Will 2024 be for Tim Tszyu what 1997 was for his father?

For so long the comparisons were kind, flattering, focused only on the positives. They focused a lot on the way he stood – straight, steady, poised – and how he threw his right hand nice and straight, just like his old man.

They also touched on the size difference, with the son being a bit bigger than the father, and what it would take for the son to eventually eclipse what his father had accomplished in the ring. Early signs were positive, they said, but he still had a long, long way to go. His father, after all, was not just any world champion, but one of the best fighters of his generation. He made 13 title defenses. He made Zab Judah dance. He made a nation proud and a son inspired enough to want to follow in his footsteps.

That’s why Tim Tszyu has been comparing himself to his father for years: how he fights, how he wins, how far he has to go to emulate him. He has been compared to him because his father, Kostya, was no ordinary fighter, and in the context of a son carrying on the family business, he was no ordinary father either.

So far, the stories Tim will have heard have been mostly positive, like the comparisons. The same goes for tests, too. For example, he will presumably have seen Judah stumble around the ring in the second round more than once, as well as admiring images of his father putting several other opponents to the sword with that thunderous right hand. Better yet, he has always had the luxury of talking about these moments and those victories with the architect himself; allow his father to remember or, if he is not so inclined, to have others make the description on his behalf.

Rarely, if ever, during these conversations will they dwell on the hard times, struggles or defeats. That doesn’t mean that Tim doesn’t know them, of course, or even that Kostya isn’t willing to visit them again. All it means is that setback isn’t the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Kostya Tszyu’s career. In fact, his career, which ended with a professional record of 31-2 (25), was marred by only two losses, one of which came in his last fight. Otherwise, Tszyu was a picture of dominance, almost flawless.

In fact, that’s why Tim, his son, may have felt the weight of expectation since turning pro in 2016. He’s handled that pressure well overall, winning 24 fights in a row, but this year, unfortunately, there have been signs that, finally, the pressure or his own impatience has begun to get the better of him.

Either way, Tim Tszyu has lost not once but twice in 2024 and on Saturday, in the latest of those losses, Bakhram Murtazaliev landed him four times before being stopped in the third round. Surprisingly, yes, and also conclusively, Tszyu was at no point competitive with Murtazaliev and landed all kinds of hard shots before finally succumbing. It started recklessly and ended regrettably. It was, in every way, a reality check and a turning point.

Worst of all, this was supposed to be his comeback fight; that is, the victory that follows a fighter’s first loss. It was never going to be easy, no one said that, but as it was after his loss to Sebastian Fundora in March, the hope was that Tszyu would get back on track and regain the confidence he had lost. Instead, by choosing to fight Murtazaliev, the experience served to do more harm than good. It certainly hurt Tszyu more than the loss at Fundora; which ultimately owes as much to the cut Tszyu picked up in the second round (from Fundora’s elbow) as it does to any deficiency or limitation on his part. He was actually praised for his performance that night, though he ultimately lost a split decision. It was, they said, the kind of gut check that not all young fighters go through. He lost nothing in terms of reputation. They said, he was still very much his father’s son.

He then lost again to go 0-2 in 2024 and now suddenly people are wondering what the future holds for Tszyu, 24-2 (17). Some say he needs to settle down, go back to square one or go back to Australia. Others have even said that he should be retired and that his recklessness, partly responsible for his problems this year, will only lead to more problems down the line.

Tszyu, 29, remains defiant. “I’ll be back and I’ll still be in big fights soon,” he said. “What my dad told me when I was growing up was to never give up. If you shoot for the stars and you crash and burn along the way, keep going. And I’m going to keep going.”

In 1997, Kostya Tszyu had one of those years. He began, both the year itself and his streak of misfortune, in January when he framed Leonardo Mas in defense of his IBF junior welterweight title, the main attraction of which was that he fell on the bill of the last defense of Oscar De La Hoya. WBC junior welterweight belt. The idea, in theory, was that Tszyu would win and impress against Mas and then position himself for a fight against De La Hoya at some point if the “Golden Boy” remained in the 140-pound division. At that time, Kostya saw this opportunity in the same way that Tim, his son, saw, for example, Terence Crawford fight; one, if offered, too good to refuse.

First, however, he had to overcome Mas, an easy opponent to beat and an easier opponent to overlook. Just 20 seconds into the fight, in fact, Tszyu had managed to floor Mas with a left hook, leaving the much taller opponent stunned and embarrassed, though he still hadn’t broken a sweat. He then continued to nail Mas for the rest of the opener, dropping him again with a left hook, this time with 20 seconds left in the round. This time, too, Mas seemed less sure of getting back on his feet.

Still, to his credit, he eventually did, making it to the count of seven, and once standing he tried to hold off Tszyu. It was then, during that clinch, that Tszyu lined up and let loose a right hand, timing his throw to the sound of Joe Cortez, the referee, telling them to “break.”

It was, as is often the case with Cortez, a messy and demanding order, delivered with little conviction, and as a result, no one involved knew what to do. The right hand, unfortunately, continued on its way and landed on Mas and Mas, preferring to return to his feet, sought refuge on the canvas. Now, he went down catching the eye, inferring that he had been stung, and now Tszyu, feeling that he had done wrong, was sent to a neutral corner. Cortez, for his part, tried to restore order in the disorder he himself had caused.

In fact, no one really knew what was going to happen next. All they knew was that Tszyu had thrown a punch a fraction of a second too late and that Mas, not wanting any more, had chosen to stay on the canvas upon receiving that punch, now quoting a jaw pain This pain turned into a “fracture” and soon both Mas and Tszyu were informed that their fight, scheduled for 12 rounds but ended in one, had to be a technical draw due to an illegal strike not intentional This led to boos of dissatisfaction from the Las Vegas crowd. It also caused Tszyu to leave the ring in a hurry, ignoring calls for a post-fight interview.

Four months later, Tszyu returned. He was back in a different ring, in a different city and against a different opponent, but he was still the IBF Junior Welterweight Champion. This was the belt on the line against Vince Phillips, whom he faced in Atlantic City that May, and Phillips had a fighter of far greater reputation and danger than January’s big sport, Leonardo Mas.

Tszyu, as if to right the wrongs of the past, despite this danger, would attack Phillips from the start and show little respect for either the American’s durability or power. He was, one might say, reckless. He let his hands go with abandon, often while on foot and in range, and that gave Phillips the opportunity to return fire and catch Tszyu’s chin high in the air or time his right hand when Tszyu would try, and fail, to pre -emptily withdraw from it.

However he got there, Phillips got there with increasing regularity as the fight wore on and by the seventh round he had managed to rope Tszyu’s legs and make him tap. Until then, Tszyu had been able to walk on those right hands, but suddenly his resistance to blows had begun to wane, and even though he smiled as he stood up, he felt like the tide had turned.

It was then in the 10th round that Tszyu found himself submerged, unable to catch his breath. He started again with the right hand and now, having landed it, Phillips didn’t let go, encouraged a little by the fact that Tszyu had landed the shot this time. This subtle difference in reaction had given Tszyu no escape and was all Phillips needed, by way of invitation, to back the champion up to the ropes and continue to throw punches until told to by the referee to stop When he did, Tszyu was standing, slumped in the corner, no longer smiling.

Tim Tszyu, then, would not have been blissfully aware of his father’s pain that night, or of the loss itself. He was not yet three years old, you see, and so he would have no concept of loss, in the ring or otherwise, and no idea why his father had come home from work looking anything but as he had when he left. Nor would he have any idea that his father, instead of being deterred by his first professional loss, would use it as motivation to go undefeated for the next eight years, a 13-fight run ended only by Ricky Hatton in his last struggle

At that stage, Tim Tszyu would have been 10 years old. At that stage he already knew what his father did for a living and how setbacks were essential not only to one’s growth but also to the intoxicating feeling of success. In other words, he knew what it meant to carry on. He also saw his father’s pain, both physical and emotional, and found nothing to discourage him.