Crawford vs Canelo: The Superfight That Shook the Boxing World

Carl Washington: The Architect Behind Crawford’s Dream

“I was the one who pushed him to go after Canelo,” says Carl Washington, about three months before the most momentous fight of the year, and possibly, the last of its kind. He is referring to Terence Crawford, whom he calls Bud. Washington expresses his enthusiasm, as this fight is the one Crawford has yearned for for years, a way to demonstrate his greatness. And against whom better than the current face of the sport: Saúl “Canelo” Álvarez? If anyone knew who Crawford was supposed to face, it was Washington. He is the owner of a boxing gym in downtown Omaha. It was he who, almost 30 years ago, asked a boy who lived next door if he wanted to box. That boy was Bud.

“I said to him: ‘Do you know what your dream fight would be?’ Canelo. That way you and your grandchildren could retire”

Carl Washington

While Washington talks, young boxers slowly fill their gym, the CW Boxing Club, for another day of training. Some are professionals, but most are amateurs. All dream of being world boxing champions, and all agree that being from Nebraska makes it easier to be ignored. “How was Crawford as a young boxer?”, I asked. “Bud was a very tough kid,” Washington replies. Relate the story of the first time Crawford got into the ring and, after receiving blows, frustration and rage flooded his eyes with tears. He took off his gloves, wanting to fight bare-knuckle against his opponent. “Bud just started hitting him non-stop,” Washington recalls. “It happened in that corner,” he says, pointing to a ring where the boxers were starting to warm up. “I told everyone I was going to be world champion,” Washington says. Crawford, who has his own gym in North Omaha, stopped training here a while ago, but the CW Boxing Club was where it all began. Where, for a long time, few outside of Omaha knew his name. Back then, managers and promoters told Crawford that if he wanted the best for his career, he should leave there. Not only did he stay, but he surrounded himself with people who also started there. And for years, everyone waited for a fight like this. For most of Crawford’s career, boxing politics prevented him from major fights. He was trapped in the cold wars between promoters. Crawford’s unique talent was evident; a boxer with supreme intelligence who was also athletic enough to switch from orthodox to southpaw mid-rounds. But without opportunities to fight the best, it was difficult to prove how special he really was. In the fight against Canelo, he finally had the opportunity, at 37 years old, to participate in the kind of fight he had been waiting for. He had won titles as a super lightweight and welterweight, but this was a superfight, a battle between athletes that, even before it began, felt like a battle between legends. “Let me show you something,” Washington says to me. I follow him as he walks through a maze of walls that, like everything in his gym, he has built with his own hands. He turns a corner, takes a few steps, and stops to look at something else he has built. “I call this his historical wall,” says Washington, looking at what appears to be a secular shrine to Crawford, the boxer who came from there. They are photographs and newspaper clippings from when he was an amateur and a young professional. It includes a framed sheet of paper that is labeled “Team Crawford.” Below are the small portraits of nine men with Crawford at the top. Each is accompanied by a single sentence explaining how many years they were also at the CW Boxing Gym. Washington built it to show everyone what is possible. Crawford’s oldest photo is from when he was a child learning to box. Young Crawford poses like a boxer, with his right hand ready to throw a jab while his left is ready to attack. He wears a white tank top that is almost falling off his left shoulder and boxing gloves too big for his hands. His eyes look innocent and intense at the same time. Washington has two copies of that photo. One hangs in the gym he has run for almost half a century. The other copy is kept inside the Washington family Bible. It is the King James version, the cover is black and worn from daily reading. Although no one in the family knows exactly when they got it, they know it is older than the photograph it protects. “I always knew I would be a world champion,” Washington repeats.

Terence “Bud” Crawford began boxing as a child in his hometown of Omaha, Nebraska. For Bud, facing Canelo in the ring and defeating him has been a goal of his entire career. Courtesy Carl Washington, Al Powers/ESPN Images

Canelo Álvarez: The King in the Eye of the Hurricane

““Can we turn off the air conditioning?”, asks Canelo in Spanish. He is standing in the middle of the boxing ring at the UFC GYM in Reno, Nevada, staring at a vent that blows cold air through his red hair. He has phrased it as a polite question, but everyone knows it’s more of a demand. Three weeks until fight night. The biggest fight of the year. The most-watched fight of his career. During the last decade, Canelo has been the face of boxing. He went from being a teenager marketed as the next great Mexican boxer to a global brand, whose name sells everything from tacos to luxury menswear. His manager, Richard Schaefer, is sure that Canelo will soon be a multi-millionaire. “Thank you,” Canelo says to no one in particular when he feels the air conditioning shut off. “This ring is smaller,” says Eddy Reynoso, his trainer. “Yes,” Canelo responds as he begins to warm up. Just as he can’t risk catching a cold, he also can’t risk suffering a muscle injury. If his fight against Crawford, called everything from “The Fight of the Century” to “Once in a Lifetime,” is postponed, it will jeopardize hundreds of millions of dollars. He will risk one of the few fights Canelo has left. “They just put it on,” says Canelo about the ring. It’s above the space usually reserved for group classes, inside the gym that is closed to its members because Canelo is there. “We apologize for the inconvenience,” reads a paper stuck to the gym’s glass door. When Canelo starts skipping rope, the 40 people in the gym watch. When he moves from one corner of the ring to the other, all eyes and cameras follow him. The same happens when he moves to the punching bag and when he finishes and returns to the locker room with a sweat-stained shirt. “I’ll be right back,” he says. “I’m just going to change into a clean shirt.” Canelo has reached a level of fame from which it is impossible to escape. That’s why he uses a single name. It’s also the reason why, for the last two years, he has moved his training camp an hour from here, in the Sierra Nevada mountains. The altitude helps his lungs, but, most importantly, the isolation eliminates some of the distractions that come with being the sun at the center of the sometimes treacherous boxing universe. Canelo’s Mexican heritage plays a significant role in that. The stereotype of “boxing is dead” has always been wrong. It’s more that, in this country, boxing has largely become a Latino sport, primarily Mexican. “This will be one of the most important fights I’ve had,” Canelo tells me. He has returned from the locker room wearing a purple shirt with the “No Boxing No Life” logo that is part of his brand. “I think it will be the biggest.” Beyond that, outside the ring, it will be his most important and biggest fight because it will be broadcast to Netflix’s more than 300 million global subscribers and, at a minimum, that increases the spectacle. It will be Canelo’s most important and biggest fight because, despite the disadvantages he will face, Crawford can win. The most important and the biggest. Because as he approaches the end of his career, nothing hurts Canelo more as an individual, boxer, and brand, than losing.

Crawford weighed 167.5 pounds before the super middleweight title fight against Álvarez, who fought at the same weight, on September 13. This was the highest weight of Crawford’s career, as he made the jump from his previous divisions for the fight. Chris Unger/TKO Worldwide LLC/Zuffa LLC via Getty Images

An Echo of the Past: The Weight of History in Reno

There is a historical marker on E. 4th Street in Reno, about a 10-minute drive from where Canelo held his media workout. A couple of blocks north of the Truckee River, it is surrounded by cheap motels and auto repair shops. Being there on a hot late August afternoon is being in the place of perhaps the most important boxing match in the country. On July 4, 1910, Jack Johnson, the first black heavyweight champion of boxing, faced Jim Jeffries. Their fight was filled with racial tension in a country that was still trying to find itself in the remnants of its Gilded Age, which brought immense wealth for a few and extreme poverty for many others. The fight was in Reno because the governor of California said San Francisco couldn’t be its venue. Boxing corrupted public morals, he argued. He was also worried about what might happen if Johnson won. If the Fight of the Century were to take place in California, he encouraged the Attorney General to arrest anyone involved. Reno had a station on the Southern Pacific Railroad, and because the mining industry was struggling, politicians thought boxing would help Nevada’s economy. In the infancy of boxing, fights were held in secret places: in brothels and back rooms of bars, in fields in the middle of nowhere and, sometimes, on the dry banks of the rivers on the border between the United States and Mexico. All that changed with the 1897 fight between James J. Corbett and Bob Fitzsimmons. Half an hour’s drive from Reno, there is also a historical marker of that fight. It is next to a leaky sprinkler box in the parking lot between the Carson City jail and the sheriff’s office. With two weeks to prepare for Johnson-Jeffries, a wooden amphitheater was quickly built. On the day of the fight, more than 20,000 people witnessed what local newspapers called The Fight of the Century. It took place at a midpoint between where the country was and where it was headed. Almost six years earlier, Theodore Roosevelt won a second presidential term and further involved the country in global politics. Six years later, the United States surpassed the British Empire as the world’s largest economic power. The country was in the early stages of what would become the American Century. It embraced the optimism that came with seeing itself as exceptional and having unparalleled cultural, economic, and political power worldwide. Under the scorching Nevada sun, Johnson beat Jeffries until he was a bloody mess. In the fifteenth round, Jeffries, the undefeated favorite who had never been knocked down, fell to the ground several times. The crowd, most of whom were there to see Jeffries win and reinstate a white man as heavyweight boxing champion, began to shout for the end of the fight. When the inevitable was near, Jeffries’ corner ran to the ring to stop the beating. “No, Jack, don’t hit him anymore,” shouted Jeffries’ manager. The Fight of the Century ended and the fans left the arena in stunned silence. A source of black pride and defiance against racial oppression, Johnson’s victory was described by the Reno Evening Gazette as “the scene of the greatest tragedy the roped ring has ever known.” Shortly after it ended, from the West Coast to the East Coast and all points in between, the country’s first national racial riot began, but that label is incorrect. It was white-on-black violence as payment for Johnson’s victory. In Walla Walla, Washington, a Black man was thrown to the ground and kicked in the head and body. In Omaha, two Black men were shot inside a pool hall after an argument about the fight. In New York, a Black man was hanged from a lamppost. And there were many others. At least 20 people died and hundreds more were injured. There was even a rumor that Johnson had been shot while traveling by train out of town. The wooden amphitheater was destroyed long ago along with most of the surrounding buildings. The last of the 20,000 people who attended the fight died decades ago. Among the last physical reminders is a plot of land with a historical marker that has been battered and bruised. It has been written on, scratched, and stained with ink. Only half of the letters are visible on what used to read “The Fight of the Century”. Today, the place that was once the center of the world’s attention is a junkyard.

Jim Jeffries was dubbed the “Great White Hope” in heavyweight boxing when he came out of retirement to fight Jack Johnson, the first black heavyweight champion, at the height of the Jim Crow era for what was then promoted as the “Fight of the Century.” Nevada Historical Society, Sean Sexton/Getty Images, University of Nevada, Reno, Special Collections of Photographs, Dana Photo Studio

The American Century: A Legacy at Stake

“WE, THE AMERICANS, ARE UNHAPPY.” That was the opening sentence of Henry R. Luce’s editorial published in the February 17, 1941, edition of Life magazine. “We are not happy with the United States. We are not happy with ourselves in relation to the United States. We are nervous, gloomy, or apathetic. As we look at the rest of the world, we are confused; we don’t know what to do.” With that, Luce’s 6,500-word plea to his readers began. As the co-founder of Time and Life magazines, and the founder of Fortune and Sports Illustrated magazines, he used his powerful media empire to persuade. With World War II underway and the United States not yet fully involved, Luce wanted his readers, including politicians, businessmen, and powerful industrialists, to embrace a future in which the United States would be the world power. “The 20th century is the American century,” he wrote. For that to work, Luce said, there had to be a worldwide devotion “to the great American ideals.” That meant free economic determinism and a world in which the United States was a good Samaritan, in part by sharing its engineers, doctors, teachers, and even artists. It was the kind of claim to power that included American technology, arts, and sports. The American Century. A little over seven months after Luce’s editorial, Joe Louis, the second black heavyweight boxing champion, appeared on the cover of Time magazine. Except for presidential speeches, nothing drew larger crowds to the radio than fights.

Boxing becomes a postponed dream for some. John “Juanito” Ornelas was scheduled on the preliminary card of Crawford vs. Alvarez, but was withdrawn weeks before his debut on the big stage for one of the most important fights of the century. Roger Kisby for ESPN

Juanito Ornelas: The Interrupted Dream

“WATER,” says John “Juanito” Ornelas. Try to catch your breath in the stifling heat, so his voice sounds like a whisper. And since he’s wearing boxing gloves and his hands are useless except for fighting, he also sounds like he’s asking for water. Over the sounds of his own heavy breathing, Gilbert Roybal, his coach, can’t hear Ornelas. “Water,” repeats the boxer, louder this time. “The news says this is the hottest weekend of the summer,” Roybal says as he squirts his boxer with a stream from a water bottle and then unties his gloves. In any other setting, that would be great news. It’s Labor Day weekend and there are many beaches nearby. But inside the Dynamite Boxing Club, in Chula Vista, behind a bar with a payday loan and a liquor store nearby, it feels like a world away from the natural beauty of the San Diego area. Instead of the Pacific Ocean breeze, three standing fans are set to their highest speed, pointing towards the gym doors that are held open with an orange traffic cone and a mallet with a 35-inch handle. Instead of the sweet smell of coconut and vanilla from sunscreen, the acrid smell of sweat fills the air. “We’re doing it the hard way, and we wouldn’t want it any other way,” says Roybal. He and Ornelas take pride in knowing they’ve earned everything they have in this cruel business. For every boxer like Canelo or Crawford who makes millions, there are thousands who work full-time just to be able to fight. Ornelas fights in the shadow of hotel ballrooms and small convention halls, inside forgettable casinos in the middle of nowhere. Roybal practically has to beg sponsors for boxing gloves. They dream of fighting in a place like Las Vegas. On a night like Canelo-Crawford. “We are going to surprise the world,” says Ornelas, talking about his next fight against Mohammed Alakel. It will be the first fight broadcast on Netflix as part of the Canelo-Crawford card. “I started boxing to honor my brother,” says Ornelas as he sits on the edge of the ring. “He was a professional boxer. He was 10-1-1 when he was murdered in Tijuana.”

Before dying, his brother, Pablo Armenta, told Ornelas about his boxing dreams. Ornelas listened while his older brother spoke about how he studied videos of past and present world champions and dreamed of becoming one of them. About wanting to fight on the biggest stages under the dazzling lights of Las Vegas.

“I’m trying to do what he always imagined,” he says. “This was always his dream.”

Las Vegas: The Mirage of Fame

THERE IS A BUILDING in the part of Las Vegas where the lights don’t shine so brightly and artists write on the walls. “Johnny Tocco’s Boxing Gym”, says the sign even though it has been closed to the public for about three years. Its windows are boarded up and “Home of the world champions” written above the entrance has begun to peel off. The mural of all the famous boxers who have trained there, including Sonny Liston, Marvin Hagler and Mike Tyson, has begun to fade. And next to the door that once opened for fighters, someone has placed a sign asking if you have sinned today.

There’s another building, about a mile and a half away, in the part of Las Vegas where the beautiful people play. It’s a luxury resort and casino, the tallest habitable building on The Strip, and on top of it says “Fontainebleau”. It’s one of the newest buildings there, on top of the land that used to be the Algiers Hotel and what was first the Thunderbird, then the Silverbird, then the El Rancho Hotel and Casino. Those closed, were imploded, and, after the smoke and debris cleared, Fontainebleau Las Vegas was built for $3.7 billion.

The first building is where yesterday’s boxers used to train. They are no longer there. The second is where, for at least a week, today’s boxers are seen. More at home in the first than in the second, most of them seem out of place, except for one.

A white suit and a black Rolls-Royce: Canelo Álvarez, then the face of boxing, arrived regally. His defeat on Saturday raises the question: What’s next? Getty Images CANELO EXITS the suicide doors of a black Rolls-Royce that has a thin red stripe along its side. He runs his hands over his torso to straighten the white suit he’s wearing without a shirt. He shakes hands with important people in much more conservative suits than his. They are the ones with the money that make the fights happen. Their names are unknown to most, but their faces loom in the background, reflected in the dark sunglasses Canelo wears as he thanks them. He walks towards the side entrance of the Fontainebleau Las Vegas. “¡Viva Mexico, cab—-s!”, shouts a man in Spanish from inside the south lobby of the hotel and casino hosting the Canelo-Crawford fight week. The crowd begins to cheer as Mexican flags wave from the second floor. Because he’s been the other guy during this fight promotion, Crawford received the opposite reaction when he made his entrance 50 minutes earlier. His few followers shouting: “¡And the new…!” were quickly drowned out by Canelo fans. “I love each and every one of you,” Crawford said to the booing crowd, “but on Saturday, everyone is going to be crying.” He said it with a smile and a particular confidence of someone who has never lost a professional fight and is sure that he never will. “Ca-ne-lo! Ca-ne-lo!” the crowd cheers as the Mexican boxer walks the red carpet. As the week progresses towards Saturday and the weekend of Mexico’s Independence Day, there is growing excitement as casinos, hotels, and sidewalks will become more crowded. Among those gathered are the old boxers; they are still remembered and called “Champion”. Canelo’s face, name, logo, and brand are everywhere. At the airport, on t-shirts worn by those who have traveled for hours to get here, and on the largest screens that illuminate the city in the Mojave Desert. The history of boxing is the history of the search for saviors. And, for the first time, the sport seems unsure whether it wants to crown champions or put on shows. Sometimes, the biggest fights are a mix of both and feel like a vacation. James J. Corbett, the champion of Irish descent, fought Bob Fitzsimmons on St. Patrick’s Day in 1897. Jim Jeffries, who was introduced as the “Great White Hope,” lost to Jack Johnson on July 4, 1910. And some of the most anticipated fights of this century, including Canelo’s fights, occurred during the Cinco de Mayo and Mexican Independence Day holidays. “Me-xi-co! Me-xi-co!” the crowd chants. Canelo walks among the flashes of the cameras as hands reach out to touch him. Inside the Fontainebleau it feels like a different world than the old building just a mile and a half away. This is where the tourists come and that is where the locals live and they say the streets feel dead. Tourism has declined and that has affected the local economy. The city of dazzling lights has one of the highest unemployment rates in the country. Some economists warn that what is happening in Las Vegas could be an early sign of an upcoming downturn across the country. Inside the Fontainebleau, which always smells of perfume and has a large chandelier with thousands of crystal butterflies, that worry feels exaggerated. But standing outside the old building that has become another of boxing’s skeletons, it feels good, as if something has broken. As if Canelo vs. Crawford could be the last great fight at the end of the American Century.

Longtime newspaper writer Jerry Izenberg has written about American boxing for the better part of a century. He has seen the ups and downs of all the major fights and with all the greats. Getty Images, AP Photo “IT SEEMS you’ve seen more important fights than anyone,” I say to Jerry Izenberg as he shows me his home office. His walls are covered with framed photographs, memorabilia, and awards from three-quarters of a century of work. “I lost Cain and Abel,” he says with his usual humor and strong New Jersey accent that hasn’t faded in the 18 years he’s lived outside of Las Vegas. “My camel died on the way to the arena,” he adds. At 95 years old, he often jokes about his age. The term feels like another time and place, but for 74 of those years, he has been what he calls a newspaper man, most of them for The Newark Star-Ledger (now known as NJ.com) in New Jersey. And as he leans on his walker, taking careful steps around his office, he talks about the sport he has watched and covered for most of his life. The boxing match that made him a fan was the 1938 rematch between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling. It was also called the Fight of the Century, and 7-year-old Jerry listened to it on the radio. “It was more than a fight, it was a historic event,” explains Izenberg. Louis, who had become the greatest boxer of his time, against Schmeling, the German world champion used by Nazi propaganda as proof of Aryan supremacy. It was the first time that many white Americans openly cheered for a black man. As soon as Louis defeated Schmeling, the radios throughout Germany were turned off. About 14 months