Tyson Fury retains WBC world heavyweight title.
What a way to hang up your boxing gloves? In front of one of the most internationally renowned national stadiums, the man from Wythenshawe delivered one of the most destructive right upper cuts and boxing's vast global community recognised class when they saw it. The Wembley Arch may still be learning to accept boxing's more bloodthirsty of narratives but the new stadium perfectly understood where Tyson Fury was coming from.
But for Fury this was, regrettably, his last ever fight on the big stage anywhere. Shortly afterwards, the man with Irish gypsy blood announced his retirement and the world of boxing sighed ruefully and moved onto their next pugilistic hero. For Tyson Fury this represented the end game, a line under the sand. He had nothing to prove and he displayed all of the subtle arts of ring craftsmanship that we might have come to expect of him.
British boxing has rarely known a better or more auspicious time. The procession of British prize fighters has lavished us with charm, charisma and abundant showmanship. They've cut lips, mouths and eyes, bleeding bruises oozing from every part of their besieged and battered bodies. In 1963 Henry Cooper, who would become the most instantly identifiable British boxing institution, sent a clubbing punch into the face of Cassius Clay and every household across the nation fell deeply in love with Cooper, who would go into the history books and create a legendary place in British affections.
The likes of Frank Bruno, Lennox Lewis, Joe Bugner have all in their very different ways tried to re-establish that special moment, that instant and lasting rapport with adoring boxing fans the world over. Poor Frank Bruno suffered terribly for his art and the mental health issues which have now haunted him will not be the way we'd like to remember him. He lashed out at Mike Tyson but then discovered that Tyson only had brutality and barbarism on his mind. Tyson once tried to bite off the ears of his helpless opponent and Bruno must have felt Tyson's lethal fists coming from a different continent.
Lennox Lewis was the brave, honourable and heroic Canadian who was brought up in East London and did his utmost to challenge for the impossible dream. Lewis succeeded but never really achieved the level of consistency required to hold onto titles and win decisively on a regular basis. Bugner was, by his own admission, overweight, had rather too many tyres around his waist and the flabby waistline may have been too much of a hindrance. But Bugner could talk a good fight, sling painful shots to the head and body quite skilfully and once got the better of Henry Cooper. Then the man from Hungary faded from view and never really asserted himself at the highest level of the fight game.
On Saturday, Wembley Stadium was full to bursting point, bristling with anticipation, rocking with enthusiasm and waiting for Fury to unleash his artillery. Both Fury and Dillian White, his opponent, were fully revved up for this momentous meeting of boxing minds. Fury was galvanised, almost a man possessed with mad, staring eyes, looking to flatten White in no time at all. There was a ruthless evil in Fury just waiting to flood out and take out all of his frustration on his opponent. But White was never likely to upset the equilibrium of the boxing world. Nobody had fancied White's chances and all of the focus was concentrated on Fury.
And so the bell rung for the first round. Fury and White cautiously inched their way out of their respective corners and what we were treated to was an exhibition of cool, calculating strategy. Both men spent most of the fight spitting out tentative jabs. Fury kept manoeuvring White around the ring like a man searching patiently for the right moment. Every so often the Fury wrists would reach out for the vulnerable White chin. The arms would prod and probe, arms swinging, dragging his man around tormentedly, pushing his man thoughtfully into the right spot and the right moment.
All of his life Fury had planned for this night. The aura of seeming invincibility around Fury would hover over him for ages. But this was his last, rousing, stirring finale and how the British boxing cognoscenti loved Fury. By rounds, two, three, four and five, White was under attack with a whole succession of fierce jabs to the head, fending off the Fury barrage and bombardment with a feeble protective screen. By now Fury was measuring the fight, dictating its pace, testing the temperature and finding that lasting fame would be assured by the sixth round.
White could never deal with the telescope that was the reach that Fury had now found in his locker. Wembley was on its feet, the traditionalists now baying for blood. In the sixth round White had lost his way, never really finding his feet or building up any kind of counter offensive to the Fury jab and counter jab. His positioning left too much to desire and there was never any way that White would provide any kind of credible opposition on the night.
Suddenly Fury let loose his frightening bombs that thudded into the side of the White head. From nowhere a deadly uppercut toppled White to the canvas and the lights went out. White was poleaxed and emphatically out for the count. Before the referee had had time to call an end to the fight, White could barely lift himself up again. Dazed and bewildered, he got to his feet and then found that his mind and body were on a different wavelength. Fight over, Fury world champion again and then retirement. It was as simple and clinical as that. Tyson Fury establishes his place in boxing folklore.
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