Chris Eubank Jr: ‘Just Another Wreck on The Highway’

Chris Eubank Jr: ‘Just Another Wreck on The Highway’

By Garry White

The defeat was as sudden as it was unexpected. We all thought we knew how this one would play out; swiftly nailing it down to a couple of variables. Either Eubank by points or a gradual clinical working over. Could Smith have more know-how, more nouse, perhaps more fighting heart to tip the judge’s verdict in his favour? Would we see the old Eubank or the new Eubank some pondered? A re-emergence of the one that once he saw an opening would throw unrestrained meaty combinations in a way that would hustle his prey out of there as soon as it was hurt; or would it be the latter-day more circumspect version? One that in his last encounter bemused Liam Williams with spring-loaded jabs, and then stood back inexplicably in the middle rounds to invite the Welshman back into the fight.

In any event, none of these things transpired.

After a relatively impressive third round, in which Eubank appeared to establish a foothold in the contest, he was astonishingly battered in the blue corner by two sharp salvos from his Liverpudlian foe. He quickly rose to his feet but failed to convince anyone, except referee Victor Loughlin, of his physical and mental readiness to continue the fight. Somehow, Smith was granted permission to move forward and commence the last rites. Just seconds earlier he was already celebrating safely in the knowledge shared by those watching at home that victory was now inevitable. A befuddled Eubank lurched to meet him like a drunk searching for a kebab at 3 in the morning.

Seconds later he was down again, and at last, everyone had seen enough, including Smith’s trainer Joe McNally, who held a bemused Eubank in his arms. It was the third defeat of the Brighton man’s career. More than a decade spent in boxing’s sweatbox has so far promised so much but has mostly spluttered along in third gear. This was Eubank’s first stoppage defeat and was comfortably the worst night that boxing’s clenched fist has handed him. The one undisputable thing that he had was the old man’s (Chris Sr’s) chin. That was beyond question. If the rest of the puzzle was incomplete, then at least he could cling on to that piece; his little bit of sunlight behind his father’s shadow. But Liam Smith smashed through that one constant piece of his armoury and sent it tumbling to the floor. Whether he’ll be able to find it again amongst the wreckage is now debatable. Boxers, like all sportsmen I guess, suddenly get old before our eyes. The seven ages of man crystallised into a microcosmic 10 or 15-year career span. But boxing pulls them apart more coldly and cruelly.

Yes, the finale was dramatic. It was a seismic win for Smith, and he deserves all the accolades that have come his way. But amidst the celebrating, I found it difficult to remove my gaze from his conquered foe. Strangely, I perhaps felt this defeat more than I have for any fighter in the recent past. Maybe it was the sheer unexpected suddenness of it. The clinical dilapidation of one man’s image before our eyes. Those moments where McNally held him, as the Smith family celebrated: one for all and all for one.

Despite, Roy Jones Jr, his paid retainer in the corner, and the old presence of Ronnie Davis, he looked at once alone. Although he may have changed some opinions in the build-up to the fight, and the earlier honourable way in which he conducted himself throughout the Conor Benn debacle, Eubank still entered the Manchester ring largely friendless. To then suffer such public humiliation, it was hard not to feel some compassion for him. You could argue that he deserved the hubris. He had boasted before the fight that he only needed 40-50% of him to turn up in order to win. But such comments do little to deviate beyond the typical modern ‘Sell the fight’ hyperbole. And for what it is worth, were tame compared to some of his opponent’s injudicious insults in the build-up.

But there was a sadness in surveying the public wreckage of Eubank’s career. “Just another wreck on the highway,” as Bruce Springsteen once sang. Eubank isn’t the first or the last to attempt to step into his father’s shoes and find them laden with lead. The Eubank name was always destined to provide him with a leg-up in the sport, but one also pre-determined to invite ridicule. It is the same name that elevated him towards the summit, and as much as his contemporaries may despise him for it, has enabled them to pitch their tent to it and gather attention for themselves whilst obtaining career-high purses. But these ample benefits still feel like they are weighed down by the negatives. That gleaming sheriff badge his father uniformly wears must at times be blinding. Of all the options that life bestowed upon him, it is telling that he chose this one. To perform on his father’s stage before his once-raptured audience.

And what is it that he wants: To be a bona fide world champion; to be as good as or better than his father; to continue the family dynasty? If it is the latter, then it was one Eubank Sr himself didn’t value, amidst his earlier decrying of boxing as a form of barbarism. He held his nose and loftily attended to business, but there was never the suggestion that his involvement was driven by love for the ‘game’ or legacy.

Eubank Sr was never a Nigel Benn. He could never be termed a ‘Dark Destroyer’; a wild purveyor of blood and guts all-out attack. He could never have had the crowd on their feet delirious, or Frank Bruno jumping up and down in a vivid suit at ringside [as he did for Benn’s infamous triumph over Gerald McClellan]. His core attributes of tight technical skills allied to an unperturbable chin were not the stuff to rally the front or back pages. He was certainly no marauder and much less an entertainer, the mischievous might describe him as a form of boxing ‘accountant’. He should have fought in a pin-striped suit as he punched out the percentages in the ring. It was strictly business: and he quickly realised that if they won’t cheer you then you may as well take their money for booing and jeering at you instead.

I briefly met Junior once – a name that makes him sound as though he were the dim-witted deputy to his big daddy of a sheriff in some hick southern town – in a dilapidated seafront gym in Hove. Whilst he parked his brand-new McLaren sports car outside, I stood nervously inside staring intermittently at my shoes and tatty old fight posters on the wall; all the while fighting the uneasy feeling of being an imposter. As he entered alone, he stopped and shook my hand, halting for a moment to exchange some small pleasantries. As far as conversations go it was entirely banal, but I appreciated him for it. Others that have been in his company for interviews have suggested the same. The public figure not for the first time appearing at odds with the private person. So, which is the mask?

Eubank himself must be all too aware of ‘imposter syndrome’: Summarised as that feeling of not belonging, that you haven’t earned it, and will at some point be exposed. Many will feel what happened last weekend against Liam Smith. After all, he is the son of a millionaire sporting star and celebrity, who has grown up in a home county’s mansion. This will always mark him as an imposter to many in the sport, who deem any background outside of a crumbling estate to be that of an undeserving interloper.

But this is the game that Junior chose to play. To do so is to accept it by their rules and on their terms. Where he goes from here is up to him. Yet, if it falls down, he still maintains options that are all too elusive to many of his contemporaries. Perhaps, that irks them as well.

That name again: is it a millstone or a golden chalice?

One day he will elect to roll the dice of professional boxing again. Maybe the rematch clause will be enacted, or a safer route selected to ensure his continued participation between the ropes. But at 33 the time is running short and the best sporting days are potentially already squandered behind him. Whatever the truth the plan must still be to come out on top. To continue to chase that dream, whatever it is, and should he fail to grasp it, there will be plenty of people that have never met him who will glory in his demise. One day he may even be a ‘real’ champion of the world, but until then nagging at the edge of his sleep will be the endless feeling that it won’t happen, and even if it does, that it won’t be good enough.

Just another kid of a famous daddy, chasing shadows and dodging the brickbats of perceived nepotism. Condemned by his own hand to be another Frank Sinatra Junior; a tired tribute act to his father’s past glory. Singing the same old songs; just not as well, and in a way that no one believes them.

Photo Credit: Lawrence Lustig/Boxxer