Kovalev vs. Chilemba: Let's Get This Over With

Sergey Kovalev looks like the type of boxer you see in movies about boxing—not the champ and not the top contender but one of the guys in the background, jabbing at a heavy bag in the far corner of the gym. He doesn't compete for screen time. He moves with adequate speed. His combinations are methodical, almost thoughtful, as if he hasn't yet committed anything to muscle memory and decides what he's going to throw as he's throwing it. His build is athletic without any defining angles: no Tyson biceps, no Holyfield traps, no Hearns sinew. The heavy bag moves when Kovalev hits it but there's little of that satisfying pop and none of the world-breaking thuds we expect from the great and very good. Kovalev has the mien of an extra, not a star; he's perfectly cast for the far corner of the gym.

And then you watch what his punches do to people. That overhand right to the side of Jean Pascal's head; the jab to Cedric Agnew's liver; the one-two jackhammer that crushed Nadjib Mohammedi's nose; the straight right that made Bernard Hopkins sway and tilt like an old-school Central Park junkie. Kovalev hurts his opponents with brutal, contemplative power. He's a master of timing and distance, a hybrid of the Russian-style upright fighter with Mexican-style fluidity. Kovalev's footwork—does anyone talk enough about his footwork?—is the sonar for his depth charges; he glides in, explodes, then glides out, and all anyone notices is the body on the mat. As they should. Even in victory, Sergey Kovalev still looks like one of the guys in the background.

Isaac Chilemba (24-4-2), a youngish, former belt-holder already slotted into the just-get-through-this-guy-and-move-on narrative was Kovalev's appetizer for the main course that is Andre Ward. Everyone wants to see Kovalev v. Ward; almost nobody, except for Chilemba's family (and even then!) wanted to see Kovalev v. Chilemba. I didn't want to see Kovalev v. Chilemba. Even though I knew it would end with a variation on the familiar theme of Kovalev as sledgehammer and Chilemba as the requisite grape—a familiar theme that never gets boring—how many of these poor souls does Kovalev have to destroy before we get a classic fight? But Isaac Chilemba changed the narrative. Not enough to make headlines, and just enough to disappoint boxing fans.

Chilemba out-jabbed Kovalev the first three rounds, keeping his chin tucked behind his lead shoulder, snapping Kovalev back every time he glided in. The jab was Chilemba's only weapon. He rarely committed to more than two-punch combinations, sometimes whipping a left hook, presumably to widen Kovalev's guard for the straight right that never came. Kovalev—blame it on the pressure of fighting in Russia for the first time in five years, or on the pressure of his upcoming fight with Ward, or on an illness, or on the stars, or whatever—seemed stumped. Chilemba's defensive jab was beating Kovalev's destructive jab. He couldn't find his rhythm. The crowd waited for reasons to cheer; I saw a guy in the tenth row yawning.

(The production itself is worthy of an essay: as an under-traveled American I always compare any Russian production to the final fight in Rocky IV, with Soviet-red banners draped from dark balconies, and pasty military-types watching from their private boxes high above the ring, the crowd reduced to a drab wash of chanting proletariat. The Yekaterinburg Sports Palace—where this fight happened—was more like a boxing hall built by a Russian oligarch who went over budget and scrambled to finish in time for the bout. Ringside seats weren't really ringside, and weren't really seats. Booming pop music played between rounds. The lighting was weird, lit like a reality show, and almost every crowd shot focused on what I assume was some Russian celebrity—I think I saw Nikolai Valuev—but my prejudice made me see only executive-level Bratva-types, with their Caesar cuts and Slavic cheekbones and chintzy suits. Again: I say this as someone who's never been to Russia. Apologies to the better-traveled and clearer-seeing.)

Then, that familiar theme emerged: in the seventh round Chilemba finally crumbled, after a left to the body/one-two combination. I thought Kovalev had him solved. This is when the star emerges: once his opponent is softened by all the thudding and ripping, Kovalev glides in for a final assault; by that time the bones are ready to splinter and the brain is leaking blood. By that time you admire the loser because it would be so much easier and smarter to take a knee, but boxers don't know they're finished until their opponent determines they are. Chilemba held on, surviving a difficult ninth and tenth round, a brutal eleventh, and an obligatory twelfth. At the end, Kovalev's mouth hung open and Chilemba's face appeared to be swelling shut. The judges scored a unanimous decision for the Russian champ. Chilemba smiled, Kovalev raised his fist to the crowd, everyone seemed relieved. Kovalev will go back to his gym and prepare for the biggest fight of his career; Chilemba will continue to fulfill his narrative.