At 28, on the eve of his biggest fight, the ever-dimpled Shakur Stevenson no longer qualifies as a babyface, by appearance or any other measure. That’s not to say he’s grizzled. But for a guy who’s 23-0 — never seriously challenged, much less hurt — he remains a remarkable source of consternation within the boxing business. Hence, eight years into his pro career, Stevenson has come to a realization: “What it really boils down to is the fact that casuals rule the sport of boxing. And it is not just casual fans. You got casual promoters. You got casual fighters. You got casual opinions.”
Proof? Consider Stevenson’s place on the card this Saturday in Louis Armstrong Stadium. The WBC lightweight champion (this is the third weight class in which he’s now held titles) will be matched against the organization’s “interim” belt-holder, William Zepeda (33-0, 27 KOs). Zepeda is exactly the kind of tough, undefeated fighter fans have long clamored for Stevenson to fight. But their bout is merely the co-main. Rather, the main event goes to Edgar Berlanga — whose primary qualification seems to be surviving 12 uneventful rounds in a unanimous defeat to Canelo Alvarez — and Hamzah Sheeraz, who is coming up to 168 pounds after a disappointing draw with middleweight titlist Carlos Adames. While there’s no belt at stake, Berlanga-Sheeraz are seen as better trash talkers and more likely to provide a knockout. Still, no one — casual or otherwise — can argue that they are better, more accomplished fighters than Zepeda and Stevenson.
While Stevenson has barely lost rounds since turning pro in 2017, the presumption against him — that he’s not entertaining (read: violent and charismatic) enough — has only grown. Most of it stems from his unanimous decision victory over Edwin De Los Santos for the vacant WBC belt nearly two years ago. OK, they can’t all be gems like Canelo-Berlanga. But it was dreadfully uneventful. Still, Stevenson has a different take.
“When I go back and watch that fight,” he tells me, “I see greatness.”
You’re waiting for the punchline? There is none. I watched him spar in training camp for that fight, rounds when he used only his lead right hand. He played it off, saying he was just working on his jab. His team denied any cause for concern. And much to my chagrin, I bought it — until fight night. Stevenson made easy-snoozy work of the reputedly heavy-handed De Los Santos, and did it with just one hand. Turned out there was a tear in his left middle knuckle, not to mention tears in his left shoulder. No excuses, just context.
“I see a fighter who went in there 50 percent against a very good fighter,” says Stevenson. “And still got the job done.”
While the night didn’t win him any fans, he makes a perfectly reasonable argument. Just the same, it neglects De Los Santos’ responsibility in the equation. If De Los Santos is so big and bad — and I’m not saying he’s not — how could he barely touch a one-armed fighter? He, too, was a veteran — 14 knockouts in 17 fights — with a rich amateur pedigree. Why couldn’t he cut off the ring? Why didn’t he sellout?
Likely for the same reason that Gervonta “Tank” Davis — coming off a gift decision against a far lesser opponent — talks a whole lot more about retirement than Stevenson, who nevertheless persists in harboring the semi-delusional dream that one day they’ll meet in the ring. They won’t. By and large, fighters don’t mind taking a beating. But they dread looking silly. Shakur Stevenson can make you look silly.
“But you know what’s crazy?” he asked, referencing the De Los Santos fight. “The fans said I ran. I moved at times” — not for nothing, that’s called boxing — “but not the entire fight. There was plenty of opportunity for Edwin De Los Santos to crack me or hit me with shots he was looking for. It just didn’t happen.”
Because De Los Santos wouldn’t — or couldn’t — hold up his end of the bargain. I’ve criticized Stevenson for throwing one punch at a time, for being too careful and focusing on defense at the expense of an attack. But writing him off as a runner is a casual misnomer — as is the notion that ring size is the critical variable in these matchups.
“I don’t care how big or small the ring is,” Zepeda tells me through his trainer-translator, Jay “Panda” Najar. “A good pressure fighter will find a way to cut off the ring, and a good boxer will find a way to move and get away. It’s no secret that I throw a lot of punches and attack the body. I can’t change that. …But I’m the one who has to make the difference. Shakur’s IQ is just incredible, but I’m the one who has to make him think. He’s an incredible fighter, but I’m the one who has to take him into deep waters. I have to close the gap. Me. I’m the one, William Zepeda.”
Rare is the “B” side who refers to himself in the first person. But he’s on record vowing to accept the risk and responsibility that De Los Santos (among others) did not. In Zepeda’s mind, it’s all about Zepeda. He understands he must apply smart pressure throughout, that he can’t allow himself to get frustrated or discouraged, all of which he claims to have learned in his consecutive victories over southpaw Tevin Farmer.
More than that, though, Zepeda envisions himself the protagonist in his own epic. “It will be like a Rocky movie,” he insists. “It will be a very tough, tough fight. But I can’t leave it up to the judges. Not against Shakur in New York.”
Never mind that Stevenson hails from Newark, New Jersey — or that he has his own grand ambitions. Still, for all of Zepeda’s talk of Zepeda, I can’t help but wonder: where is his opponent vulnerable?
“The pressure he has on him,” says Zepeda. “There’s going to be a moment in the fight where he has to stand there and fight with me. We want to take advantage of that.”
Explain.
“All the people who say ‘we want to see Shakur fight. We don’t want to see him run.’ He goes on the internet and answers everybody,” says Zepeda. “That’s the only weakness I see.”
The casuals, he means.