A Quiet Man's Last Stand; Tribute to John Ruiz
Posted: 22 Dec 2010, 12:02
A Quiet Man’s Last Stand
David Haye vs. John Ruiz
Interviewer: “Anything to say to all the heavyweights?”
David Haye: “You’re all bums and you’ll get knocked the f### out.”
John “the Quiet Man” Ruiz is not a household name. In the households in which he is known - boxing households - he is disdained for stinking up main events; smothering, throwing elbows, faking low blows. These are the skills honed by a career spent overachieving in the heavyweight division. Ruiz’s zenith was his 2001 victory over the once great Evander Holyfield - a dire encounter best remembered for Ruiz faking a low blow in the tenth.
On Easter Saturday Ruiz, aged 38, was called on to challenge Britain’s golden boy David Haye as Haye made the first defence of his WBA Heavyweight Championship in Manchester. Six foot three and pristine, Haye looks like a bodybuilder. Round in the middle, weathered by leather, Ruiz looks like a builder. Their shorts told the story. Haye’s, long and lucent, were emblazoned with the names of his sponsors; Ruiz’s, short and black, read “John, Jocelyn, Joaquin,” the names of his children.
Raised in poverty in Puerto Rico, Ruiz is a man who made something of himself despite a conspicuous lack of talent. In his first twenty-seven fights he fought nobodies and lost twice. In his twenty-eighth David Tua knocked him cold in nineteen seconds. Few boxers return to the same heights after that sort of defeat. The psychological scars heal the slowest. Ruiz had not yet reached the heights. But he got back to business, developing an ugly style - heavy on jabbing and grabbing, light on knockout finishes.
Despite his fearlessness and perseverance Ruiz got no respect as he eked out wins over more gifted fighters, twice capturing the WBA belt. The fans would rather cheer the Mike Tysons, erratic talents who sell themselves short, than the likes of John Ruiz, men who always had to give everything, because they had never had anything much to give. Ruiz never had speed, power or size. He had desire.
Fourteen years after facing Tua, John Ruiz would line up for his eleventh world title bout. It is hard to imagine what went through Ruiz’s head on Easter Saturday as he emerged at the MEN Arena in front of 20,000 people baying for his decapitation. It is harder still to imagine what he thought when his opponent emerged: rangier, younger, stronger, faster, and promising his decapitation. Ruiz certainly knew this was his last chance. He had said he would abandon his bad habits and fight a good, clean fight. Few believed him. Fewer thought he could win.
After twenty-three seconds of the fight Ruiz slid back across the seat of his shorts. The heavy-handed Haye had punched him in the face. Ruiz rose on five, looked hazily at the referee, hopelessly to his corner, and the fight resumed. Twelve seconds later Ruiz was clubbed to the canvas by a punch to the back of his head. Three knockdowns in a round would finish the fight by technical knockout. Ruiz had two minutes of the first round to survive.
Ruiz was tired of just surviving. He wanted glory. Declining to fall back on spoiling tactics he came forward. A walking punchbag came forward. Death or glory. Haye bounced his bombs and snapped back his opponent’s neck and Ruiz…kept coming forward. The first round passed, and the second, and the third. Suddenly David Haye was sitting on his stool breathing heavily and beginning to fear he’d challenged an immovable object, that perhaps his fists weren’t an irresistible force.
Regardless, Haye continued to play master and servant with Ruiz’s skull. If Ruiz knew he couldn’t win he refused to show it. Haye was fighting off the back foot and a pattern emerged. He waited for Ruiz to plod forward, unleashed a brace of stiff shots and retreated out of range. As Haye retreated he would inspect his handiwork - the sweat flying from Ruiz’s face, the swelling of his eye sockets, the broken nose. Haye often followed this by quizzically inclining his head sideways, because...Ruiz kept coming.
Ruiz had abandoned his mauling style - dull but effective - and the consequence was pain. Why keep his hands low and come forward? The frenzied crowd revelled in the brutal results. It seemed Ruiz was paying a cruel penance for his years of wearying performances. It was a price the Puerto Rican was willing to pay to stay in the fight, to stay in with a chance of winning, of winning another payday for his family.
The point where bravery becomes recklessness had long passed when Ruiz fell to his knee nearing the end of the fifth round. Blood was smeared down his cheek and sweat dripped through his greying hair. He went down again in the sixth. He should have stayed there. Few heavyweights would have survived the shot which floored him inside half a minute. Do not underestimate the determination of a quiet man. Ruiz would not be knocked the f### out. He would not quit.
Ruiz kept coming but by the ninth round his corner could no longer watch their man take such punishment. Veteran trainer Miguel Diaz raised himself onto the ring apron and raised the white towel. Haye raised his hands in victory. Ruiz, open-mouthed and shut-eyed, looked back to his corner. It was the end. Soon after Ruiz would exit the ring and enter obscurity, with his head held high and his features pulverised.
John Ruiz retired from boxing on the 26th April 2010.
“I want my kids to have it better than I did. They’re the only reason I’m involved with this sport.”
John Ruiz
David Haye vs. John Ruiz
Interviewer: “Anything to say to all the heavyweights?”
David Haye: “You’re all bums and you’ll get knocked the f### out.”
John “the Quiet Man” Ruiz is not a household name. In the households in which he is known - boxing households - he is disdained for stinking up main events; smothering, throwing elbows, faking low blows. These are the skills honed by a career spent overachieving in the heavyweight division. Ruiz’s zenith was his 2001 victory over the once great Evander Holyfield - a dire encounter best remembered for Ruiz faking a low blow in the tenth.
On Easter Saturday Ruiz, aged 38, was called on to challenge Britain’s golden boy David Haye as Haye made the first defence of his WBA Heavyweight Championship in Manchester. Six foot three and pristine, Haye looks like a bodybuilder. Round in the middle, weathered by leather, Ruiz looks like a builder. Their shorts told the story. Haye’s, long and lucent, were emblazoned with the names of his sponsors; Ruiz’s, short and black, read “John, Jocelyn, Joaquin,” the names of his children.
Raised in poverty in Puerto Rico, Ruiz is a man who made something of himself despite a conspicuous lack of talent. In his first twenty-seven fights he fought nobodies and lost twice. In his twenty-eighth David Tua knocked him cold in nineteen seconds. Few boxers return to the same heights after that sort of defeat. The psychological scars heal the slowest. Ruiz had not yet reached the heights. But he got back to business, developing an ugly style - heavy on jabbing and grabbing, light on knockout finishes.
Despite his fearlessness and perseverance Ruiz got no respect as he eked out wins over more gifted fighters, twice capturing the WBA belt. The fans would rather cheer the Mike Tysons, erratic talents who sell themselves short, than the likes of John Ruiz, men who always had to give everything, because they had never had anything much to give. Ruiz never had speed, power or size. He had desire.
Fourteen years after facing Tua, John Ruiz would line up for his eleventh world title bout. It is hard to imagine what went through Ruiz’s head on Easter Saturday as he emerged at the MEN Arena in front of 20,000 people baying for his decapitation. It is harder still to imagine what he thought when his opponent emerged: rangier, younger, stronger, faster, and promising his decapitation. Ruiz certainly knew this was his last chance. He had said he would abandon his bad habits and fight a good, clean fight. Few believed him. Fewer thought he could win.
After twenty-three seconds of the fight Ruiz slid back across the seat of his shorts. The heavy-handed Haye had punched him in the face. Ruiz rose on five, looked hazily at the referee, hopelessly to his corner, and the fight resumed. Twelve seconds later Ruiz was clubbed to the canvas by a punch to the back of his head. Three knockdowns in a round would finish the fight by technical knockout. Ruiz had two minutes of the first round to survive.
Ruiz was tired of just surviving. He wanted glory. Declining to fall back on spoiling tactics he came forward. A walking punchbag came forward. Death or glory. Haye bounced his bombs and snapped back his opponent’s neck and Ruiz…kept coming forward. The first round passed, and the second, and the third. Suddenly David Haye was sitting on his stool breathing heavily and beginning to fear he’d challenged an immovable object, that perhaps his fists weren’t an irresistible force.
Regardless, Haye continued to play master and servant with Ruiz’s skull. If Ruiz knew he couldn’t win he refused to show it. Haye was fighting off the back foot and a pattern emerged. He waited for Ruiz to plod forward, unleashed a brace of stiff shots and retreated out of range. As Haye retreated he would inspect his handiwork - the sweat flying from Ruiz’s face, the swelling of his eye sockets, the broken nose. Haye often followed this by quizzically inclining his head sideways, because...Ruiz kept coming.
Ruiz had abandoned his mauling style - dull but effective - and the consequence was pain. Why keep his hands low and come forward? The frenzied crowd revelled in the brutal results. It seemed Ruiz was paying a cruel penance for his years of wearying performances. It was a price the Puerto Rican was willing to pay to stay in the fight, to stay in with a chance of winning, of winning another payday for his family.
The point where bravery becomes recklessness had long passed when Ruiz fell to his knee nearing the end of the fifth round. Blood was smeared down his cheek and sweat dripped through his greying hair. He went down again in the sixth. He should have stayed there. Few heavyweights would have survived the shot which floored him inside half a minute. Do not underestimate the determination of a quiet man. Ruiz would not be knocked the f### out. He would not quit.
Ruiz kept coming but by the ninth round his corner could no longer watch their man take such punishment. Veteran trainer Miguel Diaz raised himself onto the ring apron and raised the white towel. Haye raised his hands in victory. Ruiz, open-mouthed and shut-eyed, looked back to his corner. It was the end. Soon after Ruiz would exit the ring and enter obscurity, with his head held high and his features pulverised.
John Ruiz retired from boxing on the 26th April 2010.
“I want my kids to have it better than I did. They’re the only reason I’m involved with this sport.”
John Ruiz
) and that his parents were Puerto Rican.