Donovan “Da Bomb” George Goes Off—On Himself: Monaghan Wins by UD, Stays Undefeated
It’s never easy to fight in someone else’s backyard, especially when said yard is Brooklyn, and the fans are loyal and Irish and know their boy is a comeback kid. Donovan George (25-5-2, 22 KOs) from Chicago knows this now, if he didn’t before.
Maybe 15 years ago it wouldn’t have mattered where the fight went down, because maybe, God forbid, Sean Monaghan (26-0, 16 KOs) wouldn’t be around to fight it. You see, back in the day Monaghan was more known for barroom brawling than for the sweet science. Luckily he found boxing, said goodbye to the bottle, and he and the hurt game have been loyal partners ever since. And so the 34-year old now family man remains undefeated and a contender at light heavyweight, if not a local hero out on the island.
The fighter from Long Beach, Long Island had the Aviator Sports and Events Center in the nether-reaches of Brooklyn rockin’ tonight. Bagpipes brought Monaghan to the ring and chants of “Seanie, Seanie” carried him through the fight.
Monaghan responded in turn, fighting a disciplined yet passionate fight against a very undisciplined opponent. Now you might think that’s not such a big deal, an easy task, but trust me, an undisciplined fighter is very dangerous—a “live dog,” as we say in the game. Perhaps Monaghan’s previous life as a barroom enforcer prepared him for such as Donovan “Da Bomb” George, a fighter who once took Adonis Stevenson into deep waters before getting TKO’d in the twelfth but who tonight in Brooklyn looked, well, a mess. A 14-month lay-off may be responsible.
From the 3rd round on, “Da Bomb” had his hands completely down, and Roy Jones, Jr. circa 1995 he was not.
And yet with a kind of taunting, arrogant recklessness born of desperation, Donovan George almost turned the psychological trick of convincing someone you’re CRAZY, like when you are about to me mugged on the D train at 2 am, until said muggers think better of it because your all orange is the new black. But Monaghan, and his corner, were not fooled so easily. They understood the fighter they had in front of them was a test, a stepping stone to prove, step by slow step, that Monaghan has what it takes to command center stage at light heavyweight.
Between the fourth and fifth rounds, George’s corner looked to stop the fight. “Da Bomb,” ever the survivor and game, gave a tantrum to convince his corner not to throw in the towel. A big drama show indeed here in Brooklyn on the eve of GGG’s latest efforts across the East River at Madison Square Garden.
George continued the theatrics the rest of the fight. At one phase in the fight, raising his gloves, shrugging his shoulders, screaming while punching, and the next, nearly knocking himself over with errant blows, all the while throwing in a bolo punch for good measure. I mean that guy was really something.
And yet he kept landing slap left hooks, some that rocked Seanie’s jaw pretty bad. The more he landed these lefts, the more pleased he was with his effort, as though he knew somewhere in his getting rocked skull that there was no way in high heaven he could be, should be, doing this. As always, joy is a friend defiance—however short-lived. “Da Bomb” even blackened up Seanie’s mug and cut him above the eye in the second round. Luckily for the Irishman, Monaghan’s corner stanched the blood-flow and the Long Beach lad took on his live dog with a workman’s professionalism, listening to his corner, Joe Higgins of the Freeport PAL, to stick to the fight plan. Do the things that work. Keep the jab pumping, move the head, come forward. All classic attributes that can carry any fighter at least through and then to take a fighter of Monaghan’s conditioning, patience, and discipline, to victory.
Now for some bad news, my New Yawkas. (Hey, I like the hometown kid as much as you do, but…)
Monaghan couldn’t take George out, a George who given some more rounds, may have done the job himself. What would have happened if Seanie faced a Stevenson, a Pascal, a Fanfara, or any other killer in the division? Maybe all the Irish chanting in the world or at least in Long Island could not save Sean Monaghan from the very real truth that to be an elite fighter, a world champion, a fighter needs something—something that you just know when you see it.
Like a stunning woman. Her beauty cannot be denied—immediately.
To see Sean Monaghan, however, you see a good fighter, a steady fighter. One who makes the most of his ability and then some. But you don’t see that certain something. Monaghan is no Beterbiev, for example, no Kovalev either. When I watch these guys I just mentioned fight, I feel like everything stops and what is on my television is very necessary for me to see. If we can be indulged to further the metaphor I began a few sentence back, Sean Monaghan is the girl you marry after dating her for seven years only because you kinda have to and the aforementioned Russians are like those women that break your neck even when you’re with this new wife.
-Ryan Agius/ @RyanAgius
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