Jan. 15, 2000: Jones vs Freitas

On a television show that was called ‘Bunce’s Boxing Hour’ (hosted by the pundit Steve Bunce) the retired, former WBO super featherweight world champion Barry Jones sat near a young flyweight fighter who called himself ‘Prince’ Patel. Patel, who had a history of causing controversy, pointed out that he wanted to be a boxer that people knew about, someone that captured attention, as opposed to Jones: 

“No one [says] ‘Barry Jones, let’s talk about Barry, he’s an incredible fighter’. He’s a forgotten champion,” Patel said. 

Jones smiled and stayed silent.

Insensitive as Patel was, there is truth to the claim that not many recall Barry Jones as a world champion. Frankly, I was one of them; I was only a child when Jones won his title, and I hadn’t become interested in boxing yet. By the time I did start to follow the sport, as a young adult, I never really heard about Jones as a boxer at all. He is now mainly known as a commentator, working on some of the very biggest fights in the world, but I don’t know how many people would recall his career as a fighter. After seeing that moment on Bunce’s Boxing Hour, I became curious about Jones and watched an interview with iFL TV where he spoke about the incident with Patel with clear irritation. It broke his heart, he told the interviewer, that he would forever be associated with Patel after that infamous moment, and I have to grimace a little in response, knowing that I am continuing to draw attention to the moment with this article. 

Barry Jones

Putting that moment aside, however, Jones’s career is interesting. Just after he reached his professional peak as a boxer by defeating Wilson Palacio for the WBO super featherweight belt, he was suddenly told that he had an issue with his brain that had shown up on a customary MRI scan. He lost his professional boxing license, which in turn led to him losing his world title, along with stopping him from boxing at all. Jones described this sensation to Shaun Brown as winning the lottery and then seeing your winning ticket fly away in the wind.

Jones refused to accept this misfortune; he sought out a brain surgeon himself and had an independent evaluation given. The surgeon opined that Jones was actually fit to continue fighting, so Jones found himself back in the sport. He had a single comeback fight, and then prepared to try and retake the exact same title that he had won and then seen fly away in the wind: the WBO belt. The WBO champion at that point, however, was the famed Acelino Freitas.

Freitas was known as an extremely powerful puncher, and was both young and undefeated, with a record of twenty-three wins, all knockouts. When he retired, almost two decades after he fought Jones, Freitas had only lost twice in forty-three fights, and both of those losses were to well-known, world class fighters in the form of Diego Corrales and Juan Diaz. Jones was, in one way, the exact opposite of Freitas; rather than being a power puncher, Jones had only one KO victory on his record out of all his nineteen fights. That is a startlingly low number. To put this into perspective, the name that often comes to mind for boxing fans in regard to light punching fighters is former world champion Paulie Malignaggi, and even Malignaggi started his career with three KOs. (In all fairness, Jones boxed Peter Buckley, a famously resilient journeyman, for three of his fights.) Another surprising detail is that Jones – perhaps wary of more concerns over brain scans – apparently didn’t do any sparring at all in the build-up to his world title match with Freitas. One of the few positive indications for Jones was that he had a tough chin; he had never been knocked down in his career.

The fight against Freitas took place in Doncaster, UK, at the start of the year 2000. What is immediately striking to me in the footage is the cheering for Jones in the audience, with some members of the audience holding a Welsh, ‘Highfields Ely’ flag aloft. You can hear the crowd chanting his name, in British football-esque fashion, to the tune of ‘Vindaloo’. I hadn’t expected such support, considering how little I had heard of Jones after his retirement; the fans seemed to love him. Jones stared at the canvas while the referee gave his instructions. The muscular Freitas studied Jones, his head cocked to the side, a sheen of sweat below his hairline. He didn’t look worried. While Jones looked like someone you might stumble across on the street – a slender, friendly everyman – Freitas had an air of distinctive dangerousness, and almost a kind of glamour.

Within thirty seconds of the first round, the most stunning moment of the fight occurred.

Jones was moving, jabbing, his guard high. Freitas threw two of his own jabs, and then, stepping forward, he lunged into a right hand that stopped short – either missing or used as a feint – and then twisted into a powerful looking left-hook. But Jones had been waiting. After that right hand from Freitas, he released a sharp left-hook of his own, and Freitas dropped to the canvas, stunned. He got to his feet and removed his mouthpiece as the referee counted. Removing the mouthpiece after a knockdown obviously isn’t unheard of – Diego Corrales famously did this against Jose Luis Castillo five years after this fight – but, as the commentators pointed out, it was most likely used to buy time, which would imply Freitas wasn’t just off balance or surprised. He was actually hurt. He slyly got a few extra seconds of rest while the mouthpiece problem was resolved, and then the fight went on. Freitas had more bounce now, but was hit by two more left hand shots from Jones. The crowd sang for Jones again. Their champion was back.

Freitas, as if maddened, started throwing more, and the punches were hard, formidable ones, mostly blocked or missing but driving Jones back. Jones, perhaps panicking a little, threw a left but fell short. He tried again, a left that once again fell short, and this time Freitas watched, set his feet, and then threw one straight right hand to the jaw, and Jones fell to the canvas, looking dazed. He pulled himself back up using the ropes. As soon as Jones stood, and the referee continued the fight, Freitas jumped right at him and Jones jumped right back in response, like a panicked cat. Freitas attacked him with the intensity of someone who is either desperate to end a fight or simply one who is excited to finish his opponent. Jones, his back against the ropes, blocked and ducked but Freitas hit him with a left hook to the body that one can hear even amidst the noise from the crowd and the commentators. It looked and sounded hard enough to have ended the fight.

When Jones went to the canvas this time he curled up on his knees, his face on his gloves, and then pressed his head to the canvas itself, as if praying. At the count of eight he was still on his knees. He finally stood at the count of nine, his face marked as he nodded to the referee. Freitas, once again, came at him unmercifully. Again he attacked, and Jones blocked, then lashed out with his own shots, clinching, dodging, bouncing. Freitas bounded after him, but the bell rang and the round ended. Freitas spun around to go to his corner, invigorated, while Jones, gloves on his hips, slowly turned to go back to his own.

Jones went on to be knocked down four more times as the rounds went on. Watching him, I wondered what kept him getting up over and over, even after being beaten down with terribly powerful punches. Was it simple instinct, a kind of ingrained stubbornness? After the final knockdown in round seven, from a body shot, Jones sank to the canvas on one knee, gloves tight against his face; he resembled a helpless child. But then, breathing deeply, he stood again, beating the referee’s count. He hadn’t had enough, but his father, in the corner, wasn’t going to continue seeing his son endure more. He waved the white towel, which the referee didn’t see. Jones bounced away from Freitas, blocking shots, until his father outright threw the towel into the ring, and the referee finally stepped in.

Tears. The tears didn’t come from Jones, though, but instead from Freitas; he cried as he hugged the people in his corner, and they stroked his head. After a few moments he walked over to Jones and hugged him too, before Jones held Freitas’s arm aloft to the audience, an audience that continued to sing for Jones just as they had done at the very beginning of the fight. When the two fighters posed for a picture together, Jones, in a playful moment, pressed his lips to Freitas’s cheek, and in his post-fight interview with Ian Darke he smiled when it concluded with Darke praising his effort. Jones never fought again.

Before the match with Freitas, The Irish Times despaired at the choice to allow Jones to fight after his problematic brain scan, and went as far as to say that no one in boxing would remember Jones’s name in another ten years. Twenty-four years later, he is widely known and appreciated amongst boxing fans for his commentary, and there is also something to appreciate and remember in that final fight with Freitas. He sent an excellent, undefeated fighter to the canvas, and then took crushing blows from the same fighter but refused to stay down. I, for one, will remember him as a fighter as well as a commentator.     

–Aamir Mehar 

Become a patron at Patreon!