Don't hate, match-make.

Khan - a bloody entertaining fighter. 

This is an article I have tried to write many times. I struggled to finish it because 1: I procrastinate and 2: it's a touchy subject. The subject is Amir Khan.

If you don't like Amir Khan, I would love to hear of a convincing argument why. What is it about skilled fighters with lightening speed who are never in bad fights that you don't like exactly? Do you dislike drama, unpredictability and controversy? Maybe you should watch competitive composting instead of boxing. If you like being certain of the result before a fight then go and watch Wladamir fucking Klitchko for goodness sake. Because fighters like Amir Khan, who hit and are hittable, who rarely clinch and are willing fight in his opposition's back yard for no good reason should be treasured, lionized and continually given opportunities because this is entertainment. And Amir Khan is entertaining. He made a Julio Diaz fight interesting. Case closed.

"Khan in line to fight Floyd...it's not fair! Ahhhhh!!!!"

It has emerged that Amir Khan may be the next opponent for Floyd Mayweather. Cue 3 predictable    reactions from 3 of the interested parties in the boxing world.

1) Other boxers. They were outraged. Other fighters complain that Amir doesn't deserve the shot. Oh
boxing is a meritocracy now? Awesome. Andre Ward will be so pleased that he will soon be as rich as Floyd.

2) The British boxing writers. They blushed at the news and marvelled at their good fortune. They'll tacitly admit that Amir's record doesn't make him the obvious choice but won't beat that drum too loud because yay they will get to go to Vegas. They will pretend like the fight was inevitable and hype it up like Amir just might do the business.  

3) The internet. The ire on the boxing forums that Khan, another British "horizontal champion", would get the winning boxing lottery ticket to fight Mayweather was entirely predictable. But,  look, the internet is a bunch of silly unsubstantiated opinions mostly from quasi literate goombahs who are happiest when calling people words that rhyme with "trigger" and "maggot" instead of engaging in reasonable debate. So fuck'em.

Clench if you want to face Mayweather

Danny Garcia is the candidate who is touted as the more deserving candidate to face Floyd. He is undefeated, apparently that still matters, he beat Khan and....what exactly? He had a meaningless and frankly unconscionable rematch with old man Morales instead of a rematch with Khan and he bested Zab Judah who people like to forget was FUCKED UP by Khan. He did outclass Lucas Mattyhsse but if beating Matthysse gets you a payday with Floyd, Zab will be delighted to know that he is getting another shot at the big time. Poor Paulie Malignaggi will have to find another opponent. It certainly won't be Khan, because Khan BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF him. Then of course people will look at the Khan vs Garcia fight in which Khan got stopped. Watch that fight again. Tell me Garcia would have won that fight if Khan had exercised more caution. Tell me Garcia was faster, more accurate and dominant up until that punch. 

I'm not saying Garcia doesn't deserve to face Floyd. I'm saying it doesn't matter what he deserves. I'm saying boxing has never professed to be about who deserves what. Boxing is about aligning the most entertaining "match-ups" with what will make the most money. The ranking system is a self-confessed joke. Need I remind you that Vitali Klitchko is STILL the WBC heavyweight champion of the world?  He hasn't fought it a year!  Boxing is defined by short term economic gain.  It's the free-market and a grubby farce of a way to conduct a sport. But, sometimes the most profitable option coincides with the most desirable option - so they televise it and we watch it.

Floyd's biggest challenge at 147 pounds

We're getting off track. NEITHER of these kids has a chance of beating Floyd. But, do you really think Garcia is more capable of beating Floyd that Khan? HELL NO. Garcia is a very solid fighter but come on! He fights at a slow pace and doesn't move his head. Floyd has a name for that kind of fighter. "Target practice". Canelo got his ass whipped and so will Danny Garcia or Amir Khan or whoever they find. The only thing that's important is who will be the most entertaining and the simple truth is that if one half of a bout includes the name "Amir Khan", the bout is 50% more likely to be entertaining. He doesn't have boring fights. To prove it, try this simple exercise: insert any name as opposition for Khan. Victor Ortiz, Keith Thurman, Adrien Broner, Robert Guerrero, Andre Berto, Jesus Soto Karras, Lucas Mattyhsse, Cotto (oh Lord, make that fight) - you would watch all of those fights.  Now try the same drill with Danny Garcia or anyone else at 140 or 147. It just doesn't hold the same promise.  Face it, Khan could even make a fight against Devon Alexander look interesting; and there is no telling what Kell Brook would do to get Khan to return his calls. Ok, I think I may have gone overboard on that Devon Alexander thing, but you get my point. 

Get your nasty mitts off the Falklands, laddy!

Full disclosure here, I like Amir Khan. He's a nice guy. Boxing needs nice guys as much as it needs bad guys. How else can you build an engaging narrative for a fight? And the narrative for this fight would be exceptional. Nice guy Khan is the perfect foil to Mayweather who is an arse or at least plays an arse very well. Now compare the styles of these former Olympians. Khan is faster than anyone else in the sport. Mayweather is better than everyone else in the sport. Watching two athletes compete at an elite level doing something no other can do will be entertaining at least scientifically. Do we really need to see Danny Garcia get beaten to the punch until he retreats into a sad gun-shy cocoon of shame? Then factor in the British boxing fans who will descend upon Las Vegas with brass instruments and sun stroke making this a genuine event. Danny Garcia is of Puerto Rican stock but from what I've heard his Spanish isn't even better than mine. He won't be bringing a Cotto-level contingent of Boricuans with him. Khan on the other hand will be bringing at least 139,402 people, otherwise known as the population of Bolton. Let's be honest, what else do they have on?

Virgil Hunter. Look it up and tell me otherwise. 

Khan is also Muslim which guarantees Floyd Jr or Sr saying something atrocious which is always good for a headline or two. Speaking of trainers, are you really telling me you want to hear more out of that wheezy nit wit, Angel Garcia across 4 All-Access episodes. I would rather floss my ears with a corkscrew whilst being kicked in the nuts. No! We want to hear the sinister murmurings of Virgil Hunter who definitely reminds me of that terrifying youtube video Salad Fingers.

So for all these reasons, get behind Khan vs Mayweather. You know you'll enjoy it. For as long as it lasts.

Bam Boo Rising: A Young Man in Macau

Chapter 2 

“The Sino-Portuguese Declaration” Brandon whispered to himself as he scrolled through Macau’s Wikipedia entry. “’da fuuuuck is that yo?”

After the team had touched down in Macau from Shanghai, Robert had instructed everyone to go immediately to the hotel for rest. Brandon pleaded with him to allow an hour for a brief reconnoiter. After the stupefying scale of Shanghai, the young fighter was anxious to see the resplendent neon pomp of Macau. “Don’t you fuckers want to look around?” But the trainer held firm. “No Brandon. Rest. No buts.”

The flight had been a mere two hours but Robert had good reason to call for repose. The Asian media had been tirelessly sticking microphone tipped jabs into Brandon’s face from the moment they had arrived in the East and he was concerned. Every time Brandon stepped into public, it was an all-out assault, with hoards of journalists straining to hear from the man who was here to face their hero, Manny Pacquiao. Even through their foreign accents and idiomatic misfires, Brandon understood that he was being viewed crassly as a lamb being led to the slaughter. 

There was also word from back home that the American announcers, who wanted endless access, selfies, retweets and whose children Brandon had signed gloves for, had publicly derided his chances of victory. In professional prize fighting, the brutality inside and outside of the ring compete readily for top billing. And yet, Brandon seemed unperturbed.  “Fuck Max Kellermen and his herpes, man. I don’t give a shit!”

Whether Brandon had been effected or not, Robert thought rest after a day’s travelling couldn’t hurt despite Brandon’s bright-eyed supplications for exploration of this historic city. Still, after the trainer bid goodnight to the young man, he saw the dull glow of Brandon’s tablet illuminate under his covers. Robert retreated down the hall of the hotel apartment with his now customary wry roll of the eyes. “The boy is incorrigible.”

“The Sino-Portuguese Declaration…..Fuuuuuck..that’s like that Hong Kong shit the Chinese did with the British”. Brandon was reading about Macau’s ancestry and the treaty that was signed between the Portuguese and Chinese over the transfer of power from the former colonialists to the colonials. He peeled back the bed sheets and looked out his window. What he saw made a savage mockery of Las Vegas. The spectacular lights of the Grand Lisboa Casino flickering against the seventeenth century façade of the ruins of St Paul’s Cathedral, he could resist no longer. He slipped on his training gear, at least if Robert caught him he could claim he was venturing out for a moonlit jog, and padded down the hall and silently left the apartment. The night was his.

    

Bam Boo Rising: The Brandon Rios story

Chapter 1

It was autumn in Shanghai. Through the dusty grey drizzle, high up in his 35^th floor hotel room at the Mandarin Oriental, Brandon took in the spectacle; progress in motion. The cranes snarled, growled and clattered as they wielded the building blocks of the world’s newest emerging  super-power. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the Chinese defiant march towards dominance. “Look at those motherfuckers!” He gestured  toward workers balancing nonchalantly on scaffolding high above the ground. “They got balls those motherfuckers. They don’t give a shit! That one looks like Pacquiao!”

He was far from home where he had always been comfortable and never thought once of leaving. The sun-baked Californian tarmac, the bleached shop fronts replete with friends and well-wishers. As he cast his mind back to Oxnard he couldn’t recall a single meal where the server hadn’t smiled and called him champ. But in this thriving, pulsating metropolis he was gripped with an electric thirst for adventure that was foreign and exciting. “Let’s get the fuck outta here and tear some shit up, motherfuckers. There’s a chicken house downstairs with my fucking name on it. Robert, let’s posse up. Shit!”. Robert, Brandon’s world-weary trainer looked up from the pile of equipment he was arranging for the evening’s workout: “Champ, your weight. We have to watch your weight.” Brandon scoffed and wrung his hands, turned away and then smiled. “I was just testing you, coach, you know. Fuck that making weight the day of the weigh-in shit.” Robert looked over his shoulder and admired his young charge. His zest for life, his impudent disregard of adversity, his energy. “This kid has what is takes” he whispered to himself. “Huh?” Squawked Brandon “Can’t barely fucking hear you esse”. “Nothing” grinned Robert. "Let’s get some lunch."