On a chilly January night in 1973, a channel called HBO took a gamble on boxing, broadcasting Foreman’s beatdown of Frazier from Kingston—one of those moments you never forget. HBO was new back then, plucky, diving head-first into the tumult of swinging fists. It’s wild to think about, but over the next 45 years, they became synonymous with boxing. Names, victories, spills—like permanent fixtures in a chaotic sports museum.
Now, they’ve been out of the game for over seven years. Kind of weird, right? Feels like yesterday when Jim Lampley and Larry Merchant, with voices like they’re born for it, narrated the tales of brawlers battling it out. If there was a way to describe a punch with poetry, they’d do it. Lampley could make a jab sound like Shakespeare, and Merchant… well, he’d slap some gruff, witty wisdom on it. Whether you loved or loathed them, those voices are burnt into the boxing landscape.
Remember Jefferson wrecking Harris? Merchant’s gleeful shout, “Derrick Jefferson, I LOVE YOU!”—unexpected from a guy who was usually hard to impress. That fight, barely remembered by most, found its way into the lore thanks to a single shout casting Merchant’s delight over the airwaves. And what about the kind of ridiculous drama where Starling, all dazed and surprised, learned he’d been counted out? Felt like a scene out of a bizarre sports movie.
Oh, and who can forget “Boxing After Dark”? Legitimately, it’s like people got better just because they were fighting at night. Barrera and McKinney gave it their all, turning those late-night slots into showcases of guts and glory.
Of course, sometimes boxing veered into the surreal. Golota’s unwavering commitment to low blows? Classic “you can’t make this up” moment. And once, a random guy just parachuted into the ring mid-fight—during a Bowe-Holyfield match like, what in the world was that about? A parachute! Seriously, not even the wildest novelist could dream it up.
Funny how Tyson, forever the big draw, brought hyperbole to life. Cities took one look at the chaos and noped out. But money talks, so Lewis and Tyson ended up somewhere—we all tuned in anyway. We watched as Tyson, separated by nothing more than bodyguards and tension, faced his so-called equal, only to fall. Didn’t stop Mayweather though, who had a brush-up with Merchant—an eighty-year-old ready to “kick your ass.”
Maybe I’m rambling, but it’s hard not to when you think about Gatti and Ward literally battling their souls out. Or Pacquiao and Marquez, who felt like warriors from different eras colliding in a spectacular brawl in Vegas. Seeing Pacquiao going down like that—unbelievable. HBO knew how to capture the rawness and turn it into art, didn’t they?
And we haven’t even gotten to George Foreman doing what no one thought possible, reclaiming glory, or the fairytale of Douglas knocking out Tyson—turning Cinderella tales into reality. Boxing’s often brutal, unpredictable, and sometimes downright unfair, but HBO? They gave us something to talk about. Something to hold onto. In an odd way, their cameras weren’t just capturing fights—they were crafting legends. Go figure.
