There are three things in life that never cease to amaze me: the price of gasoline in California, the ability of politicians to lie with a straight face, and the astonishing capacity of boxing promoters to convince us that every fight is going to be the fight of the century.
Saturday night, September 12, was no exception.
Ryan Garcia, the handsome, flamboyant, social-media-loving California kid, had just demolished Britain’s Conor Benn in less time than it takes my barber to explain why he raised the price of a haircut.
Two rounds! Actually, not even two complete rounds. Four minutes and twenty-five seconds, to be precise.
I spent the following morning doing what every self-respecting boxing pundit does after witnessing a spectacular knockout. I headed to my favorite barbershop in Glendale to discuss the finer points of the sweet science with a group of gentlemen whose combined boxing knowledge could fill an encyclopedia—or, depending on whom you ask, a small pamphlet.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted me as I opened the door.
Al the Barber was sharpening his razor. Big Steve was occupying his usual chair, studying the sports page as though he were preparing to testify before Congress. Dave the Barber was sweeping the floor, and Downtown Ronnie Brown was singing the blues.
“I’m your body and fender man, I can fix your car…”
“Ronnie, please!” I interrupted. “For the love of Joe Louis, can we talk about boxing?”
“Well, well, well,” exclaimed Dave the Barber. “If it isn’t the Fightmonger himself! Come on in. We were just discussing that British fellow who came all the way to Las Vegas to take a nap.”
“A nap?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” replied Dave the Barber. “The man traveled five thousand miles, checked into a fancy hotel, put on a pair of boxing gloves, and went to sleep in the second round. That’s what I call an expensive vacation!”
“Hold on a minute,” interrupted Big Steve. “Let’s give Conor Benn some credit. The man came to fight.”
“So did the Titanic,” replied Downtown Ronnie Brown. “And we all know how that turned out.”
The barbershop erupted in laughter.
“Let me tell you something,” I announced, settling into the old brown leather chair. “I have been watching boxing for over fifty years. I’ve seen Ali dance, Foreman destroy people, Sugar Ray Leonard perform miracles, and Mike Tyson scare grown men into reconsidering their career choices. But I have never seen a man arrive in Las Vegas with so much confidence and leave with so many questions.”
“That’s because Benn was fighting two opponents,” proclaimed Al the Barber.
“Two opponents?” asked Big Steve.
“Ryan Garcia and the laws of physics. Unfortunately for Benn, neither was willing to negotiate.”
“Physics?” laughed Dave. “Al, you couldn’t pass physics if Einstein gave you the answers!”
“Don’t underestimate me,” replied Al. “I know that when a right hand traveling at considerable velocity meets a stationary British chin, the result is usually a sudden change of address—from standing upright to lying on the canvas.”
“Now that,” exclaimed Downtown Ronnie, “is what I call higher education!”
I reached for my coffee.
“What amazes me,” I continued, “is how everybody was talking about Conor Benn’s toughness, his aggression, his pedigree. His father, Nigel Benn, was one of the most ferocious fighters of his generation. They called him the Dark Destroyer!”
“Well,” replied Dave, “his son got destroyed before the coffee got cold.”
“That’s not fair,” protested Big Steve. “Conor Benn is a legitimate fighter.”
“Of course he is,” said Ronnie. “And I’m a legitimate singer. Doesn’t mean anybody should pay fifteen million dollars to listen to me!”
“Fifteen million?” exclaimed Dave. “For four minutes of work? I’ve been cutting hair for forty years, and I still have customers asking for a senior discount!”
“You’re missing the point,” I said. “Ryan Garcia showed us something Saturday night. For years, people have been talking about his Instagram followers, his outrageous statements, his personal problems, his controversies. Everybody had an opinion about King Ryan except the one that mattered most: can the kid actually fight?”
“And now?” asked Al.
“Now we know the answer. That right hand was so fast, Benn probably didn’t see it until he watched the replay in his hotel room.”
“Hotel room?” interrupted Ronnie. “After that punch, the hotel probably charged him for an early checkout!”
Big Steve folded his newspaper.
“Let’s not get carried away. Ryan Garcia has tremendous hand speed, but he has weaknesses. We saw that against Gervonta Davis. We saw it against Rolando Romero. One impressive victory doesn’t make him Sugar Ray Robinson.”
“Nobody said he was Sugar Ray Robinson,” I replied. “But you have to give credit where credit is due. Garcia won the welterweight championship against Mario Barrios, and now he’s defended it in spectacular fashion. The kid deserves respect.”
“Respect?” laughed Dave. “These days, respect is measured in Instagram followers, championship belts, and how many people you can insult at a press conference.”
“Speaking of press conferences,” interjected Ronnie, “what was all that business with the eggs?”
“Don’t get me started!” I exclaimed.
“Apparently,” continued Ronnie, “boxing has become the only sport where you need a nutritionist, a lawyer, a public relations expert, and a chicken to explain a drug test.”
Al nearly dropped his razor.
“Careful, Ronnie. At this rate, the next world championship fight will be sponsored by an omelet company.”
“With scrambled judges!” added Dave.
Even Big Steve couldn’t contain his laughter.
“But gentlemen,” I continued, “there is a much bigger question here. What happens next for Ryan Garcia?”
“Devin Haney!” shouted Big Steve.
“Teofimo Lopez!” countered Ronnie.
“Shakur Stevenson!” added Dave.
“How about all three?” I asked.
“At the same time?” questioned Al.
“Why not? Garcia seems to have enough confidence for four fighters!”
“Confidence is one thing,” said Big Steve. “But Devin Haney has unfinished business with Ryan Garcia. And Teofimo Lopez is nobody’s steppingstone.”
“That’s exactly why I love boxing,” I replied. “One punch can change everything. Yesterday, half the boxing world was questioning Ryan Garcia’s discipline, his focus, his future. Today, they’re discussing whether he might become the face of boxing.”
“That’s the problem with boxing fans,” said Al, putting down his razor. “One week a fighter is a bum. The next week he’s the second coming of Muhammad Ali. Then he loses, and suddenly everybody claims they knew he was overrated all along.”
“Sounds like my last marriage,” muttered Dave.
“Your last marriage?” asked Ronnie. “Dave, you’ve been married four times!”
“Exactly! That’s why I consider myself an expert on taking punches without throwing any back.”
The entire barbershop exploded in laughter.
Big Steve rose from his chair and examined his freshly shaved face in the mirror.
“Let me ask you gentlemen something. Was Ryan Garcia really that good, or was Conor Benn simply that bad?”
For a moment, the room became unusually quiet.
It was a legitimate question, and legitimate questions are not always welcome in a barbershop.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” I finally said. “Benn came forward like a man trying to catch the last bus out of London. Garcia stood his ground, timed him beautifully, and delivered a right hand that would have made any welterweight reconsider his evening plans. That wasn’t luck. That was timing, precision, and punching power.”
“Beautifully put,” said Al.
“Thank you.”
“Unfortunately,” continued Al, “you’ve just used up your entire vocabulary for the week.”
“Very funny.”
“And another thing,” proclaimed Ronnie. “Everybody keeps talking about Conor Benn being the son of Nigel Benn. Well, my father was an excellent carpenter, but you wouldn’t want me building your house!”
“Especially after what happened to your garage,” added Dave.
“That garage was already leaning!”
“Yes,” replied Big Steve, “but it wasn’t leaning until you started working on it!”
Another round of laughter filled the room.
I glanced at the clock. It was getting late, and I had already consumed enough coffee to keep a middleweight awake through a twelve-round championship fight.
“Gentlemen,” I announced, “I think we can all agree on one thing. Ryan Garcia deserves his moment. He walked into Las Vegas with plenty of critics and walked out with his championship belt, a spectacular victory, and a whole new list of opponents who suddenly have something to think about.”
“True,” said Big Steve. “But boxing has a funny way of humbling people.”
“Especially people who call themselves King,” added Dave.
Al the Barber removed the white towel from Big Steve’s shoulders, folded it carefully, and looked around the room.
“You gentlemen want to know the difference between boxing and life?”
Nobody answered.
“In life, a man can spend years talking his way out of trouble. In boxing, eventually somebody hits him in the mouth, and the truth comes out.”
I smiled.
“Al, that might be the smartest thing you’ve said all morning.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replied. “I’ve been listening to you fellows talk nonsense for thirty years. Sooner or later, I was bound to learn something.”
As I headed toward the door, Downtown Ronnie Brown started singing again.
“I’m your body and fender man, I can fix your car…”
“Ronnie!” shouted Dave. “Can you fix Conor Benn?”
Ronnie paused, scratched his head, and smiled.
“Sure I can. But after what Ryan Garcia did to him, the insurance company might declare him a total loss!”
And with that, I knew it was time to leave.
Until the next fight, gentlemen…
Because in boxing, just like in the barbershop, everybody has an opinion—until somebody starts throwing punches.
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