For those of us who are past our primes athletically, watching a boxer old or young disintegrate in vitality takes on a reflective connotation. As we drag ourselves to the gyms across the world and punish our bodies for the elusive assurance of longevity,  we fully understand the uphill struggle to remain “forever young.” As boxing is a blood sport where the object of the “game” is to inflict irreversible (that’s a naughty word sports fan) damage to your foe, we tend to utilize terms like “shot” and “damaged goods.”

Fighters (of all combat disciplines) are human beings. Like you and I, their spirits will live on long after they leave; yet, they suffer the indignity of allowing us to gape at them as the sands trickle gradually from the hour glass. Bernard Hopkins famously said that you don’t retire from the ring, the ring retires you. Morbidly, the Executioner articulated the most natural conclusion of any pugilistic narrative. At some point in time, whether it by age or the clinched fist of another man, we in the comforts of our health club membership will call you “shot.” I believe in predetermined journeys that each fighter is here to experience what happens to him, and that it is already written when he will fade. Unfortunately in Boxing, that “time of reckoning” is written in a language the fighting spirit will never comprehend.

If Sugar Ray Robinson can dream of taking a man's life in the ring and then fulfill the dark vision, then surely he must have known he wasn’t “The” Ray Robinson against Carmen Basilio. Surely Muhammad Ali, whom Bundini Brown proclaimed as a  “prophet,” had to know that stepping into the ring with Ernie Shavers with dull legs was hazardous. But do they know? Of course not. As Larry Merchant once said of Shane Mosley (as he unwisely entered against stylistic foil Vernon Forrest again) “a champion’s heart wants what it wants.” We as spectators like to identify a fighter’s loss of substructure, yet the fighter can’t truly determine when he becomes altered beyond return.

Fighters are trained to respond to fear, pain and depreciation as computers; the best seem to “reboot” with every seemingly fatal crash. Erik Morales ended his career with a suspect loss to David Diaz in which his hands proved superior but his legs (which bore the brunt of untold punishment) exposed him as a spent force. We as observers know it was not David Diaz that “retired” Erik Morales, yet it was the accumulation of punches from a fighting style rooted in gallantry. In a lot of ways Morales, like the late Chico Corrales, expedited his demise by never cheating himself or the fans. The two men (Morales and Corrales) never gave any pretense as to the brutal nature of the “game” they were mixed up in.

Some fighters take pride in proclaiming that one will “never be the same” after fighting them. Antonio Tarver once crowed that if Roy Jones was “shot” then it was he who shot him. Felix Trinidad at 154 and early in his middleweight campaign seemed to forever puncture the rushed commodities David Reid and Fernando Vargas. Jeff Lacy audaciously stepped up to face the Welsh super middleweight champion Joe Calzaghe and sustained a similar beating, leaving us questioning whether he can ever be salvaged. Naturally, if a fighter can maintain market value despite his damaged state, other fighters in career “slumps” use him as a life raft to pull themselves back up.

“Names” in boxing provide relevance regardless of the condition of the “name” when he was added to your ledger. Antonio Tarver, who most would say showed a sign of being shot (poor balance, shaky legs) in beating Roy Jones in 2005, now wants Jeff Lacy. He may “say” he wants Jeff to settle the debate of “who is the best” in Florida, but ask yourself when was the last time a boxing fan posed such a question. Florida? Unfortunately, this predatory practice by fading names is supported by the networks who actually buy such fights. Why else would Showtime, the “Billy Bean of televised fisticuffs” green light a bout like Fernando Vargas vs. Ricardo Mayorga.

The trail of carnage for this pay per view (September 8th, 2007) originated in 1999 when “precocious” Fernando Vargas showed the world his legendary heart against Felix Trinidad. The short, compact seismic volts known as Trinidad’s left hook floored Vargas early and after getting off the canvas himself Tito finally beat the Oxnard native into career discourse. Many observers cited “too much, too soon” as the brash Mexican was later dropped repeatedly by much lesser punchers than Trinidad. Battles with “real Mexican food” also contributed to ruins, yet, he is still marketable enough to orchestrate his own exit. Enter the almost equally dissipated Ricardo Mayorga.

Ricardo Mayorga’s psychological curtain was pulled back by Corey Spinks in 2003 commencing an amusing yet predictable pattern. Ricardo’s “act” was essentially over in October 2005 when he invited Trinidad, an erosive all time middleweight puncher to take a couple of free shots. Now he is a celebrity opponent, whose job it is to verbally degrade his “come-backing” foe during the promotional tour to generate interest in the fight. Networks, unlike fighters, “know” who is shot but if two  dim lights that still make noise can come together and make a strong light, the truth may be diverted long enough to profit. We as fans, when asked to pay to see men who no longer possess what made them enjoyable to watch, are caught in quagmire. We know precious TV dates are wasted to reap the remaining crumbs from concluding careers and that we are being robbed of being exposed to new “light.” We love those fighters who will never be the same but when those same fighters ask us for 50$ at this stage we can be vicious in our assessment. How can we ask the come-backing or fading to step aside and allow us to enjoy the up and coming? How can we temper our assessment with reverence when James Toney is “still” one tune-up away from a title bout? This economic reality separates us from compassion for the shot fighter who is readily taking years off his life.

Being a shot fighter nowadays has become a lucrative business as major networks no longer play a vital role in creating “stars.” Arturo Gatti’s last three beatings were all televised and he was paid handsomely for his (and his fans) stubbornness. In the golden era of boxing being a “shot” fighter would put you in stark surroundings like Fairgrounds, having to accept meager purses. Back then, even if you were in denial or lost for a better way to earn a living, your pay and the anonymity of your existence appealed to logic. Today, Evander Holyfield can go to fertile markets (because boxing now belongs to casinos) and pack houses of audiences starved to see a legend. ESPN, flagrantly impassive on the sport, will report on the progress of a reduced Holyfield long before doing a segment on Juan Diaz. Now Holyfield will get a title opportunity against Sultan Ibragimov and we are once again desensitized from what is really happening.

Back when boxing was a major sport and more kids entered the gyms, being a “shot” fighter put you in a perilous, yet realistic course. In order to get to the champ you had to accept your lowered rating and fight your way up, thus proving your “condition.” Gatekeepers were hardened, capable fighters that today would hold belts and you could not pass over them on your way “back.” Through showed reflexes and softened whiskers, shot fighters back then did not have the option to cash in on who they “were.” Those of us who believe boxing's only hope is legitimization know that showcasing damaged goods will only contribute to the stagnation. Maybe one day, we, who observe the sport will realize when we see an old warrior stumbling through his words that there was a collective consciousness at work.

He can only be the great warrior he is, but we in our recognition of his fading skills continued to pay him and tune in for his fights. We still call him champ; we feed him insurance salesmen and then “give” him title belt opportunities. We serve as “yes men,” and give him top billing over young hungry contenders. We accept the age old paradigm of promoters cashing in on broken fighters as the “best we can do” when current business models worldwide are changing weekly. We, as a culture, inundate the fighter with the billion dollar “immortality industry” of pills, creams, workouts and steroids. Ultimately when we look through his career we will try to pinpoint when this great man “aged over night.” Who shot him? we’ll ask. Yet, as a culture, we never stop to include ourselves among those who helped pull the trigger.

Questions? Comments? Email Martin Wade here