MAYWEATHER DEFEATS GATTI

June 26, 2005 - by Bert Sugar

At the pre-fight conference, in one of those little exercises promoters sometimes indulge in, promoter Bob Arum took the podium and told the crowd of media and assorted "Sir Lunchelots": "We had Muhammad Ali, we had Sugar Ray Leonard, and today we have 'Pretty Boy' Floyd Mayweather." Arum, who is famously known for saying, "Yesterday I was lying, today I'm telling the truth," wasn't lying yesterday nor is he lying today in including Mayweather on that sparsely populated island of greatness based on Mayweather's performance last Saturday night. At a time when the heavyweight division is on the cusp of being called off on account of lack of interest, the top 10 in the division posing as members of "Boxers Anonymous" and the four (count'em, four) champions able to appear in a police line-up in robes, gloves and trunks without anyone knowing not only who they are but what they did for a living, Floyd Mayweather may be the superstar boxing is thirsting for.

Fighting in Gatti's adopted hometown of Atlantic City, Mayweather was both the thunder and the lightning in a bout billed as "Thunder & Lightning" as he left Gatti looking like a Sunday school teacher fully expecting to be hit in the back of the head by an errant spitball the minute he turned his back. And left the partisan Gatti crowd of some 12,000-plus feeling such a heavy crushed gloom that it would have caused comment in Siberia.

Before the fight Gatti's trainer, Buddy McGirt, laying out his battle plan, had said, "Arturo's going to hit him everywhere except the bottoms of his feet. We're going to hit him in the 'Magoolah Abdullah' and other trains of thought that never quite reached their designation. But from the opening bell it was clear Gatti didn't need a battle plan, he needed guide map to find Mayweather. Or maybe a taxi cab.

Fighting out of a crouch, a tactic taught him by McGirt before the second Micky Ward fight, Gatti attempted to force his way in, all the better to inflict damage on Mayweather's body. But all he got for his efforts was a clinch and Floyd bearing down on his lowered head. Midway through the first round Mayweather hit Gatti's lowered head in the back of his "Magoolah Abdullah, " and Gatti raised his head and lowered his arms to appeal to referee Earl Morton about a rabbit punch. Now one of boxing's cardinal rules, found in yellowing pages going back to the beginning of the sport, is that a fighter must protect themselves at all times. And with referee Marton paying no-never-mind to Gatti's pleas, Mayweather took advantage of Gatti's inattention to him to clock the unprotected Gatti with a bodacious left hook, sending Gatti spinning into the ropes and down.

FIGHTERS	Gatti	Mayweather
TOTAL PUNCHES
Thrown	245	295
Connected	41	168
%	17%	57%
JABS
Thrown	189	112
Connected	31	53
%	16%	47%
POWER PUNCHES
Thrown	56	183
Connected	10	115
%	18%	63%
JUDGES SCORECARDS
Stewart	53	60
Moretti	52	60
Rivera	52	60

At the end of the first, Gatti momentarily stopped on his way to the corner to curse the referee. Maybe he should have cursed his decision to take this fight instead as his every attempt to get inside to do damage was like trying to take cheese from a set mousetrap, Mayweather countering him beautifully with punches thrown in bunches, some asfastasyoucanreadthis.

By the fourth, with the Gatti fans having turned into a ghastly silence of mourners at a deathbed, Mayweather was hitting Gatti with right hands, delivered in generous potations. It was becoming clear to all but the most rabid Gatti fan that this was becoming a one-sided butt-whuppin', an alimentary, complimentary and elementary blowout--especially after a six-punch combination landed with all the force of a wrecking ball to Gatti's jaw.

But Gatti with chances so dead you could wrap crepe paper around them, continued on, with no unconditional surrender to the undeniable facts. By the sixth, with the only person in the world thinking Gatti had a chance possibly being Senator Bill Friest, who could look at a picture of Gatti and think him still alive in the fight, Gatti had become a fungo ball, his best punch a left jaw to the right glove as he stood midring as bereft of motion as a sail without wind taking Mayweather's punches, thrown full timbre and palette at the defenseless form in front of him.

Wobbling back to his corner and plopping down on his stool after the battering he had absorbed in the sixth, trainer Buddy McGirt took one look at his never-say-die warrior and decided enough was enough.

In the cathedral hush of the Boardwalk Hall, Mayweather fell to his knees, the new owner of the WBC super lightweight (or 140-lb.) belt and boxing's new superstar. Having painted the canvas with his masterpiece, he might, just might, belong in that pantheon of greats laid out by promoter Bob Arum. And be the superstar boxing so desperately needs. For the nickname "Pretty Boy" obscures a real appreciation of his talents, which are not just pretty but damned-near great.