No Mas?
The anticipation was therapeutic. After the Patriots collapse in Indianapolis last weekend, knowing a night of pugilism was around the corner kept up the spirits during a long week of work.
My spirits began to fade as soon as I entered the Mohegan Sun Arena early to meet former World Champion Roberto Duran. Roberto is now short and very bloated. Not unlike the current rendition of The Prez unfortunately. The site of Duran wearing an ill conceived police chief’s hat was pitiful. I first considered asking him to sign my pizza box. Next I wondered if he would sign it “No Mas-Roberto Duran”. A guy ahead of me mentioned it, and Duran got pissed. I shook his hand an had him sign my ticket. It was completely illegible. Unfortunately, Duran is a caricature and a cliché. He is a retired boxer. During the evening they trotted him out before every match. It was more depressing each time.
Going to a night of boxing is literary hit or miss. It can be the most electric sporting event of you life, or feel like you are watching paint dry, even worse then NASCAR. The late arriving crowd slowly got amped up, but the bouts were crap. Many in my section said the best fight of the night was the one I actually got involved in, when a young couple in front of me got into a fight. The Prez abhors domestic violence in all of its forms. These people were young and the guy was clearly out of control, and the girl was very upset about it. I was kind of pissed no one reacted to his initial outburst, which included yelling racial epithets at the boxers. When he turned it on his girlfriend it was on. I told him to cool it, he started calling her a whore and pushed her into her seat, I told him to shut his mouth and hopped in between them.
He did not challenge me to a dance off. I was keeping it real. He called me F**, only now seeing he was actually 7 inches taller then me, I called him a C*** B****, he leaped at me and tripped over the seat, I took the opportunity to stomp on his candy ass with my Docs. Security ran down and hauled us out. People in the section told them not to take me, but I went anyways. I filled out a report with another dude from the section so our stories could be corroborated. The couple turned out to each be 19. The kid was given a breathalyzer test, and failed. The girl was actually really pretty after she stopped crying. During our conversation while her boyfriend was being processed, she said she was a figure skater. She got picked up by her older brother who was very thankful for my heroism. She gave me her number. However, am through with the young enabler head cases. I probably will call her in a couple days just to see if she has already taken him back. Attractive women are the worst at choosing who to date. This guy was scum by any definition. I just don’t get it.
Why more boxers choose not to enter the ring with “Walk” by Pantera playing is beyond my comprehension. It was the coolest thing about RVD.
The main event started as a show stopper. Both Teddy Reid and Rickey Gutierrez were laying haymakers. Then, Gutierrez hit Reid with a shot to the gut and Reid went down reacted like it was a low blow, the referee continued counting all the way to ten. Upon further review it looked like a low blow, with the crowd ruling about 70/30 that it was a low blow. It was really too bad, I think a knockout was inevitable had it continued. It was the only time I really wanted Teddy Atlas’s and Joe Tesatore’s analysis. Despite being at ringside, they were never fed over the loud speaker. That was lame.
For the last bout, I moved to a lower section across the arena. Much better seats. Plus, a group of hot ladies were just showing up for the last fight. They were totally wasted. I talked with them throughout the last fight hoping my earlier karma boost may pay off. Even the mandatory shout out to The Don of New England boxing, the ever present Vinny Pazienza, went by the wayside. One of the ladies noticed what a player Vinny Paz was. Now, I normally turn into Jules from Pulp Fiction in these scenarios. I channel my inner Samuel L Jackson. Totally cool and in control, while using the phrase, “Bad “Mother F*****” a lot. I know I am not the Big Man, so I play it safe. The swearing gives my ridiculously homely demeanor an edge. Then one of the women next to me actually puked little on the seat next to her. I got up and walked out. A fitting end to a truly bizarre evening.
The rumor is that Pro Boxing returns to The Sun at the end of February. An usher asked if I would be back. My eventual response? …Si.
My spirits began to fade as soon as I entered the Mohegan Sun Arena early to meet former World Champion Roberto Duran. Roberto is now short and very bloated. Not unlike the current rendition of The Prez unfortunately. The site of Duran wearing an ill conceived police chief’s hat was pitiful. I first considered asking him to sign my pizza box. Next I wondered if he would sign it “No Mas-Roberto Duran”. A guy ahead of me mentioned it, and Duran got pissed. I shook his hand an had him sign my ticket. It was completely illegible. Unfortunately, Duran is a caricature and a cliché. He is a retired boxer. During the evening they trotted him out before every match. It was more depressing each time.
Going to a night of boxing is literary hit or miss. It can be the most electric sporting event of you life, or feel like you are watching paint dry, even worse then NASCAR. The late arriving crowd slowly got amped up, but the bouts were crap. Many in my section said the best fight of the night was the one I actually got involved in, when a young couple in front of me got into a fight. The Prez abhors domestic violence in all of its forms. These people were young and the guy was clearly out of control, and the girl was very upset about it. I was kind of pissed no one reacted to his initial outburst, which included yelling racial epithets at the boxers. When he turned it on his girlfriend it was on. I told him to cool it, he started calling her a whore and pushed her into her seat, I told him to shut his mouth and hopped in between them.
He did not challenge me to a dance off. I was keeping it real. He called me F**, only now seeing he was actually 7 inches taller then me, I called him a C*** B****, he leaped at me and tripped over the seat, I took the opportunity to stomp on his candy ass with my Docs. Security ran down and hauled us out. People in the section told them not to take me, but I went anyways. I filled out a report with another dude from the section so our stories could be corroborated. The couple turned out to each be 19. The kid was given a breathalyzer test, and failed. The girl was actually really pretty after she stopped crying. During our conversation while her boyfriend was being processed, she said she was a figure skater. She got picked up by her older brother who was very thankful for my heroism. She gave me her number. However, am through with the young enabler head cases. I probably will call her in a couple days just to see if she has already taken him back. Attractive women are the worst at choosing who to date. This guy was scum by any definition. I just don’t get it.
Why more boxers choose not to enter the ring with “Walk” by Pantera playing is beyond my comprehension. It was the coolest thing about RVD.
The main event started as a show stopper. Both Teddy Reid and Rickey Gutierrez were laying haymakers. Then, Gutierrez hit Reid with a shot to the gut and Reid went down reacted like it was a low blow, the referee continued counting all the way to ten. Upon further review it looked like a low blow, with the crowd ruling about 70/30 that it was a low blow. It was really too bad, I think a knockout was inevitable had it continued. It was the only time I really wanted Teddy Atlas’s and Joe Tesatore’s analysis. Despite being at ringside, they were never fed over the loud speaker. That was lame.
For the last bout, I moved to a lower section across the arena. Much better seats. Plus, a group of hot ladies were just showing up for the last fight. They were totally wasted. I talked with them throughout the last fight hoping my earlier karma boost may pay off. Even the mandatory shout out to The Don of New England boxing, the ever present Vinny Pazienza, went by the wayside. One of the ladies noticed what a player Vinny Paz was. Now, I normally turn into Jules from Pulp Fiction in these scenarios. I channel my inner Samuel L Jackson. Totally cool and in control, while using the phrase, “Bad “Mother F*****” a lot. I know I am not the Big Man, so I play it safe. The swearing gives my ridiculously homely demeanor an edge. Then one of the women next to me actually puked little on the seat next to her. I got up and walked out. A fitting end to a truly bizarre evening.
The rumor is that Pro Boxing returns to The Sun at the end of February. An usher asked if I would be back. My eventual response? …Si.
Labels: Dave Chapelle, Domestic Violence, ESPN, Mohegan Sun, NASCAR, Pantera, Pulp Fiction, Roberto Duran, Samuel L Jackson, Tony Atlas, Vinny Paz, Vinny Pazienza
posted by The Dude at
9:33 PM
1 Comments:
Webb, you're a goddamn hero. I'm proud of you.
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