Érik Morales vs Marco Antonio Barrera III 11th Round

Five seconds before the beginning of the 11th round, referee Kenny Bayless was already positioned in the centre of the ring, looking from one corner to the other with his arms outstretched, like an anxious and overworked lion-tamer who had misplaced his chair and whip.
The two fighters rose in unison to await the bell. As Morales stepped forward he quickly blessed himself in a silent offering that may have been seeking guidance, giving thanks, begging forgiveness or some combination of all three. He knew that his rally in the seventh and eighth had been thwarted by Barrera in the ninth and tenth, and the fight was slipping away from him.
Morales shot out a rapier left jab that Barrera ate before immediately responding with two of his own. They circled and feinted, both eager to get off first but both equally wary of the counters that would inevitably be thrown in return.
Again Morales forced the issue and followed another incisive, jabbed lead with attempted right hooks and uppercuts as Barrera burrowed in close for momentary refuge. Almost every other boxer on the planet would have held on at this point and, conscious of this fact, the daintily gloved Bayless swooped in like an attentive maître d’ seeing to the whims of his most important guests. Upon arrival he found his services unrequired, however, as a visibly exhausted Barrera preferred to punch his way out of danger.
A tired and wild uppercut from Barrera then missed its intended target by such a distance that both men briefly paused as if to check and recalibrate their equipment. Bayless then waved them in to commence a 30-second burst which surged upward in intensity throughout.
In and out of range they bounced and jabbed until Morales landed one with a little extra bite. The sight of Barrera’s head snapping back further than the norm was all the invitation Morales needed to attack. A flurry of yellow fists blurred the centre of the ring and only the occasional violent jolts of Barrera’s head told us Morales was landing the cleaner.
The Tijuanese, sensing the stoppage their man needed was on, suddenly found their voice inside the MGM. Yet, despite Morales catching Barrera repeatedly and shipping little in the way of meaningful punishment in return, it was he who found himself being backed up towards the ropes. A dog-tired Barrera was, incredibly, continuing to move forward. It was as if his fight or flight mechanism was faulty and had stuck fast on one setting.
Bayless was now a passer-by trying unsuccessfully to break up a street fight. Morales threw ambidextrous hooks to the head while Barrera dug into the body. Morales needed a knock-out while Barrera just needed to hang in there. The latter decided that his best chance of achieving his goal was to stay close and limit the possibilities of catching a big one. In doing so he would absorb a higher volume of punishment but he backed his chin and heart to cope. They did. And then some.
Each time Bayless pushed the men apart, they were immediately drawn back to one another like a pair of oppositely charged molecules in an ionic bond. They were doomed lovers seeking one final embrace before being separated forever.
As the seconds ticked down, the action became more desperate. Every time Morales hit his target and gave himself hope, Barrera thumped in a liver shot to keep his opponent honest. With 17 seconds left, it was Barrera who landed big upstairs as a left hook crashed into the side of Morales’s jaw.
In a sure-fire indication that he had felt the full force of that blow, Morales dropped his hands to his midriff, banged his gloves together, and brazenly beckoned Barrera in for more. Barrera obliged with an overhand right before technique went out the window in the final few corybantic seconds spent careering across the ring, blindly swinging Hail Marys at each other. There was still a round to go but, deep down, both men knew. Three minutes later, Barrera was awarded a majority decision.
Objectively speaking, there may well have been better rounds than this one over the course of the three fights: but context is everything. This wasn’t an 11th round, it was a 35th. This wasn’t a standalone fight, it was an equal third of a series. A series in which no comfort would ever be taken from having claimed one victory out of three. You only need to look at the desolation in Morales’s expression as he stood in his corner listening to Michael Buffer announce the result to understand that. In the end, these three minutes were the most decisive.