Sunday, May 06, 2007

The Fights

"Tell Me" is pounding through the speakers in the heaving, sweating bar, and the floor rumbles accordingly. The announcers on TV howl as Mayweather puts on his sombrero and walked to the ring, 50 Cent rapping next to him. It's mostly blacks and hispanics at this joint; it's close to Paterson, and you can fucking tell.

The crowd is evenly split between Mayweather or De LaHoya, and it's along racial lines; blacks with dreadlocks and oversized white t-shirts rooting for Mayweather, while the Hispanics with their chinstrap beards and fat girlfriends are pulling for De La Hoya. I'm with the Spanish guys... it's kind of like jail, ironically.

The whole fight goes as I thought it would. Mayweather ducks and dodges, De LaHoya tries to cut off the ring and corner him, rarely successfully. There are body shots that slow Mayweather down, but De la Hoya doesn't have enough power to put him down. The fight is decided in the the tenth round when Mayweather is outscoring De la Hoya, and it's clear that he's not going to get knocked out. I'm beginning to think that the only thing that can beat Mayweather is Father Time. It occurs to me that watching Floyd Mayweather box may be a blessing. It is like he is made of liquid, dissapearing and reforming somwhere else to his enemy's chagrin. The only other man I have seen move like this is Barry Sanders, another one who seemed like all his body parts could move completely independent of each other, yet somehow were not only connected, but in sync. It is unbelievable.

Later on, I go out for a smoke, and I hear some asshole mouthing off, and it takes me a minute to realize he's yelling at me. "Hey sweetheart, you got a problem?"

I'm leaning against the building, and this wannabe gangsta is mouthing off to me to impress his fatassed girlfriend. I've had my guard up all night because down here I'm the minority, but now I'm drunk and not looking to start shit. Fighting is the last thing on my mind.

He walks over, stands right next to me, is still talking shit. I look at him, and out of the corner of my eye I see a Haledon police car roll by. Take the high road, dick.

"I ain't got no problem, man." I smile at him and finish my smoke.

I walk back inside, start talking to my buddy about this. He tells me that I should have put my cigarette out in his eye, but that it's probably better off that I didn't, because that guy's gigantic Spanish buddy is a big time coke dealer, and has at least one gun on him all the time.

The BADASS song that Floyd came out to:

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