Campaign 2008

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Grappling With HistoryFloyd Mayweather follows the Muhammad Ali career path ... by climbing into the wrestling ring?

By Dave Larzelere
Posted Tuesday, April 1, 2008, at 8:07 AM ET

Floyd Mayweather wrestles Paul "Big Show" Wight

On Sunday night, boxer Floyd Mayweather made his pro-wrestling debut at Wrestlemania XXIV. After a rote series of punches and chokeholds, Mayweather defeated his mammoth opponent, the Big Show, by resorting to the standard arsenal of dirty fighting: groin shots, brass knuckles, and that fail-safe weapon of the dastardly wrestler, the folding chair. Weeks of hype preceded the showdown, including spots on Larry King and Conan O'Brien, with much of the time devoted to whether Mayweather was really getting $20 million. Whatever amount Mayweather took home, it was too much—once the event was under way, it seemed like both men wanted it to be over.

Why was the world's best pound-for-pound boxer wrestling in the first place? Pro wrestling might seem like an odd career move for a real fighter, but it wasn't a surprising development for boxing connoisseurs. Floyd Mayweather's foray into the world of turnbuckles and body slams is in keeping with a grand tradition that dates back to turn-of-the-century champs like Ruby Robert Fitzsimmons and the great Jack Dempsey. The wrestling bug even bit the greatest fictional boxer of all time, Rocky Balboa, who took on Hulk Hogan (aka Thunderlips) in Rocky III. But the precedent that's most relevant to Mayweather's case is that of the Greatest of All Time. In 1976, Muhammad Ali tangled with Japanese wrestler Antonio Inoki. The hypemen: Vince McMahon Sr. and Jr. of the World Wrestling Federation.

In the past year or so, Floyd Mayweather has catapulted himself from mere boxing stardom to a level of pop-cultural notoriety that's quite rare for a fighter these days. In doing so, he's helped lift his entire sport out of the doldrums, all with an act that looks and sounds an awful lot like the one perpetrated by a young loudmouth from Louisville, Ky., named Cassius Clay.

When Ali, then Clay, first emerged in the early 1960s, boxing's obituary was being written in the sports pages. Television had destroyed the subculture of local clubs, and the bland, unpopular Floyd Patterson had recently lost the heavyweight title to an even less popular fighter, glowering ex-con Sonny Liston. Beloved stars like Rocky Marciano and Sugar Ray Robinson were retired or in decline, and no bright lights were emerging to take their place.

Enter Ali, riding his good looks, fast hands, and loquacious Louisville Lip to fame. This flamboyant shtick—a charismatic young fighter reveling in the role of the cocky black braggart—was a shot in the arm for the sweet science. In later years, Ali admitted that he stole large parts of his act, including the "greatest of all time" bit, from Gorgeous George, a legendary pro wrestler of the 1940s.

Of course, for Ali, playing the self-adoring villain was a gesture of racial defiance as well as a promotional tactic. Now that he's been all but sainted, it's easy to forget how much of Ali's fame grew out of the fact that the white middle class hated him and tuned into his fights in the hopes of seeing the Louisville Lip buttoned once and for all.

Floyd Mayweather courted a similar kind of infamy last May in his mega-fight with Oscar De La Hoya and in the behind-the-scenes series that HBO aired to hype it, 24/7. Though De La Hoya, boxing's pay-per-view king, was by far the marquee attraction going into the bout, Mayweather stole the show, positing himself as a new version of Ali updated for the hip-hop generation. "I'm the greatest of all time" morphed into "I'm the richest of all time," and the Money May persona was born. With 50 Cent a regular companion in his ever-present posse, and with money-flinging and self-adulatory boasting his two favorite public activities, Mayweather donned the black hat of black defiance, selling his life, attitude, and style as a reflection of the values of the most banal rap videos.