Fight nights with Joe and Teddy
I’ve written more blog posts this month than I did between December and March. For the last few weeks I’ve dedicated the evenings to rewriting my short fiction and nonfiction. It’s something I haven’t done in a long time, and it’s been long overdue. But I need to write. My bones and organs ache if I don’t; the day feels empty. That’s why I’ve been blogging.
(I have a lengthy queue of pieces needing a second look. Every night, instead of focusing on a new story, I’ve agonized over an old piece, reworking and rearranging every sentence and paragraph. For an hour I stare at the words on the screen — highlighting, deleting, cutting, pasting. In two weeks I’ve finished revising one piece (yeah, one in two weeks).)
I’ve also written a lot about sports in the past month, especially basketball. When I was a kid basketball was my life. As I grew up, and realized I’d never become an NBA star, my obsession with it faded and I became a well-rounded sports fan. I fell in love with European soccer while watching Premiership, Serie A, and Bundesliga games on Fox Sports World; played Ultimate Frisbee at Mercer Park; and changed seats every quarter at Hawkeye football games (Kinnick rarely saw 60,000 on game days in the very late-‘90s; yet, despite all the section hopping, I’ve never sat in the north end zone stand). I still loved basketball, but other sports had caught my attention.
Another sport intrigued me as well: Boxing. When I was a kid I heard about the big fights in the past, read about Muhammad Ali, and remembered when Mike Tyson bit off a piece of Evander Holyfield’s ear. But I never got into it, never watched matches on TV until I was 17. I read Hemingway for the first time during my junior year in high school, and the way he wrote about the mano a mano struggle between fighters — the same way he made death meaningful with bull fighting — piqued my interest.
I like boxing for the same reason I like blues music: It’s earthy with deep roots, rich in Americana and tradition. Boxers and blues singers are everyday people struggling for a living. Blues musicians wail in the dark, smoky bars and clubs at night, then get up in the morning for work; lesser known boxers fight for prize money on the weekends, then work during the week and train in the gym at night. They’re dreamers and artists like myself. I also appreciate the emphasis on craft and technique, the outsmarting and outboxing. It’s primitive, but complex. It’s intimate, too. At times it can be flashy and pretentious, shown in sparkling HD on Pay-Per View, as we’ll see next weekend with the De La Hoya-Mayweather fight. But most of the time two boxers enter the ring in small, smelly, character rich gyms and boxing clubs, and reporters and spectators are close enough to have sweat spray them when glove and chin connect.
In college I began watching ESPN Fight Night (whether it was on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Friday night) religiously. I still do. Tonight was no exception.
It was an odd but entertaining show. I turned it on late after making a visit to Trader Joe’s. The second fight ended early with a knockout, and the commentators had to fill the dead time before the main event began. Teddy Atlas, who provides the ringside commentary with Joe Tessitore, chatted with Brian Kenny, the studio host in Bristol. They analyzed the big fight next week, and Teddy made his prediction: De La Hoya by decision.
“You guys are screwed now,” I though. “What if the next fight doesn’t pan out? What’ll you do to fill the time?”
The main event was scheduled for ten rounds and appeared to be a good fight: Mike Anchondo (27-1,19 KOs) versus Darling Jimenez (22-2, 13 KOs). Anchondo hadn’t fought in over a year, since he’d lost the light welterweight title belt. He was psyched to be coming back, and confident he’d recover from his only loss.
A strange thing happened in the second. The timekeeper rang the bell after two minutes, ending the round. It was supposed to be three minutes. Anchondo was getting pounded, and the early bell gave him a break. Joe and Teddy were upset. A camera pointed to the timekeeper, with the clock, bell, and small metal hammer in front of him. A man tapped him on the shoulder and informed him of his error. A minute passed without any word from the commentators, then Joe spoke:
“I just went over to the timekeeper and asked, ‘Did you know you timed out a two minute round?’ He said, ‘No. It was supposed to be three minutes.’”
I couldn’t believe it. Joe put down his headset and took matters into his own hands. That’s another thing I like about boxing: Those connected to it, and those who love it, are dedicated to the sport. They make sure everything is done right. (Of course, boxing is the most corrupt sport in the world, even more so than Italian soccer, but it’s been that way forever.)
Jimenez had knocked down Anchondo in the first, usurping his confidence, and KO’d him in the third. The main event ended a half hour early. The show was screwed, just as I’d predicted. But, just as I thought the producers in Bristol were going to throw in the towel and kill the rest of the allotted time with ESPNEWS (the dreaded switch), two more boxers emerged from the bowels of the gym. Most of the audience had filed out, but the reserve, almost impromptu, four rounder was going to take place.
I don’t remember their names. One was a tall, skinny white guy with no muscle definition, and the other was a well-built, toned black guy (yes, very basic descriptions, I know). It was only the second fight for both. The best part about the fight was the ref. He was so short — almost a midget — I couldn’t believe someone of his stature could officiate a boxing match, command the respect of two men who are trained to knock each other cross eyed.
When the bell rang and the boxers approached each other for the first time, I thought, “There’s no way this one’s going the distance, either.” Based on looks, before either one of them threw a punch, I picked the black guy to win. He looked stronger and more confident; he looked more comfortable in the ring. Plus, it looked like he ate. The white guy was skin and bones; he looked emaciated and weak. If he filled out his frame — which he could probably do by eating three square meals a day — he could have been in a heavier class. Instead he was boxing guys who looked cut and well conditioned.
Sure enough, the white guy was knocked down in the first. But he got up and continued fighting. He out punched the black guy and won the next round.
Then another funny thing happened. The black guy developed a cut above his eye in the third and the ref stopped the fight in mid-round. This never happens. Joe and Teddy were pissed. The ref asked the black guy’s trainer to look at the cut, then asked the ringside doctor to take a look. Here’s the funny part, one of those old school, TV moments that rarely happen (like Dean Martin drunk as hell on the “Tonight Show,” but not quite): The doctor, who was sitting ten feet away from the ring, glanced up from whatever she was working on and said, “It looks okay to me.” She didn’t even get up and walk to the ring for a close examination. Joe and Teddy were speechless. Yet another reason why I like boxing: The oddities.
The fight concluded without a hitch, and ESPNEWS wasn’t needed (thank God). The show ended at the scheduled time. I always hate it when the show ends. It means I’ll have to wait until next Wednesday or Friday for another dose of boxing (I never watch those old title bouts ESPN Classic shows). It’s like the feeling I get when Christmas is over. It’s sad. I’d say I cry, but I don’t.
(I have a lengthy queue of pieces needing a second look. Every night, instead of focusing on a new story, I’ve agonized over an old piece, reworking and rearranging every sentence and paragraph. For an hour I stare at the words on the screen — highlighting, deleting, cutting, pasting. In two weeks I’ve finished revising one piece (yeah, one in two weeks).)
I’ve also written a lot about sports in the past month, especially basketball. When I was a kid basketball was my life. As I grew up, and realized I’d never become an NBA star, my obsession with it faded and I became a well-rounded sports fan. I fell in love with European soccer while watching Premiership, Serie A, and Bundesliga games on Fox Sports World; played Ultimate Frisbee at Mercer Park; and changed seats every quarter at Hawkeye football games (Kinnick rarely saw 60,000 on game days in the very late-‘90s; yet, despite all the section hopping, I’ve never sat in the north end zone stand). I still loved basketball, but other sports had caught my attention.
Another sport intrigued me as well: Boxing. When I was a kid I heard about the big fights in the past, read about Muhammad Ali, and remembered when Mike Tyson bit off a piece of Evander Holyfield’s ear. But I never got into it, never watched matches on TV until I was 17. I read Hemingway for the first time during my junior year in high school, and the way he wrote about the mano a mano struggle between fighters — the same way he made death meaningful with bull fighting — piqued my interest.
I like boxing for the same reason I like blues music: It’s earthy with deep roots, rich in Americana and tradition. Boxers and blues singers are everyday people struggling for a living. Blues musicians wail in the dark, smoky bars and clubs at night, then get up in the morning for work; lesser known boxers fight for prize money on the weekends, then work during the week and train in the gym at night. They’re dreamers and artists like myself. I also appreciate the emphasis on craft and technique, the outsmarting and outboxing. It’s primitive, but complex. It’s intimate, too. At times it can be flashy and pretentious, shown in sparkling HD on Pay-Per View, as we’ll see next weekend with the De La Hoya-Mayweather fight. But most of the time two boxers enter the ring in small, smelly, character rich gyms and boxing clubs, and reporters and spectators are close enough to have sweat spray them when glove and chin connect.
In college I began watching ESPN Fight Night (whether it was on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Friday night) religiously. I still do. Tonight was no exception.
It was an odd but entertaining show. I turned it on late after making a visit to Trader Joe’s. The second fight ended early with a knockout, and the commentators had to fill the dead time before the main event began. Teddy Atlas, who provides the ringside commentary with Joe Tessitore, chatted with Brian Kenny, the studio host in Bristol. They analyzed the big fight next week, and Teddy made his prediction: De La Hoya by decision.
“You guys are screwed now,” I though. “What if the next fight doesn’t pan out? What’ll you do to fill the time?”
The main event was scheduled for ten rounds and appeared to be a good fight: Mike Anchondo (27-1,19 KOs) versus Darling Jimenez (22-2, 13 KOs). Anchondo hadn’t fought in over a year, since he’d lost the light welterweight title belt. He was psyched to be coming back, and confident he’d recover from his only loss.
A strange thing happened in the second. The timekeeper rang the bell after two minutes, ending the round. It was supposed to be three minutes. Anchondo was getting pounded, and the early bell gave him a break. Joe and Teddy were upset. A camera pointed to the timekeeper, with the clock, bell, and small metal hammer in front of him. A man tapped him on the shoulder and informed him of his error. A minute passed without any word from the commentators, then Joe spoke:
“I just went over to the timekeeper and asked, ‘Did you know you timed out a two minute round?’ He said, ‘No. It was supposed to be three minutes.’”
I couldn’t believe it. Joe put down his headset and took matters into his own hands. That’s another thing I like about boxing: Those connected to it, and those who love it, are dedicated to the sport. They make sure everything is done right. (Of course, boxing is the most corrupt sport in the world, even more so than Italian soccer, but it’s been that way forever.)
Jimenez had knocked down Anchondo in the first, usurping his confidence, and KO’d him in the third. The main event ended a half hour early. The show was screwed, just as I’d predicted. But, just as I thought the producers in Bristol were going to throw in the towel and kill the rest of the allotted time with ESPNEWS (the dreaded switch), two more boxers emerged from the bowels of the gym. Most of the audience had filed out, but the reserve, almost impromptu, four rounder was going to take place.
I don’t remember their names. One was a tall, skinny white guy with no muscle definition, and the other was a well-built, toned black guy (yes, very basic descriptions, I know). It was only the second fight for both. The best part about the fight was the ref. He was so short — almost a midget — I couldn’t believe someone of his stature could officiate a boxing match, command the respect of two men who are trained to knock each other cross eyed.
When the bell rang and the boxers approached each other for the first time, I thought, “There’s no way this one’s going the distance, either.” Based on looks, before either one of them threw a punch, I picked the black guy to win. He looked stronger and more confident; he looked more comfortable in the ring. Plus, it looked like he ate. The white guy was skin and bones; he looked emaciated and weak. If he filled out his frame — which he could probably do by eating three square meals a day — he could have been in a heavier class. Instead he was boxing guys who looked cut and well conditioned.
Sure enough, the white guy was knocked down in the first. But he got up and continued fighting. He out punched the black guy and won the next round.
Then another funny thing happened. The black guy developed a cut above his eye in the third and the ref stopped the fight in mid-round. This never happens. Joe and Teddy were pissed. The ref asked the black guy’s trainer to look at the cut, then asked the ringside doctor to take a look. Here’s the funny part, one of those old school, TV moments that rarely happen (like Dean Martin drunk as hell on the “Tonight Show,” but not quite): The doctor, who was sitting ten feet away from the ring, glanced up from whatever she was working on and said, “It looks okay to me.” She didn’t even get up and walk to the ring for a close examination. Joe and Teddy were speechless. Yet another reason why I like boxing: The oddities.
The fight concluded without a hitch, and ESPNEWS wasn’t needed (thank God). The show ended at the scheduled time. I always hate it when the show ends. It means I’ll have to wait until next Wednesday or Friday for another dose of boxing (I never watch those old title bouts ESPN Classic shows). It’s like the feeling I get when Christmas is over. It’s sad. I’d say I cry, but I don’t.
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