Top 100 Favorite Boxing Matches: #10-1

The end of a personal project years in the making; a tale of ten legendary nights.

This is the tenth and final part of my top one-hundred favorite boxing matches. I’ve been adamant about the fluidity of placements, but I’d ascertain readers would find my preferential ensemble a fitting closure. These are my picks for the best - that’s the only summation I require.

Before we proceed, thank you to all who supported and have followed along. My goal is nothing less than to pay homage to pugilists and their contributions to ring history. If nothing else, I hope I have achieved that.

10 - Myung-Woo Yuh vs Mario Albert Demarco I (November 30, 1986)

Myung-Woo Yuh never quite got the chance to settle one of his era’s questions as to whether he or Jung-Koo Chang for Korea’s finest boxer, though Yuh carved his own legacy in his own ways. While Chang was a dynamic force of nature - a talent few boxers could ever be - Yuh was almost an opposite. Yuh was no hitter, but he had an unbelievable chin, an even more absurd gas tank, and could wage some of the longest pocket battles you could see - to a degree that none of his opponents wanted to try their hand at engaging him. Sure, Yuh wasn’t the sort to get stoppages, but you were going to get hit. With him, there was always a question of whether someone could keep up with him. One challenger from Mexico, a relatively unknown and rugged Mario Alberto Demarco was set to try his hand. There is only one declarative to fully describe what ensued: If you can find me any bout with more volume over the course of any bout ever, congratulations.

In truth, this isn’t the sort of dramatic bout that seemed as though it would fit in with the majority of the elite bouts we’ve discussed, but it is every bit a spectacle in that it is arguably the greatest two-way display of endurance combat sports footage we can find. Demarco is the one who starts it, he jabs to set in, throws to the body and wings overhangs. It doesn’t take long for Yuh to pitch and catch. Yuh lands cleaner, he’s the faster man, and the technical better - the challenger just refuses to give ground. But Yuh meets him in kind and the pace starts ramping up as the champion pulls out the full extent of his arsenal in a two-man arms race. It isn’t going to stop. Every punch in the book makes an appearance; thousands of permutations in combination appear. A normally reserved crowd was starting to meet the excitement in the ring; they too couldn’t believe what was happening. Yuh was starting to unleash blistering combinations on the temporary separations, Demarco chained body shots into short hooks upstairs - neither was going to budge. This was only the first half. The end of the eighth somehow, someway ramped it up to an entirely different level, as the two threw in a nearly minute long exchange. 

Respite was nonexistent as the two’s only sign of exhaustion was the sweat on their brows. They entered the final third, where the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth took the action into stratospheric elevation.

Yuh’s class finally took over, as he punished Demarco’s step ins with an endless series of uppercuts, managing to have the latter staggered on a few occasions - as the crowd’s uproar temporarily shattered the audio in the recording.

The final two rounds finally showed signs of wear by both, but their pace was still phenomenal. Yuh continued to pull ahead, guaranteeing his victory in a fight that, while lacking drama, is unparalleled insofar as stamina.

09 - Archie Moore vs Yvon Durelle I (December 10, 1958)

The light heavyweight champion, Archie Moore, found himself awake on the ground, disoriented, only to see the familiar bright lights and cacophony of spectators. Across the ring stood a young Yvon Durelle, who had outsmarted ‘The Old Mongoose’ only moments before by baiting him into a battle of the jabs. The young Canadian was nowhere near as experienced as Moore, but he was here to make the most of his chance - and if there was one thing Durelle could do, it was hit. And he hit Moore hard enough to have knocked him out.

Still, he had to have been surprised to see a man who had crashed to the canvas the way Moore did stand up again. Moore was forty-four, a veteran of more fights to encompass multiple careers. His was a story of perseverance, always managing to prove he still had something to give, but father time caught up with everyone. Moore was an incredible defensive savant, having one of the best cross-armed defenses of all time, and he was in desperate survival mode here. Hiding behind it did little, as Durelle grabbed his wrists and tried to club away. Moore was sent to the floor again from cumulative punishment, got back up, and then was floored again seconds later. The first round was a disaster, though Moore got to see the final bell as his cornermen carried him back, determined to restore his body to match his heart.

Longevity in combat sports is a rarity, often a sign of greatness. Archie Moore managed to preserve himself to challenge for titles and win in his late thirties, and was still good enough to win them in this next decade, but surely the wheels were set to fall off, especially with some of the losses? That was certainly not on Moore’s mind, because, for him, two hundred plus bouts of wear was not going to prevent him from giving anything less than himself - that history had been arduous, but he had more lessons from them than just about anyone else. And so Moore set about his comeback, taking no risks to stay close, potshotting and moving to see what looks Durelle could give. Durelle could certainly jab with Moore with the same focus: the big right hand. So he was dangerous and willing to not concede to falling into Moore’s rhythm; therefore, Moore started leading him into counters, each one sending their one message. Durelle was the hitter here, but Moore was the knockout artist of the generation for a reason. However, Durelle had two main successes: his body shots were landing consistently and he could corral Moore in linear lines to the corners. These two factors added up, leading to an unforgettable fifth, as Moore was sent down again - if third time wasn’t the charm, then surely the fourth could suffice? Yet Moore was up - again - and Durelle went for the kill, prioritizing the ribs. This time, instead of trying to escape, Moore refused to be bullied and fired back.

Suddenly, in the pier six brawl, a right from Moore had Durelle staggered. Moore got the respite he needed. Now, it was payback time.

Durelle was aggressive in the sixth, but Moore made his adjustment, pivoting into his counter hooks. The seventh round gave Moore what he was waiting for, successfully hurting Durelle again and then flooring him.

The score was now four-to-one, but Moore wasn’t going to settle on any gamesmanship. No, the champion wanted to take his man out. Durelle was obviously inspired by what just happened, as he chose to fight even harder, zeroing in on his body attack and willing to throw after Moore. The encounter had turned into a tense affair as both could hurt another at any point, but it was the class of ‘The Old Mongoose’ that was pulling ahead towards a finish line - and ‘finish’ was every bit the goalpost. The jabs made Durelle afraid to be outside, but stepping inside resulted in needing to endure the counterpunching. Durelle tried to endure, only to fall at the end of the tenth. One more try in the eleventh resulted in two more knockdowns, thus evening the knockdown count, only Durelle couldn’t do what Moore could. It was over. The old dog still had some tricks - and this one was completing perhaps the greatest of all long-term comebacks.

This one is the complete opposite of the previous entry, which made up for its lack of drama with an unending amount of action. This one is the least frenetic of the final ten, but it is unrivaled insofar as a drama.

08 - Joe Frazier vs Muhammad Ali I (March 8, 1971)

The first meeting, ‘The Fight of the Century’, between then-unbeaten heavyweight titans Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali needs little introduction; we are looking at a sporting event as much as a cultural one. Ali was a larger than life figure with the benefit of being the champion who had never lost in the interim of Frazier’s throne-acquisition, which, in of itself, was legitimate. The story of the two’s relationship and subsequent, growing personal and competitive rivalry needs even less discussion. All the ingredients were in the pot for the match of the seventies. Anticipation often leads to disappointment - and few bouts were as hyped as this one. And even fewer actually match those expectations like these two did. Confidence was unwavering, and it would be more than earned.

Despite being a slow starter, Frazier’s trademark pressure was immediate, bobbing up-and-down with a grin as excited as the audience. It was Ali who threw first, going against the ingrained belief that was just a mobile genius, to teach the swarmer an imperative that “sting like a bee” was not hyperbolic. Timing Frazier’s dips with uppercuts, Ali caught the first of many - the iconic Frazier left hook - and shook his head to deny its threat. Ali was not a man of showmanship; he was here to back it up, battering Frazier with a dozen variations of one-twos.

The blur of Frazier’s visage snapping back and forth further indicated the intent Ali had that night, but Frazier wasn’t just a battering ram meant to take blows until he couldn’t. He had, with what seemed like preternatural reflexes, started to read Ali’s masterful tempo, dodging them like he was in the air itself, then stepped in and fired. The left hook whipped into the space between them, crackling with all its glory. And when air was not there, it smashed Ali’s head across space with the force of a sledgehammer. One even had Ali visibly hurt late in the third, but the growing scrappiness of the contest allowed him to show grit that even doubters couldn’t believe. The roles had almost reversed, Ali was working with the same motored determination Frazier had, while the younger man was actively taunting him.

Under Frazier’s endless drive and Ali’s constant output, there may not have been a heavyweight fight fought at the same pace with the amount of movement these two engaged at. 

Even a savage inside assault was doing little to dissuade the ex-champion, though it was Frazier who continued to force his fight. Ali couldn’t escape being pinned consistently, he found himself smothered and forced back when Frazier closed the gap. And, to top it off, that left hook - that damned left hook - was the bane of his existence. Ali amended his jab to potshot in the ninth, successfully leading Frazier into a thunderous shovel uppercut that led to a now-stunned champion backing off for the first time. Any respiration gained was temporary,  as Frazier drove Ali right back into the depths. The eleventh was disastrous for Ali, as Frazier returned the punishment and then some from the ninth, battering a wobbled Ali all over the ring. Ali was given no quarter, no mercy, as Frazier, whose visage looked as if a layer was flayed off, had become his finest version. That night, no iteration of Joe Frazier had looked as fine a swarmer and technician as he marched through artillery and fire, sieging Ali’s defenses with unbridled determination. A lesser man would have given up, but neither champion was bred that way. The two waged a vicious firefight in the thirteenth, Ali rallied once more in the fourteenth - it was still close.

There’s nothing to really be said about the fifteenth. For that night, Joe Frazier had become the living embodiment of his own trademark punch. And he landed the best one, scoring the decisive knockdown. The bell sounded, as Ali, who was rendered silent with a swollen jaw, could only stare at an unrecognizable Frazier. “I kicked your ass,” Frazier declared with some irony, but he wasn’t wrong.

‘The Thrilla in Manilla’ is considered the peak of the rivalry between these heavyweight greats, and I’m not interested in some argument about the superior bout - it goes against most of what this list is about - but I do think distinguishing their importance deserves some time. ‘Thrilla’ is a story of two old men giving one last effort past their best in a match nearly unrivaled for its brutal attrition. ‘The Fight of Century’ is two men at their peak, giving a spectacle like few matches could. They are the start and end to one of boxing’s greatest rivalries; it’s their connection that made them special. I can only say their first is more to my preferences but that’s besides the point.

Frazier paid a pyrrhic victory for that win, but it didn’t matter, because he immortalized himself with one of boxing’s signature victories. That’s really all that needs to be said.

07 - Guty Espadas vs Betulio Gonzalez (August 12, 1978)

Few boxers in the 1970s flyweight division were as experienced as former champion Betulio Gonzalez. While Gonzalez was certainly a veteran, he was still one of the division’s top players and would continue to be for years on end. He was making another bid now, against one of the most dynamic punchers of the era, Guty Espadas. The young Mexican champion wasn’t just dangerous because he could punch, he had ludicrous handspeed and genuine experience to back his acquisition of the WBA belt up. With such a challenge though, Gonzalez decided to face it head on. Two decades from then, heavyweight great Lennox Lewis had a specific tactic, namely, when faced with a superior puncher, you get in their face and prevent them from being comfortable. And Gonzalez was set to do that philosophy proud.

The opening five rounds would be nothing short of an epic battle, as Gonzalez pressed, throwing to try to pin Espadas on the ropes. An uppercut from the Venezuelan lit the fuse - and fire spread across the ropes as Espadas unloaded with insane velocity. The second round would top the first, as the exchanges became electric. Espadas’ left hook made itself known, slicing into Gonzalez’s liver, but the older man charged into the smoke behind his guard, deflecting with his forearms, and rammed uppercuts from hell to send the champion’s head flying backwards. While Gonzalez attacked on breaks made from engaging in the clinch, there were no breaks in the action; he could only keep pressuring Espadas to work. It was a bold risk and he was paying for it with dozens of bullets keeping him honest; however, his efforts showed their hand as he finally pinned Espadas on the ropes in the final minute of the fourth, smothering and wearing him down continuously. It was too early to think victory was inevitable though, as the fifth round was demonstrative how physical the bout had become, both men giving everything they had as their hairlines glistened in sweat.

There was no way they could keep this breakneck pace - and they didn’t. That said, everything remained tense.

Espadas changed strategies to countering on the outside, repositioning behind the jab. He further adjusted on the inside, using his own shoulder to prevent Gonzalez from grabbing the wrists. This let him blister Gonzalez’s shell with more artillery, though the challenger’s guard stood firm - and his determination was equally unbroken, as he bossed the eighth, employing his own jab to wage his own siege on the ropes again, creating separations on purpose to lead Espadas into punishing flurries. This seemed to draw the Mexican’s ire, as he resolved to turn stalker, dipping under the jab and blasting Gonzalez’s head with hooks - his own history having turned the tide. With the final third of the fight approaching and both still adjusting in something so desperately close, drastic measures were required to try and separate themselves. And with that, the final third took on the same form as the first - but even crazier.

Gonzalez reallocated his inside attack in the eleventh, and Espadas came to a realization that, regardless of his efforts, he was going to have to be on the inside; he steeled himself, met Gonzalez head-to-head and begin throwing every single punch he could. The final stanzas were nothing but nonstop trading on the inside, both clawing at every inch they could make. Espadas paid for his desperate offense in the fourteenth, getting temporarily staggered on a break, but he never gave ground again.

It was the champion who surged with an unreal rally in an equally absurd final round. Gonzalez at one point, sank to his knees - no knockdown, but something was clearly wrong. Still, no time was wasted, they both began throwing, but Espadas was who won the pocket battle, and Gonzalez, now actually hurt, reeled into the corner. A nearly minute long trade followed in two forms of respective desperation, but miraculous recovery kept Gonzalez alive to meet his equal on the same foundation one final time to conclude what I believe to be flyweight’s pinnacle contest.

The decision was close and controversial, Gonzalez marked away with a majority decision for a bout with two heroes. There is no doubt that this is one of the most exhausting fights in this entire ensemble - but it had all the class of a three-act structure with some of the greatest two-way inside action on footage.

06 - Kid Gavilan vs Gil Turner (Jul 7, 1952)

Ray Robinson was once asked who the most durable man he fought was. While Jake LaMotta was a definite choice, Robinson noted Kid Gavilan had a special quality of toughness. It was zero flattery; the Cuban great, while resigned to second place in an era to arguably the greatest fighter boxing had ever seen, was simply a man made of material beyond iron. Being number two, likewise, was not a real mark against Gavilan either - as he would still go down as one of the finest the weight class saw, which, in consideration of welterweight’s archive of all-time greats, says how special he was. The moment Robinson vacated for other pursuits, Gavilan took the title over a rival, Johnny Bratton, a flashy fighter whom Gavilan could outshine on Bratton’s own turf whilst being the vastly superior technician. It was difficult to find something Gavilan couldn’t do, but he topped it all off with sensational athletic gifts. Eventually, a subtle rule began to emerge, namely, Gavilan was not a man you could beat in a brawl. Suffice it to say, only an insane person would try. One challenger, a young Gil Turner, a man who fought like a vicious wolverine with only offense as a priority, said, “Bet.”

Turner was young, but his talent showed early on, managing to defeat former champions. He was not just a basic aggressor, as his amateur background gave him the experience to allocate his style effectively. Kid Gavilan was a man who could win any brawl, but Gil Turner excelled in one. Fireworks were inevitable as Turner challenged Gavilan - but nothing could have prepared anyone for the level of aesthetic violence inflicted.

Turner wasted little time, pumping his jab with intent to close, prompting Gavilan to try and intercept with counters. Tension crackled as a duel of lead hands ensued, but it was to come to a boil: When the two came close, Turner threw dozens of punches - his flurries a visceral kind - and Gavilan whipped out hellacious hooks thrown from the ground in reply. There was no punch thrown with restraint - the tone was set. The first round would end in an exchange that seemed impossible to believe, but it was just the first of many. Turner came in with the philosophy that everything Gavilan could do, he could surpass him. He came forward like he was the tougher man, the better brawler, the superior jabber, and the inevitable winner. Even Gavilan’s trademark bolo punch was applied against him. This set the champion off - it was time to teach a lesson. Gavilan was not a thunderous hitter, but he was a spiteful one - and Turner had earned his competitive ire. A bolo of his own sent Turner back to the ropes, and the promise at the end of the first round was delivered, as the two engaged in a trade like no other.

There are fights on this list that have dealt with incredible exchanges - none of them have the kind exemplified here. They are unrivaled in their intensity; they are simply awe-inspiring. This was only the second round - it was just the beginning.

Just as carnage blew over, the stressed lull returned as both men continued to fence with their jabs. This was temporary respite from the storm. The two continued to get close again and the serious heat on their blows resumed on the inside. A cross counter that would have murdered another was answered with an uppercut-overhand combo. A six-piece combo from Turner in the fourth doesn’t even make Gavilan blink. It’s Gavilan who starts adjusting, pivoting into his hook to intercept the challenger, then attempting to muscle him to the ropes and smother him. The fifth is one of the greatest of all rounds, as Turner lands an overhand from the floor, only for Gavilan to kickstart a nonstop series of exchanges like two strays over the last piece of meat.

It’s Turner who adjusts in the sixth, drawing the counters with the jab, forcing Gavilan to try to wear him down in the seventh, betting on his own durability in the process. The eighth shows a breakthrough that the Cuban needed, as he seems to grasp the range to corral Turner into his bombs or smothering with underhooks on the inside. Turner refuses to give up, making it every bit a torrid affair, but the experience of the champion was making the difference. He still goes for it in the tenth, despite Gavilan’s shovel uppercuts landing more than ever, culminating in one more absurd trade to conclude the tenth. At this point, however, the writing was starting to be on the wall: Turner had fought with an astounding belief, but the rules of engagement had never changed - he was trying to outlast an immortal. What was unavoidable was that Turner, in his final efforts, was unable to bridge that gap. His final surge in the eleventh was endured and then reversed: Gavilan does to him what Turner never could and has the challenger reeling. Turner goes down swinging while basically unconscious and earns a shellacking that concludes his prime to put in the final coffin nail of what may well have been the greatest of welterweight fights.

05 - Roberto Duran vs Iran Barkley (February 24, 1989)

Let’s paint a picture: We have a two-decade veteran nearing the age of forty. He is one of the greatest to ever compete in the ring, arguably the perfect lightweight. There might not have been a boxer as complete as him; he could read engagements on the outside with incredible precision, craft his own tempo while completely offsetting his adversary’s, fight on the inside so well that come are convinced he trained blindfolded, and, at higher weight classes, was a consistent force in their echelons. He achieved the only recorded victory against Ray Leonard at the latter’s prime even after dozens of fights. Even in losses, he proved to be impressive, managing to be the only man to go the distance with Marvelous Marvin Hagler in the middleweight champion’s reign. Only the uniquely forged Thomas Hearns had made Duran look less than he was, but only excellent boxers beat Duran - he was that great. But an old Duran wasn’t settling for just being one of the greatest - he wanted to be greater still. He was going to make one last crack at the middleweight crown - twenty-five pounds larger, four weight classes above his natural state. Duran was a man who knew he was good, fighting and acting with confident smirks. There was no playfulness in his expression on this occasion; he was putting it all on this ante. In his way stood a giant.

Iran Barkley had a left hook, and it had serious power. The early stages of Barkley’s career led him into wild affairs, whereupon his power was a looming presence. But Barkley was not reliant on his equalizer; he fought with heart for days no matter how difficult the task. You see, Barkley wasn’t just called ‘The Blade’ because of his proclivity for the blood-and-guts fighting - he was forging himself to be the best he could be. A knockout streak earned him a shot at one of the generation’s underrated technicians, Sumbu Kalambay. He lost, but Kalambay insisted that Barkley was more than met the eye, asserting him to be incredibly clever. A few fights later, he got a chance to prove that, given the scariest man in the ring who had finished Duran - and Thomas Hearns was taken out in round three, unable to deter Barkley, who waited for his chance patiently. He was a goliath of a fighter, one of middleweight’s towering presences - he would be a heavyweight before his career was over. This was the mountain that Duran had to climb.

The size differential was apparent immediately, though Barkley’s initiative was even more prevalent. A newly-minted champion, Barkley flashed out his left hand with a whipping blur; his jab was the best it had ever been. He wasn’t taking even a Duran that had miles on him lightly; maybe he was right. A cross counter then smashed into the champion’s jaw and he fell into the ropes at the bell, a wide grin on his face. Roberto Duran was still the man - he was here to win himself, using every ounce of experience, will, and ability he had. Duran read the distance with his effortless jab, feeling the space out to close the distance to his favorite hunting ground on the inside. Suddenly, he was met with the trademark flurries of Barkley’s, reappropriated to the body exclusively. Duran had to back off, immediately faced with the jab again, fired with more disciplined. The fighter that Sumbu Kalambay had praised was finally living up to that. Barkley had successfully found the balance between his innate brawler and learned technician. Half-steps and uncommitted feints let him match his challenger’s feints, enforcing pressure, where he then ripped Duran’s midsection further. While Barkley constantly worked, Duran bet on his experience and timing, digging into his arsenal of endless tricks - attacking on breaks, doubling up his punches, stepping in on the hook, perfectly timed pull counters and so on. This wasn’t just going to be a physical challenge, it was a mental one.

The exemplary defense was holding up, but Barkley was still landing with authority, determined to outhustle Duran. Amazingly, Duran endured blows from one of the premier middleweight punchers of that generation, and, as a sensational fourth showed, was more than willing to trade blow-for-blow, even pushing Barkley back on several occasions. To emphasize just how ridiculous that is beyond the obvious physical disparity, Duran was going into the trenches like he was a young man again - with the culmination of dozens of fights all coming to fruition to make up for any disadvantage; Duran could still live up to his namesake “Manos de Piedra” as the swelling on Barkley’s eye proved - he still had way more to give. 

The action was ferociously competitive and escalating rapidly, leading to an all-timer seventh. Transitioning rapidly between his inside and outside game, Duran dissected Barkley like a surgeon. A thunderous overhand had Barkley hurt again, but now it was a cornered Barkley’s turn to surprise: he hurt Duran right back, doubling up on his hook and launching his own monster of a right. In midst of recovery, they refused to give an inch. The eighth was just as incredible. Barkley, an avid learner, took inspiration from his enemy, stepping in under Duran’s punches and scored a left hook that spun Duran’s body in midair.

A lesser person would have been finished, but, as Barkley would say once the fight ended, Duran’s heart just couldn’t stop beating - and he went from serious trouble at the start of the round to getting the better of the struggle at the bell. The man from the Bronx himself was smiling still, though a small glance as Duran returned to the corner implicated his awe at an old man’s bravery.

Further stupefying any onlookers was how Duran fought in the ninth, as Barkley was the one showing fatigue, and then active concern as he was tagged over and over again. The champion was no longer able to work every second, and his openings were now more apparent than ever. The tenth was just as concerning, prompting Barkley to throw back and catch only air. It seems academic to say at this point, but Duran had achieved another feat: he had defused the best Iran Barkley to have ever fought in the ring. He was outboxing him, he was outhustling him, and he read and beat Barkley in every exchange. What happened in the eleventh was just the cherry on top - the right hands put Barkley down at last. Of course, Barkley got up to his feet, grinning even after the bell sounded, but it was only confirmation of the sentiment everyone in the arena now shared for the Panamanian great.

With respect, he recollected his perfect form to make the twelfth a close one. The end came, Barkley raised his arms while Duran kept his low, staring right at him in defiance. There was obviously a winner, but the contrast illustrated how both understood what they had partaken in.

What is there to even say here? I introduced a premise at the beginning with a colossal task that almost no one could accomplish. But Roberto Duran was the boxer who could. It took the finest version of Iran Barkley to elevate the win even further. Duran already had a career where he didn’t need any further validation; he chose to transcend his own history. There is no reply here. You can only be speechless at that.

04 - Aaron Pryor vs Alexis Arguello I (November 12, 1982)

There are fighters who are exceptionally good. There are fighters who are generational talents. And then there are those who defy conventional description. Alexis Arguello is in that last category. Losing his first title shot did nothing to stop him from taking that same one months later, defending multiple times over with broken bodies and the development of a game built through drilling the techniques into his very nature. What made Arguello so exceptional was that his shot selection alone would make him great, but his ability to translate perfect form into punches delivered with the force of a gunshot made him one of the most special fighters in an era of extraordinary pugilists. Arguello had the defensive chops to stay in any firefight, pick up on specific openings, and deliver just about the right choice with unbelievable precision. He was no stranger to difficult fights, so he learned to wear his man down over the stretch with ferocious body punching. Arguello would never lose any of his titles - he simply went up to the next weight class, leaving men that, if they weren’t finished, were clearly beaten and often bloodied. While the heavier weight classes were providing their own challenges insofar as finishing opponents as quickly, it rarely mattered because Arguello still was solving the puzzles in front of him. And now, he was set to make history with the acquisition of a fourth world title, with only Aaron Pryor in his way.

Pryor felt, and perhaps was, unlucky. He was a skilled amateur, having famously taken and given everything Thomas Hearns had for him then, only to come up short by decisions in the Olympics. Pryor was already a whirlwind, but he took it up to another level as a professional, scarring the landscape of the junior welterweight rankings and taking the throne as an unbeaten professional. Pryor was vulnerable to being hit, he could be dropped, but he could rarely ever be stopped - and he fought with all the fury of seeming to prove something to everyone else.

And so the fight against Alexis Arguello, the perfect and undeniable great, took on the unstoppable storm that was Aaron Pryor in a fight that’s reputation stand on its own.

There was no feeling out, Pryor threw right in Arguello’s face, found himself parried and then cracked by a 1-2 that causes a slight dip in the champion’s legs, but he responded with an overhand and a smile. There was no dissension in his priorities, Pryor stepped back in to continue the exchanges as much as he could - a jab drew Arguello’s attention and a five-piece got the Nicaraguan’’s attention shortly thereafter. Pryor’s jab would be his most dangerous tool of the fight, as the bread-and-butter to initiating the trades. Arguello was the accurate of the two, but Pryor was always going to throw more. Unless Arguello could back him off, the swarmer was bound to take over. Even worse, Arguello found his back to the ropes consistently. And yet, the first round being messier than expected did nothing to affect the challenger’s composure; Arguello was one of the most experienced boxers in the world for how to handle stressful bouts. The second round was more of the same incredible action, but Arguello was starting to find his reads. Off the pivot, Arguello started catching Pryor on the resets, and, more importantly, Pryor learned one of the greater surprises: Arguello was one of the best infighters of the generation. The pace was all Pryor’s, but Arguello, an exemplary manager of controlling tempo, had achieved something few could: He had punished Pryor enough that, contrary to the champion’s crazed relaxation, Pryor did need to mind himself and try something else. The less constant exchanges gave even more breathing room for Arguello to set up his trademark setups. So Pryor went back to old reliable, the jab.

Pryor was not an exceptional outside fighter, though Arguello was not the best at cutting the ring. Despite that, it was imperative Pryor controlled the footwork with his jab as he moved to make Arguello reset first - a step in right as Arguello moved became the principle form of attack. A cut emerged as a result, but Arguello was apt to punish Pryor to the midsection every time he stayed close for too long. Soon, it was the challenger’s turn to even the odds: with an interplay of his hook-off-the-jab and straight right, Arguello drew Pryor’s lateral movement into traps. Now, it was Pryor’s turn, he began to throw more on the outside. Amazingly, what had been an all-out firefight had turned into a technical duel of wits, yet the sheer power and activity of both indicated this was not a regular chessmatch. It was the highest stakes game of tactics possible; a war of attrition where toughness mattered as much as ideas - the ultimate, rare kind of a bout, a technical war.

While the jab remained potent, Arguello had started to pick them off on the outside and read Pryor’s right hand entry to the inside. Now, Arguello stepped up his own pace, tearing into the American with lever punches and right crosses that would have at least drawn a longer pause from someone less durable. The ninth resumed the furious action as Pryor tried to draw counters out to step in behind combinations while Arguello’s sledgehammer blows were landing with greater regularity. The tenth was no different, but it was Arguello who pulled ahead in the eleventh, landing a series of rights that were as perfect as you could manage - each sounding as though they were bullets fired from a sawed-off shotgun.

It seemed unbelievable that Pryor was still standing, even nodding at the bell in Arguello’s direction - the challenger sharing that incredulous disbelief at how perfection just wasn’t good enough. The twelfth was hellish, both taking and giving more; it had been as physical as it was mentally draining. Arguello was the one it showed more for, but he maintained his self-belief, carrying it into the thirteenth, where all would be decided. They met in the middle, slugging it out once more, and Arguello’s body shots took command. The moment then came and Arguello made his read and fired. Pryor’s head snapped back and it was over - except it wasn’t.

The punch was flawless, but it didn’t matter. Pryor was back to jabbing after what seemed like a slight breeze. It’s impossible to encapsulate the impossibility, only that it was reality.

Arguello’s physical fatigue seemed to match something of a dispiriting realization that the bigger man was just too much then, as his reactions were not quite there. Pryor’s finish in the fourteenth seemed like the natural conclusion to follow that up.

I think this a contest that speaks for itself. There may not be a fight out there that merges technical tactics with unreal grit better than this one. It’s legendary for a reason. I realize there’s controversy - and it’s justified as a worry - but I’ll let you make your own mind up on the matter. What did happen in the ring was a fight that would have taken home honors in just about every year.

Except that it was 1982.

03 - Matthew Saad Muhammad vs Marvin Johnson I (July 26, 1977)

You may remember that Matthew Saad Muhammad and Marvin Johnson’s rematch was an entry several parts ago. In a brilliant contest with an all-timer ending, Matthew Franklin made himself champion and changed his namesake. And yet, despite the quality of that battle, it pales in comparison to their first meeting. No fighter in this project has had inclusion the way Saad has, and this is no accident. The man had so many brutal affairs that even deciding on his magnum opus in fisticuffs is always an open question. For me though, there’s something almost solitary about his original fight with Johnson. Again, the debate with Saad Muhammad’s career is what his greatest fight was, but there is one thing that is indisputable to me: The first Marvin Johnson battle is the most violent, period. And, in the Philadelphian Forum, a place no stranger to the warzone inclinations of its participants, the former Olympic contender and a future great were going to raise the standard on what a war looked like.

Johnson stormed out of the gate, as he always did, peppering with his jab and landing the first blow of the night. Franklin wasn’t the war hero Matthew Saad Muhammad yet, but he was showing greater chops than expected, ripping Johnson to the midsection. There wasn’t exactly a feeling out process, given the pace Johnson set, though the opening seconds of the second round indicated that it was just a warm-up, Johnson ripping his signature uppercuts with unrelenting volume in proximity. Suddenly, Franklin’s workrate started to match Johnson, filling the space with nothing but myriads of fistic exchanges. There have been countless classics with incredible trades we’ve covered. Yuh vs Demarco is the gold standard for sheer amount, Gavilan vs Turner is the lead contender for most vicious. But I’d argue this fight’s are the most terrifying because it’s a middle ground between the above two. They were not quite matching the volume of Yuh vs Demarco or the aesthetic intent of Gavilan vs Turner - but Johnson and Franklin were ridiculous punchers, in one of the bigger weight classes, and they were waging a nonstop firefight with no rest periods in between absorbing horrific shots. The crowd was already realizing what was beginning - and this was still merely the second round.

The third initiated more chaos as Johnson landed a dozen at breakneck speed - and then another combination landed. Franklin could only laugh at him - it’s own maddening image - and walk forward, tanking the best Johnson could pitch, launching meteoric rights to send the champion’s head back, only to meet a psychotic equal, who lept back in for the same anarchy. 

A series of rights blasted Johnson to-and-fro as the fourth started, Johnson returned the favor with a barrage of uppercuts. From the ground, he gripped his fist, and threw his finest one yet. Franklin’s head launched skyward, red exploding from his busted nostrils - and here he was still punching away. The durability exhibited was impossible, especially on the challenger’s side, but surely some mortality existed? An answer was made late, as another string of power rights had Johnson in trouble to the euphoria of a raucous crowd.

But Marvin Johnson was no quitter, he was the one who kept his wind intact while Franklin’s activity decreased substantially, taking advantage by turning his opponent’s face into a speed bag. Anyone else would have been on the floor after taking a few from the man named ‘Pops’, a relentless force of nature few light heavyweights ever had, but if Franklin was ever stunned, it was barely registered. Some immeasurable toughness forged from unknown fortitude was what drove him on.

Franklin did need to give some of it back though before Johnson built too much a lead, so he weaponized his jab as a rebound tool, managing to bring his body work back into the equation while his lead rights gave Johnson as much trouble as the jab. By the ninth, the tumultuous nature of the contest had resumed in full, and, amazingly, it was in another gear from even the earlier rounds. Franklin remained consistent, but Johnson would land a thunderous series periodically. The tenth was perhaps the most absurd of the fight that defined absurdity, where both men unleashed punches that sounded and landed as though they were from a cannon, causing them both to fly across the ring.

There was no ideal of a decision win; these boxers were hunting for a finish. But there was always one difference since the very beginning: Franklin could daze Johnson - the latter couldn’t do the same. Johnson was a juggernaut, coming forward with disregard for a merciful fight, and in a fight that was about taking the other out, the tougher man was going to get the better. Franklin broke Johnson down in the eleventh, and he finished it emphatically in the twelfth, needing to put his man completely out on his feet to win. Johnson prided himself on being the hammer who could pummel any nail, but he found himself to be that nail against an immovable object. The legend of Matthew Saad Muhammad and his warpath of blood started with this hammering.

I’ve seen an abundance of fights across combat sports, ones I’ve shown to multiple persons. I don’t think there’s one I can definitively place as more violent than this one - and violent is the operative word. Anyone who sees this one understands what I mean, as every facet is some impossibility. What astonishes me is that, between two fighters not too far in their professional career, there was such a willingness to wage it. What was ingrained in these two’s being that they waged a deathmatch like that? It cannot be understated how many of the fights I’ve covered destroyed careers - and this one is more visceral than the majority. How either even had the longevity or reached the heights that he climbed afterwards is a complete mystery. 

All of this for just $5,000 combined.

02 - Israel Vazquez vs Rafael Marquez III (March 1, 2008)

Rivalries have been a common denominator when it comes to the finest of matches. In regards to the 21st century, it’s impossible to not mention the Morales-Barrera, the Ward-Gatti, and so on. The four meetings between Juan Manuel Marquez and Manny Pacquaio are perhaps the gold standard of the 21’s series, but, for my money, it has one special peer: the trilogy (yes, we’re pretending fight no. 4 did not happen) between the younger Marquez brother, Rafael, and one Israel Vazquez. If there’s an aspect that truly defines a good rivalry, it’s chemistry - how styles blend to make fights. And it’s tough to think of many pugilists across any combat sport who had the chemistry these two countrymen did. Vazquez, the gritty power puncher with iron fortitude and terrifying left hook, and Marquez, the technical combination boxer with an explosive right cross, could not have produced anything less than something fun when they met for Vazquez’s super bantamweight title in March of 2007. Marquez’s boxing advantages forced a corner stoppage, but he was in trouble several times. Vazquez told himself he could do better - and proved it in the rematch. A shootout for the ages ensued as Vazquez jabbed with his rival on even terms, then initiated a punchout barnburner that left both men covered in cuts before the ten-minute mark was even reached. A toe-to-toe brawl was Vazquez’s home turf, and he stopped Marquez in the sixth. Everyone knew the third match wasn’t just going to happen, it needed to. Both men looked at the rubber match on the horizon as the decisive one, that they had to be in their absolute best form possible. Almost exactly one year removed from their first meeting, it was here. There had been no breaks or tune-ups between their matches. They went in with all the expectations in the world. They were about to shatter them.

The first looked as though it were out of their original meeting, Marquez’s jab the dominant factor, though that ended as a short left hook had him shaken to his boots for a second. It didn’t take much for Marquez to regain the composure he had learned to maintain in their previous thirteen rounds. That said, Vazquez was here to win, and it wasn’t just his power he sought to assert - Vazquez’s jab was thudding and actively fencing with Marquez’s. There had always been a contrast in what sort of fight favored what man; a tactical battle was Marquez’s, whereas Vazquez thrived in a brutal brawl. And yet, here they were, matching another in a boxing match. If anything didn’t represent how both had certifiably reached some new peak, this was it. It wasn’t a war, but it was a contest, one Marquez still ahead in. The question was, what if all hell broke loose again? It did in the fourth, but in a completely unexpected way.

As Vazquez continued to endeavor to create sustained inside action, Marquez continued to play matador. He set the bait with a level change and Vazquez took a monster of a right hand. Another one dropped him. Marquez had hurt Vazquez before, but this was a new achievement, and, emboldened, went for the kill - but he made a mistake. Israel Vazquez had made a career out of enduring punishment and being able to turn the tide when in peril. And Marquez had just marched on Vazquez’s turf to trade. Two overhands had Marquez wobbled. Both recovered and, realizing the pretenses had ended, began the war everyone was waiting for.

The fifth was a nonstop rollercoaster, as Marquez employed bombs in combinations, several rights denonating on his rival’s forehead with reverberating audio. Vazquez, for his part, refused to step back, spearing with his jab to set Marquez up for worse. He made his breakthrough in the sixth, exponentially increasing his activity and his lead hand - in yet another surprise - was suddenly the better one. In equal measure, the rear hand became Vazquez’s key punch, causing swelling to emerge under Marquez’s eye already. The advance persisted in the seventh. Was Marquez going to break from the pressure again? Not on his watch; Marquez rallied his energy in the final minute with shuddering blows once more. Realizing that he couldn’t quite match Vazquez’s output, Marquez picked his spots, though the fight maintained its exhilaration and ebb-and-flow like no other. It was simply typical for Marquez and Vazquez to jockey heavy blows and control like a seesaw, but it was astounding that they were doing it yet again here. They both fought with gamemanship and class; the respect they held for each other helped to elevate their efforts. It was everything boxing’s greatest nights could ask for, two people giving all they could, displaying competitive will that we, as spectators could only imagine. Vazquez’s eyes had cuts over them, but Marquez was having a difficult time escaping. They just wouldn’t stop.

Marquez reasserted some control with combinations to stun Vazquez at the bell for the ninth and tenth, but the eleventh showed Vazquez continued to push, controlling the territory of the exchanges. It was such a spectacle that even longtime commentator Al Bernstein declared that scorecards weren’t what mattered anymore. Whatever it was, it was going to be.

But Israel Vazquez came out into the twelfth not believing that anything less than a final round victory was unacceptable. Marquez had that early lead and had the lone knockdown. It was Vazquez wearing the worst marks. Even if it was going to end his career, something in Vazquez’s expression emerged, determination beyond imagination. The overhand landed flush. And then again. And again. He wasn’t stopping. Marquez threw counters with serious intent, but Vazquez walked through all of them, landing two-to-one, then three-to-one. For the first time, one man in the rivalry had pulled ahead, and Israel Vazquez hammered that point home by sending Marquez into the corner post for his own knockdown.

As Bernstein said, the scorecards were not the story, even with Vazquez’s dominant final round earning him the win by a hair. There’s a particular feature of the Vazquez-Marquez trilogy that has always drawn me. Rivalries typically follow this notion that the participants are changed to better themselves. While that’s true, in combat sports, it’s a rarity for the contests themselves to improve in quality the same way as the fighters. But that’s what happened here. Each fight, Israel Vazquez and Rafael Marquez grew as technicians and determinators. They stepped up to the plate when faced with adversity and decided to go the extra mile. And as they did so, the fights each improved until their third, one of the greatest of them all, ensued. I’d ascertain that’s why it’s such a special series. They ruined another’s careers through this three-parter, that was a given. Vazquez would be finished, his twelfth round rally being his last lap, while Marquez had some gas in the engine, though his wasn’t much. There didn’t need to be a fourth and, as far as I care, there isn’t one. This was the finale, and what a finale it was.

01 - Bobby Chacon vs Rafael ‘Bazooka’ Limon IV (December 11, 1982)

We need to return to the very start of this project. At number 100, I spoke about the state of the super featherweight division at the start of the 1980s. Alexis Arguello was the undisputable king, never dethroned, but he vacated to move to his next conquest. However, I would guess that the men who crowded around the empty chair had left an impression on Arguello. They weren’t as good as him, they were perhaps too open for punches, and they couldn’t help themselves insofar as engaging in action-packed encounters, but they did hold their own against the great. Their names were Rafael ‘Bazooka’ Limon, Cornelius Boza-Edwards, Rolando Navarette, and Bobby ‘Schoolboy’ Chacon. I’d be remiss if I didn’t add Chung Ill Choi was a fifth, satellite participant for the topic here, but it’s the above four who matter the most. These names have been recurring across this list and have guaranteed fireworks each and every time. What I’m getting to is that the moment Arguello was no longer the division’s boss, it was not your regular open season. You see, these boxers owned a particular, near-unrivaled brand of insane machismo and unmatched toughness. Anyone who brought the fight to them was met with immediate, savage resistance. Giving ground to them could lead to getting into dire straits. So, you can imagine what that sort of scene looks like when you pair these men up with another. Actually, you don’t have to imagine, because several entries have involved these exact things happening already! From the beginning of 1981 to the midpoint of 1983, the single greatest string of title fights in combat sports history transpired, as five men with everything to gain dyed the space before the throne in red. That said, on this crown of platinum, there is one gem that stands out above the rest.

Before this scenario even happened, two of our cast already had a backstory. Bobby Chacon was known as ‘Schoolboy’, except that looks betrayed his love of the fight game and insane power and deceptive discipline under fire that propelled him to being one of Southern California’s favorite boxing attractions - he was complete dynamite. Rafael ‘Bazooka’ Limon had the more fitting nickname; he too had mallets for fists, but his style was less conventional. Limon was no defensive savant, torquing with his blows that left him off balance; you would be forgiven for thinking he was not a world-caliber fighter. Unfortunately for his opponents, Limon was gifted with incredible physical attributes and took to fighting like it was his lovelife - anyone who fought him learned that he took you into a unique hell. He believed he was tougher and better than you - and reveled it in with demonic pleasure. Every meeting between these two lunatics left familiarity and bitterness. Two bouts were scored controversially for the popular winner, and one technical draw left the score even. It was years removed that they found themselves meeting for the title - the stakes were never higher, and it was going to be winner take all.

Except, for Bobby Chacon, there was one other thing - the tragedy of his wife’s suicide, and the subsequent, agonizing necessity of honoring her followed. For Chacon, fighting was all he felt he was good at, so this was a match he felt he absolutely could not lose. In his way was a man whose very core nature was to refuse to lose. The man who was always grinning for and during his fights would not show any enthusiasm today.

I have to stop here. I’d like to think that I’ve been pretty adamant about the subjectivity of making a list like this. With so many bouts in boxing history, deciding the differences in quality is preferential. It’s why I called this a ‘favorites’ list and not some definitive ‘best’ rankings. But this is the exception. Simply put, I have viewed fights across all combat sports where I have thought that what I saw was one of the best. The fourth and final meeting between Bobby Chacon and Rafael Limon is the only one I’ve found where I said to myself that I will never see a better one. We’ve covered fights with incredible volume. We’ve witnessed ludicrous dramatics. We’ve experienced action that normal persons could never engage in. We’ve seen the best in the world of their time try to outdo another with all they have. This one mixes all of those elements and even has its own flavor. I have hyped this one to every person I can after building it up for viewership. Once we finish our viewing, I ask what they thought. All of them have had my exact same feeling. There is no other number one. I don’t believe it is comprehensible. There is only one reason and one reason alone Aaron Pryor vs Alexis Arguello did not win Fight of the Year.

I would hope that people reading these would be watching the bouts before proceeding to the summary, but I have to especially insist for this one. It is the fight you have to experience for yourself. Words don’t do it justice - but I’m going to give it that one last go.

Neither was a fast starter, though Limon, as the titleholder, was the one who cracked first, ripping his distinctly bone-crunching flurries to the body, prompting an emergence of Chacon’s lead right. The first was the slowest of the fight, but, by these two’s standards, it was far from that. Any deception that this was going to be a tactical affair dissipated in the final seconds, and set the stage for the second stanza, where any pretense of mercy went away as the fight exploded into full-blown anarchy.

Limon smashed Chacon into the corner, attempting to tear him to shreds - only Chacon’s defenses kept him safe. Suddenly Limon’s head snapped back and his feet soon found themselves in the center of the ring, then into the opposite corner. Chacon’s power didn’t hurt him, but it caused a shift in momentum. The rattling of the crowd’s spectators juxtaposed the two contenders’ expressions at the bell. This was far from a normal boxing match; to Chacon and Limon, it was as organic to them as anything else.

Chacon pressed his advantage in the third, though the champion’s long jab kept him at bay, setting up hammers of his own. Limon then set up one his trademarks, using the jab to draw a ceaselessly pugnacious Chacon in, then cracked him with his left, scoring a knockdown. They went right back to their business in the fourth, thrashing every opening they found. Suddenly, the fourth became a reincarnation of the second, only the barbarity stepped up even further, both enduring each other’s best and now waging unbelievable exchanges. They were not even a third of the way through, Chacon’s nose wearing a gash and Limon’s visage covered in bruises. Needless to say, most would expect the things to taper at least a level from mayhem, but the industry of who was competing operated a different kind of machinery; they were just getting started.

The fifth lacked insanity, but they continued to paint another’s flesh as exhibits of artistic violence. Limon’s jab continued to peck away, while Chacon’s lead hand fired for setups  - their rear hands were nothing but pistons, all primed to rattle skulls. It was Chacon who pulled ahead in the sixth, an interplay between his left hook and right straight. Limon’s head continued to fly, but his expression remained unbowed, leading to him to return the favor in the seventh, inaugurating Chacon’s face into his left overhand -  his challenger wobbled. This time Chacon’s defensive movement on the ropes wasn’t enough; to survive, he had to throw back.

The war waged on, both waving another in for more. Neither man was intending to break mentally; it was going to come down to their corporeal being. The eighth took on a tactical front in midst of the endless inferno, as Limon tore Chacon’s body up on the counter while Chacon crafted a double threat to the body of his own.

You would suppose that with everything that had happened, they couldn’t escalate what was happening, but that would be wishful thinking because round nine topped everything previous. Chacon, having only fury in his face, initiated more chaos, demanding Limon bring it on. Limon pinned him again, giving back as good as he took - and then a perfect cross landed. The champion fell back again, but this time, the rarest of sights was here. The modus operandi of ‘Bazooka’ Limon was his sheer toughness; this was a man who could take any amount of punishment and come back; you could drop Limon, but he’d get up with a smile as though nothing happened or he wasn’t actually stunned, more surprised; he was seemingly an immortal freak of nature.

And now, here he was, staggering all over the ring with Chacon with his mouthpiece almost spat out, on a complete warpath, tore into him.

But Limon was the man whose fortitude was limitless; he prided himself on the ability to endure, outlast, and shatter his opponents. It was in the final rounds where he came alive, drawing upon reserves that few in history could. He needed that now, and found it. The same trap from the third reared its head and ‘Bazooka’ threw a punch that justified his namesake. Chacon was completely floored - and Chacon was now on Limon’s level again, in the same hell.

The Mexican was on him completely like a wolf that smelled blood, pummeling his man all the way through the eleventh, looking to match Chacon’s vehemence with the full extent of his spite. And yet, Chacon rejected any pretense of retreat and met Limon yet again in the center; if you were told he was a ‘Schoolboy’, that would be equally absurd in notion. The contusions, badges of their courage, made the two unrecognizable from when they started, looking as though they were twice their current age. It was fitting they waged the twelfth on even grounds yet again as the battle was coming down to who had the superior rear hand, though this was just par for the course - madness was inevitable.

The thirteenth was absolutely that, reaching its zenith as Limon’s left and Chacon’s right landed at the same time, and then again - both were shook to their toes, but it was Chacon who pushed through, lacerating Limon with more thudding blows.

Limon slumped to his corner at the bell, signifying another astonishment: one of boxing's tireless men was reaching the end of his endurance. He certainly didn’t fight like that, he began the fourteenth like the previous one didn’t happen. The legs betrayed him throughout the round, but Limon spurned the possibility of quitting; he fought back and even muscled his rival back; he showed nothing but defiance, raising his arms to demand Chacon earn this. However, Chacon was in a state of transcendence - he knocked Limon around, ripping the mouthpiece out of the Mexican’s mouth, and engulfed him under an unwavering assault. Rafael ‘Bazooka’ Limon had believed himself to be unbreakable, undeniable, and unstoppable. And here, every one of his advantages had been surpassed. Chacon had outlasted him. Chacon had outpunched him. Chacon had received every punch Limon had and handed it right back. Limon always fought like he was the boogeyman, but this night, it was Chacon who had fought like a man possessed. Chacon had outskilled him. Chacon had outwilled him. And now he was going to beat him.

The only thing Chacon couldn’t do was knock Limon down.

And then he did.

With only twenty seconds left, dancing on his feet with vigor to the audience’s chants of his name, Chacon staggered his archrival one more time and then floored him. Limon had been down in his career before, though a knockdown where he was visibly on his last throes was a completely foreign sight to a deafening roar. But forty-five minutes of carnage had already shattered any presumptions - leading to an image that can only requires two acceptable responses: screaming or speechlessness.

Limon was up to his feet, the last of his will, but his bloodied grin knew. All that was left was an ovation and the embrace of two kindred souls. Bobby Chacon emerged from hell itself as the rightful winner.

This is the end and there is nothing else to say. We watch combat sports for their displays of human determinism; we can honor them best by remembering them. In these contests, there may usually be a victor and the defeated, though that never tells the full story. It takes two to always make a compelling, unforgettable tale - and, at the end of this tribute of one-hundred fights worth of many, many more - I hope that’s the takeaway you can share with me. Combat sports are special for this reason and then some. Bobby Chacon vs Rafael Limon IV embodies that to its final moments. It’s a presentation of inhuman willpower; a spectacle as much as an epic.

There are many greats, but it is the greatest of them all.

Thank you for reading.