Errol Spence Jr. is a human oxymoron. He is a fierce, undefeated, punishing boxer. And he might be the nicest, most understated superstar in sports. That’s Spence: kind fighter, pleasant champion. And it’s a duality he embraces, because, to him, it’s not a duality at all.
“People see me outside the ring, I’m so nonchalant. I’m chill,” he says. “I don’t let too much bother me. I don’t let people inside my world. A lot of people can’t even believe I box.”
Spence points to one particular fight as evidence over a Zoom call in mid-June. Maybe his fourth. Maybe his seventh. Maybe in between. But his opponent sauntered up to him beforehand, saying he enjoyed Spence’s demeanor, which Spence took as a backhanded compliment. Did this dude find his personality—laid-flat, rather than laid-back—indicative of his in-ring prowess? He shrugged. Said nothing. Spoke with fists. He won each of those bouts, ending three via knockout. Same as his 28 pro fights, with 20 delivered by KO.
All of which raises a relevant question. Does it matter? A boxer’s bombast? Demeanor? Bearing?
It doesn’t, except for where and when it does. For instance, Spence is often compared to Sugar Ray Leonard, a boxer ranked on most all-time lists somewhere in the top 10, even top five. Leonard landed vicious shots and KO’d a full 25 foes. He also smiled and endorsed products, his sweetness perfect for his nickname. Kindness never held him back.
Adam DelGiudice/ZUMA Wire/IMAGO
From a duality standpoint, the Spence-Sugar comparison works. From an in-ring vantage point, though, they don’t hold much in common beyond primary division (welterweight) and dominance. They’re different boxers. They don’t even fight from the same stance.
Still, as Spence prepares for the most difficult and important bout of his career, the July 29 throwback against Terence Crawford, he wants to channel Leonard in one specific way. “The greats, they have that person,” Spence says. “Ray Leonard had Marvin Hagler and Tommy Hearns. He just needed them to show his greatness. Like Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier, everybody needs that one dancing partner.”
Which leads to what Spence says next, a true sentiment that can seem unfair—to him. Yes, Spence has career-defining wins, whatever that means. (Aren’t all fights, in one way or another, part of defining a career?) He knocked out Kell Brook, retired Lamont Peterson, crushed Carlos Ocampo, out-pointed Mikey Garcia, snuck by Shawn Porter and topped Danny Garcia after a car wreck he was lucky to survive. He just doesn’t have this type of career-defining fight, where the ultimate prize isn’t one victory or even four belts. For Spence to join Leonard on any mythical all-time-great lists, he needs a rival, and not just a rival, but a rival who forces him to summon more than thought possible.
Perhaps that’s Crawford. Seems possible, maybe even likely. The majority of boxing aficionados rank both undefeated champions in the top five on active boxer pound-for-pound lists. The majority place both somewhere in the top three, if not 1–2 or 1–1a. Spence even posits the perfect comparison for their titanic clash upcoming. Borrowing from two distinct NBA stars, he is Tim Duncan—and Crawford is Kevin Garnett.
Which is funny, because Spence grew up in Dallas, not far from San Antonio, where Duncan turned a robotic approach into a luminous career. Spence, while also reserved and clinical in approach, found The Big Fundamental too boring. He was drawn more to a superstar like Garnett, who talked trash to Michael Jordan, elevated with emotion and loved agitating Duncan especially. Duncan, like Spence, was the rival who turned fundamentals into understated artwork. Garnett, like Crawford, was all talent and verve, flashy and forward, The Big Ticket.
Both won. Both led. Both carved Hall of Fame careers. But the tally that mattered most is not lost on Spence. Garnett played 22 seasons, for three franchises. He won one championship. Duncan played 19 seasons: same city, same team. Boring or bold or both, he won five titles.
The more Spence watched Duncan, the more his mindset changed, the more he enjoyed Duncan’s authentic self. “This isn’t boring,” Spence admitted eventually. “It’s grounded in how you maintain that level of success.”
Spence, it’s clear, is an athlete with fans and a fan of other athletes. He regularly stops by the Cowboys’ training facility before bouts, and, on his most recent visit, he joked with executives, saying he wanted to try out and noting he played cornerback/safety growing up in football-crazed Texas. They suggested a kicking gig instead. Spence is long and rangy and, of course, athletic. Defensive back makes more sense, although his football experiment ended in ninth grade, so there’s no reason to expect he’ll pull a reverse Greg Hardy, the Cowboy turned boxer/mixed martial artist.
Instead, Spence must focus on the third act of his career. The first: prodigy, an obvious talent and national champion who represented the U.S. at the London Olympics before turning pro and ramping his trajectory straight toward the sky. Act II was the unexpected part. Before crashing his Ferrari in 2019, the impact so forceful the car flipped several times and Spence got ejected from the driver’s seat, the closest thing to a career stall was his failure to medal in London. Now, he says, “It’s a miracle I’m talking to you, let alone boxing.”
Spence did come back, choosing an elite challenger in Danny Garcia for his return. He did win, securing a bout with Manny Pacquiao, the kind of top-notch dance partner he sought. But as that fight approached in 2021, Spence injured his left eye in a training session. His retina detached, forcing him to bow out of the bout he wanted. Yordenis Ugas stepped in and essentially retired Pacquiao. Spence worried he might never box again. Eventually, the eye healed.
Sometimes Spence must remind the boxing world that he has essentially ruled the welterweight division since 2017. Such reminders are necessary because, while he hasn’t lost a fight, he has lost career momentum. There’s an important distinction to make there. No one is questioning whether Spence is a great boxer, elite, Hall of Fame–worthy. It’s the level above all those where the questions start. Which is why Crawford is so tempting. Any win, but especially a convincing one, will secure Spence the rival he needs, the triumph he desires and the momentum he lost.
Should he win and seize all prizes, he hopes the perception around him follows views of Duncan’s career trajectory. As Spence sees it, the longer Duncan played, the more the wider sports world came to appreciate his gifts. Just like a young Errol Spence Jr. Since Duncan retired in 2016, Spence believes that shift has continued because what The Big Fundamental accomplished, and for how long and with such remarkable consistency, continues to separate him. This makes the mundane unusual, unlikely, Duncan’s superpower rather than a negative.
Perhaps the America’s Team diehard should be America’s fighter, too. Spence’s story now features ideal narrative ingredients. He’s not wrong when he says someone should make a movie about his life, especially these past few years. He’s easy to root for and easy to deal with. He’s dominant. He has surmounted all manner of obstacles, become famous, then more famous, and yet none of that made him meaner or more agitated. He stayed the same.
But Crawford possesses all of those same traits. He’s not reserved like Spence, but the stakes for him are no less significant, extending beyond four belts and an undisputed crown. There are legacies involved, and the potential to shape them is higher, because of the danger, because either champion could win. Spence has watched all the classics from the welterweight heyday that primarily unfolded in the 1980s. He saw the risks taken, blood spilled, blows landed, crowds entranced.
That’s what he wants. Exactly. A night like those nights and more than one, if possible (of note: There’s a remarkably fast turnaround in the contract for a rematch). Maybe Canelo Álvarez down the line.
Still, should Spence lose, failing to reach the rarest of air, which happens to almost every boxer who laces up their gloves, he doesn’t expect it would change his life much, if at all. Asked whether he can recall the last time something—or someone—made him mad, he points to his youngest daughter, who likes to decorate the back of his shoes with her dad’s name, spelled out in marker. Kids, right? They won’t understand what their father did until much later, what it cost him, what it took, what he faced and overcame. That’s part of July 29, too, part of Spence’s legacy. His family and his family name.
Growing up, he loved one HBO series in particular: Legendary Nights.
Now, in a career where almost everything happened, all that’s left is one of those.
