In all three Madison Square Gardens, from the early century original to its venerable Eighth Avenue replacement, to the current labyrinthine venue adjoining Penn Station, through a thousand fighters vying for world titles, there has never been an entrance like the disco madness complete with strobe lights, smoke machines and confetti, starring Britain’s most publicised export to America since the Beatles – the eccentric and then undefeated featherweight champion, Prince Naseem Hamed.
In England, where he had won all 28 of his fights (with 26 KOs), Hamed’s countrymen seemed to be delighted with the Prince’s ability to take self-promotion to an all-time level of narcissism. They cheered when the self-anointed Prince leapt toward the ring through a circle of flames. They cheered again when he was borne toward the ring on a golden throne on the backs of half-naked, gaudily costumed ‘slaves’. Then the cocky dance on the ring apron and the theatrically show-off climax of the elaborate pre-fight act, the acrobatic somersault into the ring – it was all there again for Hamed’s super-hyped American debut against our veteran featherweight and former WBC champion Kevin Kelley.
The roll call of featherweight champions is an honour roll of greatest fighters in any division, from Henry Armstrong, Kid Chocolate, Willie Pep and Sandy Saddler to Alex Arguello, Salvador Sanchez and Azumah Nelson. But all of them together didn’t earn what Prince Naseem took down last year – $12 million, with a new contract from HBO for six more fights at $2 million per performance. And since the Arab–Brit was a household name in England but unknown outside of boxing circles in the States, HBO launched an unprecedented $2-million promo campaign on Hamed’s behalf. The first thing New Jersey commuters saw as they came out of Lincoln Tunnel to Manhattan was a 50-foot poster of the Prince in his trademark leopard skin trunks, looking down on his subjects with a sense of haughtiness that could give lessons to his fellow British prince, Charles. Naseem’s father is an immigrant from Yemen who became a groceryman in Sheffield; but somehow little Naseem, taunted into fighting as a tan-skinned shrimp in a blue-eyed world of public school boys, assumed his own arrogant nobility. It may be an act, pure kitsch, Muhammad Ali on the half-shell, but Hamed has been able to carry it off with his mouthy Beatles insouciance the media happily buys into. I thought there were no more negative surprises for me in the field of TV advertising campaigns until I caught the promo for Hamed’s arrival for the Kelley fight. A ‘Prophet of Doom’ – no less – on the roof of a New York hotel, shouting at the skyline of Manhattan, ‘A Prince is coming . . . he will defeat you . . . you will fall at his feet . . .’
This was in the Christmas season, and one wondered for a moment if this was not Big Advertising and HBO’s paying homage to the Prince of Peace, the Son of God. But the next shot, showing the Prince somersaulting over a ship’s railing into a waiting limo, brought us back to reality or what passes for reality in a world of billion-dollar communication where the word ‘hyperbole’ is already an understatement. To describe the praise and attention heaped on Prince Hamed by HBO in the build-up to his first appearance in America as ‘hyperbole’ is like calling Tiger Woods an ‘effective’ golfer or Greta Garbo ‘pretty’.
So you finally want to hear about the fight? That’s right, after all the hoopla, there finally was a fight, even if they played it as a mass-media rock show. And after the eight minutes of pretentious foreplay, after the Prince made his slow dance on the silly ground down a special $20,000 Disneyish ramp to the ring as the disco music blared and thousands of converts swayed and clapped to the beat, screaming ‘Naz! Naz! Naz!’ while loyal New Yorkers chanted ‘Kel-ley . . . Kel-ley . . .’ After all this, in just fifty-eight seconds of the first round the self-proclaimed inheritor of the mantle of Ali (‘He could only fight one way. I can fight five ways’) looked as if he were fighting a sixth way, a losing way. The black American veteran was backing him up with sharp right jabs that not only stung but actually seemed to wobble him a little bit. Ali pulled away from jabs too, in a style not entirely kosher, as trainers prefer their fighters slipping the jab and countering. Ali could get away with it because he was, well, Ali. The supposedly elusive Hamed was pulling back awkwardly, off balance, and not quite far enough to get his chin out of the way. Taking an eight count.
Round two was exciting, with the confident, forward-moving Kelley dropping Hamed again, though the surprisingly hitable little superstar did manage a knock-down of his own. But Kelley was still in control in the third, able to nail Hamed again with overhand rights that the lionised Prince did not know how to avoid.
By the fourth round Naseem was already down three times, in danger of being exposed as a fraud, a vehicle of overblown promos. That Prophet of Doom seemed to be calling down the skies not on willing and able Kevin Kelley but on the HBO mavens who had put all their golden eggs in their Little Prince’s grocery basket. He pulled their twelve million bucks out of the fire with a dramatic knockout in the fourth round, a hard right hand that caught Kelley as he was coming in. He had been knocked down earlier in that round, but Hamed had been down again too, in a wild stanza that reminded some of the Hagler–Hearns classic rounds (though neither of these boys is of their calibre).
At the end, Kelley was glassy-eyed, and his legs refused the commands of his mind. He had let what looked like almost certain victory, and an historic upset, slip away from him. In the post-fight press conference the always articulate Kelley summed it up neatly. ‘I lost because I saw the end of the fight, not the present.’ Dwelling on the spectacular knockout he was about to score, he overlooked a minor detail: Hamed could punch too. Boxing is the art of hitting without getting hit.
Kelley’s reflections on Hamed’s abilities were also on target. ‘He’s a good fighter, but he’s not as good as he thinks he is. He’s no Roy Jones.’
So the stage is set for the second act of HBO’s Prince Hamed extravaganza. Maybe the supporting player will be Kennedy McKinney, who also pulled out an uphill, fourth-round victory over Junior Jones, who was looking forward to his own Hamed paynight. Whoever the overrated Prince fights next should make for an interesting evening, because even if he did compare himself, to his advantage, he’s no Willie Pep. He gets hit easy, and the chin is suspect. But he can punch, and he gets up, two qualities that never hurt fistic success.
My advice would be, for all the braggadocio, all the supercilious comparisons to Pep and Ali, he’d better try to hold on to those millions rolling in and get out while he’s ahead, or he may find himself walking down Queer Street rather than Bond Street.
But maybe now I’m beginning to sound like the Prophet of Doom. You listen to these Mighty Mouths long enough (the lucky Prince was insufferable at the press conference), they take a bite out of your brain.
(Fax to Hamed: next time, cut the pre-fight disco dance to, like five minutes. Please. Zero minutes would be nice too. Oh, and Prince, after the somersault, watch your chin.)
[1998]
P.S. My warning was well taken. In time Hamed would face one of those indomitable Mexican featherweights (junior lightweights), Marco Antonio Barrera, and be exposed for what he was, an oddity with a good punch but no real conception of defence, a victim of his own, insufferable hubris and an overhyped promotion. Millions of dollars were lavished on a pig’s ear mislabelled and sold to us as a silk purse. So it’s hail and farewell, Little Prince of the Kingdom of Hyperbole.
[2001]