Punch-Drunken Stupor: "Here Comes the Judge, Jury and Executioner "

By Jonathan David Morris

08.10.01 - Recent months have been incredibly kind to the living legend of Felix Trinidad. Against the likes of such supremely talented young guns as Fernando Vargas, David Reid and William Joppy, the usually sensational Tito entered each battle a finely tuned wrecking machine. One part power, one part poise, he was the perfect weapon. He disposed of his opposition accordingly and, in the minds of many, simultaneously cemented his fate as the singlemost spectacular gladiator in Puerto Rican history.

On September 29, faced with seemingly old technology in the very human guise of veteran Bernard Hopkins, Trinidad's parts were inexplicably rusted. His opponent, ever wily and enraged, took full advantage of Tito's corrosion. Hopkins administered a beating almost as simple as it was robotic. In the process, he coated the aforementioned legend with its first layer of tarnish.

With all Tito's accomplished, however, he will not be remembered for his latest affair. This was, after all, Hopkins' night alone--rightfully so on the authority of such a one-sided onslaught.

After scoring a soundly efficient knockdown to finish the bout in the twelfth and final round, Hopkins joined his vanquished foe on the canvas, lying down and shaking his fists in a display of exhilaration. For Hopkins, this has been a long time coming, and, in moments like these, men most often unleash their unbridled excitement in similarly strange ways.

It's a stark contrast, of course, to the always-reserved nature of Trinidad. Yet, once he shuffled his feet in mid-fight, Trinidad had already solidified the fact that his real self hadn't shown up. It was eerily reminiscent of the night when James Toney, a genuine throwback, lost his in-ring cool and mimicked a showboating challenger named Roy Jones.

In his upward rise through two new classes in as many years, Trinidad has played the weigh-in game. Hopkins earned his measure of respect by waiting. He challenged Jones to descend the divisions in order to fight him, but Jones wisely declined. Jones had already fought and beat Hopkins; he owed him nothing and therefore did not budge from his light heavyweight perch.

So, Hopkins offered Trinidad the same opportunity, and Trinidad--a speeding locomotive if the sweet science has ever seen one--gladly accepted. Who outside the Hopkins household could have predicted this derailment?

For a man who runs his mouth as often as Hopkins, any and all claims that his fists might do the talking are usually detected by only by deaf ears. At last, he's backed up his incessantly flapping tongue. And as hard as the loss might be for Trinidad to swallow, if anything, he can probably sympathize with what Hopkins must be feeling right now.

Trinidad, too, struggled in relative anonymity for quite some time. Both of these men honed their craft for several years under the sterling superstar-sized shadows of Oscar De La Hoya and Roy Jones. But, when faced with a legitimate big fight atmosphere for the very first time in their respective careers, each man showed a heart of gold in dismantling the spirits of their cash-wielding counterparts. For Trinidad, this came against De La Hoya. For Hopkins, this came against Trinidad.

Save for the actual finish, Tito looked an awful lot on this night like he did just two years prior. That's when the would-be better De La Hoya delivered a drubbing and yet managed to put himself on the wrong end of an evening of fireworks and confetti. On that night, Trinidad stood his ground. Overcoming his opponent's offense wasn't easy, but it wasn't impossible. De La Hoya didn't just throw the fight away. Trinidad put the fear of God in him.

De La Hoya has since admitted his anxieties. He feared what Trinidad might do to him physically if given the chance for a late-rounds rally. Ironically, De La Hoya's rendition of the running man turned Trinidad's persistence into just that--a late-rounds rally.

A man on the wrong side of fame for far too long, Hopkins, unlike De La Hoya, feared nothing. He proved that a late-rounds Tito isn't necessarily better than an early-rounds Tito, or at least on a night when the early-rounds Tito looks like someone else entirely. Hopkins confounded Trinidad by employing the same basic boxing tactic--it's called movement--which nearly made De La Hoya a winner. The difference: Hopkins never relented.

That's why Hopkins is the Executioner and De La Hoya is only the Golden Boy.

And there was Trinidad, struggling to his feet against fair weather ropes, then nearly folding in the arms of both referee Steve Smoger and father and trainer Don Felix. He'll be back to fight another day. When one's that damned talented and, usually, that damned confident, a solitary loss can mean only so much.

This was the night when the Executioner finally carved out a legend of his own. He's conquered the champions of three sanctioning bodies and, as king, now rules an impressive empire. For a fighter who has fought as dirty and looked as sloppy as Bernard Hopkins has in the past, this was an anxiously awaited coronation that some believed would never come. Likewise, it's an event which none can argue is, at the very minimum, deserved.

What's next for the new champ can only be Roy Jones. A bout between boxing's two undisputed champions is only natural, given the storied contempt with which both men have regarded each other. Odd, isn't it, that this long avoided and seemingly inessential grudge match is now precisely what the public craves?

If Hopkins ascends for the sake of fighting Jones, he might very well succumb to the same fate as the smaller Trinidad. On the other hand, he might make of Jones what Trinidad made of Reid, Vargas and Joppy. Time will tell.

Though the length of his reign is yet to be determined, Hopkins will rule with courage if nothing else. And from a Trinidad fan's perspective, that ideal is all that counts.