Dillian Whyte Rocks Up
It is a quirk of boxing that, in this age of myriad belts and ludicrous ranking systems, neither Dillian Whyte nor Alexander Povetkin have ever laid claim to the heavyweight championship of the world.
True, the most fabled division in the sport hasn’t been as badly afflicted by the demeaning of gold as others. The long reign of Wladimir Klitschko ensured three of the four alphabet belts were held in high esteem for a good decade; Tyson Fury, Anthony Joshua and Deontay Wilder have largely held the fort since Klitschko fell from the podium in 2015.
Yet when the likes of Charles Martin, Bermane Stiverne and Siarei Liakhovich (Who? Exactly!) have all carried a legitimate strap over their shoulders, it seems especially bewildering that Whyte and Povetkin have not joined such illustrious company.
Timing is everything and so it has been for these two. Povetkin’s two title tilts came against Klitschko, whose dominance was ended only by Fury burrowing deep into his mind, and Joshua, who, though some view his game as deeply flawed, is still one of the top two or three heavyweights on the planet today.
Whyte has not contested a world title, but spurned his own opportunity against Joshua two years ago, one a certain Andy Ruiz Jr seized with glee. Whyte famously sat as mandatory contender to Wilder’s WBC belt for years without ever being offered a shot, and promoter Eddie Hearn was keen in the aftermath of Saturday to highlight that Wilder had once told his fighter he’d never get a chance for as long as he held that particular strap.
That proved to be true, Wilder having been separated from his prize by the act of GBH doled out by Fury in Las Vegas a little before Covid-19 wreaked havoc on the western world. Unfortunately for Whyte his own esteem has taken a similar hit.
This bout in Gibraltar, offered a sobriquet in the form of ‘The Rumble on the Rock’ that, if we are being honest, sounds far grander than the contest it described, only arose after Povetkin rebounded from the canvas last August and detached Whyte from his senses with an uppercut so beautiful Monet could have painted it.
Rematch clauses are one of boxing’s many scourges, inserted as a fail-safe by. powerful promoters to mitigate against exactly the fate that befell Whyte and Hearn last summer. In this instance a renewal of acquaintances did at least make sense for Povetkin too; left with few destinations and advancing age, the Russian could bank good money and go out for good, either on top or otherwise.
It proved to be otherwise. Much as Whyte had dominated the fourth round of their first encounter, dropping Povetkin twice, so he did again here. Indeed, much like their meeting in Hearn’s back garden, Whyte was on top throughout the fight, looking both sharper and, despite knowing what ravaged him then, willing to throw down.
Povetkin was physics inverted. On the balmy surface of the Rock, here he was slipping and sliding across the canvas as if it were lathered in ice. As early as the opening minute, a flurry from Whyte which did little more than glance the Russian had Povetkin slapping against the ropes, legs akimbo and desperately defying gravity. He was less hurt, more bemused, his legs whirring in directions his head hadn’t sent them.
Whyte, to his credit, stuck out a long jab and landed it at will. Povetkin’s head might as well have been cast in concrete, so unwilling was he to move it off a line. Time and again, Whyte flicked out a spiteful but not especially hurtful left. Time and again, Povetkin ate it, absorbed it with rapidly reddening flesh on his forehead and around his temple.
Was Whyte perfect? No. Did he need to be? Not at all. The Brit had cast doubt on Povetkin’s claims to have contracted Covid in the build-up to this rematch – it was originally set for November, a sign of just how long the Russian struggled with the disease – yet this showing was nothing for Povetkin if not vindication of that tale. From the off he looked sluggish and disjointed, hardly the technician that had broke out to deliver the final punch of their last bout.
Whyte’s style leaves much to be desired, especially when he has an opponent hurt. His overhand right would not look out of place at Lords at the end of a long run-up. Yet there is a venom there which is imperative in a heavyweight, an eye for an end that all of the most destructive need.
Having already jolted Povetkin several times before, this latest end began with 30 seconds of the fourth remaining. That jab launched out again, not a prod but a flick, a deception, disguising the hard right coming straight behind. It squelched onto Povetkin’s jaw, flinging him backwards into the ropes, where he comically rebounded, as if his bungee had hit full extension and whipped him back from whence he’d came.
How he must have wished those ropes had disintegrated! Bounding back into trouble, Povetkin now met a short, cuffing right, this one turning him 90 degrees and whipping him across to another side of the ring. From there he peeled backwards and Whyte, now fully in control, unleashed a leaping left hook that nigh on decapitated the Russian.
Afterward Whyte would say that “nobody can handle that punch” and he’d be right, but few at the highest level have or will find themselves so vulnerable as Povetkin was. Square on, head dizzied, he’d have been less conspicuous with a bullseye etched on his face.
He was up, of course he was, but referee Victor Laughlin quickly realised the futility of a count. In truth this had been a mismatch from the opening bell, not overly dissimilar to that first meeting seven months ago, the difference this time being Whyte’s awareness of the danger that might befall him if he switched off. Instead he stayed sharp, got the job done, resurrecting a career that would have been in tatters otherwise.
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Ted Cheeseman wears a map of his career on his face, a few more roads added last night. JJ Metcalf, unbeaten before this weekend, in a certain light resembles England cricketer Jos Buttler, or at least he would if the latter spent batting practice defending fast bowling primarily with his own head.
Neither will bother the upper echelons of the super-welterweight division, and that’s just fine, especially when they offer up a show like the one that dissected Saturday’s card. Cheeseman started well, Metcalf took up the baton through the middle of the fight, and by the time of its denouement it had become a war, rising welts and spattered blood aplenty.
Cheeseman ended it brutally, thumping two right hands onto Metcalf’s temple and then, as the latter staggered in search of stable ground, unloaded a left hook that flattened him for good. In doing so he wrested back control of the British title he dropped to Scott Fitzgerald seventeen months ago.
Cheeseman’s battle back from addiction has been laudable and a bout with Liverpool’s Anthony Fowler, whose sole career loss came to Fitzgerald as well, and who looked impressive against Jorge Fortuna a week ago, would be another enthralling domestic duel.
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This was a weekend steeped in British action, across all ends of the spectrum. Campbell Hatton, spawn of Ricky, opened his professional career with a clunky yet convincing points decision over the Spaniard Jesus Ruiz. Ruiz at times resembled a drunk booted from a bar, bloodied and grimacing but refusing to go down for good. Hatton is expected to fight again in five weeks, on the undercard of Joseph Parker v Dereck Chisora.
Fabio Wardley continued his unbeaten heavyweight career, enjoying a faintly comical KO victory over Eric Molina. The 38-year-old American has inexplicably challenged for a world title twice, despite often appearing as at ease in a boxing ring as Gandhi in a gun store. The end came after Molina had rocked Wardley and the latter retaliated with a flurry of shots that saw Molina tumble awkwardly to the ground and stay there to be counted out, before rising and bemoaning a shot to the back of the head that few others saw.
A pair of shows at London’s Copper Box left plenty to devour, not least rising super-middleweight Willy Hutchinson’s unexpected loss to the more experienced Lennox Clarke. Hutchinson, just 22, is viewed as Scotland’s next big thing in some quarters, yet found himself on the end of a vicious combination having already been cut above the left eye. Hutchinson rose to his feet as if being pulled by strings from above, wobbling like jelly on a windowsill, and referee Bob Williams rightly ended proceedings there.
The chief support to that bout saw Nathan Gorman easily defeat Czech journeyman Pavel Sour, a man whose face acts as chief cheerleader for the theory of nominative determinism. Before him, lightweight Mark Chamberlain made short work of County Durham’s Jordan Ellison, ending matters with a left to the body inside the opening 90 seconds.
Friday evening had seen Derbyshire’s Zach Parker comfortably despatch visiting American Vaughn Alexander at 168lbs, dropping him twice on the way to a second round win. Elsewhere, with the exception of heavyweight David Adeleye, who saw off overmatched debutant Dave Preston inside two minutes, it was a tale of many scorecards; Brad Foster, Sam Maxwell and the highly-touted Dennis McCann all ran out victorious without premature ends.
