The Big Flight

Vegas was abuzz this week in anticipation of Saturday night’s big fight. It’d been a long time since a legitimate mega-fight took place in Las Vegas, a town that was use to hosting a “fight of the century” every 6 months. This fight was like an old friend visiting after a long time away. You know that friend who would visit, crash at your place, and skyrocket up gambling, hotel, and dining revenues for you. That kind of friend.

And unlike the NBA All-Star game, this friend doesn’t make you wet your pants in fear.

With it also being Kentucky Derby weekend and Cinco de Mayo, not a single dollar was spent in town that wasn’t soaked in tequila or mint julep.

(Editor’s Note- Friends don’t let friends bet drunk. Especially betting $500 on the 56-1 shot at the Derby because “he looks endowed.”)

So after months of build up, it was finally fight time and we would get answered one the sport’s most pressing questions: Can the Golden Boy actually win a big fight?

He gets all kinds of credit for taking on these tough fights. “Boy, that Oscar sure doesn’t duck anyone. He takes on all comers. What a tough guy.” Of course they neglect to mention the tiny fact that he makes $20 million and he never wins these fights. I don’t want to brag or anything, but I could do the same thing. I would fight anyone if it got me even one million and, I guarantee, I would lose too.

But everyone believed in Oscar. They believed in him so much so that the betting line that started at Mayweather being a healthy 2 to 1 favorite dropped so far that some sports books in town had Mayweather at only –155! (that means you had to bet $155 to win $100, about a 1.5 to1 favorite). That’s called “love betting.” Like a Royals’ fan betting them to win the World Series at the beginning of the season. Or a guy dating a stripper and betting that being with him will turn her off from giving lap dances to Asian businessmen.

There was a lot of love in the air when Pretty Boy started his way to the ring Saturday night. Decked out in Mexican garb and a sombrero, we all laughed at his moxie. Then I thought, in these racially and ethnically sensitive times, shouldn’t I be appalled by this clear affront to the proud Mexican people, and on Cinco de Mayo of all days?

(Another editor’s note- Cinco de Mayo is to real Mexicans what St. Patrick’s Day is to the real Irish. A really unimportant holiday that Americans have co-opted into a liver damaging, marketing campaign.)

Okay editor, enough. You made me lose my train of thought. Where was I? Oh yeah. I am all offended and stuff that Mayweather was making fun of Mexicans. Don’t you think Oscar would have been criticized if he came to the ring decked out in a dashiki or a pinstriped, purple suit? Maybe it was just the tequila flowing through my blood, but I was put off by Mayweather’s display and immediately drove off to the nearest casino and bet $500 on Oscar. (to offset my foolish Derby bet. Guess being well packaged doesn’t make a horse fleet a foot.)

Mayweather offended the Mexicans. He offended Oscar during the pre-fight build up. He offended his own father who had to get a ticket from de la Hoya just to see the fight.

But none of this compared to the offense that the actual fight caused.

You had Pretty Boy spending the fight (flight?) by landing one punch and then running. Sure he was scoring, but not once did it ever look like Oscar was even remotely hurt. Oscar’s post-fight face proves this with barely a mark on it.

The Golden Boy on the other hand fought like his hands were made of gold. His hands were either too valuable to actually be used to throw a punch or, because they were made of gold bricks, they were too heavy to throw. Whatever the reason, I found myself yelling, nay pleading, nay begging on my hands and knees for Oscar to throw a punch. All he was doing was stalking Mayweather. Once again, I CAN DO THAT! Heck, I HAVE done that.

(Editor’s note: the author must stay 50 feet away for a certain reference desk librarian who looks similar to, but in fact is not, Shirley Jones from the Music Man.)

Shut up editor. I was going through a rough patch then and she could have been her twin.

Anyway, between Mayweather ducking and running and Oscar channeling the ghost of Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein, I thought I was watching “Dancing with the Stars: Special Ed Edition.”

At the end, did it really matter who won? I feel boxing lost by having such a boring exhibition on a night when so many people were watching and hoping to see something spectacular. This was a prime moment for the sport to garner new fans and instead left them wondering if USA Network was showing a House repeat.

Okay, it did matter who won because I lost another $500. Why couldn’t one other judge be as drunk as that judge from New Jersey who scored it for Oscar?

Rumor has it his scorecard reeked of mint and tequila.

Hey, watch the hair!

On ESPN 2 the other day, they were showing classic boxing matches. The one I caught was the epic second battle between Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini and Livingstone Bramble for the World Lightweight Championship. It brought to mind a flood of memories and observations.

Ray was probably the last of the great Italian American boxers. The great Italian American boxers all shared three common traits:

1. They had memorable nicknames (come on “Boom Boom” has got to be top 5 great monikers of all time).

2. Their mothers always sat ringside (and if they had passed, a photo of them would be placed ringside because “Mama is always watching.”)

3. Their defense was based on blocking punches with the brim of their nose.

Livingstone Bramble on the other hand was a bit of an oddity. He was a world champion boxer from Saint Kitts and Nevis, I think the first and last one. He was reportedly a practitioner of witchcraft, claimed he cut the head off a chicken to help prepare for fights, and carried a live snake with him into the ring..although I think he found Don King to be quite heavy.

The other unusual thing about Livingstone was his hair. He sported small, tightly wound braids all over his head. This might have been common for voodoo priests in the Caribbean, but not common in the world of pugilists.

His hair always stuck in my memory because of the controversy it caused in the Mancini fight. Mancini’s corner claimed after the first fight that Bramble’s hair was cutting Mancini. (I am not making this up) I am sure it was not the 300 or so punches that Livingstone administered to Mancini’s mug but the prickliness of his “do” that did Boom Boom in.

Never mind, that paper mache was thicker that Mancini's skin. He would start bleeding as soon as he crouched to enter the ring. The ding of the bell would open a cut over his left eye.

But I always wondered if there was some validity to this claim. So I decided I’d try an experiment to prove once and for all if Bramble’s hair shredded Mancini’s face like a grater to a block of mozzarella.

Since I am of Italian ancestry, I nominated myself to be the “guinea pig”. Of course, I offended myself when I called me a “guinea pig” because of the whole derogatory use of the word “guinea” to describe Italian Americans. After I calmed down and accepted my apology, I proceeded.

Next, I had to find someone with similar hair to Bramble’s. I searched high and low until I stumbled on the perfect hair. It turned out the sample hair belonged to Leticia, an 8-year-old girl that lives down the street. Not the perfect choice for my little experiment, but after I promised to teach her how to drive, she agreed to help.

To make things as accurate as possible, I rented out a boxing ring at the downtown gym. The owner was a bit concerned when I said I wanted to spar with an 8-year-old girl, but after I explained it fully, he was REALLY concerned and ran to call the cops. I knew the knots I used to tie him up would not last long (I was a lousy boy scout), so we wouldn’t have much time for the experiment. We put on the gloves and I urged her to come right at me, leading with her head.

I don’t remember much after that. When I came to in the squad car, I had several cuts all over my face, and both eyes we nearly swollen shut. The police officers were laughing so hard they nearly wrecked three times on the way to the station. One said, “That was the worse beating I’ve seen since Livingstone Bramble pummeled Ray Mancini.”

Through a nearly shut jaw, I uttered “So it wasn’t the hair. I knew it.”

I was vindicated. I suffered the same fate as “Boom Boom” and not because of any spiky hair. Granted his beating was at the hands of a professional boxer while mine was from an eight year old who is currently borrowing my car to go buy some “Hello Kitty” jewelry.

Next week ESPN classic is going to show the infamous Tyson- Holyfield ear-biting bout. You know, I was always skeptical that a man could bite off another man’s ear….