Tyson Fury Exposed Before Stopping Steve Cunningham

Photo by Rich Graessle for Main Events

by Sarah Deming

NEW YORK, N.Y.–Beware of British imports. Whether it’s an undefeated heavyweight or a jar of Marmite, if it comes across the Atlantic, it usually stinks. The latest suspect offering is Tyson Fury, a 6’9”, 254-pound heavyweight with the oily demeanor of a used car salesman.

Fury’s first American test came Saturday afternoon against Steve “USS” Cunningham here at the Theater at Madison Square Garden. On paper this seemed like a safe bet for the Brit, who went in with a six-inch and 45-pound advantage over Cunningham, a slick Philadelphian that saw his prime at cruiserweight. I prayed Cunningham would prove me wrong, as I had developed a powerful loathing for Fury at the pre-fight press conference.

Why does Fury behave so obnoxiously? Naazim Richardson, Cunningham’s legendary trainer, said Fury trash talks less for his opponent’s benefit than to convince himself of his own legitimacy.

“Sometimes you whistle through the cemetery,” said the boxing sage.

Last year, Naazim received a call from the Fury camp about training their fighter, but refused. He said, apropos of the skill disparity between the two: “Anyone can move like a boxer. But if you have to stop to throw a punch, you’re not a boxer.”[[MORE]]

The fight began as expected. Fury has that reticent European style that only works if you are absurdly large: lead hand held low, clubbing right in reserve. The jab was working well for him, and Cunningham had trouble closing the distance. At the end of the first round, the two men – whose size disparity made them seem like different species – stared each other down, and then Fury shoved Cunningham backward.

At the top of the second, Cunningham wove inside and dropped Fury with a lovely overhand right. Fury got up on wobbly legs and held his way to the bell. It was, I thought, a nice introduction to our country.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone to win so much in my life,” said my neighbor on press row of Cunningham, adding that Fury had insulted every ethnic group that exists in an earlier interview. The two of us reminisced about the good ol’ days of 200-pound heavyweights, and wondered if there should be a separate division for giants.

Over the next two rounds, Cunningham chased the still-stunned Fury, who resorted to every dirty trick in the book to survive. In the fifth, the referee finally took a point for holding, but the damage was done. It’s exhausting to have someone 45 pounds heavier than you lean on your chest and shove his forearm in your face. The momentum had shifted, and Cunningham looked tired. At the end of this round, Fury rocked him with a right, then did an annoying dance.

Now it was Naazim Richardson’s time to shine. The canny cornerman showed his class, sending Cunningham into round six with an unravelling glove, causing the referee to halt the action. Back in the corner, Naazim gave an Oscar-worthy performance of someone who has entirely forgotten how to use a scissors or tape, buying his fighter a few more seconds.

As Naazim had told me earlier, “That’s why they cut me the little checks.”

Round six saw some slick boxing off the ropes from Cunningham, but he also ate a few big rights. I started to get a sinking sensation about USS.

I thought it was a low blow that set up the seventh-round knockout, but when I asked Cunningham about it later, he was more concerned about the holding and hitting that followed. Whatever it was, it was ugly. Cunningham was counted out at 2:55 of round seven, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Tyson Fury sang.

In the co-main event, Curtis “Showtime” Stevens won a lackluster decision over aggressive, hard-punching Derrick Findley. The scores of 79-73 and 78-74 (twice) don’t reflect how close this fight was. Stevens had faster hands than his opponent, but seemed to have very little on his punches.

Most of NY’s Albanian population showed up for the lead-off bout pitting local cruiserweight prospect Sevdal Sherifi against southpaw Josh “Juice” Harris. Early in round four, Harris caught Sherifi flush with a looping overhand left, then chased him around the ring. Ten seconds before the round’s end, another haymaker caught Sherifi, who lurched back into the ropes, one elbow hooked over the top to keep him from falling. The ref called it off in the fifth. How I love a victory for the journeyman!

Sometimes you can tell who’s going to win just by looking at them. In the second bout, lightweight Edward Valdez was tubby, short, and entirely hairless, giving him the appearance of an overgrown baby. Undefeated Karl Dargan, another Philly fighter, sported opulent gold Havoc trunks and pretty cornrows. Dargan pursued an orthodox course, throwing straight jabs to the belly and head, while easily evading the baby’s looping counters. Baby quit on his stool after two, reportedly due to an injured hand, so Dargan got to put on his coordinating gold vest sooner than expected.

Impressively-muscled heavyweight Alex Rozman entered to the song “I Am a Real American,” and, just in case we missed the message, was also draped with an American flag. His opponent was Tyson Fury’s cousin Hughie Fury, in his second pro fight. The difference in class was noticeable immediately. The American was down at least four times in the first round, some from slips, some from right hands that didn’t even look that hard, but what do I know. Fury is a former world junior champion and already looks more polished than his obnoxious cousin.

Next came an entertaining battle of pear-shaped heavyweights. Jamaican Calbert Lewis was shorter, darker, and had a few more rolls of abdominal fat than crowd favorite Adam “Babyface” Kownacki, a Polish Brooklynite. Both were a little wild, but Babyface threw straighter shots and showed some surprising defensive polish. The ref stopped it in round two, to the delight of the huge Polish contingent, who waved red and white banners and chanted the national anthem.

The disappointed Albanian fans, meanwhile, had transferred their allegiance to the ring card girls, who were lovely and unusually well-nourished. They wore a sexy simulacrum of boxing attire: red sports bras, black panties, knee-high socks, and pointy-toed, high heeled boxing boots that I wanted very much. There were three of them, each a different color, like Neopolitan ice cream.

But the loveliest woman in the Theater was Steve Cunningham’s wife Livvy. The two met in a boxing gym. One pint-sized, Mohawked son tugged on her arm as Livvy told me about her volunteer work training young women in a community gym. Like all Cunningham’s people, she was taking the afternoon’s results philosophically.

“As soon as Fury gets in there with someone big, it’ll be over,” said Naazim. “But they’ll build him up first to a big payday.”

During the post-fight press conference, Tyson Fury sat on the ring apron, looking oddly glum. Was it my imagination or did he glance wistfully across at Cunningham and camp: the sweet scientists of Philadelphia, closing ranks around their own. It was a place he could visit, but he could never live there.