Elegy for the Ephemeral

Jeison Rosario’s flash in the pan shouldn’t be used to justify continuing to put him in harm’s way

I don’t read enough nonfiction.

I don’t read enough in general, these days; fatigue, an attention span shaved down by the smartphone era, and severe anxiety about the finite nature of my life make it profoundly difficult to sit down and focus all my attention on one thing without feeling like I’m wasting time I’ll never get back. It’s mostly various forms of comics, which I’m not insecure enough to insist on calling graphic novels.

One of the last books I read that didn’t involve skeleton wizards or depressed androids was Joseph Layden’s The Last Great Fight, a chronicle of James “Buster” Douglas’ iconic upset of Mike Tyson. I mentioned it half a decade back, when the brewing pandemic had us desperate for content.

If you’ve ever looked at Tyson-Douglas and asked yourself how the hell something like that happened, this is essential reading. Layden perfectly presents both the circumstances that led to the greatest upset this sport has ever seen and the aftermath that saw the conqueror fade away and the conquered struggle to reclaim what once was his.

I want to give particular credit to his characterization of Douglas, a man strangely unknown beyond his single moment of absolute triumph. Layden makes a compelling case for Douglas not simply being in the right place at the right time to catch a plummeting “Iron Mike,” but being a mercurial underachiever who, for one perfect moment, finally lived up to his incredible potential.

It’s hard to walk away from this book free of heartbreak and anger; maybe not the best emotions to nurture during a pandemic, but you should read it anyway.

The anecdote that sticks with me despite years of what could charitably called Interesting Times takes place in the final days before the fight, where an under-prepared Tyson and his team grind their way through last-minute road work. The Baddest Man on the Planet turns to see Douglas, the infamous flake, tearing through Tokyo along the same route. Without a word, he passes by and leaves Tyson in the dust.

What makes his achievement so fascinating to me is what came after. Eight months after leaving an indelible mark in sports history, he entered the ring 14.5 pounds heavier against Evander Holyfield, disintegrated in under eight minutes, and then was gone. He tried a comeback in ‘96 and ended it in ‘99 with little to show for it, but for all intents and purposes, his career ended on the greatest night of his life.

It was as though he’d looked at his future, seen another five-to-ten years of mixed success against the Oliver McCalls and Tony Tuckers of the world before an unceremonious retirement, and decided to just compress all that potential mediocrity into one shining moment.

I keep wondering when the realization hit that things would never be this good again. That his ill-fitting gears, finally forced to mesh by once-in-a-lifetime circumstances, had slipped irreparably back out of alignment. Maybe it was when prepping for Holyfield, trying to dig deep for that extra little push and finding a dry vein. In the middle of it, perhaps, caught up in the indefatigable storm that was “The Real Deal” at his peak. After that right hand, lying on the mat, deciding it wasn’t worth trying to get up.

Jeison Rosario’s crowning moment wasn’t so fantastical; Julian Williams was no Mike Tyson, just a solid operator on the heels of a major upset of his own. What came after, a mauling at the hands of Jermell Charlo, wasn’t altogether dissimilar.

The four-and-a-bit years since have been difficult to watch. His reward for rising so brilliantly above his station was a permanent role as a PBC B-side; Erickson Lubin hammered him into submission nine months later, Brian Mendoza did the same after a three-fight recovery tour in the Dominican Republic, and he only managed a draw against the similarly shattered Jarrett Hurd last year.

Rosario gets dropped often and in alarming fashion, his body twisting and jerking as though someone were randomly flipping breakers in his head. No ragdoll physics moments, no stoic taking of a knee; he goes down like some fundamental part of him broke.

There are no shortage of “Victims to the Stars” out there, the kind where announcers list everyone they’ve “shared the ring with” without elaborating on the outcomes. Juan Macias Montiel, Nathaniel Gallimore, etc. You have to think that they learn the score fairly quickly. But what about someone who actually did break through? Is there that same resignation, or does he go into each new trial convinced that he’s got one more in him?

Does he hear that same voice that told Douglas to stay down and just ignore it?

Rosario has been open about his struggles with mental health, starting with his post-Mendoza retirement in 2022 and escalating into suicidal ideation. He made it through, made it to Hurd, and scored his most meaningful result since January 2020.

To celebrate his success, PBC gave him Jesus Ramos. Bigger, younger, faster, sharper, stronger, more durable Jesus Ramos.

Most A-sides, when spoon-fed a wrecked veteran, focus on said veteran’s past accomplishments, experience, or lingering power in the buildup. Ramos tries, but can’t help but let some truth slip through.

“I gave the edge to Hurd, but I thought [Rosario] did really good,” Ramos recalls. “He did look a little past his prime, a little slower, not the same Rosario that perhaps we saw against Julian Williams, even Brian Mendoza. I think when he fought Brian Mendoza, he was still a little sharper. With Hurd, he looked past his prime, but I think still he looked good. He’s still a threat. You can tell he still has the punching power, so there’s a lot to look out for in the fight versus Rosario.”

There are different varieties of “shot.” Sometimes fighters still have the technique, but lose too much durability to remain competitive. Sometimes an ingrained, load-bearing flaw becomes common knowledge.

Rosario looked the scariest kind of shot against Ramos. Slow, plodding, unable to put weight behind punches or throw a meaningful quantity. He never landed more than 11 punches in a single round, resulting in a four-to-one deficit before the ref mercifully saved him in the eighth.

I’m certain Rosario was handsomely compensated for his efforts, but it shouldn’t have happened. Both PBC and the Nevada State Athletic Commission deserve censure. To promoters, he’ll always be the unified champ, the man who beat Julian Williams; Rosario’s greatest triumph was used to justify putting him back in the same circumstances that nearly caused him to take his own life.

There have been many flashes in the pan throughout boxing history, ones who climbed the mountain only to find the peak too treacherous for them to linger. There will be many more. I hope we treat them better.