It’s been years since Marcos “El Chino” Maidana pushed Floyd Mayweather Jr. to the edge, yet the debate burns hotter than ever. Their 2014 showdown was supposed to be another routine masterclass for the undefeated “Money.” Instead, it became one of the most controversial nights in modern boxing history.
“The problem with everyone who faced him,” Maidana said, “is that they feared him for just being Floyd Mayweather Jr. With me, it was different. I wasn’t scared. I came to fight.”
And fight he did — brutally, relentlessly, fearlessly. From the opening bell, Maidana attacked Mayweather like a man possessed, pinning him against the ropes, throwing wild, looping punches that seemed to land where no one else could reach. The MGM Grand crowd roared as the unthinkable unfolded: Mayweather, usually untouchable, was suddenly vulnerable.
When the scorecards were read — a majority decision for Mayweather — the audience erupted in boos. To many, Maidana had done enough to dethrone the king. “I won that fight,” he insists. “But the correction favored him. Everybody knows.”
In the rematch, Mayweather made adjustments, using movement, distance, and precision to neutralize Maidana’s chaos. But even then, the Argentine’s frustration boiled over. “He was running, scoring, and running again,” Maidana recalled. “That’s how he survived. His defense and quickness saved him. But the pressure nearly broke him.”
Even Floyd, the perfectionist, admitted afterward that Maidana had given him one of the toughest fights of his career.
Though Mayweather walked away unbeaten, it was Maidana who earned the fans’ respect. He gave the sport what it craves most — authenticity. “I pushed him harder than anyone else,” Maidana said. “After that, he never wanted a real war again.”
Nearly a decade later, clips from those two fights still circulate online, reigniting the same old question: Did Maidana really beat Mayweather?
For boxing purists, the answer may never be clear. But for those who watched that furious first battle, one truth remains — for twelve unforgettable rounds, Marcos Maidana made “The Best Ever” look mortal.
When the world woke on 31 August 1997 to the news that Diana, Princess of Wales, had died in a Paris car crash, shock and grief swept across continents. Yet beyond the sorrow, a practical and deeply symbolic question arose: how should Diana’s body — and her memory — be handled?
She was no longer married to Prince Charles, and thus technically not a senior member of the royal family. But she was still the People’s Princess, the mother of the future King, and the most beloved woman in Britain. Any misstep would ignite outrage. The decisions taken in those early hours would shape both Diana’s legacy and the monarchy’s relationship with the public for years to come.
When the news reached Balmoral, Queen Elizabeth II faced an impossible dilemma. Diana was divorced from Charles; her ties to the Crown were severed on paper. Yet the Queen immediately recognized that the public would never see Diana as anything less than royal.
Her very first decision was symbolic and deeply respectful: she dispatched Prince Charles to Paris to personally bring Diana’s body home. Accompanied by Diana’s sisters, Charles stood at the airport as Diana’s coffin — draped in the Royal Standard — was placed onto a plane bound for London. In that moment, despite the divorce, Diana was treated with the honor of a royal.
When Diana’s coffin was placed inside Westminster Abbey, mourners noticed that it remained firmly closed. No one, not even her closest friends, was allowed to see her body. This was not an attempt at secrecy, but a deliberate choice made after discussions between the royal family and the Spencer family.
Diana’s injuries from the crash were severe. To display her remains would have been both undignified and traumatic. Instead, her coffin was adorned with flowers from her sons, William and Harry, and bore the simple word “Mummy.” The closed casket became a powerful symbol: the mystery of her final moments preserved, her dignity fiercely protected.
Here the situation grew complicated. Having divorced Charles a year earlier, Diana was no longer officially a royal. Protocol suggested that her funeral and burial should be managed privately by her family, the Spencers.
But the public outpouring of grief — seas of flowers outside Kensington Palace, thousands lining the Mall — made it clear that a private farewell would never suffice. The monarchy, already accused of coldness, risked alienating the nation if it appeared to wash its hands of Diana.
Ultimately, a compromise was struck. The Spencer family would oversee the private handling of Diana’s body. But the royal family would host a grand ceremonial funeral, blending the public’s demand for tribute with the family’s need for privacy.
On 6 September 1997, more than 2.5 billion people watched as Diana’s coffin was borne through the streets of London on a gun carriage. The royal family walked behind it — Charles, William, and Harry flanked by Prince Philip. The young princes, just 15 and 12, made the walk of their lives, cheered on by a public who wept openly for them.
The service at Westminster Abbey was a mixture of royal grandeur and deeply personal touches. Elton John performed “Candle in the Wind,” rewritten for Diana. Diana’s brother, Earl Spencer, gave a blistering eulogy, condemning the media and implicitly criticizing the royal household. It was a state funeral in all but name.
After the funeral, Diana’s body was returned to her family estate, Althorp, in Northamptonshire. She was buried on a small oval island in the middle of a lake — a secluded, almost dreamlike setting chosen by her brother.
The symbolism was striking. From above, the island and its surrounding waters resembled the oval shape of Diana’s sapphire engagement ring — the same ring that later passed to Kate Middleton and now symbolizes Diana’s ongoing legacy.
Visitors cannot walk to her grave; they must view it from across the water. This, too, was intentional: Diana, who had been chased relentlessly in life, was finally given peace and protection in death.
The handling of Diana’s body, funeral, and burial was not simply logistics. It was a negotiation between monarchy and public, between duty and love.
The royal family, accused of being distant and unfeeling, ultimately recognized that Diana belonged not only to them but to the nation. The Spencers, meanwhile, ensured that Diana’s final resting place remained private, unspoiled by the glare of publicity.
And so, in death as in life, Diana bridged two worlds — royal and common, private and public, tragic and triumphant.
Today, more than 25 years later, people still visit Althorp, leaving flowers by the lake. They remember a woman who was flawed, vulnerable, radiant, and real. Her closed coffin may have concealed her broken body, but it could never silence her spirit.
The decisions made in those days of shock and grief ensured that Diana would remain forever what she had become in life: the People’s Princess.