Juan Francisco Estrada stood in his corner; his bearing that of a fighter no longer capable of surprise, of encountering anything new between the ropes. Wrapped in a grey and black fatigue pattern, his gloves were a nod to the man who wore them, and a promise to his opponent. The grey flames licking up from the hem of his black shorts symbolized an old fighter looking to ignite, combust, and immolate once more.
Across the ring in the Footprint Center, in Phoenix Arizona, waited Jesse “Bam” Rodriguez. Ten years Estrada’s junior, and with neither the scars nor scowl of his hardened opponent, Rodriguez wore an earnest expression, one verging on benevolent, as though the opening bell were to commence a simple evaluation of technique and strategy, more exercise than exorcism.
Youth might explain Rodriguez’s seeming naivete, his quiet confidence. Estrada’s confidence came from knowing too well what greatness demands, how elusive it is, and that he had secured it before Rodriguez could legally order a drink. In contrast to Estrada’s smoldering intensity, Rodriguez seemed blithely unaware of the challenge awaiting him. Because only Estrada knew defeat, knew its fallout. Only Estrada understood the crush of time.
***
When, in the seventh round, Rodriguez, off that oh-so-nifty pivot, sunk a second left uppercut into Estrada’s body, when Estrada stopped, dropped, and rolled as if to dampen the fire scorching his body, you knew it was over.
But did you believe it?
Encouraging your credulity were the previous six rounds, rounds that were more competitive than they seemed, if only because Rodriguez was better than he has ever been—and distractingly, captivatingly so. What was clear immediately—and ominously for Estrada—was that Rodriguez could too frequently close, unload, and exit without penalty. Estrada knew how to counter, and he knew the combinations to throw in response, but even when he fired back, Rodriguez had him reaching, out of position, and exposed.
With neither the stability nor speed of foot to compete with Rodriguez in a boxing match, Estrada faced early the decision to either imperil himself for a chance at victory—or lose. How a fighter chooses here reveals his mettle, it is one of the ring’s fundamental questions, a defining simplification. In those intimate inches, with something greater than victory at stake, Estrada answered that challenge not with a Yes, but with a proud, spiteful, Fuck him. He soon found himself on the canvas for his courage.
An uppercut followed by a 1-2 sat Estrada down in the fourth, undoing in three expertly placed punches Estrada’s best work to that point in the fight. But Estrada is a champion, and he would be heard from.
In the sixth, he slid to Rodriguez’s left with a pair of jabs and sent “Bam” to the canvas with a cross. A smile broke out on Rodriguez’s face almost immediately, a quick and genuine expression of gratitude to the fighter who confirmed Rodriguez’s estimation of himself. With Estrada’s help, Rodriguez proved he is a fighter who can get off the mat to win by stoppage. Getting dropped by an evil sniper like Estrada places you in a crowd. Stopping him, however, sets Rodriguez apart.
***
The rematch is likely not because of the clause in his contract entitling Estrada to one, but because a fighter wired like “El Gallo” requires greater convincing that anyone is his better. And for good reason. Estrada beat, dubiously, then fairly, Roman Gonzalez in a pair of rematches, and avenged his loss to Srisaket Sor Rungvisai in their second fight.
Arthur Schopenhauer suggested that Cronus ate stones because time can break down, grind up, and process, even the most difficult experiences. We might extend that analogy to those grizzled and knotted survivors of the cruelest sport, men who resist the same inexorable force that once served them. It takes Time, with its indifferent and unremitting erosion, to devour the legends. Estrada was a younger man when he made the most of those rematches, and Rodriguez, with his youth, mobility, and craft, is likely too much for the aging Sonoran. But it is right that Estrada demands to find out, right too that Rodriguez chooses to reiterate.
***
A general rule of thumb: if media coverage in advance of a fight focuses more on a fighter than the matchup, don’t expect a spectacle. Conclusions foregone or obvious have their place in boxing: with fighter development, for example, in scheduling, maintaining (even acquiring) titles, and building attractions. Those fights should occur in the service of something genuinely intriguing—there should be a payoff shortly after. But while no fighter challenges himself with unwavering consistency—indeed, boxing conspires against such ambition—some fighters are eager co-conspirators.
Estrada is not one of them: he has made and remade the fights he needed to establish his standing in his divisions and the sport at large—this is what is required to make a living in the lower weights. In recent years, those divisions are indebted to the likes of Estrada, Gonzalez, Sor Rungvisai, and Carlos Cuadras, the little giants whose shoulders fighters like Naoya Inoue and Rodriguez stand on, for making it easier to reconcile the idea of ultraviolence with men of such unintimidating dimensions.
And how has Rodriguez repaid this debt? Violently. Over the past decade, the super flyweight division has changed hands repeatedly. But it belongs to Rodriguez now and should remain so until his ambition or body outgrow it. In barely two years, Rodriguez beat Cuadras, destroyed Sor Rungvisai, unified against Sunny Edwards, and became the first fighter to stop Estrada. And time is on his side.
There are fighters with better individual wins over that span, but none rival Rodriguez’s blend of quality and activity. Were Rodriguez even a featherweight his achievements would be appropriately appreciated (and, of course, brought duly under siege for the threat such precocity represents to the dearest of the dear).
***
But there is no denying Rodriguez now, no overlooking or ignoring him. A twenty-four-year-old with only 20 fights mopping up a division hallowed for its refusal to be conquered proves that if the fights are the priority the fighter will find his deserving place in the spotlight.
In Between Rounds 