By Michael Brendan Dougherty
Wednesday, July 20, 2022
One of the more unsettling things I’ve ever watched
on television is a replay of the greatest upset in boxing history.
The 1990 fight between James “Buster” Douglas and “Iron”
Mike Tyson was billed as “Tyson Is Back!” There was no need to give the
opponent the dignity of actually contending with Tyson. In front of 40,000
people at the Tokyo Dome was the undefeated and undisputed world heavyweight
champion, who held the WBC, WBA, and IBF titles with a 37–0 record, including
33 knockouts. Douglas was 29–4–1. He had lost his big up-and-coming fight,
against Tony Tucker, in 1986. But he put together a string of impressive wins
against Trevor Berbick and Oliver McCall. This earned him a shot as Tyson’s
“tune-up” fight. The fight everyone was waiting for. Heavyweight legend Evander
Holyfield was there, already under contract to face Tyson in a fight that would
make both of them fabulously wealthy. The contract, however, stipulated that
Tyson remain undefeated.
The announcers, longtime boxing aficionados Larry
Merchant and Jim Lampley, predicted that they were going to see “another
90-second annihilation.” This was the conventional wisdom. The AP’s Ed Schuyler
had told a Japanese customs official that he was in Japan to work, reporting on
the fight. When asked for how long he’d be working in Japan, Schuyler had
replied, “Oh, about 90 seconds.” Merchant compared Douglas to a can of tuna
from the Tokyo fish market. Douglas was a 42–1 underdog in the fight.
Compounding doubts about his ability to stand up to Tyson was the fact that
Douglas’s mother had died three days before the fight. Before the bell,
Merchant said that Douglas promised to shock the world but averred, “If he
should upset Mike Tyson, it will make the shots in Eastern Europe look like
local board politics.” “He would shock most of the world if he made it into the
middle rounds,” replied Lampley.
The 90-seconds remark was built on years of watching
Tyson simply unman his competition. Tyson was a true terror in the ring, and
often beat even very competent fighters in the first or second round. In ’86,
he put down Trevor Berbick in round two on a TKO. He felled Larry Holmes in
1988 in the fourth round. He easily dispatched contender Tony Tubbs in Tokyo
that same year in two rounds. But the most frightening work was the 91-second
knockout of Michael Spinks in June 1988. Tyson brought to this and his other
fights a never-before-seen combination of skills, an extremely tight but
orthodox “peek-a-boo” defense, to which he added the most aggressive, athletic,
and powerful punching style ever seen in the sport.
Any decent montage of Tyson’s victories by this point
included scenes of his lesser opponents walking out of their corner at the
opening bell and starting to cringe immediately as Tyson charged at them,
throwing up their hands in fear for their lives. Douglas was assumed to be one
of these.
I didn’t watch the fight live of course — I was a small
boy at the time. But boy, I heard about it over and over. Sister Georgette, the
nun teaching my class, had run out of folders to give students and sent me up
to the sixth-grade class to acquire one that I needed. Unlike the neon-colored
kiddie stuff on offer in our classroom closet, there was more exotic stuff on
offer for the twelve-year-olds. I took the one that was a picture of Tyson
punching Berbick. Sister Margaret hesitated at my choice, but relented. The
classmates who were sputtering with jealousy on the day I acquired the folder,
after the Douglas fight, loved pointing out that I was carrying my spelling
tests home with a loser.
It wasn’t until years later that I saw a replay on ESPN
Classic. It is unsettling to watch because, after the montages of what Tyson
normally does to his opponents, it is obvious to the amateur viewer that
Douglas is not going to be an easy out. It’s obvious from the first ten
seconds, as Douglas fearlessly springs from his corner and begins throwing
combinations.
What is so unnerving about watching the fight so many
years later is that the announcers cannot see what’s happening. They actually
refuse to see it. Douglas survives the initial Tyson barrage unscathed. But his
own punches are hardly noted by the announcers, who are clearly already
thinking about the potential fight with Holyfield. The only indication of doubt
is when Lampley calls out the 90-second mark and says that Tyson hasn’t
inflicted damage yet.
If it’s ever on someday, you must watch it. Your eyes
tell you one thing is happening almost immediately: Douglas is winning the
fight. Any amateur viewer could clearly see that by the end of round one,
Douglas was ahead. When you count the punches, Douglas landed twelve of 31 jabs
and 22 punches overall. Tyson landed six of 19 jabs. And Douglas’s jabs were
landing harder, slipping right through the peek-a-boo stance of Tyson and
landing with a snappy thud. But if you just listen to the two expert
announcers, you are waiting for Tyson to land one devastating blow and end the
night. Even the announcers’ rare compliments on Douglas’s performance were
disguised as slights. In round one, with the obvious bravery and springiness of
Douglas already evident, Lampley notes that Carl Williams “looked loose and
relaxed” in a fight with Tyson until he took a body punch 45 seconds into the
fight.
By round two, Tyson doesn’t look like the fighter who’d
notched 33 knockouts. And Larry Merchant simply refuses to analyze what is
happening in front of him. “Look at Buster! Landing some shots here!” he said
with genuine surprise. And then a few seconds later, he repeats himself, “Look
at this, Buster landing some shots. This is surprising here.” And then again:
“Look at this, Buster landing some shots here.”
By round three, the announcers inform the audience of
something even more unsettling. The scorers cannot see the
fight in front of them, either. They note the punch count: Buster Douglas has
landed over 50 punches. Tyson only 17. The first round was scored even. The
second to Douglas.
EVEN?!
By round five, Tyson is genuinely starting to drown. In
six rounds, Douglas landed 51 percent of his punches per round, while Tyson was
landing only 41 percent of his. Tyson’s entire game plan started to
disintegrate. Instead of his combinations, Tyson settled on a predictable
attack of moving in, throwing a punch, then clenching or being clenched. His
head began to swell from Douglas’s jabs.
In the announcers’ defense, Tyson would put together a
few promising combinations, and any one punch — especially from a boxer as
powerful as Tyson — can end a fight. At the end of round eight, Tyson landed an
uppercut and Douglas dropped to his back, surviving only because the referee
that night had a slow count to ten (a slow count that would count out Tyson two
rounds later). But even in round eight, after Tyson had been losing from the
jump, and arguably drowning for three rounds straight, the praise of Douglas
from the announcers was totally muted: “Douglas is asking of Tyson some
questions he hasn’t been asked before . . . In the last few rounds of a fight
you have to come back and win it.”
Even at the end of the fight, which Douglas won by a
knockout, the scorecard had Tyson within one good round of defeating Douglas.
Such was the investment in Tyson’s greatness that even the official scorers
feared telling the whole truth about the fight to themselves.
I think about those experts, as well as Lampley and
Merchant, all the time now that I write about politics. During the pandemic,
experts told us that border closures hurt the fight against the pandemic —
until they couldn’t say it anymore. They told us racism was spreading faster
than the virus. “I’ve seen anti-Asian racists before looking loose and
relaxed.” Or it’s the central banks. We’ve learned the lessons of history and know that inflation is transitory.
Obviously, when I watch the Douglas–Tyson fight years
later, it is easy for me to see what was happening. And of course, years later,
Merchant and Lampley can tell you all sorts of things about the fight that a
layman wouldn’t immediately see. But on that night, their eyes were shelled by
their knowledge. Their mouths were shut by the normal human impulse not to say
something that their brains were over-conditioned to dismiss. Their thoughts
were limited by what everyone else thought: 90 seconds for this tuna can.
The genius of our democratic republic is that the experts are supposed to remain in the subordinate position. A self-governing people is a body of amateurs who are freed from the constricting knowledge, guild manners, and professional politics that regularly entrap experts. A self-governing people is a people who are free to see reality for themselves. Meanwhile, the official scorekeepers are almost certainly going to get anything notable dead wrong.
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