There was little to be learned by love or experts after a predictable outcome to the money-spinning boxing match in Las Vegas between Floyd Mayweather and Conor McGregor
A bar is, on thoughtfulnes, the best place to watch a barroom fighting. Ultimately, for Conor McGregor, there was time for neither much fantasizing nor a lot of what the Irishman would regard as proper wrestle. He approximately redoubled his Warholian 15 instants of prominence and considerably improved his abundance, while retaining a good deal of dignity in defeat.
Yet, from our boisterous place in front of a screen in the Lansdowne Road Bar( where else ?) in New York City on Saturday night, it was clear that what mental and physical space Floyd Mayweather granted the mixed martial artist on his grown-up introduction in a squared ring in Las Vegas was mode more intense than anything McGregor can have imagined during his youth back in Dublin. His diddling about during a handful of teenage amateur boxing contests in Crumlin, surfaced up by preparation for this fight that had its infancy in sparring a year ago, was the most uninformative preparation for what engulfed him from the midway stagecoaches of the nine-and-a-bit rounds it lasted.
As Jake LaMotta is alleged to have spluttered through bruised cheeks at Sugar Ray Robinson in the 13 th round of the last of their six battles, in Chicago in 1951:” Ya never throw me down, Ray. Ya never made me down .” And so it was for McGregor, slapped so sharply and with such certainty from the sixth to the 10 th, but left with the compensation of perpendicularity at the end.
Of course they smiled and cuddled. Metaphorically that is what they had been doing in an lengthened buildup that took in a publicity tour of the UK- where pay-per-view counts on Sky were expected to be stratospheric- and the United States, where punters paid nearly $100 for the privilege of watching this unique occasion at home or $40 in barrooms like the Lansdowne Road on 10 th Avenue.
Mayweather established direction northward of the rumoured $100 m and is now a billionaire. McGregor went home with a kitty close to the $30 m figure that divulged out from sources. Showtime and other stores cleaned up too. It was, as they claimed, the most difficult battle in record, financially at least.
And that was the extent of everything there is for the fighters. Contrary to the wider insight, they cared not a lot for the soundnes of their penalties. They very much appreciated dedicating appearings to the contrary, however, which left the wholly false impression that boxing’s future was in the mitts of its maestro and Dana White’s wheeling UFC circus was going to depend on a McGregor miracle.
But miracles happen only in the Bible and Hollywood. This was neither a sermon on the mount nor a movie. There were few lessons learned but the obvious ones. As every worthwhile expert- almost entirely from “the worlds” of professional boxing- had been saying for months, McGregor stood no chance.
That does not mean to say boxing is better than MMA. If McGregor had triumphed, neither would it have proved the opposite. They are as different as rugby tournament is from rugby union.
Boxing is a sport conducted instantly over the leading leg, with the weight impounded there as a fulcrum through which all meaningful jolts are propelled, with spontaneity and quicken; MMA, a play of punching, knocking and dealing, relies on the mutual agreement of distance and pausing and is conducted in staccato outbursts of moving legs, gloves and leaping. So fair play to Ireland’s finest exponent of the mixed arts for even attempting to compete with the finest boxer of this generation while leaving most of his weapons at home.