Following the ninth round of the IBF light flyweight title bout between Hector Flores and Sivenathi Nontshinga, the latter walked back to his corner looking dazed, shuffling with the wobbly gait of someone completely exhausted, and slumped down onto his stool.
For nine rounds, Nontshinga and Flores had gone toe-to-toe with next to no interruption in the action. Nontshinga had dropped Flores in the second round with a beautifully timed overhand right. It would be one of the last long-range shots he would find for the rest of the night, as the knockdown seemed to embolden Flores rather than endanger him. Flores forced an otherworldly pace upon his opponent, and Nontshinga was willing to match it against his prior wishes. Nontshinga’s corner had specifically told him “don’t go to the trenches,” and warned against the dangers of fighting Flores on the inside all camp long, but Nontshinga now had no choice in the matter.
The pace took its toll. Flores’ face was bleeding profusely due to a clash of heads that opened a hideous gash on his forehead. The red stream was accented by lumps and abrasions around his eyes. But it was Nontshinga’s face that was causing more concern. His was one of immense fatigue, mouth agape, eyes glossy and vacant. The kind of fatigue that no electrolyte drink permitted by the local commission could fix in a sixty second window. One that could only be battled by pure adrenaline.
So when Nontshinga’s trainer Colin Nathan saw him plop down onto his stool, his bottom hitting the seat before his feet, splayed out wide in front of him, could even hit the canvas, he no doubt understood that he needed to switch from coach to motivator.
“You’re down. You have nine minutes to change your life,” he said. “Do you want to change your life?”
Nontshinga answered in the affirmative, perking up in his seat as he did so. It was a stirring moment. Nathan’s query had a distinct warmth about it. Trainers will often use motivational tactics to rile up their fighters, but quite often the tone is harsh and aggressive, even if the intentions are in the fighters’ best interest. Nathan was stern with Nontshinga earlier in the fight, but now he was tapping into the compassionate core at the center of the best trainer-fighter relationships.
As a young fighter, Nontshinga had dreamt of being able to train with Nathan. One of the country’s most celebrated trainers, his camp consisted of an All-Star squad of South African boxing, Moruti Mthalane, Hekkie Budler, Deejay Kriel, Simphiwe Khonco and more. In January, he received the invite to train with Nathan, and the cast of former champions and title challengers in the HotBox gym banded together to help teach the 23-year old their ways as well. In preparing for the Flores bout, Nontshinga didn’t have the typical sparring arrangement of younger or lesser fighters hired to test him a tad but ultimately make him feel good. Rather, Nathan says, he wanted Nontshinga to be taken to “dark places” in sparring, against fighters even more accomplished than his upcoming opponent so he would know how to navigate the darkness on fight night.
That callousing of the soul was vital on this night. Nontshinga was dragged to the darkest of places by an opponent who wanted to change his life just as bad as he did. Nontshinga comes from a chicken farming community in Eastern Cape, and saw boxing as a path to a more fruitful life. Flores works as a merchant with his wife to this day, selling everything from vegetables to clothing, depending on the occasion.
Opportunities like the one Nontshinga and Flores were given, one at a world title, are particularly pressing for fighters at 108 pounds and in neighbouring weight classes. Even purses for world title fights don’t match non-title bouts at higher weights. It is extremely unlikely, and perhaps impossible, to be a full-time mediocre light flyweight. To get off the farm, to get out of the market, to be able to get ahead in life at these weights, it’s quite often world title or bust.
The sad reality of Nathan’s query, “do you want to change your life?” is that for Nontshinga to change his life he had to be willing to risk it. To change the circumstances of his living situation, he had to be willing to allow himself to be altered, physically, neurologically, forever. Fighters’ currency, like all workers but in a more explicit way than most, is their bodies. Trainers are the brokers they go to, hoping they will invest their currency properly. In a moment when the fight was potentially slipping away, Nathan could have chastised Nontshinga for not being able to follow the initial game plan and implored him to try to move and box in the final rounds. Some other trainers might have done that, blinded by ego. Had Nathan done that, it would have led to Nontshinga’s demise. He had neither the energy nor the opponent bound to boxing convention that would have allowed for it.
The only way out, was through Flores, meeting him on his terms and besting him. Nathan had to make the torturous, but correct decision, to send his fighter—one he cares about so deeply that he was nearly moved to tears discussing him in a pre-fight interview—into the trenches he desperately wanted to keep him out of. To send his fighter into harm’s way because the investment would be worth it.
Nontshinga found a reservoir of stamina and courage somewhere, and out-hustled and out-landed Flores in at least two of the last three rounds. Forehead to forehead they crouched, some exchanges reminiscent of Bobby Chacon vs. Cornelius Boza-Edwards, two exhausted and courageous fighters seemingly moving their arms on instinct, occasionally bursting into surges of more forceful blows.
When the scores were read, a split decision in favor of Nontshinga, his expression was one that bordered between relief and barely suppressed emotion. His shoulders softened as referee Mark Calo-oy raised his hand—he could finally stop throwing it, his cheeks raised and eyes narrowed, smiling and pinching to hold tears in all at once.
His life was changed forever. Perhaps in ways we wish to never acknowledge, but also in ways he always longed for. His investment had paid off—his trainer made sure of it.
Corey Erdman is a boxing writer and commentator based in Toronto, ON, Canada. Follow him on Twitter @corey_erdman