Ben Whittaker: Why Does He Do It? By Garry White "Don't call us, where'll call you," grandfatherly Reg Gutteridge once uttered as Naseem Hamed clowned and mocked Italy's over-burdened Vincenzo Belcastro. You could argue that Gutteridge w…
"Don't call us, where'll call you," grandfatherly Reg Gutteridge once uttered as Naseem Hamed clowned and mocked Italy's over-burdened Vincenzo Belcastro. You could argue that Gutteridge was being overly sensitive or maybe lacking some perspective but having sacrificed his own promising boxing career storming a Normandy beach packed with armed-to-the-teeth Germans, I like to think that he possessed more perspective than most.
From memory, at one point, he says, or maybe it was Jim Watt at ringside who asked quizzically; "Why does he have to do it?" The fight was one-sided, and Hamed had the European strap more than halfway back to the dressing room, but still, it wasn't enough for him. He wanted more. Only Hamed could conceivably tell us what that 'more' was. Whether it was greater attention for himself or even more abject humiliation for his opponent, is a matter for permanent debate.
Certainly, the majority of my friends at the time were unreservedly on Hamed's side. "He's just enjoying himself," they would say as I would try and protest the crassness of his actions. But Hamed always felt like one of those people who was determined to enjoy himself, whatever the cost to others. Like the worst theatregoer, he was pre-determined to drunkenly stand up and belt out every tune, under the proviso of having a good time, but in reality, was just desperate for the spotlight to follow him at every turn – it worked only because he was possessed of mesmerising talent.
And the spotlight did follow him. But would it have followed him anyway without all the antics? For a long time, he was really that good, that surely, he didn't need to do it. The titles, the money, the adulation, all of it was there for the taking regardless. Nowadays, they would claim that "he is just expressing himself." But surely one can do that without engaging in the abject humiliation of others?
Maybe that was it. He was simply too good for his level of opposition at that time. He was performing as an adult might when having a kickabout with a group of small children. There was no challenge, no risk, and therefore very little to take seriously. And it is hard to judge Hamed objectively without having been in that position. To be publicly so good at something, that you can become a champion of a continent without being remotely extended.
Such gifts are not given to many, and how hard would it be to stay humble when having them in your possession? To know beyond doubt that you can strike your opponent at will and that whatever they do, they won't get within a ghost of landing leather on you. Surely, that is enough to engender a certain cockiness in even the saintliest of people.
But still, his actions repulsed me. I should have loved him for the maverick talent that he was. One that hit with power and accuracy, throwing those big booming punches that emanated from all kinds of unorthodox angles. Not to forget those ghostlike reflexes. He could stand cornered at the ring post and evade a salvo of a dozen punches seemingly without effort. It was beautiful and I should have loved it. But instead, because of all the other stuff, I despised him. His boxing skills were wonderful and slick. He didn't need to be a dick.
Ben Whittaker would do well to learn from this. Or maybe he doesn't care and sees Hamed as the perfect blueprint. Like Hamed, people appear to love him and dislike him in equal measure. His name is now coated with such a gluttonous dollop of marmite that it is guaranteed to create a thick sandwich of attention for him. Whether a decent portion of that is negative is probably of little consequence to Whittaker. He is known, and people are talking about him. Surely, that is the only thing that matters.
In his last fight [versus Khalid Gradia] on the undercard of Joshua Buatsi vs Dan Azeez, he had Noel Gallagher and assorted younger people - who although completely unrecognisable to me are nevertheless famous within the right cohort - exchanging smiles and knowing glances. This was several levels of attention more than merely a good or special fighter could ever hope to receive against a 41-year-old journeyman with a negative win/loss record.
But if we strip it all back: the cavorting, the carry-on, the cartoon pat on the head of a despairing overmatched opponent, then what are we left with? A young man with an Olympic gold medal, sublime boxing skills, and a boatload of charisma. Isn't that enough? I would like to think that alone was enough to secure the top promoters and prime undercard appearances on big television shows. I am confident that it was, but maybe a little extra sugar and spice on top doesn't go amiss. Instagram will love it. Who cares if I don't like it?
And although the referee ticked Whittaker off several times for disrespecting his opponent, Gradia has since remarked that he was comfortable with it all. However, it didn't necessarily look that way whilst he was living it. But, as with all Whittaker's professional fights so far, he was faced with someone who arrived merely to fulfil a business transaction. This was not a sporting contest in any meaningful sense. Gradia turned up for work as a longshoreman might in a Bud Schulburg novel. He queued up, took his medicine out in the cold, and then trudged home beaten with his pay packet.
Tomorrow he'll be queuing again, and unless it's in a tiny leisure centre somewhere in a place you have never heard of, he'll quietly be taking his medicine again. Gradia's role in the business of boxing is to win anonymously and to lose publicly. If that sounds like a poor deal… then it probably is.
Yet none of this is really Whittaker's fault. So far, he has been matched with such an uninspiring cast of rank-and-file journeymen that it is hard to take these 'contests' in any way seriously. Some will argue that this is forever the case for newly turned-over professionals. But if Whittaker's team wants to market him as a latter-day incarnation of Sugar Ray Leonard and Apollo Creed, then they need to move him through the gears with greater alacrity. At the moment, every fight feels like an exhibition, like a bit of a lark [except for the latest Patsy who is taking a pasting], and Whittaker's clowning is only adding to that appearance.
More troublingly, there is yet another feeling of shifting tides across the wet sands here. It would be tempting to muse that merely appearing to be very good, even when it comes dripping with eye-catching style - isn't quite enough anymore. I was going to say that it isn't enough to catch the back pages, but the 'back page' has long since ceased to be a thing. The youngsters - celebs and anonymous kids alike - would probably not even understand the reference. Just knocking a bloke out suddenly isn't enough to grab millions of hits either. You need something else. And Whittaker is providing that 'something else'.
Once again, boxing stands at yet another crossroads. Does it like referee Sean McAvoy did on the night, defend its virtues of respect – ironically something long dead when it comes to pre-fight press conferences - and try to suppress it. Or does it go all in: the full wrestling route, from sport, to gimmickry, to fake soap opera in three easy steps?
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