Joyce’s impressive beating of the plucky Parker should illustrate just how exceptional he is, writes Steve Bunce.
Nobody said it was easy. And it wasn’t. Joe Joyce knocked out Joseph Parker in the eleventh round of a heavyweight bout of extraordinary limits.
Joyce finally connected with the kind of perfect left hook that Mexican featherweights have made their own. It was the kind of perfectly balanced punch that so few modern heavyweights throw to end a fight; his feet, his body, his eyes were all in the right places when he connected.
Parker sank into collapsed quotas; one leg at a time, then her torso, her arms, and finally his head fell onto his chest. He slumped in a heavy heap on Joyce’s corner and looked over. But somehow he beat the count, making it to nine, but unable to complain when referee Steve Gray counted to 10. At ringside, the king of resurrections, Tyson Fury, stood up and cheered on his great friend. , Parker. It was pure drama.
The extraordinary and brutal fight was over. Official time was 1-03 on the 11th and time was Parker’s enemy at the time. At the same time, he was friends with Joyce and anyone from any of the heavyweight camps will have noticed how good Joyce was as the seconds ticked by.
The fight was over and it had been a fabulous ride.
Joyce was out front at the end, relaxed and mixing his shots with ease. He led by margins of five, three and two rounds after a full 10 rounds. Parker had come out for the eleventh round with the cut on the side of his right eye still dripping blood and his left eye closing. He was still trying to win what, by then, had become a lost cause. I don’t really need to add that it was a retrospective fight between two old-fashioned, old-fashioned fighters.
It was always going to be a great fight, a perfect storm of styles, pride and drive. Going through the ropes transforms them both, they lose their nice guy labels until the last punch is thrown.
Parker, lighter in 18th 3, started out mobile, throwing jabs in doubles and occasional triples; punches don’t have to land every time, but they always create a distraction. Joyce, in the first round, looked much more balanced than in other fights. Joyce stepped back, raising her hands a couple of times. He was an intriguing starter.
The first big punch was a right hand from Parker on the second and it’s not a punch to mess with. Joyce never blinked. Joyce was backing Parker up, moving him back without having to let go of his hands; Parker needed Joyce’s hands to go in order to work. At the end of two rounds, a clever Joyce had emerged. Her supporters argued that she was always there, only the critics focused on her flaws.
And then it was the third and the brawl began. Fix your seat belt, I told Carl Frampton, the fight is here now. And went.
Parker was hurt, he looked bad. He had the instinct to survive, to fight for every second he was still on his feet. Parker switched to the body, which had been pointed out as Joyce’s weakness. It seemed like a false dream; no one really knows what hurts Joyce.
Parker caught Joyce flush with another big right hand in the fourth. These aren’t speculative wilds, but timed counters, the kind of punch that hurt Anthony Joshua in 2018. Joyce walked between punches and wasn’t flagged as he sat at the bottom of four and listened to the undeniable little Cuban, Ismael. Rooms.
After six rounds, it was four to two for Joyce. Parker was breathing hard, taut, but still connecting with nasty rights and weird lefts. Joyce was not the usual Joyce; Joyce was moving better than ever, taking far fewer shots and risks. Parker needed a more reckless Joyce. Parker needed the old Joyce.
Parker received a cut in the seventh around the side of his right eye. Joyce stayed smart, backing up Parker, letting the body shots hit Parker’s arms and ribs. Parker always found a big right hand and kept connecting with hard-hitting body shots. I gave Parker the ninth. “That was your round,” Andy Lee told him, in Parker’s corner. “This is very easy, Joe.” Parker bravely got up for the 10th. Joyce was already there, barely breathing.
There is no panic in Joyce, never a concern, just an unshakable belief in her own ability.
In many ways, the 10th round was Joseph Parker’s last stand, his last three minutes to turn the fight in his favor. It was relentless courage. Lee gave Parker a long, hard look at the end of round 10. The two are friends and it showed.
Meanwhile, Joyce had found a daunting pace for a 19th 5 man and looked comfortable in the later rounds of the fight. Joyce is called the Juggernaut; he never stops, they say. Ding-ding, it was the eleventh and last round; sixty-three seconds later it was all over and the hugs began. It was a victory that only the ignorant and deluded can ignore. Sure, Joyce gets hit, but he lands more punches than people care to admit. And that engine is awful. He also throws shots with an education that is overlooked; Salas has fine-tuned another heavyweight giant.
Afterward, their dressing rooms were a stark, bloody, joyous contrast to be expected. Joyce and Frank Warren were finishing each other’s sentences like a pair of excited children. “That’s what it’s all about,” Warren said. “Bring them all in: Joshua, Wilder, Whyte.” Warren has promised a world title fight next year.
And at the end of another hallway, Parker sat, freshly sewn, while his mother massaged his shoulders. There was disbelief in his voice. “I hit it with big shots,” he said. “He kept coming back. Fair play for him.” Off to the side, Lee watched silently. Poor Andy looked a bit shaken. “We had a good plan. It would have worked,” he said. It’s a look of shock often seen in a locker room when something unexpected happens to a wrestler.
Joyce has ruined a lot of “good” plans and will ruin more. You see, Joyce is much better than he seems. It’s time to stop writing it off as a big lump with a big chin. She displayed a ring intelligence against Parker that had only been briefly glimpsed previously.
The final image of the fight, in my opinion, belongs to the great little man from Havana, Salas. On Sunday, there was a glorious photo of him holding a Guinness, smiling and smoking a towering Cohiba Esplendidos. This is how you end a victorious fight weekend.
