This is ‘The Ritual’

Before last Saturday, much had been made about the moral peril that many boxing fans would find themselves in by taking part in the Miguel Cotto-Antonio Margarito rematch. I say taking part because when a fight is imbued with as much ambiguity, nationalistic pride and genuine ill will as this one, the audience becomes an important part of the spectacle.

That audience took in the fight from the comfort of their homes and at local sports bars, on pay per view and via illegal online streams. Some couldn’t find a screen so they took in the details of the fight via he modern equivalent of old time fight radio broadcasts; twitter. A lucky 20,000 mostly-Newyorican crowd packed New York’s Madison Square Garden to see the fight in person. I personally extended a night out well beyond the limits of reason and took in a Japanese broadcast of the fight at 6am CET.

This is our ritual.

More than a few experts felt that Margarito was being sacrificed to Cotto

More than a few experts felt that Margarito was being sacrificed to Cotto. A career spent taking two shots to deliver one and a recently broken orbital bone had robbed “The Tijuana Tornado” of any chance of winning, and a fight against a focused, hard-punching Cotto could leave lasting effects on the man’s health.

They were right.

Since Margarito was caught with an illegal, plaster-like substance in his hand wraps before a 2009 fight with Shane Mosley, we had begged for this. In regards to the convicted cheater, it seemed that boxing fans fell into three camps: those who wanted Margarito banned for life, those who wanted to see Margarito beaten within an inch of his life, and Mexicans.

In the two years since the fairness of the frightful beating that Margarito gave Cotto in their first fight was put into question, we’ve bayed for this fight, prayed for it and begged for it. Cotto, the silent martyr had lost his undefeated record, his title, and more importantly, his aura. He had been anointed the next standard bearer for a boxing-crazy island, and as it’s 50th world champion, he seemed to have the potential to exceed all of his predecessors.

Cotto seemed to lose every moment, of every second, of every minute, of every round after the fourth in a fight with Pacquiao

Margarito took all of that away, and the Cotto that walked through Michael Jennings and struggled mightily against Joshua Clottey seemed a changed man. Now covered in intimidating tattoos he seemed to be reaching for a killer instinct that used to come naturally. All of our fears were confirmed when after a few tense moments, he seemed to lose every moment, of every second, of every minute, of every round after the fourth in a fight with Manny Pacquiao.

The Cotto that ran––ran!––from the Phillippino dynamo was not the body-punching golem that we had come to admire, he seemed broken, spiritually, if not physically.

When we heard that he had hired Emmanuel Steward, we hoped that this guru could breathe new life into him. We were relieved to see him box patiently against the feather-fisted Yuri Foreman, but many called him spent.

We feared that his best fights and biggest accomplishments were behind him. We were afraid that his legacy would be much like that of Steward’s most famous charge, Thomas Hearns. A feared and talented puncher who is revered in boxing circles for the otherworldly power in his right hand, Hearns is remembered by the casual sports fan as the skinny guy who got knocked out by Sugar Ray Leonard and the guy with the Jheri Curl who got laid out by Marvin Hagler.

Boxing can be cruel to men’s reputations. This is part of the ritual.

Margarito was knocked out by Shane Mosley, banned for a year, looked awful against a journeyman, and then brutally beaten by Pacquiao

When the rematch with Margarito was made, many experts believed that the result hinged on which fighter had the most left. Since his victory over Cotto, Margarito was knocked out by Shane Mosley, banned for a year, looked awful against a journeyman, and then brutally beaten by Pacquiao over twelve rounds in November 2010. His post-plaster showings have been less than impressive, and we waited for the news that Cotto would have a chance to attain justice.

We the masses, who claimed to hate Margarito, who rejoiced when Mosley manhandled him and when Pacquiao crushed his orbital bone with left hand after thunderous left hand, wanted to see this man receive another million dollar payday because we needed to see him beaten by Cotto.

We agreed to line his pockets with our money, because we needed to see him beaten, not defeated, but punished.

That is an absurdity of the ritual that Margarito was all too happy to exploit. Next to Floyd Mayweather, he is the most gleeful villain in boxing, maybe in sports. In recent years, he’s grown his goatee to a devilish point, and his shag of black hair is now unkempt and long. He attends press conferences in dark glasses, and threw a never ending serious of barbs attacking Cotto’s integrity (“I’m not the one who beats up his family members,”) manhood (“he’s scared to make the fight…I’m going to make him cry,”) and punching power (“he hits like a girl.”)

Margarito’s defiance made the run up to the fight incredibly entertaining, every promotion needs a black hat, and he approached the role with relish

Margarito’s defiance made the run up to the fight incredibly entertaining, every promotion needs a black hat, and he approached the role with relish and took the conflict beyond the realm of athletic competition.

Unfortunately, defiance was all he had left.

We had implored the pugilistic gods for a crucifixion, and we might have gotten one had Margarito not been blessed with a crash test helmet for a skull.

On fight night, Cotto boxed with a grace he had never before displayed. Boxing for the first time under former Cuban amateur coach Pedro Luis Diaz, Cotto’s footwork was spectacular. He goaded Margarito into traps, slipped and slid out of danger. When he did find his back against the ropes, Cotto spun Margarito around in a move that could have been borrowed from his buddy Ivan Calderon.

The bull was dancing. The pug had become a cutie pie.

It wasn’t all grace; there was ugliness. Margarito lumbered forward like a zombie with cornrows, pushing punches at Cotto’s head and body and following him around the ring like a lost puppy, never thinking to step to the side and cut off the rings that the Puerto Rican was dancing around him. When Cotto stopped to engage Margarito, the sound produced by the impact of his punches was chilling, especially the left hooks and jabs he fired at Margarito’s injured eye.

Even in the uglier moments of the fight, Cotto showed growth and maturity

Even in the uglier moments of the fight, Cotto showed growth and maturity. When he couldn’t pirouette his way out of harm, he tied Margarito up and pushed him back–a simple tactic that never crossed his mind in the first fight. When their bodies tangled, the shorter Cotto was always at an advantage, his greater physical strength getting him out of trouble when his faster feet, better technique, better strategy and faster hands couldn’t.

We had paid for a crucifixion, but were watching a resurrection.

For his part, Margarito never allowed his disadvantages to deflate his machismo. When Cotto battered his injured eye, he clapped his gloves together and let out a Ric-Flair-like “Woo!” to express just how much those titanic punches didn’t hurt. By the ninth round, Margarito’s punches were so slow, that you get the feeling that every time he thought about throwing something, a letter would arrive at Cotto’s house in Caguas detailing every punch.

Still, Margarito would claim that the 10th round stoppage had nothing to do with his grotesquely swollen eye and everything to do with New York being Cotto’s adopted hometown.

While Margarito pouted and protested in his corner, the hometown faithful ignited into frenzied celebrations. An in-house DJ cut between Tony Touch and Big Pun and coqui whistles filled the jubilant stadium.

In the midst of all this, Cotto approached Margarito’s corner and stared at his sacrifice. His face puffy and red, he seemed overwhelmed by emotion, even though his expression never changed. Maybe he was a blank canvas being filled by the relief, pride and vindication that we felt on his behalf. His hands raised, his lips seemed to quiver momentarily, and there was something mystical about this moment.

When asked about that long stare by HBO’s Max Kellerman, he claimed that he wanted to "taste his victory."

When asked about that long stare by HBO’s Max Kellerman, he claimed that he wanted to “taste [his] victory,” and that in the greater scheme of things, Margarito “means nothing” to him.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. He means everything.

Margarito was the vessel of the limited, crude Cotto’s destruction. The “Tijuana Tornado” broke that entitled, aloof star down and he hasn’t appeared since he was forced to a knee three years ago.

A different Cotto left the ring that night, the one vulnerable enough to need to change his boxing style and self aware enough to know that he needed to change his style.

We needed Margarito to bring this performance out of Miguel Cotto. Without him, we wouldn’t have seen Cotto gliding around the ring, spinning his man and picking his spots.

We needed Margarito to bring this humanity out of Cotto. Without him, we would have never seen him show the anger and bitterness that emerged in HBO’s pre-fight programming.

With so much early success, Cotto was the appointed heir to Felix Trinidad; however, his reserved demeanor was seen as cold by many of his countrymen. This was apparent when they jumped on the more gregarious Juan Manuel Lopez, prematurely anointing him Tito’s successor before he too was knocked out by a grizzly Mexican veteran earlier this year.

We needed Margarito to lose, to deliver this final piece of redemption to the hero’s story. Without him, we wouldn’t have seen the final barrier between Cotto and the Puerto Rican fans demolished. We wouldn’t have heard the emotionally spent fighter tell the crowd––finally his crowd, “I love you,” a post fight cliché that I can’t recall ever hearing from Cotto’s mouth.

We prayed for blood, begged for a brawl and pleaded for punishment, and somehow got so much more.

This is the ritual.