With his legacy on the line, Canelo Alvarez battles the ghosts of Mexico's boxing tradition

THIS PAST MAY 6th, one day before Saúl «Canelo» Álvarez lost, it would have been difficult to find someone in Las Vegas who thought that would happen. On that day, standing among the thousands who'd traveled from all over the country and farther, gathering outside at the Toshiba Plaza just to watch him weigh in, you would have thought all of this was little more than a formality.

That all of this was just part of the show before Canelo won his 58th fight and unified yet another championship belt. In those near triple-digit temperatures, the Mexican boxer walked on stage, past the mariachis playing «El Rey,» the classic Mexican song about being underappreciated and having little but still carrying yourself like a king, and stepped on the scale. He wore just pink-colored Dolce & Gabbana boxers and white socks.

«174.4 for Saúl 'Canelo' Álvarez!» announcer David Diamante, with dreadlocks so long they dropped below his knees, yelled into the microphone. Canelo flexed his muscles as the crowd cheered. They yelled his name, waved their Mexican flags, and held cellphones above their heads, trying to capture a photo or a few seconds of Canelo in his prime.

When Dmitry Bivol also weighed in, the crowd, in between wiping sweat from their faces and foreheads, booed Canelo's opponent. The response surprised the Russian boxer. «First time I see a lot of Mexican fans against me,» he said. Poor Bivol, he must've underestimated Canelo's fame and how much boxing means to an entire culture.

That you can tell lots about people by what sports they play and how they play them. Bivol must've not known Canelo's opponents were his fans' opponents too, if for no other reason than because that's just the way it sometimes goes in boxing.

That's why