Destination (2 page)
I walked to the Bellagio. A waiter brought coffee up.
He was Mexican. He came from L.A.
We talked fights.
He liked Morales. Barrera was through.
His wife liked Oscar. He didn't get the allure.
The waiter split. I dug my view.
Ant swarms. Streeeetch facades. Seduction signs.
Caesars. The Mirage. Gay white tigers.
The swarms vibed migration. Peons with cups. Supplicants hot for cash and diversion.
I felt like El Jefe. Call me Batista. Call me Juan Perón.
I viewed my Third World. I dispensed benedictions. I scrutinized and exploited small men.
Sanctioning bodies ruled boxing.
Puto
patriarchs reigned.
The IBF got indicted. The WBC held in. A wag called it “World of Bandits and Charlatans.”
The WBA. The IBA. The WBOgus.
The I's meant “International.” The W's meant “World.” It stressed dominion and shared thought.
Official judges judge fights. State commissions appoint them.
Sanctioning bodies court them. Sanctioning bodies corrupt them. Sanctioning bodies stress shared thought.
Fractured titles. Multi-championships. Two I's/three W's.
Titles mean money. Titles drive a fighter's momentum.
Judges judge off it. Judges vote what's perceived best for boxing. Judges know the formal rules. Judges know subtext. Judges enforce consensus thinking.
Not all judges. Not most judges. Some judges in key fights.
Bribery.
Implicit. Covert. Unindictable.
The migration continued. The light show blipped on.
I fucked with the TV. I hit HBO.
Wags called it Home Breast Office. I hit breasts and an end-title crawl. I hit a
Boxing After Dark
teaser.
Two days hence:
MoralesâBarrera.
Sangre.
The Holy War.
BAD
had it.
BAD should
have it.
BAD knew.
BAD
was the best boxing show in TV history.
BAD
broadcast great fights.
BAD
broadcast bravura.
Great blow-by-blow. Jim Lampley in tight. Pro scoop and malapropisms via Roy Jones and George Foreman. Larry Merchant on meaning.
Bad Boy Barrera top-lined
BAD
card #1. He KO'd Kennedy McKinney.
A fierce fight. A tuff tiff. A proud prophecy.
I went to bed. I slept late. A waiter brought coffee up.
He was Mexican. He came from Oregon.
We talked fights.
He liked Morales. Barrera was fucked.
The Mandalay Bay:
Slot-Machine Acres. Blackjack Estates. Keno Kountry forever.
I walked through it. I got lost. I gagged on smoke. I smelled spilled cocktails.
I rerouted. I trekked on.
Card-Table Terrace. Roulette Rendezvous. Blow-Your-Mortgage Mesa.
I hit a corridor. I saw directional balloons.
Tricolor. Mexican. Red, green, and white.
I followed them. I hit the press gig.
Dais. Lectern. Steam tables. Buffet in gear.
I mingled. I saw Wayne “Pocket Rocket” McCullough. Morales decisioned him. I saw Richie Sandoval. Gaby Canizales KO'd him.
He got hurt. He quit boxing. He went into boxing PR.
I saw Latin reporters. I saw Latin cornermen. I saw some Anglo press.
The room chowed down. The food was bad. All starch and grease.
I sipped coffee. I listened. I bootjacked conversations.
Male experts dueled. Male experts interrupted. Male experts riffed lore.
I
was there.
I
saw it. Dig
my
perception.
The honchos hit the dais.
Lou Di Bella. Mr. HBO. State commissioners.
Morales. Barrera. Promoter Bob Arum.
Morales looked calm. Barrera looked drained.
Weight.
Stabilize. Walk at 135. Make 122 by tomorrow.
Weight.
Eating disorders. Boxing's dirty secret.
Cosmoâ
take note.
Intros went around. Honchos sanctified. Arum worked the mike.
His cheeks glowed. Perfect circles. He Mexicanized.
His kids spoke Spanish. We all should.
Mexicans were great fighters. Mexicans were great people. Mexicans were great fans.
He cited Mexican battles. He overpronounced names.
He coaxed his boys. Speak English,
por favor.
Morales spoke. Barrera spoke. They spoke haltingly.
They pledged results. They showed their youth. They oozed dignity.
The gig broke up. Morales and Barrera mingled.
Reporters closed in. Interpreters assisted.
Standard stuff.
Nobody said, “You get my rocks off.”
Nobody said, “You make me feel alive.”
Nobody said, “Nationalism is all shuck-and-jive.”
I thought about youth. I thought about glory. I wondered how brain cells dispersed.
I thought about middle age. I grooved on self-preserving circumspection.
Morales brought some guys. They vibed buddies. Barrera brought some guys. They vibed entourage.
They wore reflecting sweat suits. They waxed sullen. They looked like the Tonton Macoute.
They brought some girls. The girls brought babies.
One baby cried. Mom fed him Pepsi. Mom shut him up.
Bob Arum mingled.
He glowed. His cheeks glowed. His cheeks looked rouged and augmented.
TICKETSSOLD. Mexicans bought them.
They eschewed “Latino.” They eschewed “Chicano.” They were born here. They were born there. They were “Mexican.”
Tickets sold fast. Tickets sold out.
I schmoozed PR flacks. They extolled the demographic.
Working folks. Mexicans. Cognoscenti.
I prowled the Mandalay Bay. I caught the weigh-in.
Barrera looked drained. Barrera looked scared. The Tonton looked apprehensive.
I prowled the casino. I surveilled the ticket booths. I cataloged rumors.
Morales hates Barrera. Barrera hates Morales.
Turf tiff. T.J. versus Mexico City. Class clash. Middle meets moneyed.
They had soccer teams. The Morales Marauders. The Barrera Banditos.
They played. They clashed. The hell-bent jefes almost hurled heat.
My wife flew in. Some friends drove up from L.A.
We viewed a friend's wedding. We ate in mock cantinas. We strolled mock-Mexican streets.
We polled personnel.
The cognoscenti said walk-through. The starstruck said war.
The fans arrived. Mariachis piped them in.
It got loud.
The walls boomed. The walls trapped noise. The walls echochambered.
The fans lugged posters.
Morales. Barrera. Exhortings
en español.
Balloons tapped the ceiling. Tricolored all.
A sound system cranked. Mariachi shit exclusive.
The room filled. The room roared. The room vibed bullring.
Fans positioned. Fans waved signs. Fans slugged cerveza.
Factions mingled. Factions placed bets. Total strangers held money.
I sat with the press. I watched the prelims.
They went fast. They went loud. The Mexicans drew cheers. The non-Mexicans drew silence.
TKOs. One decision. One woman's fight.
I hit the john. I crashed a rehearsal.
A baritone. A prime gig. The Mexican anthem.
We talked fights.
He liked Morales. Barrera was shot.
I bopped back. The noise reignited. I sat with my wife and friends.
A Morales guy flanked me. He was expansive. He was loud.
He waved a roll. He peeled C-notes. He placed bets.
Barrera guys bet him. A neutral popped up. He held the
dinero.
A band filed in. Thirteen musicians.
Sombreros. Embroidered threads.
They entered the ring. They played loud. HBO cameras turned.
Fans held signs up. Cameras panned. Signs eclipsed views.
The noise built.
The fighters filed in.
The noise built.
The ring announcer spieled.
He spieled bilingual. He rolled his
r
's. He rolled rich and rapt.
The noise built.
That cat sang the Mexican anthem.
The noise built.
The announcer introed the officials. The announcer introed the men.
He ratched his
r
's. MoRales extended. BaRReRa rolled long.
The noise built.
The men derobed. They'd added weight. They'd sapped and replenished.
The ref gave instructions. The men touched gloves.
The noise built.
They went to their corners. They knelt. They crossed themselves.
The noise built.
The bell rang.
The noise stratosphered.
They moved. They squared off. They hit center ring.
Morales pops a jab. Barrera hooks to the body. Morales moves back.
Barrera. Fast hands. A shock.
Barrera moves in. He lands a right. He left-hooks downstairs.
Morales moves back. Let's bait and counter.
Barrera moves in. Barrera cuts off. Barrera double-hooks low.
Fast hands. Shocker. “Shot”âbullshit.
Morales backs up. Morales moves in. They trade right hands.
Morales backs up Barrera. His rights sting.
They square off. They trade. Morales backs up Barrera.
They circle. They pause.
Morales backs up. Let's bait and counter.
He taps the ropes. Barrera's on him. They trade hooks at the bell.
The 122-pound showdown between Erik Morales and Marco Antonio Barrera for the junior featherweight title would become the fight of the year.
(Photo by Ben Watts)
The noise built. The noise leveled. The noise leveled loud.
Round 2:
Barrera stalks. Morales jabs.
It's a range finder. It's a sizer-up. It's a reach enhancer.
He's dancing. He's on his toes. Barrera closes in.
He lands a left hook. He lands a left/right.
Morales stands firm. Morales steps inside. Morales lands an uppercut. Morales rocks Barrera.
They stand. They trade. They deliver.
Morales has right hands. Morales has uppercuts. Barrera has killer hooks.
They disengage. Barrera moves in. Barrera hooks low.
Morales jabs. Morales moves in. Morales lands lefts and rights. Morales eats hooks.
He's fighting Barrera's fight. He's standing in. He's taking to give.
He's fighting close range. He wants to. His work vibes abandon.
He's pausing. Barrera's on him. He's launching hooks.
The bell. Hard to hear. One mini-gong.
The noise built. The noise releveled. The noise releveled loud.
Round 3:
Morales circles. Morales jabs. Barrera lunges. Barrera hits his knees.
He gets up. The ref wipes his gloves. Morales comes on.
Morales jabs. Morales leaves a jab out. Barrera hooks low.
Morales moves back. Barrera stalks. Barrera lands hooks.
Morales moves in. He lands two-handed. He moves back.
Barrera presses.
He misses hooks. He lands hooks.
Morales leans on the ropes. Morales blocks hooks. Morales eats hooks.
