged. His statement prior to his fight with Joe Calzaghe that a "white boy" would never beat him backfired when the Welshman won a close decision. On the other hand, there could be something to Hopkins' recent statement that his accomplishments have gone largely ignored by the mainstream media because he's black.
Would things have been different if Hopkins had been as endearing as Moore and the latter-day Foreman? Perhaps. But that's not who he is, and if Hopkins hadn't been true to himself, I doubt he would have been anywhere near as successful. The anger that always seems to be simmering just below the surface, ready to erupt at a moment, has been a career-long motivator, and B-Hop admits that he has often manufactured something to be indignant about in order to get his juices flowing.
While there are plenty of fans who think his style is excruciatingly boring and hope Kovalev ends his career in no uncertain manner, even the haters have to begrudgingly respect Hopkins' hard-won accomplishments.
There are also a growing number of fans who have been won over by the grizzled boxing genius who has prospered in a realm that had previously been considered beyond any boxer's reach. Unless I miss my guess, there will be as many cheers as boos for the ageless maverick on Saturday night.
If he wins, Hopkins will buttress his position as the foremost proponent of prolonging the inevitable to ever pull on a pair of boxing gloves. And if he loses, there might even be a tear or two shed. For who among us wouldn't want to taste the illusion of immortality he has savored for so long?