Boxing Is the Team Sport Of the Sweet Scientists

Boxing is a sport.

Whether it is contested over a belt or a ranking, this sporting event is sanctioned by a sporting committee, where fighters wear protective gear both for themselves and their opponents, and is regulated by a third party inside the ring.

It's always about two pairs of gloves, two trunks, two men from opposite directions ultimately crashing against each other in a conflict laid out by the sport itself.

Last December 2008, Oscar De La Hoya was peppered into submission by shot after shot of stingy lefts and rights from midget Manny Pacquiao, an opponent seemingly chosen to provide thrill to the fight, as well as glitter retouch to De La Hoya's career via a loss.

The outcome however, was a bitter pill to swallow for the Golden Boy. The domination of the foe on fight night itself is inexcusable, leaving only a narrow excuse on the training camp, and the weight issue surfaced as a glass of water to wash down the pill's after taste. Pacquiao, as a result, never got the full credit over the victory.

Just this May, Ricky Hatton, the pride of Manchester, England and undefeated at 140 pounds, was crushed with a devastating left hook that stunned both Hatton and Pacquiao fans. Heck, for a moment there, the world shook, too.

HBO's 24/7 provided fans with the general idea that the Hatton camp has solved the mystery moves of the pesky little Filipino.

"Same move every time," are the words of both Hatton, and the ever-poetic trainer Floyd Joy Mayweather, referring to Pacquiao's signature move on the dream match—a hook and roll.

Now, what does this past fight have to do with the topic?

Looking at the fight, anybody can see that the De La Hoya camp—Nacho Beristain, Angelo Dundee—have nothing under their sleeves to cope with the problem at hand.

De La Hoya himself could not adjust on his own and come up with anything to level the plane a little. De La Hoya was weight drained. Whether it be a fact, or just an excuse for the humiliation, now whose fault is it?

Ricky Hatton walked in a straight line towards annihilation. Up until now, I'm still trying to figure out what the game plan was.

"Keep your hands up! Ricky!" and it's no poem from Mayweather, but Hatton doesn't seem to hear it. Maybe he was trained to acknowledge only orders that rhyme.

There was no weight issue after it. No solid excuse that may be attributed to either Hatton's physique or health. What surfaced after the fight, however, is the rift within the Hatton camp. Professionalism caused it and disobedience was the outcome.

The argument is simple: Fighters check in eight full weeks before the actual fight to train. Within that period, weight, conditioning, and health are checked by a conditioning coach. Nutrition and diet are overseen by a nutritionist. Overall skills and fighting techniques are assessed by a committee of trainers, with the head coach devising proper strategies for the fighter to comply.

In short, the training camp has more than three pairs of hands that mold the fighter into shape. The fighter doesn't come into the ring at 100 percent with all the preparations done just by himself. Everything had to be done in a near perfect manner, by the whole team for success to be guaranteed—everything from nutrition to conditioning to skills and fight night strategies.

Boxing is a team sport, and boxing is a sweet science. Boxing is a sport where the team with the best scientists become victorious. It's a team effort—pure, simple, and scientific.