Boxing Rostrum

I’m more than a little surprised that Jason Estrada has stepped up to accommodate Alexander Povetkin in the Russian contender’s rehab fight on April 4th.

Like most fighters, Estrada has always talked himself up but saying it and putting yourself in a position where you have to do it are far from the same thing. And Jason hasn’t been holding back with the gob either. He says he’ll knock out Povetkin or make everybody aware that he, Jason, deserves the decision, even if the judges don’t give it to him. That’s a bold statement and if he actually tries to live up to it when he gets in the ring my opinion of him will alter drastically.

There’s nothing in the book to suggest Estrada’s punches will trouble Povetkin, which doesn’t bode well for Jason’s other assertion that his boxing skills will expose Alex as a sitting duck. Eddie Chambers is a decent technical boxer, better than Estrada I’d say, and he surely carries a harder dig, but he couldn’t keep Povetkin at bay in their IBF final eliminator. Though Chambers had his moments in that fight, Povetkin was too intense for him, and plain too good.

Even if Povetkin needs a few rounds to ease his way back into the groove I still don’t envisage Jason Estrada making too much impact. I see him being overwhelmed.

Maybe Estrada’s people will come to that reckoning too in the five weeks left before the opening bell. It’s obviously an opportunity for Jason to jump straight into the title scene with a victory but there’s still time for them to reconsider the likelihood, or otherwise, of that outcome and as a consequence have their guy develop a sudden injury of the sort that will force his reluctant withdrawal.

Or is that being too cynical.

After much bickering over one thing and another, David Tua and Shane Cameron have finally signed a contract and will collide, or at least come into contact with each other, on June 6th in Hamilton, New Zealand.

Once a banger, always a banger. That’s what makes Tua interesting, even now, although little else about him still does. The squat contender who went twelve outclassed rounds with Lennox Lewis back in the mists of 2000 hasn’t stepped into a ring for real in the past eighteen months, his last appearance being a quick dismissal of Cerrone Fox, and he hasn’t actually boxed any rounds since getting a unanimous nod over Robert Hawkins fully two years ago.

Cameron, for his part, was undefeated and getting the trumpet treatment Down Under but, as with so many touted Aussie/Kiwi prospects, things went wrong when he strayed beyond compatriot competition.

Figuring Shane was ready, his camp looked around and decided on trusty Nigerian oak, Friday Ahunanya, as an ideal stepping stone to the world stage. Didn’t work out. Cameron performed well enough to grab a lead on the cards but Ahunanya stayed with it, as is his way, and come the twelfth round he put Shane over twice to force a stoppage.

That fight was for no less than three belts. The PABA heavyweight title, the WBO Asia Pacific heavyweight title and the NABA interim heavyweight title. Why mention it? Well, they say laughter is the best medicine for us all and, if true, you should be feeling as good as I do right now after feasting your eyes on that pathetic treble.

At this moment, Tua and Cameron are set to be duelling only for the WBO Asia Pacific heavyweight title (Seems Friday Ahunanya no longer holds it. Disqualified over geographical considerations, perhaps?) and something called the WBO Oriental heavyweight title. That’s another good one, isn’t it. And there’s still plenty of time for further hysterical adornments to be added before fight time. Maybe an interim title will become available at the last minute.

Despite all that stuff, though, several factors incline me to thinking Tua and Cameron will serve up an entertaining bash. National bragging rights will be at stake, there might be a bit of mutual dislike too, and the guys will be getting well paid courtesy of an expected 18,000 crowd and apparently huge TV interest. And what might make them battle all the harder is knowing that the New Zealand public will be suckered into believing the winner has a serious chance of becoming world champion.

This is the biggest fight they’ve had in New Zealand for a long time. More than that, they're calling it their 'Fight of the Century.' Fact is, though, the rest of the world will hardly notice.

There are people in boxing who are touting Russian southpaw middleweight Matt Korobov as a sure future champion. Others out there are not so convinced at Korobov’s potential.

After Matt had caught up with Cory Jones right at the end of their four round bout on the Cotto undercard, thereby stretching his perfect pro start to four straight kayos, Setanta TV motormouth Steve Bunce was somewhat dismissive of the Russian, making Olympic reference to supposedly prove a point.

Bunce rightly said that Korobov had lost in Beijing to Bakhtiyar Artayev of Kazakhstan, who was in turn comfortably outscored by Brit gold medallist James DeGale. He then offered those facts as proof that losing to Artayev had merely spared Korobov a boxing lesson from DeGale. Not necessarily so.

Korobov was disappointing in China, true, but that was only one fight. He'd been the dominant middleweight in amateur boxing for the three years leading up to those last Olympics, taking the world amateur title in 2005 and 2007, with European gold in between.

To secure gold in both those world tournaments Korobov boxed a total of eleven times, being taken the distance in only three bouts, with each of those bringing a landslide decision in his favour. Matt was not just dominant but devastating.

In 2005 his victims included two of the guys James DeGale beat in Beijing. While DeGale outpointed Darren Sutherland to reach the Beijing final (and now trails the Irishman 4-2 in career meetings) Korobov had been too much for Sutherland, stopping him in the third round. And Matt overwhelmed Cuba’s Emilio Correa Jr by a whopping 49-25 in those world semis, the very same Cuban that James DeGale barely got the better of in a scrappy Olympic final.

Moving on to 2007, Matt Korobov had a cakewalk to his second world gold, including the final itself where he copped a 29-4 verdict over Venezuela’s outclassed Alfonso Blanco. In that tournament’s first round Blanco had eased his way past none other than James Degale by the cosy margin of 28-13.

The balance of those stats might suggest that it’s Korobov who’s superior to DeGale but I’m not about to do a Steve Bunce in reverse by claiming they represent any kind of proof. Things are just not that simple, period.

It’s tough to know how any fighter will fare when switching from amateur to pro, because the adjustment can be hard going, given how the two codes are so different. With DeGale yet to debut, and Korobov only four bouts into his paid campaign, now is too soon to reasonably predict the fortunes of either.

Once in a while, though, we can all be tempted to fly in the face of reason and put our heads on the block. For me, this is one of those times. There’s just something about Matt Korobov. I look at him and see substance there. I see a man who, for all his phenomenal amateur success, is just made for the peculiar demands of professional boxing. I see a man who has a bit of everything, a strong robust guy who can box or have a fight and packs power that, crucially, comes in varied forms. Cory Jones is just a low grade spoiler and you’d expect any aspiring star to deal with him readily, but the punch that brought Jones down Saturday night was something you wouldn’t see from an average boxer or a metronomic slugger. Not so much a right hook, more an angled jab. Unusual and electrifying.

I’m not given to jumping on rookie bandwagons or getting caught up in premature euphoria about any fighter but as long as Matt Korobov is progressed gradually and not asked to make any quantum leaps in quality of foe through the next twelve months I’ll be surprised, even shocked, if he hasn’t battered his way to high contender status by late summer 2010. Like I said, there’s just something about the guy.

Michael Jennings was duly chopped down inside five rounds by Miguel Cotto last night, without ever offering a threat, but I’m not about to criticise his efforts. He did his best, bravely got up from two brutal body shots in the fourth, and gave it a desperate try to land something effective in the fifth, but simply didn’t have the class or the power to keep Cotto off, never mind put a dent in him.

Nothing’s certain in boxing but this played out pretty much to expectations. The fight was only made because the WBO has long had Jennings at or near the top of its welterweight rankings despite the fact he’s never done anything to justify it. Michael is not in anybody else’s top fifteen and has never been sighted in any independent lists. He just doesn’t have world class tools.

Another of the WBO’s long standing favourites was also on show in the Garden, crowd favourite John Duddy. Duddy has been number two middleweight contender with that organisation for some time now, a position of esteem barely more credible than that which had been accorded to Michael Jennings. And we should remember that last June, with Duddy already lodged at number two, it was Gary Lockett holding down its top spot, recognition that brought about the Welshman’s brief and painful encounter with Kelly Pavlik. In these instances the WBO ratings policy can only be looked on as political. Nothing else explains it.

We were supposed to see the unveiling of a new, improved, smarter John Duddy in the Garden. If he was there, he must have escaped my notice. Yes, John boxed the guy all night – as per instructions – and controlled him and beat him with the jab, didn’t lose his rag and get involved on the rare occasions Vanda managed to land something solid, and finished the fight relatively unmarked for a change. I’m not denying there were plusses in all that. But this was Matt Vanda he was up against, a B-C grade fighter, and even in winning widely I saw no evidence that Duddy’s defence is any better than it was before. That’s where the main problem lies and, in my view, it’s one he’s never going to solve.

I like John Duddy. He’s a personality, with a touch of the Burt Lancasters about that whimsical smile of his, and we know he’s got a big heart in battle. I always want people like Duddy to succeed. And so far he has been successful, by boxing guys at or below his own level, but that’s not likely to be the case with what happens next.

After stopping Marco Antonio Rubio in Youngstown last night Kelly Pavlik mentioned a few names in his post-fight ring interview but because he didn’t specifically nominate Abraham, or even Sturm, which I feel would have been the case had unification been considered a priority, the vibes told me that Team Pavlik sees Mr Duddy in the champ’s immediate future.

I hope John doesn’t go there. I hope, instead, he drops to light middle and takes the Chavez Jr option. There’s good money for him there too. A fifty-fifty split of everything with Julio might get him as much if not more than he’d earn from the challenger’s end against Pavlik. And he might beat Chavez. Even if he lost he’d be unlikely to get hurt and would still have a career, two things that might not apply if he goes for the middleweight championship of the world.

Last night’s light heavyweight episode of the Prizefighter series at London’s fabled York Hall was an exciting bash from start to finish and former British champ Tony Oakey was a deserved winner of the final, which got him a cheque for twenty five grand plus a ridiculously large silver looking cup as a trophy.

All eight men involved gave their very best in this elimination tournament of three-rounders and the packed crowd, who had come from far and wide to support their favourites, got full value throughout.

Only low point of the night followed the semi-final between Carl Dilks and Darren Stubbs. Dilks had clearly taken the first round with some nifty boxing but I, for one, thought that 37 year old Oldham trier Stubbs put in enough effective effort to edge the second and square it. The third saw the same pattern, Stubbs pressing and Dilks looking to counter with clean, classier shots. For me, Dilks had the better of it and, after several minutes spent totting up the cards, that’s how the judges saw it too, albeit by split decision.

Come the final, though, it was Darren Stubbs, not Dilks, who entered the ring to box Oakey. Somehow, mistakes had been made with the scoring. “They don’t know Jack Shit,” somebody shouted scathingly, and somebody else shouted the same. True or not, and with all due respect to Jack, whoever he might be, this wasn’t about who is or isn’t on the judges’ list of acquaintances but about their inability to add a column of three numbers correctly.

The absence of knockdowns or overwhelming superiority either way meant in this instance that the judges’ mathematical challenge was restricted to a choice from just four possibilities. They had to add up three tens, or three nines, or two tens and one nine, or two nines and one ten. We now know that the task was beyond them, the level of difficulty too much.

What do they give these guys for brains. It’s just not on, even when this sort of cock up happens in ten rounders or indeed championship bouts over the full dozen, as it sometimes does, given how much time they take collating those simple tallies once the last bell's been wrung. And last night’s fiasco was no different, time wise. It’s not like it was a rush job. Heads were gathered round those scorecards for quite a while before the wrong info got approved and passed to ring announcer John Macdonald.

Promoter Barry Hearn said diplomatically it had been an unfortunate mistake. What else could he say. I mean, it wasn’t his fault, was it. But there was embarrassment in his face because he knew, as we do, that an infant school debutant – counting on his fingers – could have got the sums right here.

The guy to feel for is Carl Dilks. For a few minutes he had thought he was into the final and within touching distance of that twenty five gees pot, only to then be denied the chance to even fight for it. Euphoria turned to despair in a blink. Before the corrected semi final result was announced there may not have been many in York Hall, apart from himself, who actually believed Carl could go on to conquer Tony Oakey and grab the prize, but that’s not the point, is it. Dilks will be inconsolable today. What happened to him last night, in the way that it happened, shouldn’t be inflicted on anyone.

Timothy 'Desert Storm' Bradley is a fighter I like. He’s a genuinely nice guy as well as a talented ring technician. Maybe that niceness is what has kept him pretty low profile despite having travelled to England to win the WBC light welterweight title from Junior Witter last May, then defending it via an easy points victory over heavy handed Edner Cherry.

Bradley had never boxed outside the U.S.A. prior to beating Witter. He’d never even boxed outside of California. That might have made it quite a big deal going to the U.K. for his chance but the travel and the strange surroundings didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. Nor was he at all fazed by the pro-Witter crowd in putting on a performance which clearly defeated the Englishman, even though Tim only got his deserts by split decision.

That’s the irony of modern British boxing. Ever since adopting the norm that six eyes are better than two, with three judges scoring the action rather than leave that job to the referee alone, instances of home-biased scoring have actually increased in fights that feature a Brit against a visitor. And we’re talking about imported judges, not compatriots of the native son. Certainly, foreign judges brought here for such shows seem to be more swayed by a bit of noise and patriotic fervour than was the case in the days when international bouts on British soil, including world title fights, had a British ref as sole arbiter. Back then, fair play was very much the name of the game. The need to be seen to be impartial was so strong that, if anything, there was a tendency to favour the visiting boxer in close fights.

Might seem laughable naivety today but that’s the way it was, and the principle was always okay with me. Still is. Fighters slog their guts out in training, and slug their guts out when in the ring for real. It’s a terribly demanding existence. The very least they merit is a fair shake.

Anyway, Judge Franco Ciminale somehow saw Witter in front by 115-112 after twelve rounds which, allowing for Junior getting floored in the sixth to concede that one 10-8, indicates the Italian had Bradley winning just four sessions and losing eight. Bizarre, I thought.

It wasn’t a great fight. Witter, with his horrible style, is rarely involved in such things. And the action was particularly messy in the early going. Right from the start, though, Bradley looked sure of himself to me and after he’d produced that knockdown with a right over the top he was always looking like a winner. Nobody enjoys facing Junior Witter because he’s so awkward to deal with, and you can bet Tim Bradley found it short on fun like all the others, but he went in there believing in himself, stuck to his guns, and beat the defending champion fair and square. Yeah, I was impressed.

I thought Tim did a sound job against Cherry too, keeping the dangerous puncher under control throughout while easing his way to a lopsided points win. I don’t say Bradley is special but he is good, and might have considerable improvement in him yet. And he doesn’t exhibit any obvious faults or weaknesses. For sure it will take an able man to better him, and I don’t think that man is Kendall Holt who meets Bradley in what should be a tasty unifier on April 4th.

Holt is good too, can punch, and has some decent names on his record. And he showed terrific guts plus a true champ's instincts to climb up twice and lay out Ricardo Torres in their sensational one round rematch. I think Bradley is superior, though. I also think Tim has more scope for upping his level from where it’s at right now.

I’m going with Timothy Bradley to lick Kendall Holt by decision and add the WBO trinket to his own green belt. That would make Bradley a solid claimant at the weight, wouldn’t it, and were he then to confront the division’s strongest man, IBF incumbent Juan Urango, I’d expect Tim to leave the ring with three titles to his credit. Urango is a beast at 140 pounds but his brute strength and clubbing blows don’t mean a thing if he can’t get to grips with the target, and I’ve got a lump of bread that says Tim Bradley would be way too quick for him.

John Duddy is now being advised by new people having, apparently, broken with previous promotional and managerial connections. If Duddy really has been getting ripped off financially, as rumoured, I feel for him because he’s a personable individual as well as a braveheart in the ring.

And I’d feel for him all the more because, in a strictly boxing sense - meaning the way John’s become a hugely popular figure in the game despite having been chaperoned up the ranking lists through twenty five wins against nobody in particular - management of the fighter has been otherwise exemplary. It would be sickening to learn that greed behind the scenes has conspired to short change Duddy himself, given how every other aspect of his projection as a professional boxer has been so brilliantly handled. Finding villainy here wouldn’t be unique, though, would it. Not in pro boxing. It’s the Noble Art’s age old paradox – great sport, very seedy business.

Anyway, previous observations still stand. If Ireland’s John beats Matt Vanda, he and Chavez Jr would figure to generate a whole lot of wonga for their suggested summer clash. With all the current talk, and attendant scrutiny, John Duddy could at least expect to get his full share from that one.

Saddest news of late is the mooted ring return of Erik Morales. The great Mexican has been quoted as saying he believes he has plenty left as a fighter and it seems he’s looking at July as the comeback target.

Somebody with Morales’ interests at heart should spend the next few months doing everything to persuade Erik against the idea. He lost five of his last six fights prior to retirement eighteen months ago and although he did put up a stout effort in that supposed career finale against David Diaz we were watching a faded fighter.

Before Diaz, Erik had twice been savaged by Manny Pacquiao. He just wasn’t the same guy who had outpointed Manny in their first meeting, a fact emphasised in the bout immediately before those two maulings when he stepped up for his lightweight debut and got easily outscored by Zahir Raheem.

By the time he returns, if he does, it will be almost four years since that flop against Raheem. And two years will have passed since he boxed anyone. Two years of inactivity and the further deterioration that goes with it, plus a heavy coating of rust, would make Erik Morales a sitting duck for the top guys.

Young guns out there would likewise be anxious to face him. Beating up a former great looks good on any boxer’s CV but it would be sad indeed to see what’s left of Morales being crushed by an average pug.

El Terrible provided some of my greatest boxing memories. If he deludes himself into thinking he can do it all again, though, I won’t be watching. A bad experience is waiting for him in the ring and I don’t want any part of it added to that personal memory bank.

Anthony Mundine went through the dreary business of shutting out Shannan Taylor over twelve rounds and now we’re back to the dreary business of listening to claims of superstardom on Mundine’s behalf.

This “fight” was on PPV in Australia. People actually coughed up dollars over there to watch it in their homes, having been brainwashed into believing – through the collusion of the WBA in rating Mundine as number one middleweight with Taylor at number ten – that this was a clash of world contenders.

I’ve seen Taylor described on several occasions as an Australian legend. If that’s a true tag it’s a sad indictment of the state of Aussie boxing. He may be a gutsy scuffler but Shannan Taylor is a never-wozzer in world terms and the WBA might as well be told that, to put it kindly, he’s not a top fifty middleweight let alone top ten.

Not that the people on it’s ratings committee would blush at having it pointed out to them. Mundine himself had been inked in at number one without even being required to throw a punch in the middleweight division, after dropping down from super middleweight in a blind panic rather than face another bashing from Mikkel Kessler. No surprises there, though. As we’ve had occasion to observe in the past, Anthony is the WBA’s favourite son. Still can’t figure out why, but there you go. The WBA moves in mysterious ways.

Now, suddenly, comes good and bad news for Mundine. The good news is that Golden Boy Promotions, through the person of Bernard Hopkins, has said it will be working with Anthony in the future. The bad news is that such an arrangement, although potentially lucrative, will entail Mundine having to share a ring with proper fighters. If he takes up the Golden Boy connection there’ll be no more hanging out in the sticks, picking off fellow antipodeans and imported no hopers.

They’re talking Felix Sturm. Maybe that could be a goer. Sturm is technically sound, as he showed when getting robbed against De La Hoya, but is lacking in power. Mundine can box a bit and his new promotional mentors, or provisional mentors, might believe the Aussie is slick enough to get the better of a skills exchange with the German. Even that would be taking a chance, though, wouldn’t it.

Former long time IBF champ Sven Ottke was one of the lightest punching titlists ever to lace them up. Nobody got knocked out by Ottke, but Mundine managed it, having to be scraped off the floor in the tenth round of a try for that crown. If Anthony Mundine’s chin isn’t allergic to leather it certainly shows a negative reaction when the two come into contact, and I’m just talking plain old regular leather, not the sort containing hands that have been prepared by Panama Lewis or Javier Capetillo. Fact is, Mundine is chinny like his dad Tony, who was a better fighter than he is but couldn’t make it to the top.

Bernard Hopkins and Golden Boy are overlooking that, or ignoring it, or pretending it’s not the case. Hopkins refers only to what he sees as positives, says they’re going to bring Mundine along slow, showcase him to the boxing public, and that his talent will see him “blow up into a major boxing star.”

Should Anthony Mundine find himself in the ring with a Pavlik or an Abraham (extremely unlikely in my view) he’d figure to get blown up alright. Blown apart.

So Antonio Margarito and trainer Javier Capetillo have had their licences revoked by the CSAC for a minimum of one year, with the chance to apply for reinstatement at that time. Sounds more than fair enough on the Commission’s part to me.

The Mayor of Tijuana, however, has come out and said there was no evidence presented against Margarito himself at the inquiry and that the fighter is therefore welcome to come and box in his home town any time he likes. That's taking the letter of the law but, at best, it would be naïve to consider Margarito innocent while recognising and accepting the guilt of Capetillo.

In answering the charges Capetillo admitted to “a big mistake,” and took “full responsibility” for his actions. He said he’d accidentally put illegal pads into Margarito’s hand wraps before the Mosley fight. He also emphasised that Margarito was a completely innocent party in the matter.

Sounds like commendable loyalty to his fighter but who’s Capetillo trying to kid. I mean, it’s not like he took Antonio’s fists into another room, did the wraps and put on the gloves, then brought them back all done and re-attached them to the fighter’s arms, is it. Eye witnesses to wrong doing don’t get any closer to the action than Antonio Margarito was in this sad case.

And how could illegal pads have been used “accidentally” anyway. What were these pads doing on the premises in the first place. Who brought them there. And, having chanced upon them, what possessed Capetillo to make the “innocent mistake” of adding them to the wraps.

The grit shown in the ring by Antonio Margarito throughout his career has my total admiration, and always will. I don’t see a braver warrior anywhere in the game. But if the continuing investigation into what happened here were to confirm that his added pads or wraps themselves had indeed been treated with a hardening compound, with all that implies, then Margarito and his trainer should both be banned from professional boxing for life.

You could say Vic Darchinyan caught Jorge Arce at the right time. There’s little doubt that Arce is not as fierce as he once was. Although younger than Darchinyan, Jorge has had the heavier career workload and his suspected decline was very apparent in this fight.

More apparent to me, though, was that Darchinyan would still have beaten Arce on the best day Jorge ever saw. Even if you don’t like the Armenian, and plenty don’t, you have to give him respect for the job he just did. Arce was outclassed. Had they fought three years ago, he’d have been outclassed then too.

Vic was reading Arce all the way and experienced little trouble except in an exciting round three when the Mexican had some success in open exchanges. Arce opted for more of the same in the fourth and was doing alright until getting nailed and hurt, after which he spent most of the fight being more of a nuisance than a threat, plodding forward with an air of resignation, and to no real effect.

Speed, not power, was the winning tool. Arce couldn’t cope with Darchinyan’s movement, nor his quickness of hand. While his own slower punches were being spotted on their way in, and largely evaded or blocked, Arce never seemed to have a clue what Darchinyan would throw at him next, the left or the right, and suffered the consequences.

I reckon Vic will turn up at bantam next. He’s a throwback type who wants to batter the best, even if it means jumping divisions, and in his current mood it will take a good man to stop the march, won’t it.

Vic Darchinyan is a top fighter alright, but, without picking on the guy, there’s something about his punch delivery that needs watching. The way he lets his arms dangle and swing side to side – a trait we also see from Carl Froch to a lesser degree – helps to disguise his intent and allows him to launch shots from unusual angles. That’s good for Vic. Gives him an extra edge. Some of his shots, though, are borderline illegal.

Darchinyan is a bit of a contortionist with his upper body movements. On occasion, when twisting to the left before throwing his southpaw jab, or when twisting the other way prior to firing a straight left, the starting point and motion of the punch can cause it to land with the back part of the glove.

Backhanders are outlawed in the sport of boxing, whether they be corrupt payments outside the ring or blows thrown inside it. Might be tough to eliminate the former, but a keen eye should always be trained on what’s going on in there at fight time.

I’m not calling Vic Darchinyan a dirty fighter. He’s not, and doesn’t need to be. But some of his repertoire is questionable.

If John Duddy beats Matt Vanda in the Garden two weeks from now, and Julio Cesar Chavez Jr also comes through his own next fight in March, the two victors could be set to collide in the summer. Bob Arum has already described that prospect as “a major, major fight.”

Arum’s enthusiasm regarding Chavez vs Duddy puts into perspective where the sport of boxing is at right now.

A major fight used to mean a clash of world class fighters that had significance on the global stage. A battle between boxers with proven credentials. By its nature such a fight would automatically gather public attention and attract revenue to reflect that level of interest. People loved to see a fight that really meant something.

That’s not what we would be looking at here, is it, despite Chavez boasting a 38-0 record, with one draw, while Duddy stands at 25-0. The last time I looked the WBC had young Julio at number 4 in its light middleweight rankings with Irishman Duddy just above him at number 3. The WBO has John ranked 2 at full middleweight, while the IBF likewise sees him in the middleweight division, occupying its number 6 slot in the queue for Arthur Abraham. But do those lofty perches mean Duddy and Chavez are elite competitors. Not at all. They just mean, and confirm yet again, that it doesn’t take much to impress those particular ranking bodies.

John and Julio have a combined total of 64 fights, yet neither of them has ever faced anybody with pretensions to world class. And after they fight each other, if indeed they do, the same will still apply.

Despite that, though, I must admit the match would be appealing. Chavez’ career has ridden along largely on his father’s name but he does have some ability of his own and his fights don’t lack for action, do they. And what Julio brings should blend nicely with Duddy’s limited but heroic aggression.

When fans buy tickets for title fights they’re paying to see quality as well as violence. That’s what the top men are supposed to provide. Chavez against Duddy wouldn’t be full of quality and wouldn’t be any kind of championship contest – even though it’s sure to come garnished with some ridiculous label and a matching belt – but I’m hoping the fight happens nonetheless because it’s hard to envisage how it could be anything else but a goody, entertainment wise.

Guys like John Duddy are the lifeblood of boxing. They don’t have the greatest of fistic gifts but give everything to the cause and deserve every penny they get. In this instance it would figure to be a pretty penny indeed.

I’ve praised Team Duddy before for the way they’ve protected their fighter while at the same time pushing his profile and somehow orchestrating that bewildering rise to contender status. An object lesson in boxing management, in the skill of taking least risk for greatest reward. And this would be the best yet.

If they do get it on, Chavez and Duddy is a pay-per-view vehicle for sure. That means a big pot. And no matter how demanding the Chavez side might be in the course of negotiations, Duddy’s camp can be relied on to secure their guy a fair share of the take which, I suggest, would see John earn more than he would for going in as challenger and getting annihilated by Pavlik or Abraham in a title try. Now, that’s good business in every aspect.

Chavez against Duddy a major fight? No way. One to look forward to? Absolutely.

So Joe Calzaghe has called it a day. A wise decision, I’d say. He no longer has anything to prove and even though he’s fit enough and still sharp enough to have continued, retiring with a perfect record makes for the perfect exit.

I thought Joe would linger for at least one more fight in the summer, probably against Carl Froch if the Nottingham fighter were to make a meaningful super middleweight defence in the interim and look good doing it, but Calzaghe has resisted that temptation and gone for long term peace of mind.

Joining Marciano by bowing out undefeated won’t stop the snipers, though, will it.

Even after Calzaghe had held the WBO super middleweight title for many years he had critics on his case who claimed the stats meant nothing because he’d never really fought anybody, conveniently forgetting the way Joe had overwhelmingly outpointed Chris Eubank to capture that crown in 1997, dropping the granite jawed Eubank in the first round to establish dominance he never let slip.

Eight and a half years into his reign he was faced by Jeff Lacy in a unification duel and the American, likewise unbeaten going in, was heavily favoured by pundits and odds layers alike. He was supposed to chew up the Welshman. Instead we got a true master class in the art of boxing, Joe taking his man apart completely. It was pretty much faultless, something akin to the way Floyd Mayweather played with Arturo Gatti, except that Gatti was a shot fighter when he met Floyd whereas Lacy was a guy in his prime who had looked devastating in bouts leading up to the unifier.

But that was forgotten in the wake of Lacy’s defeat. Jeff had been grossly overrated, they now said, trying to detract from what Calzaghe had done. True. Jeff had been overrated. His power had masked his one dimensional method in the minds of those who just looked at Lacy’s trail of destruction and took it at face value, without bothering to wonder what might happen if the puncher met up with a quality guy who could take his shots or not stand still long enough to get hit by them. When it came to it, Jeff Lacy's shortcoming's were exposed but, rather than dwell on that, what we should remember is the brilliance of the guy who exposed them.

Jeff had been on the cover of Sports Illustrated. He’d been called the future of boxing. He was an intimidating figure. Despite boxing on British turf it was a big mental test for Calzaghe to go into the ring knowing that Brits in general and even many of his own countrymen, though hoping for the best, expected him to lose. The pressure on Joe was immense. But you’d never have known it, would you.

Beating Mikkel Kessler in Cardiff was perhaps his career pinnacle. Kessler is top class. An all rounder, very strong, big puncher. The Dane went to Wales believing he would win, and performed with that mindset right through to the later stages of a terrific scrap, but came up short because Joe Calzaghe was the better man.

Kessler has since emphatically regained the mantle of WBA champ and, in a hot division, is very much the guy to beat. And his rivals all know it. What does that say about Calzaghe’s merit as a fighter.

Getting the better of Bernard Hopkins in Las Vegas was something Joe didn’t get proper credit for. He was caught cold and decked at the start and had to work real hard to pip the old guy, and his critics say that proves he’s nothing special, but let’s remember that Hopkins is no ordinary oldie. And let’s also remember that in the later stages of that fight Bernard was desperately looking for breathers, including theatrical posturing after fielding a low shot, which went against the grain of his pre-fight assertion that Calzaghe is a slapper, especially as the transgression itself appeared to be – as slaps go – a particularly light example.

Calzaghe found the crafty Hopkins hard to deal with early but gradually got a measure of control against a man who was looking to smother and stop the Welshman firing combinations, while mostly trying single shots himself. It was a close thing, given Bernard’s showing through most of the first half, but Calzaghe was the boss at the finish.

Hopkins had widely outscored Winky Wright before boxing Calzaghe, and prior to that had totally outclassed light heavyweight champion Antonio Tarver. After losing to Joe, Bernard then spent twelve rounds making Kelly Pavlik look like a bum. Once again, what does that say about Joe Calzaghe’s merit as a fighter.

The career finale with Roy Jones Junior wasn’t something that had much to praise about it. Jones really is a shadow of yesteryear. Can’t blame Joe for that, though. He got dropped at the start, as he had against Hopkins, but got up and did pretty much what he liked thereafter to win by landslide. The one good thing about it was the venue. What turns out to have been Joe Calzaghe’s last fight was at the true Mecca of boxing, Madison Square Garden. Perfect record. Perfect ending. Perfect setting.

Ingemar Johansson wasn’t the greatest of heavyweight champs. Far from it. He couldn’t really fight too well and, while the boxing technique he possessed was sound enough, it was pretty much limited to the old one-two. Despite his limitations, though, Ingemar was the right man at the right time.

Rocky Marciano had presided over a dull heavyweight division and his successor, Floyd Patterson, took things to a lower level still. In Rocky’s defence it was no fault of his that the division then contained only two types of ranked contender – good fighters who were too old, and young fighters who weren’t much good. Had more dangerous men been active at the time of his reign, Marciano would have fought them for sure. He’d have fought anybody.

With Patterson, it was different. When Floyd knocked out Archie Moore to fill the vacancy left by Marciano’s retirement, in the process becoming the youngest ever heavyweight champ, there were hopes of a vibrant new age for boxing, but it didn’t work out that way because Patterson’s manager, Cus D’Amato, had his charge defend against the likes of Tommy Jackson, Pete Rademacher, Roy Harris and Brian London while worthy challengers in Eddie Machen, Zora Folley and the menacing Sonny Liston all got ignored.

As things turned out it was impatience on the part of Eddie Machen that inadvertently got the heavyweight championship back into the excitement business. With little chance of a title shot, seemingly, the unbeaten top contender took himself over to Sweden to box European champion Ingemar Johansson. Johansson was likewise undefeated, but so what. European statistics didn’t figure to have much relevance in world terms and, even though the Swede had been banging a few guys over, the names of his victims meant little to the American market.

Johansson’s name was about to mean something, though. Machen didn’t make it out of round one after getting acquainted with Ingo’s blistering right hand and, all of a sudden, the world had a top ranked contender who, unlike the guy he had just beaten, was most certainly acceptable to Cus D’Amato. Why? Because Cus, like most, thought the blast out was a fluke, that Johansson had just got lucky against a probably complacent Machen. Whatever, Johansson’s emergence on the global stage took some of the heat off Patterson, criticism wise. Those who had said Floyd was running scared of Machen now had to back off somewhat in the face of the champion’s willingness to accommodate Eddie’s conqueror.

Once again, though, Johansson had a shock in store. When they met up at Yankee Stadium, Patterson got the same treatment from Ingo that Machen had suffered in Sweden, except that Floyd didn’t get his until round three. And he got it with a vengeance.

Floyd was bludgeoned to the deck seven times before Ruby Goldstein came to the conclusion that it might be wise to call a halt. Seven knockdowns in a single round. A heavyweight championship fight hadn’t seen that since Dempsey was on the loose. It was a sensation and pictures of it were splashed across the world’s front pages.

You couldn’t say it was the salvation of boxing but the manner of Ingemar's victory did single handedly lift the old game out of the doldrums and into the limelight once more, a revival further enhanced by Johansson’s image as a handsome playboy who, along with perennial fiancée Birgit Lundgren, brought glamour to the championship table.

Ingemar revelled in the role of champ every day until Patterson took back the crown almost exactly a year after losing it. Having been the youngest to capture the title Floyd thereby became the first ever to regain it. Nine months later Patterson won the rubber match to prove himself the superior fighter, but that was really just a postscript.

It was their first two fights that saw each of them in turn make an impact on the world at large.

Floyd Patterson died in 2006 and now Ingemar Johansson has gone to join the one time foe with whom he’d become firm friends after their ring rivalry was over. Rest in peace, champ.

When the results of the investigation into Antonio Margarito’s fist wraps are announced I’d be as much disappointed as disgusted if it does transpire they were doctored. Where possible, people will always try to give themselves a legitimate edge in competition but those who opt for the kind of thing suspected here deserve attention from the law itself, not just boxing authorities, because of the potentially lethal implications.

In this case it would be sadder still, if proved true, because the cowardly act of a boxer deliberately turning his fists into rocks before a fight is such a contradiction of Margarito’s exceptional warrior spirit.

The sport of boxing badly needs this whole incident to prove a false alarm.