Such is the trauma of cutting weight, seldom does a fighter approach the scales with a smile on their face, let alone on the brink of laughter. They might, at best, flash a grin for the cameras having received confirmation that they have made weight, but anything more would indicate either that they are a heavyweight – and therefore don’t have to make a specified weight – or that they aren’t taking things seriously.
In the case of Keyshawn Davis this time last week, the latter was true. As he smiled on the scales, it soon became clear that he had not only failed to take the job of making weight seriously, but that he also failed to understand the severity of missing weight without trying. It was perhaps for that reason he could smile, even laugh, ahead of receiving confirmation of something he already knew. It was, to him, all rather funny; funny, that is, to imagine the shocked expressions of those waiting to hear the result. He knew, after all, how bad it was. He knew how heavy he was and how people would react when they discovered the amount: four pounds. He also believed it didn’t matter. That’s why he had no interest in trying to hit 135 pounds, the lightweight limit, and that’s why he had no concerns when stepping on the scales and cracking that smile.
Make no mistake, this was not the smile of a man in a good mood, nor that of someone who had been told a joke backstage he had since been unable to shake from his mind. Instead, rather than happiness or amusement, what could be found in that Davis smile was simply this: entitlement. It was the same look you see on the face of a child who has wrecked the living room but knows that their parents are too soft and scared to do anything about it. It was provocative, it was arrogant, and it was, in the context of boxing, slightly sinister.
His opponent, Edwin De Los Santos, would of course have the chance to remove that smile by punching Davis in the mouth the following night, but that wasn’t the point. As tempting as retribution may have been, De Los Santos now also knew that Davis had gone to no effort to make the contracted weight and that only he, De Los Santos, had endured the weight-making torture with which all non-heavyweights are familiar. Unlike Davis, the WBO champion, the Dominican had watched his weight during camp and sacrificed certain things in service of making it. Unlike Davis, too, De Los Santos had suffered a tough 24-hour cut ahead of the weigh-in during which he would have felt less than human and been desperate to drink, eat and smile.
In light of all that, the prospect of now hitting Davis and punishing his disobedience had to be weighed against the danger of it all. For this was no longer the fight De Los Santos had been expecting and preparing for. Now it had become something else. Now, because he had been duped, and because Davis had effectively mocked him, there was a growing sense that De Los Santos, the challenger, was being viewed as a second-class citizen who would come in, take his beating, and stay silent throughout. In essence, what Davis and his team seemingly wanted from their challenger was for him to comply, understand, and go along with it. They wanted him to be a good child; one seen and not heard.
“I just outgrew the weight. It is what it is,” Davis, 13-0 (9), said at the weigh-in. “I’m pretty sure he’ll [De Los Santos] still take the fight. The show must go on.”
Had De Los Santos allowed the show to go on, nobody would have criticised him for it, nor would it have come as a surprise. Many before him in fact have done just that: turned a blind eye and placed reward above risk.
Yet on this occasion De Los Santos said no. He said enough is enough and took a stand. It was rather refreshing, too, to hear the news that the fighter and his promoter, Sampson Lewkowicz, had elected to not go through with the fight following Davis’ effort to load the dice. It was, in some ways, the slap Davis in the end needed, timed to perfection. It came early, when it could still shock, as opposed to on fight night, by which time it would be too late.
“After three decades in this business, I know that he [Davis] was ready to fight at 140 [pounds] and he trained to fight at 140,” Lewkowicz told BoxingScene. “He never trained to fight or make the weight at 135, and that was the reason [we cancelled the fight]. Money doesn’t buy health.
“I’m his [De Los Santos] promoter. Without my authorization, there is no fight, OK? He wanted to fight. But I will not allow it, to take a risk for money. Another opportunity will happen somehow because he deserves it. He deserves to fight for the world title.”
Because he had weighed in, De Los Santos was entitled to receive his fight purse, which would have no doubt softened the blow of not fighting following both a weight cut and training camp. Yet, as his promoter mentioned, by pulling out of the fight De Los Santos had given up his opportunity to win a world title – now vacant – and the prospect of future paydays with that WBO title on the line.
Still, more important than that was the message De Los Santos sent by saying “no” and withdrawing. One only hopes that it now emboldens others to do the same when they find themselves in a similar situation. Devin Haney, for instance, would have been better served giving Ryan Garcia the De Los Santos treatment after Garcia refused to make the agreed weight for their fight in April 2024. Had he had done so, Haney may have avoided being knocked down three times and beaten by a heavier opponent we later learned was also aided by performance-enhancing drugs. It’s easy to say now, of course, but a red flag is a red flag and any sign of disobedience, especially in a sport as dangerous as boxing, should be treated with due seriousness and never ignored. Haney could not have known that Garcia was a drug cheat, no, but because of Garcia’s mental state, he overlooked the obvious: Garcia had cut corners, broken rules, and cared little for the safety of his opponent.
In some respects that fight should have been a tipping point. After all, not only did Ryan Garcia prove that a boxer doesn’t have to make weight to get a big fight and make big money, he was also then allowed to carry on smiling and laughing at the sport when news of his other transgressions came to light. He was too important, it seemed, as both an attraction and a personality, to properly punish and discard and now, as a result, he had carte blanche to do whatever he wanted, comforted to know that he would always be welcomed back with open arms.
He is not the only one, either. Whether it’s Dillian Whyte getting opportunities in 2025 he doesn’t deserve, or Jarrell Miller getting opportunities in 2025 he doesn’t deserve, the sport is currently awash with fighters whose ability to smile away their problems owes more to the sport’s soft parenting than their own mental strength. Because there’s no use denying it: boxing, for all its purported toughness, is that parent. It is the parent who tells other parents that they are “friends” with their child for fear of having to take control and exert any discipline. It is the parent who gives their child their iPad at walking age just to keep them still and then their own smartphone at talking age just to avoid the hissy fit. It is the parent who agrees to the smartphone only on the proviso that the child adds them as a “friend” on social media and that they create “content” together to monetise their narcissism. It is the parent who wants to know why all the teachers have it in for their child and won’t let them express their true self. It is the parent who always sides with their child, irrespective of the situation and the fact that they, the child, turn out to be the bully.
And they wonder why the child finds them so amusing.