One More Round with Carlos Acevedo: Guzman/Funeka, Maidana/Cayo, Dirrell/Abraham, etc

Carlos Acevedo gives his thoughts on this past weekend's boxing action.  For more from Carlos, check out his blog, The Cruelest Sport.

Even in boxing, where taste and discrimination are iffy propositions at best, not many were clamoring to see Joan Guzman, the talented but dreary two-division titleholder, fight. After all, Guzman has not scored a knockout in over six years and, at times, his fan unfriendly style has more in common with marathon dancing than prizefighting. But his notoriety was compounded over the weekend by his coming in nine pounds over the lightweight limit for his scheduled rematch with Ali Funeka.

Guzman scored a meaningless split decision over Funeka in a fight that should have been cut to eight rounds and billed as an exhibition. Many peripheral figures in boxing are outright vipers--promoters, managers, matchmakers, writers-—but every now and then it is the fighter himself who plays the villain. In this case, it was Guzman, whose antics smacked more of cloak and dagger than a lack of professionalism.

Guzman, originally from the Dominican Republic but now based out of Brooklyn, New York, allegedly traveled all the way to England to meet up with Lee Beard for a solid training camp, but he returned to the United States looking like a man who had gorged on bangers and mash between sit-ups. Unless Beard was confusing st with lb, then the weight discrepancy cannot be considered an oversight.

Unlike the 6’1" Funeka, Guzman did not have to boil down to make weight and so entered the weigh-in as fresh as a man coming off of a cruise in the Caribbean. Funeka, on the other hand, resembled a man recently freed from being trapped in a coal mine for two weeks.

As usual in boxing, a "deal" was struck behind the scenes and Funeka was given an extra $25,000 to proceed with the fight. Incredibly, the agreement also called for a morning weigh-in where Funeka had his weight limited to 145 pounds and Guzman was not forced to reduce an extra pound or two all.

This is the type of parallel universe thinking that plagues boxing all too often. The fact that this rematch was taking place at all is evidence of how close boxing is to an episode of "Outer Limits." Guzman was soundly trounced in the first fight and only a ludicrous verdict turned in by two Canadian judges apparently fond of Black Velvet transformed a forgettable bout into a scandal. Then, because of a bogus "blank date" agreement HBO so wisely entered into with Golden Boy Promotions, we got to see a "much anticipated" rematch because GBP has a lucrative dumping ground for its second-tier fighters and has no risk of losing money at all with some of its oddball events.

So two Dominicans, an Argentine, and a South African converged in Las Vegas for the boxing equivalent of reverse continental drift and swapped punches before a sparse crowd in a venue, the Joint at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, strategically lit to conceal empty seats.

For 12 rounds Guzman performed his act to the delight of all who love gaucheness. Barking, showboating, taunting, stiff-arming, backhanding, and running were only a few of the antics Guzman presented with his usual panache. All he needed to complete the effect was a pair of Deely Bobbers and a rubber chicken.Half the time, Guzman resembled Dr. Sardonicus, with a ridiculous grin plastered on his face, the look of a man who knows he has gotten away with a felony. Even with the advantage of not having to make weight, Guzman still only managed to throw an average of around 42 punches per round and landed only about 11 per frame. He did score a knockdown in the sixth round, however, which is as much action as Guzman has provided in a ring in over half a decade.

At the final bell, Funeka walked away with his head lowered as if finally realizing the intrinsic absurdity of his chosen profession. When the decision was announced, Guzman celebrated as if he actually achieved something. In a way, he did, and his glee is reminiscent of the pride safecrackers, bank robbers, and jewel thieves display after a successful heist.

Marcos Maidana vs Victor Cayo

No one can doubt the fact that Marcos Maidana, who knocked out Victor Cayo in six heats, is a one-man wrecking crew. Young Cayo, flashy but untested, scored well at times, but his brand of razzle dazzle was ultimately no match for raw power and sheer brutish force. He was a Mini Cooper in a Monster Truck show. Even when Cayo was scoring effectively, as he was in the fourth round, there was a Sword of Damocles air about him. It looked as if his boxing glass menagerie would come crashing down at any moment, and it did in the sixth round when Maidana landed a crushing right to the body that left Cayo writhing on the mat for the ten count.

Maidana, in contrast to many of the timid souls in the Super Six, is a punishing infighter. No sooner was Cayo looking to hold or stall on the inside than Maidana was playing pestle and mortar by pounding Cayo on the ribs, the arms, the noggin--wherever he could land. Cayo showed moxie and fast hands, but Maidana, who scored a knockdown at the bell to end the second round, was relentless.

In some ways, Maidana is a smaller version of his 1980s paisano Juan Roldan. Although his power is bonebreaking, his technical limitations may leave him high and dry against better competition. If Miguel Diaz can correct just a few of his flaws--poor balance, wide shots, fighting with his feet parallel--Maidana can threaten anyone at junior welterweight.

As it is, his wildness is clearly one reason why Golden Boy Promotions signed Maidana to a unique "PLEASE STAY AWAY FROM AMIR KHAN" contract detailed in The Cruelest Sport.

Andre Dirrell vs Arthur Abraham

The Super Six tournament continues to drag an enormous shadow behind it wherever it goes. In addition to the unsatisfying ending of the Dirrell-Abraham bout, the fight itself managed to fill only about 1/5 of the Joe Louis Arena in Detroit.

There was also some obligatory quibbling about judges and officiating when Sauerland Events protested local Michigan officials. They were right to do so, since the Michigan Unarmed Combat Commission is oblivious to all sorts of shenanigans going on in the Wolverine State, and there is a perpetual Keystone Cops quality to the events it is charged to oversee.

Take, for instance, how two doctors all but stitched Abraham up and gave him a lollipop when they were simply supposed to determine the severity of his cut. Or, as another example, consider the number of unlicensed promoters and matchmakers, one of them actually sitting at ringside plain as day, that run around Michigan like highwaymen did once on Finchley Common. But when Laurence Cole was imported from the boxing regulatory swampland of Texas to referee the bout, Wilfried Sauerland must have winced and realized he had outsmarted himself.

More on Dirrell...

Andre Dirrell, released from Detroit Receiving Hospital yesterday after undergoing brain scans, has predictably been accused by some "award-winning" boxing writers of acting. This is to be expected from forum trolls and the blogosphere commentariat, but from an "award-winning" writer with lots of self-regard and plenty of pats on the back from that Hellfire Club known as the BWAA?

Was Dirrell acting when he tried to shove the doctor attending to him while he was flat on his back?  Was Dirrell acting when he wept and asked, repeatedly, "What happened?"  Or did he save the best of his Stella Adler lessons for when Jim Gray tried, unsuccessfully, to interview him in the ring?

So polished are his thespian skills that Dirrell also managed to convince the ringside physician that he needed to be taken to a hospital. In the end, the only thing that is certain is that it is a lot harder to pretend to be a prizefighter than it is for T.K. Stewart to pretend to be a boxing writer. Or is that too harsh?

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For more from Carlos Acevedo, check out his blog: The Cruelest Sport