I’m not sure who thought this one up. Uncle Roger. Papa Floyd. Little Floyd. The manager. The promoter. The publicist. The bodyguard. The chauffeur. One of the other countless enablers whose purpose we’ve never been able to figure out.
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It is in Floyd Mayweather Jr.’s corner now. It is up to him.
Freddie Roach was worried. He had watched Miguel Cotto’s earlier fights on film, watched the power and skill and confidence of a world champion, watched him cut off the quickness of Shane Mosley like a coyote might a jack rabbit’s attempt at escape, watched the jabs and uppercuts and counters and that thunderous left hook.
My mother is a small, forgetful, cheerful Irish immigrant who never drove a day in her life, is convinced mashed potatoes aren’t the same without mixing in that fourth stick of butter and always thinks the next cup of coffee she drinks is the best of her lifetime.
For us logical types, let’s assume the first time Antonio Margarito tried wrapping his hands for a fight with enough plaster to shape a small cast wasn’t moments before facing Shane Mosley in January.
Every now and then, you expect some director to sprint from behind a punching bag and scream, “Cut!”
Gary Shaw is certain of it. He thinks boxing still has it over mixed martial arts in one specific way. He has no doubt that when a megafight occurs, when a Manny Pacquiao steps into a ring and faces a Ricky Hatton, when so many movie stars show up that Denzel Washington is relegated to the 15th row, when the lights are blinding and the buzz deafening, the advantage still falls to boxing.
You still see it in movies. How boxing once was. How it truly mattered to all those watching. How the action inside the ring was thought far more exciting than whatever celebrity might be attending outside it.
This really does make perfect sense, that the new, big (really big) thing in the Ultimate Fighting Championship is our very own version of Ivan Drago.
