Few sports blur the lines of cinema quite like boxing, writes Ronan Mullen.
Robert De Niro’s symbiotic relationship with Jake LaMotta endures as proof enough of that, the Academy Award-winner having sparred some 1000 rounds in preparation for Raging Bull.
In fact, so enamoured was LaMotta by the depiction that he touted De Niro beyond the silver screen, enrolling him in a number of licensed bouts within the Brooklyn boroughs.
Barry McGuigan was similarly effusive of Daniel Day-Lewis’ pugilistic credentials, the Monaghan man having famously trained him for a role in 1997’s The Boxer.
Such tales are a dime a dozen, yet the actor-fighter dynamic isn’t exactly one-way.
Tony Bellew is the latest in a lengthy line who’ve swapped the red corner for the red carpet, his prime casting in Creed affording the scouser some career-best exposure.
That his off-screen accomplishments have begun to mirror those of his on-screen self is likely happenstance, but it’s hardly the first time life has come to imitate art.
The character-driven narratives of boxing demand as much, fighters long since implored to embrace the promotional pageantry.
Indeed, such was the Ivan Drago-style bombast of one Michael Moorer that he seemed to stop just short of commissioning his own theme music.
“I crave violence of any kind,” brooded the New Yorker in 1989. “I want to break somebody’s jaw, see it shift, see how their mouth hangs open.”
Like any good Hollywood villain, Moorer’s bite matched his bark.
From 22 maiden fights came 22 knockouts, his ballistic power soon catapulting him from the 175-pound division into boxing’s land of giants.
It was frying pan to fire, yet Moorer remained white hot.
Four outings after his heavyweight debut he was champion of the world, besting Bert Cooper in five rounds to seize the WBO title.
If that win was a significant staging post, his victory over unified ruler Evander Holyfield felt more like final destination. By all accounts, Moorer had arrived.
“Michael is just a vicious, vicious guy,” opined Emanuel Steward. “He has that Mike Tyson mentality. There have been times when he’s been in the gym and he just screams ‘I’m going to take somebody’s head off’”
SHIPS IN THE NIGHT
George Foreman amounted to little more than a sandbag in the eye of that southpaw storm.
Although then firmly the wrong side of forty, his Damascene comeback had led him to the brink of international honours.
It was a resurgence rooted as much outside the ring as in it, Foreman’s religious rebirth serving to resurrect his professional focus.
Few within the boxing fraternity begrudged his shot at redemption, yet even fewer foresaw any scope for success.
“I’m not worried about Michael Moorer losing to George Foreman,” said the titlist’s cornerman Teddy Atlas. “My only concern is that Michael Moorer does not lose to Michael Moorer.”
It was a notion as familiar to the challenger as the champion.
Foreman too had once reprised the role of ‘irresistible force’, after all, his first foray to the title among the most brutal seen that century.
At just 24 he was the division’s undisputed king, ripping his crown from an undefeated Joe Frazier inside two rounds.
Neither Jese Roman nor Ken Norton would fare much better, Foreman following up that win with a pair of destructive defences.
Unease outweighed anticipation when a wintered Muhammad Ali found himself heading the hit-list in Autumn of ‘74, fans by then as content to see him leave Zaire with his life if not the belt.
Foreman’s tumble in the jungle served to flip the script however, a veteran right hand enough to arrest his development.
Two decades passed before he would set the record straight, ‘Big George’ belatedly opting to own his demons rather than exorcise them.
“I had to use all my discipline to push away negative thoughts when I saw him coming to the ring,” says Atlas of that night in Vegas.
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw he was wearing the same trunks that he wore versus Ali. I knew there and then this was a man who was facing down his past. He wasn’t running from his ghosts. He was confronting them head-on. For the first time, I was worried for Michael; I knew a guy who was able to face the truth that way was going to be a dangerous guy.”
Only when his charge lay flat on the MGM floor did Atlas realise quite how dangerous, though.
Aged 45 years and 310 days, Foreman had not only shattered Moorer’s unbeaten record but become boxing’s oldest heavyweight champion by almost a decade.
“This was a 2-to-1 fight, but in my mind it was a gazillion-to-one that George Foreman could ever win the championship again,” remarked HBO commentator Larry Merchant.
“Fighting is the ultimate ‘show-and-tell’ medium, and George showed us all tonight.”
Upon that same rock Wladimir Klitschko has built his church, his wins providing substance to a reign devoid of style.
And yet, where so often the Ukrainian has muted opponents’ pre-fight taunts by speaking volumes in the ring, his most recent performance proved radio silent.
It was Tyson Fury who did all the talking in Dusseldorf, the Briton’s erratic antics quelling Klitschko throughout.
Theirs has been a cold war in the 18 months since, the pair’s would-be rematch falling apart at every turn.
From that impasse sprung a new beginning, Anthony Joshua the division’s ‘pretender’ turned ‘contender’ turned ‘man who would be king’.
Last year’s win over IBF belt-holder Charles Martin saw Joshua first wear that crown, yet tonight marks his true coronation.
After all, only by repeating the trick of his countryman can Joshua justly lay claim to Fury’s vacated throne.
The form guide suggests any lingering question marks surrounding that candidacy will be replaced by exclamation points tonight, the Londoner an unbackable favourite in front of his hometown crowd.
As with many of his predecessors, though, Klitschko isn’t swearing by the sportsbook.
“Many people think I’m crazy, 41-years-old and fighting a guy much younger, so strong, and scary, a monster who knocks everybody out.
“But I’m showing my face to the challenge. I’m determined. I want to leave the ring as the champion once more. That’s my obsession. I’m obsessed.”
Whether the master can once more trump the apprentice remains to be seen.
Indeed, for every Foreman-Ali miracle stands an Ali-Holmes massacre, for every Moorer-Foreman marvel a Louis-Marciano mismatch.
The ‘crossroads fight’ is a tale as old as time, after all. Tonight is the latest chapter.
