Anthony Joshua- heavyweight champion of the world downs the great Klitschko
Wow! What a fight. World Heavyweight boxing has rarely seen a night like it. Throughout the history of heavyweight boxing Britain has always cried out for somebody- anybody- to batter into submission an opponent with a fragile chin and nothing to offer in return. The fighters have come and gone. They've stepped up to the plate, glared at their adversary and then threatened to knock them into another country.
Last night Anthony Joshua of Great Britain, beat a mighty and seemingly immovable Ukranian by the name of Vladimir Klitscho in a world heavyweight boxing match at Wembley Stadium. It was one of those ferocious and bloodthirsty boxing battles that wound itself up by the minute and then exploded into life in those final, gripping rounds. Eventually it reached the most memorable of climaxes and the whole of Wembley, 90,000 strong, simply shook the ground to its foundations. It was a reeling, rocking, barnstorming, rip roaring, tooth and claw encounter that went the distance and sent the Joshua supporters into delighted delirium.
When we look back though the British heavyweights over the years, the list is endless. There was Joe Bugner, of Hungarian ancestry but, who, once he stepped into the ring, was as British as steak and kidney pie. Bugner was one of the great technicians of the prizefighting game but he did invite ridicule. Some of Bugner's harshest of critics insisted that he carried far too much timber around his waist. The truth was that Bugner knew how to deal with his opponents and although he might have looked a touch overweight and portly this disguised a strength, steel and determination that more often than not won the big fights that counted.
Then there was our Henry Cooper. Our 'Enry' was the most highly respected, lovable and engaging heavyweight boxer Britain has ever produced. For those who were there on the night when Cooper sent the then Cassius Clay toppling onto the ropes in 1963 for a few brief seconds British boxing flirted with greatness only to have its hopes dashed by a Clay onslaught that not only fell Cooper but also launched the career of Muhammad Ali. From there Ali soared into the boxing stratosphere, became world famous and then wonderfully outspoken which may or may not have been the best of his qualities but did reduce us to hysterical laughter.
But Henry Cooper was one of those battle- hardened, valiant, gritty, gutsy and explosive fighters who always knew how to rise to the occasion. His numerous encounters with both Cassius Clay and the home grown Brian London will be forever etched on our memories because they reminded Britain that it could still produce brave, gifted, courageous fighters. For a few glorious years, Cooper and London would slug and scrap their way commendably through 15 rounds of blood and guts. They were boxing's noble exponents who loved the noise and atmosphere of fight night.
Then there was Frank Bruno. Poor Frank. Oh what a terrible shame and decline. If any boxer deserved to win the heavyweight title of the world then Bruno was that man. But then his private life intruded and it all fell by the wayside. Oh Frank if only boxing had been kinder to you, more considerate, more generous and possibly more thoughtful. But Frank Bruno was a lovable, sensitive soul who just wanted to be loved and highly acclaimed by his peers. To a certain extent we did fall for that vulnerable, flawed character who boxed with enormous heart but could never quite hit the dizzy heights of boxing legend.
True the British public couldn't get enough of Bruno and they warmed to him almost instantly. Bruno did experience tantalising moments of glory. There were the nights when boxing was good to Frank Bruno and the heavyweight belts fitted him to perfection. But then there were the nights when the Bruno chin was exposed and the man I once spotted coming out of an Ilford gym, dropped to the canvas like a tree. Bruno took the most savage of blows to both head and body, such relentless punishment that at the end of the night Bruno seemed to be gasping for the fight to stop. After the lights had gone down and the roars ceased, Bruno became a pantomime figure heartlessly caricatured by the celebrity world and then giggled into obscurity. Oh for the fame and short lived notoriety of fame.
In more recent times Britain suddenly discovered Lennon Lewis. Lewis was Canadian but was brought up in London's East End. Lewis was suddenly elevated into boxing's big time and had all of boxing's essential tools. He moved around a ring with shrewd, calculating fists, an innate understanding of the sport's demands and then flicked those fists with electrifying speed and power. Like Bruno, Lewis was highly regarded and adored by fight fans but Lewis had those nights when it didn't quite seem to work. So he worked his opponents, forcing them into helpless corners and then delivering destructive blows that could be felt and heard, quite possibly, in China.
And now Britain has a certain Anthony Joshua, a strong, muscular and mighty boxer with fists like missiles and the kind of jabbing that simply sends his opponents tumbling and toppling, crashing and crumpling to the canvas without a single moment's hesitation or remorse. Joshua spent most of last night's measuring and assessing the right moment to hit Klitshcko into outer space. Joshua was undoubtedly patient, clever, careful and ultimately lethal.
As the fight progressed Joshua made all of the technically correct movements, dancing and bouncing around the ring almost persistently, sharpening his fists all the while, then dodging and then driving forward for the punch that counted. This was boxing of the highest class and pedigree, a furious flurry of fists that were almost too good to be true. For those observers by the ringside who thought they'd seen it all this was living proof that the heart and soul of boxing is alive and flourishing.
It was in the fifth round that the fight really did reach the hottest of fever pitches. This was boxing at its most breathless and enthralling, boxing to treasure and cherish, boxing with a lavish helping of brutality and bullishness, boxing that swung back and forth and kept going incessantly or seemingly so. Well, the fight did end but for the fans who have followed Joshua everywhere this was one of the best.
Joshua jabbed and jabbed and hooked and hooked fiercely, lengthening his reach with every minute of every round. In the first round both fighters flung their cautionary punches with menacing intent. It was a fight that for the first couple of rounds seemed reluctant to come out of its shell. Both fighters were locked in a grip and never sure when to land that decisive blow.
For his part Joshua seemed to have developed his very own strategy and style that might have taken Klitschko out much sooner rather than later. There were the dangerous warning signals, body shots that rendered Klitschko a helpless onlooker and then rocketing rights to the body that slowly and consistently sucked the life out of the Klitschko resistance movement. It was now the beginning of the end for this Ukranian man mountain who looked as if he'd been brought up by grizzly bears.
By the fifth round Klitschko was wobbling and staggering, a man reduced to a quivering wreck, falling away into his corner and barely able to find any semblance of a counter attack. Klitshcko, who looked remarkably like of one of Rocky's opponents, by now had no coherent answer to this tattoo of punches by a man called Joshua. But wait this contest was not over. Far from it. Suddenly the Ukranian revealed miraculous powers of recovery and Wembley Stadium began to sound like a certain afternoon in July 1966.
Klitschko was back, bigger, better and more resilient than ever before. He forced the whole fight into a completely new direction, one that none of us had seen coming. Now it was time for this rumbustious Ukranian to fire off his fusillade of fists. He heaved his body forward, pushing and shoving and shrewdly maneouvring Joshua into his own area of discomfort. The punches were by now raining in on Joshua and by the beginning of the final round this was anybody's fight.
And then it happened. Suddenly as if fate had intervened Klitschko was rocked back on his feet by a Joshua fightback the like of which British boxing could only have dreamt about. It was almost as if some supernatural force had just possessed Joshua and the whole tone and dynamic of the night had changed in the snap of a finger.
In the final round Joshua, by now reformed and revitalised, charged his way back into the fight once again. Sometimes boxing has this rare capacity to make complete fools of us. When you think the game is up. one moment of magic can transform the whole evening. Joshua astonishingly, lashed out, fists flying, lunging rights that simply knocked the Ukranian into a cowering corner. By now Joshua had found his range and then peppered Klitschko with the kind of body shots that were almost loaded with fire and fury.
Now Klitschko began to look like a man who had reached the summit of his profession and found that the way down was far from being his most pleasant of life experiences. The pain and suffering was over for him but for Joshua this was a night when British boxing finally looked much healthier and happier than we could possibly have imagined. This was a victorious night for Wembley Stadium. Maybe one day football will savour its moment of sporting significance on this wonderful ground. For the time being this was boxing at its finest.
No comments:
Post a Comment