Boxer Terence Crawford and the real meaning of ‘generational’

The word that has recently haunted the sports universe is actually the word that defines boxer Terence “Bud” Crawford. Because what Crawford did Saturday night in Las Vegas in front of 70,000 people and millions more watching across the world was just that.

Crawford, the first male undisputed champion across three weight classes in the four-belt era, is generational. 

Before reverting to Crawford’s dominance over the weekend and what it means for the larger discussion around his place in boxing’s history, let’s first examine the flawed use of the word “generational.” Think prodigies-in-potential like New Orleans Pelicans forward Zion Williamson, Jacksonville Jaguars quarterback Trevor Lawrence or former NBA No. 1 pick Ben Simmons.

In recent weeks, the word has been used to describe University of Texas quarterback Arch Manning (of the Manning family quarterback dynasty). Manning has looked anything but in the first three games of his first season as a starter. Before he even took his first snap against Ohio State to open the 2025 season, Manning was predicted as the Heisman favorite, a strong possibility for the No. 1 overall pick in either the 2026 or 2027 NFL draft, and a young man who would rewrite SEC storybooks.

Everyone wants “the LeBron moment”: A young, heralded athlete explodes on the scene, somehow lives up to an obscene amount of hype he or she never asked for, and gives so many people – media or otherwise – the opportunity to say, “I told you so.” The conversation around pressure, expectations and reality that young athletes are under – especially in a world dealing with social media and sports betting – is dark. This is why the “generational” tag is so damning. They’re expected to live up to expectations they don’t truly understand the totality of.

Hype and anticipation are as old as sports themselves. Yet, Crawford not only earned the title of “generational” (if it hadn’t been true already) Saturday night, he took it. 

Crawford doesn’t look like he’s interested in returning the title any time soon.

Before the fight, his opponent Canelo Alvarez — a future Hall of Famer in his own right — critiqued Crawford’s resume, saying he “fought nobody.” Now, after dispatching Alvarez in a squarely objective fashion, it’s not that Crawford has “fought nobody.” It’s that nobody can beat him.

He’s not the showman or self-promoter that Floyd Mayweather Jr. was, but like the artist formerly known as “Pretty Boy Floyd,” he is the face of boxing. Unlike Mayweather in the latter stages of his career, however, Crawford has the detonating fists to match. 

Watching Crawford is like watching a predator. He stalks. He calculates. And when the tiniest window of opportunity opens, he attacks. Never in his fight with Canelo did Crawford seem in trouble, outmatched or outboxed. Terence Crawford hasn’t ducked opponents. He’s hunted them down.

Crawford’s career has been a slow burn to this moment. When his professional journey began 17 years ago with a first-round knockout of Brian Cummings in 2008, few, if any, tagged him as a guy who would one day be the North Star the entire sport would chase. He continued to stack wins and knockouts (31 in a possible 42 fights). All of it led to him leveling up multiple weight classes to take on Canelo and then dismantle Canelo. What happened on the other side of victory is history only he can claim authorship over. That isn’t supposed to happen in boxing, and certainly not two weeks shy of his 38th birthday.

When Kendrick Lamar name-dropped him on the explosive diss track “Euphoria” during last year’s high-profile battle with Drake — He’s Terrance Thornton, I’m Terence Crawford, yeah I’m whoopin’ feet — the comparison held weight. Boxing and hip-hop have long celebrated their boisterous, extroverted wordsmiths. Kendrick and Bud represent walking juxtapositions. Their bites register as beyond vicious, leaving a lifetime of discourse in its wake to debate just how sinister both actually are. Neither craves attention, but neither cowers from the microscope that focuses on them either. A Kendrick Lamar co-sign is one thing. Kendrick Lamar seeing his own dominance in yours is a spiritual alignment that may as well be rap’s version of Hailey’s Comet.

Until further notice, Crawford – at 42-0-0 – is the judge, jury and executioner of his era. In a sport like boxing, perhaps the one sport as closely aligned with the story of America over the last century plus, Crawford’s time atop the mountain is an unforgettable chapter. The country’s idealistic obsession with power and dominance is tied to boxing’s same foundational tenets. In a wicked sense of irony — from Jack Johnson, Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Robinson, Mike Tyson, Roy Jones Jr. and more — America’s pastime has massively revolved around Black power. Where Crawford ranks all-time is barbershop and happy hour fodder. What isn’t up for debate, however, is that accurately telling the centuries-long story of the “sweet science” in America without Bud Crawford is ignorantly disingenuous.

When speaking of Crawford, his name is to be mentioned in all-time ranks. Aside from Crawford, only Manny Pacquiao, Oscar de la Hoya, Mayweather Jr., Sugar Ray Leonard and Thomas Hearns have as many titles (or more) in the most weight classes. This is generational — when an athlete defines, dominates and dictates the generation they operate in. Simply ask the jaws, chins and midsections of anyone who has stepped in the ring with him.

You know generational when you see it, and damn sure when you feel it.