The excitement and brutality of boxing, and feeling grateful

As Ivan Baranchyk lay on the canvas unmoving, his eyes unseeing, his chest heaving, my boxing mind flipped back to other horrific boxing moments I’ve witnessed.

Forty years ago. It’s late at night, and I’m watching the replay of a fight that had just gone down at the historic Olympic Auditorium.

WBC bantamweight champion Lupe Pintor, and the impossibly skinny Johnny Owen, nicknamed “The Matchstick Man,” are throwing hands. The bout is fierce. Owen’s face is bruised. He’s been swallowing his own blood since round five. He keeps battling. Doesn’t know any other way. Goes down for the first time in his career in round nine, and pops back up. Tough as nails.

Pintor grows stronger with each heat. In round 12, a short right floors Owen. Again, he gets up quickly, wipes the blood off his nose with his right hand, and seems to nod at the referee, or perhaps himself. Only he knows. He’ll take that knowledge to the grave.

As Owen moves near his corner, Pintor lands a sweeping right to the jaw. Owen’s body goes limp in midair – collapsing like a twig struck by a bullet.

He would die two months later, at the age of 24.

Two years later, I’m viewing popular lightweight champion Ray Mancini, and unheralded Kim Duk-koo, go to war. A few days before the bout, Kim had written on a lampshade in his room the words, “live or die.”

Kim fought that way. He sliced open Mancini’s ear and puffed up his left eye. But by round 10, Mancini had seemingly taken over. He was cracking Kim with hard blows that had many wondering how the Korean fighter was staying upright. The battle looked about over in round 13, when Mancini landed punch after punch, only to have Kim fight back hard.

Finally, in round 14, two punches, both right hands sent Kim sprawling to the mat. Courageous to the end, he desperately tried to pull himself up. Minutes after the bout, Kim collapsed, and fell into a coma.

He died five days later at the age of 27.

More recently, I interviewed a young fighter by the name of Maxim Dadashev. We spoke on the phone for 30 minutes. He was so excited about his upcoming fight. He thanked me over and over for taking the time to write about him. Never had that happened to him before. He talked of is love of Americans, and America. What a nice kid.

After the fight, he’d be moving into a new apartment with his wife and young child.

A week later, they’d be accompanying his body on its last trip home.

Max had fought his heart out against Subriel Matias for 11 rounds, but far too many headshots and his slow reactions convinced trainer Buddy McGirt to call the fight. Unhappy about the stoppage, Dadashev exited the ring under his own power but soon passed out.

Three days later he was dead.

Max was 28. After I heard he had died, I thought of our interview and the excitement in his voice. Now he was silent.

My brain flipped pages as Baranchyk, another fighter I had spoken with, lay on the canvas. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he moved.

The ringside doctor said, “Welcome Back.”

I let out some air. What a relief. A few hours ago, he sent me a message on Facebook that “Everything is OK.”

Baranchyk is 27. Boxing is his passion. Undoubtably, some will be telling him to hang up his gloves. I was thinking that myself. But I don’t know what it’s like to have quit something you love at such a young age. Something that defines you. Something that you risk your life to do.

Just ask the families of Johnny Owen, Kim Duk-koo, Maxim Dadashev, and many others.

They gave up their lives to entertain.