Last Friday night, two days ahead of the Super Bowl during which a Xander Zayas vs. Emiliano Vargas fight broke out, ESPN debuted a new documentary called “The Philly Special.” If you’re even remotely a fan of American football, you know from the title exactly what it’s about: the fourth-and-goal play during the 2018 Super Bowl in which the Eagles’ third-string running back took a direct snap and pitched the ball to the third-string tight end, who threw a touchdown to the backup quarterback.

It was a play so iconic in the town where it helped clinch a hungry fan base’s first Super Bowl victory that a statue of the quarterback and coach calling the play now stands in South Philadelphia.

If you think that’s a bit much, well, wait ’til I tell you about the statue of a fictional boxer a few miles north that may just be the city’s number-one tourist attraction.

Anyway, the play quickly became known by the shorthand “The Philly Special.” And such nicknames for spectacular and/or pivotal moments are not at all uncommon in NFL history.

Probably the most famous (and certainly the most cleverly named) is “The Immaculate Reception,” but there’s also “The Helmet Catch,” “The Music City Miracle,” “The Beast Quake,” “The Tuck Rule Play,” “The Butt Fumble,” “The Miracle at the Meadowlands” and such simplistic labels as “The Catch,” “The Drive” and “The Fumble.”

Baseball has a few as well, though with the exception of “The Shot Heard ’Round The World,” most are known simply by a person’s name: “Joe Carter,” “Kirk Gibson,” “Buckner,” “Bartman.” And, in a sign that language was used differently in 1908 than it is today, there’s “Merkle’s Boner.”

Soccer has “The Hand of God.” Basketball’s Michael Jordan made “The Shot.”

But ultimately, no sport can compare with football for moments instantly identifiable by their nicknames.

Boxing is very much in the running for second place, though.

To be clear, we’re talking here about moments during a fight that acquired famous nicknames, not entire fights that are known by a particular name. “The Fight of the Century,” “The Rumble in the Jungle,” “The Thrilla in Manila,” “The War,” “The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre” – those are all essential parts of boxing history, but they don’t belong on this list.

We did, however, come up with six nicknamed occurrences in the ring that do belong, and here they are, in chronological order, specially delivered to you by a writer from Philly:

“The Long Count”

Next year will mark a full century since the September 22, 1927, rematch between Gene Tunney and Jack Dempsey at Soldier Field in Chicago – site of the 2019 NFL play known as the “Double Doink,” incidentally – that is remembered primarily for one stretch of about 14 seconds in the seventh round.

The beloved Dempsey was attempting to regain the heavyweight championship from the slightly younger, smaller and slicker man who’d outpointed him 364 days before. But for the first six rounds, “The Manassa Mauler” had little success.

In the seventh, though, a heavy seven-punch combination sent “The Fighting Marine” to the canvas for the first time in his career. For this fight, there was a relatively new rule in place: In case of a knockdown, the standing fighter would be sent to a neutral corner until the completion of the count. Dempsey was not used to this and fell into his habit of hovering near his fallen opponent – which delayed referee Dave Barry beginning the count by about five seconds.

Tunney rose at Barry’s count of nine, which, based on the fight film, appears to have come after Tunney was down for 14 seconds.

But Tunney did technically beat the count and proceeded to score a knockdown of his own the next round and dominate down the stretch to win a unanimous decision.

The Long Count reigned for years as one of the sporting world’s most controversial moments. Could Tunney have gotten up sooner if he’d needed to? Was Dempsey robbed of a knockout?

Back then, of course, there was no easy access to the footage on YouTube, not even a VHS tape to pass around between fight fans. Eventually, the facts became clear to all: Yes, the count was long, and yes, Tunney beat that long count in accordance with boxing’s rules.

And almost a hundred years later, every fight fan still knows exactly what you’re talking about when you reference “The Long Count.”

“The Phantom Punch”

A nickname doesn’t necessarily have to be accurate to be enduring.

Fast-forward about four decades from “The Long Count,” to May 25, 1965, and we again come across an extraordinarily controversial knockdown in a heavyweight championship rematch.

A little over midway through the first round of Muhammad Ali-Sonny Liston II in Lewiston, Maine, ex-champ Liston was sent to the canvas by … a punch … maybe.

In real time, and even in certain replays, it was hard to identify the shot that felled him. It later became clear that Ali landed a right hand over Liston’s jab, leading some to brand “The Phantom Punch” as “The Anchor Punch” instead.

But in the moment, many believed there was no punch at all, or if there was a punch, it wasn’t hard enough to drop the menacing Liston. Theories abounded as to Liston taking a dive and the possible reasons why – involving the mafia, the Nation of Islam, death threats and even the alleged kidnapping of Liston’s wife and son.

In any case, Liston got up, and referee (and former heavyweight champ) Jersey Joe Walcott let the fight continue for several seconds, until timekeeper Francis McDonough, with the assistance of Ring editor Nat Fleischer, was able to get Walcott’s attention and insist Liston hadn’t beaten the count. At that point, the fight was officially, chaotically stopped at just 2:12 of the opening round.

Most everyone now acknowledges it was an actual punch, not any sort of phantom fist, that sent Liston to the canvas. But original labels die hard.

“Rope-a-Dope”

This is perhaps a slight stretching of the concept, as the “Rope-a-Dope” is a fight-long strategy and ultimately a series of moments, not one individual moment. The words “Rope-a-Dope” nevertheless conjure the exact same image in every boxing fan’s mind: Ali, leaning back against the ropes in Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo), letting George Foreman punch himself out until “The Greatest” became heavyweight champ for a second time in stunning upset fashion.

The 32-year-old Ali was physically overmatched by the 25-year-old Foreman on October 30, 1974, but he was mentally unmatched, and he devised a bold, dangerous game plan that involved taking lots of punches – though usually not cleanly – as he hoped “Big George” would serve as his dope and follow him to the ropes.

By the fifth round, Foreman was showing signs of tiring. By the eighth, he was exhausted, and at 2:58 of the round, The Rumble in the Jungle was over.

An aging, slowing Ali would use the strategy in spurts again after this, but the original Rope-a-Dope is the one that endures – and is undoubtedly the time it worked best. Much like The Philly Special, you can run the play more than once, but you only get one chance to pull it off in a spot where nobody sees it coming.

“No Mas”

More than 45 years before Bad Bunny delivered a Super Bowl halftime performance in Spanish, Roberto Duran ended a fight with two Spanish words that became immediately infamous. 

At the Superdome in New Orleans, Louisiana, on November 25, 1980, defending the welterweight championship he’d won from Sugar Ray Leonard five months earlier, Duran decided at 2:44 of the eighth round that their rematch had gone on long enough, and he said to Mexican referee Octavio Meyran, “no mas” – “no more.”

At least that’s what broadcaster Howard Cosell said Duran said. Duran has claimed he didn’t actually use those words, and only Meyran did. But “No Mas” stuck – and the meaning of Duran’s actions were the same regardless of what words he uttered.

Why did he quit against Leonard? 

Perhaps because of stomach cramps. Perhaps because he was embarrassed by the way Sugar Ray was outboxing him. Perhaps because he was annoyed by Leonard’s slick tactics and thought it would be seen as macho not to engage in such a contest. Even a 2013 documentary called “No Mas” in the same 30 for 30 series that gave us “The Philly Special” failed to draw a conclusive answer out of Duran. And maybe that’s because even he still isn’t quite sure why he did it.

Regardless, it was a moment Duran spent much of the rest of his career struggling to fully recover from, reputation-wise. He will always be an all-time great, perhaps the No. 1 lightweight who ever lived. He will also always be the warrior who, in a moment of weakness, turned a two-word Spanish phrase into an eternal piece of boxing lore.

“Fan Man”

Hall of Fame referee Mills Lane was the third man in the ring for the November 6, 1993, heavyweight championship rematch between Riddick Bowe and Evander Holyfield. But it was the fourth man in the ring whose presence set this fight apart.

(OK, technically, that fourth man only made it to the outer edge of the ring and not quite into it, but let’s not allow that to stand in the way of a satisfying lead to this section.)

One year after Bowe took the title from Holyfield in a classic, they returned to Las Vegas – importantly choosing as their setting the outdoor arena at Caesars Palace. Through the first minute of the seventh round, it was a close, hard-fought battle just like their first go-round. Then suddenly it became very different from their first fight – or any other boxing match anyone had ever seen.

A parachutist named James Miller, with some sort of fan-like paramotor attached to his harness, descended from the sky, became entangled in the ring ropes and was quickly attacked by security and ringside fans, who would have been well within their rights to assume he meant to do harm (especially considering this was just seven months after Monica Seles was stabbed during a changeover in a tennis match).

Fan Man’s gatecrashing caused a 21-minute delay in the fight, during which Bowe’s pregnant wife, Judy, fainted. It’s hard to say for sure if the delay and the insanity altered the outcome of the fight, but ultimately Holyfield rallied and regained the championship by majority decision.

Miller was slapped with a minor charge and released after paying $200 bail. That penalty was insufficient to prevent him from attempting future paragliding stunts at an NFL game and a soccer game and even once landing on Buckingham Palace. But none of those resonated, nor warranted their own nicknames, like the time Miller engaged in two types of fan interference during a heavyweight title fight.

“The Bite Fight”

Although we’re technically deviating from the theme and using a nickname given to the full fight in this case, the reality is that the moniker refers to a specific mid-fight incident. “The Bite Fight” simply stuck as its shorthand because of the way the rhyme rolls off the tongue.

Once again, Holyfield and ref Lane found themselves in the middle of utter madness, this time on June 28, 1997, at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, in the rematch to Holyfield’s shocking upset KO of Mike Tyson the previous November. (What is it about rematches featuring moments that attract nicknames, huh? Every single incident on this list other than “Rope-a-Dope” came from a rematch.)

With about 40 seconds to go in the third round, a frustrated Tyson – whether because of Holyfield headbutting him again or Holyfield outfighting him again, or both – gave in to his animal instincts and, in a clinch, took a bite out of “The Real Deal’s” right ear. He spat a small chunk of cartilage onto the ring apron, and Lane called time as a bloodied Holyfield hopped up and down in pain and disbelief.

After a consultation with Nevada Athletic Commission Chairman Marc Ratner and ringside physician Flip Homansky, Lane penalized Tyson two points and restarted the fight following about a two-minute delay – only for Tyson to bite the left ear and leave Lane no choice but to disqualify him at the end of the round.

Tyson biting Holyfield – especially the first bite, and the ensuing realization of what had happened – stands as an all-time “everyone remembers where they were” moment in sports.

The nickname endures because the incident left a mark – literally on Holyfield, and figuratively on everyone else.

Eric Raskin is a veteran boxing journalist with nearly 30 years of experience covering the sport for such outlets as BoxingScene, ESPN, Grantland, Playboy, and The Ring (where he served as managing editor for seven years). He also co-hosted The HBO Boxing Podcast, Showtime Boxing with Raskin & Mulvaney, The Interim Champion Boxing Podcast with Raskin & Mulvaney, and Ring Theory. He has won three first-place writing awards from the BWAA, for his work with The Ring, Grantland, and HBO. Outside boxing, he is the senior editor of CasinoReports and the author of 2014’s The Moneymaker Effect. He can be reached on X, BlueSky, or LinkedIn, or via email at RaskinBoxing@yahoo.com.