There was little to be learned by followers 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 table fight. Ultimately, for Conor McGregor, there was time for neither much believing nor a lot of what the Irishman would regard as proper crusade. He approximately redoubled his Warholian 15 minutes of prestige and greatly intensified his capital, while retaining a great deal of glory in defeat.
Yet, from our boisterous discern 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 stood the mixed martial artist on his grown-up introduction in a squared ring in Las Vegas was style most 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 theatres 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 opposes, in Chicago in 1951:” Ya never make me down, Ray. Ya never gave 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 embraced. 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 numerals on Sky were expected to be stratospheric- and the United States, where punters paid roughly $100 for the privilege of watching this unique opportunity at home or $40 in barrooms like the Lansdowne Road on 10 th Avenue.
Mayweather acquired practice northward of the rumoured $100 m and is now a billionaire. McGregor went home with a kitty close to the $30 m flesh that leaked out from beginnings. Showtime and other outlets cleaned up too. It was, as they claimed, the biggest engage in history, financially at least.
And that was the level of it all for the fighters. Contrary to the wider insight, they attended not a lot for the soundnes of their restraints. They very much appreciated opening illusions to the contrary, however, which left the altogether false impression that boxing’s future was in the hands 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 world of professional boxing- had been saying for months, McGregor stood no chance.
That does not mean boxing is better than MMA. If McGregor had acquired, neither would it have proved the opposite. They are as different as rugby league is from rugby union.
Boxing is a play deported immediately over the leading leg, with the weight maintained there as a fulcrum through which all meaningful jolts are launched, with spontaneity and quicken; MMA, a athletic of punching, kicking and gripping, relies on the mutual agreement of interval and pausing and is conducted in staccato volleys of operating legs, gloves and lunging. So fair play to Ireland’s finest exponent of the mixed skills for even attempting to compete with the finest boxer of this generation while leaving most of his artilleries at home.