Robeisy Ramirez Doesn’t You Owe His Eyesight

The straight right hand that sealed Rafael “El Divino” Espinoza’s W.B.O. featherweight title defense over former champion Robeisy Ramirez seemed, by the standards of pro boxing, harmless. Technique, crisp. Timing, on point. It landed on target, just above Ramirez’ right eyebrow. The impact snapped the 30 year-old-Cuban’s head back.

Ramirez, a two-time Olympic gold medalist, withstood harder shots last December, when he lost his title to Espinoza after 12 gruelling rounds in Miami. If he thought Espinoza’s punches packed life-altering power — think Julian Jackson turning Herol Graham’s lights out in 1990 — Ramirez might not have signed up for a rematch.

Yet here he was a year later, trading punches with the new champ, leading on two judges’ scorecards after five rounds, then absorbing that right hand a few seconds into the sixth. Ramirez winced, raised his right hand to his face and turned away from both Espinoza and the referee. You didn’t need a PhD in body language to read this situation. The fight was over.

Officially it’s a technical knockout, only because boxing record keeping doesn’t account for submissions. If this were mixed martial arts, Ramirez would have tapped out. He had traveled to Arizona seeking to reclaim a title; instead, he quit.

Was the fight’s sudden end disappointing?

For sure. A one-punch knockout is still a premature finish, but it’s unambiguous. Watching Ramirez turn away just raised questions. The decision seemed inexplicable until Ramirez explained it in a post-fight interview.

He told ESPN’s Bernardo Osuna that several elbow strikes from Espinoza clipped his right eye, and that he suffered from double vision after round three.

Behind that explanation lay a diagnosis: bilateral fracture, right orbital bone.

There, in theory, is your intellectually satisfying conclusion. Doesn’t matter if you drive a truck, stock shelves, or tend to toddlers at day care — if you break your orbital bone at work, you clock out and call a doctor. Don’t fight through it to satisfy a boss, or a colleague, or people who, like sports fans, just enjoy watching you work. Go save your eyesight.

Oh, and don’t listen to boxing people, who, judging by their reactions to Ramirez’ decision, think risking serious injury also means volunteering for it.

Responses spanned the spectrum from empathy to skepticism. Top Rank, the promotional company behind both Espinoza and Ramirez added this Instagram post, complete with we-don’t-quite-believe-you blank face emoji.

Many of the comments picked up where Espinoza had left off, roughing Ramirez up.

“El Divino fought the first fight with a busted foot,” wrote one commenter in Spanish. “The Cuban gave up, period.”

Or this one, in English:

“That man quit. I don’t wanna hear shit.”

Fine, except the question isn’t whether Ramirez quit. He did it, and explained it, then left the arena in an ambulance, en route to the hospital, where doctors would determine that Espinoza had, in fact, broken his face.

The mystery here is why so many people think boxers aren’t allowed to quit, even when it means safeguarding their long-term health. What do they think boxers owe them in exchange for the ticket they bought, or the pay-per-view they pirated? When you choose to watch a bloodsport, are you tuning in for the blood or the sport?

Before you tell me that death, disfigurement and disability are What Ramirez Signed Up For… It’s one thing to sign a fight contract knowing you might die. Every fighter accepts that risk. None of them swear an oath to die mid-ring in the name of entertainment.

Outside of boxing, we recognize the difference. Aaron Rodgers risks breaking his middle-aged bones every time he steps on the field, but we didn’t demand that he keep playing after he snapped his achilles tendon. We know bad things might happen. When they do, it’s okay to quit. If we’re not talking boxing, we realize catastrophe makes the choice for you. Rodgers couldn’t have opted to keep running on a blown-out achilles tendon, so why do we think Ramirez could have decided to bulletproof his broken orbital bone against Espinoza’s punches?

Maybe we’re drunk on fight-game folklore about functionally one-eyed fighters who thrived despite their handicaps. If you’ve read Ghosts of Manila, you’re familiar with the theory that Joe Frazier was half blind, and perfected his deadly left hook to keep opponents in line with his good eye.

We know for a fact that Nonito Donaire broke Naoya Inoue’s orbital bone midway through their first bout, in November 2019. Inoue fought through the pain and double vision and won a unanimous decision, setting the example we’ve decided every fighter with broken facial bones should follow.

I’d argue framing it that way misses the point, and that Inoue-Donaire 1 was competitive because Inoue was badly compromised. With two good eyes, maybe he blows Donaire out, like he did in their rematch in 2022. With 20/20 vision, maybe he wins the first fight so definitively that we don’t need a rematch. Check Inoue’s record. The gap between him and everyone else is just that wide.

Ramirez didn’t enjoy an Inoue-sized margin last Saturday. This was a 50-50 fight. That’s why we wanted to see it.

Thirteen months ago we didn’t know if the knockouts dotting Espinoza’s record (22 KOs in 26 wins) were a function of punching power or favourable matchmaking. Three wins later, it’s clear. He can thump. If you’re facing him and can’t see half his punches, you’re in for a long night. Or a short one. Both versions hurt.

We now know Ramirez was courting more than pain. Shattered orbital bones, according to medical experts, can also lead to facial paralysis, hearing loss, infections, seizures, and brain bleeds. Factor in the prospect of 18 more minutes of hand-to-hand combat against an opponent with world-class punching power, and those bad outcomes start morphing from risks to possibilities.

Ramirez added up the price of pressing forward and decided not to pay. He has a family. One day he’ll have a life after boxing. I hope it’s long and happy. You should, too.

My questions for people griping about his decision — rhetorical questions because I don’t really want to debate fundamental human dignity — start here:

What did Ramirez quitting cost you?

Some disappointment because you expected a 12-round rumble, or maybe some money because he spoiled your parlay. If boxers accept the risk of serious injury, we can accept that those injuries can cut fights short.

The morbid thrill of seeing a half-blind man beaten unconscious?

If so, ask yourself why you’re even watching.

Your precious sense of how a real fighter should act?

Bravery takes many forms. Ramirez walked away from a fight he was winning, chose his health and his family over the chance to prove a macho point. Most of us wish we had that courage.

And what, besides good faith effort, do you think boxers owe you?

My answer is “nothing,” but yours might differ, especially given that we’re living golden age of perceived sports fan entitlement. Perceived, because people who lose bets aren’t justified in lobbing threats at Bradley Beal, or J.B. Bickerstaff, or Tyrese Haliburton. They just think they are. And perceived because, whatever Mark Stevens thought his minority stake in the Golden State Warriors included, it didn’t buy him the right to shove the Toronto Raptors’ Kyle Lowry during the 2019 NBA finals.

That red line is so bright, even disgruntled boxing fans know not to cross it. You might feel let down or ripped off with after a No Más in a high-stakes fight, but before putting hands on a fighter you’d better call ahead to the local ER so they’ll be ready for you. Pro boxers know how to protect themselves. They walk with bodyguards to keep you tough guys safe.

Still, a significant subset of people who invest a little money and a lot of attention in watching fights think boxers owe them something even more profound. In this case, they expected Ramirez to pull an Inoue, as if defeating Donaire with a broken orbital bone was the baseline, and not a once-in-a-lifetime performance from a once-in-a-generation performer.

Or maybe they expected Ramirez to make like folk tale Joe Frazier. If you lose half your sight in this fight, you’ll be fine in the next one. Just sharpen that left hook and learn to fake your way through eye exams.

Either way, people treat Ramirez like he failed a basic test of tolerance to pain and risk.

If we’re discussing a novice boxer quitting the first time they get punched in the nose, I understand but I’m still not judging. It’s one way of learning boxing’s not your sport. Better to retire too early than too late.

But by the time you’ve won two Olympic gold medals and a professional world title, you’ve also fine-tuned your sense of how much punishment is too much, and figured out which pains you can ignore, and which ones demand attention. You can drive a long time with your check engine light on, but if smoke starts pouring from your hood you need to pull over. The human body works the same way, except it’s more complicated and expensive to repair.

As for risk…

He’s a pro boxer with no day job. His whole career is a long-shot wager.

The safe play would have been to stay in Cuba after the Rio Olympics. He could have cozied up to decision-makers, continued winning medals, maybe snitched on potential defectors. Right now he could be collecting cheques on the IBA pro circuit, kicking cash back to the federation, and edging toward whatever rewards await retired Cuban gold medalists these days. Instead, he gambled. He moved to the U.S., signed with Top Rank, and learned a bruising lesson on the difference between amateur boxing and professional prizefighting — he went down in the first round of his first pro bout, and lost by decision.

From there he relocated again, from Florida to Las Vegas, to train with Ismael Salas, a fellow Cuban expat. And he reinvented himself, from a slick technician optimized for Olympic-style boxing to a bona fide home run hitter. This past June he nearly sent Brandon Leon Benitez into orbit with a left uppercut.

His one-punch knockout power made the prospect of a rematch with Espinoza so enticing. Espinoza blends reach and skill, he has power but won the first bout by attrition, overwhelming Ramirez with his work rate. But Ramirez was still Ramirez — motivated and crafty, with anesthesia in both hands.

That was the prospect.

The reality?

We saw it.

Fists fly. Elbows, too. Injuries happen.

Fighters risk serious damage when they agree to compete. Spectators risk disappointment when we settle in to watch. We remind injured fighters that they signed up for this, but we signed up, too. We brought our expectations to this fight. We’re free to brace for a letdown, but we choose not to, then punish fighters instead. The next week we’re back on the couch, ready to see how far the next set of boxers are willing to push themselves to entertain us.

It’ll take longer than a week for Ramirez to heal. With a complete recovery, he’ll have other fights if he wants them. If not, he still has kids to raise and several decades to live.

When Espinoza landed that straight hand in round six, Ramirez squinted through the pain and double vision and glimpsed his future. Clearly he saw something worth saving, because the next moment he made the bravest move possible.

He quit.

 

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