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"They Are All My Waves":
O’Shaquie Foster Rides The Storm
By Igor Frank
Photo: Top Rank
As an avid ocean swimmer, I spend plenty of time
around surfers. Lately, I’ve been asking them a
question: “How do you know when it’s your wave?”
One answered, “That’s a good question.”
Another said, “It’s all about timing.”
The third had my favorite answer: “They’re all
my waves. I just try not to burn anybody when I
surf.”
Watching O’Shaquie Foster against Emanuel
Navarrete, I thought about all three answers.
Mostly, though, I thought about the third.
Navarrete brought the ocean. Foster knew how to
surf.
At San Antonio’s Frost Bank Center on October
24, Foster won a unanimous decision, adding
Navarrete’s WBO and IBF titles to his WBC
championship.
Two knockdowns in the final round put an
emphatic finish on his performance.
But the result alone doesn’t explain the beauty
of it.
Some fighters see pressure coming and stiffen.
Their feet stop moving. Their punches become
arguments with whatever is in front of them.
Foster looked like an experienced surfer
watching a swell develop: balanced, attentive,
trusting his ability to move when the moment
arrived.
Navarrete’s awkward attacks were the
waves—unpredictable, powerful, arriving from
uncomfortable directions. Foster’s movement and
counters repeatedly turned those attacks into
opportunities. As the fight developed, his
control became increasingly clear.
The second surfer had a point. Timing is
everything.
A wave doesn’t care how badly you want it.
Paddle too early and you waste your effort. Too
late and it leaves you behind. A counterpunch
demands the same judgment: recognize the
opening, commit, and keep your balance.
That was the impression Foster’s boxing left on
me. He seemed comfortable in water that would
exhaust most people.
And give Navarrete his respect. There was danger
in that water. His power remained a threat,
including a hard uppercut late in the eleventh
round. Foster had to earn his composure.
Then came the twelfth. With two knockdowns,
Foster supplied the image that completed the
metaphor: a man finishing his ride with his feet
still firmly underneath him.
I’m still asking surfers how they know when a
wave belongs to them. The ocean keeps the
question interesting.
On this particular night, Foster offered an
answer without saying a word.
Whatever Navarrete sent toward him, he found a
way to ride it.
They were all his waves.
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