I assume boxing still exists in some form or fashion. Like a lot of sports, it doesn’t matter anymore, which is the same as being extinct to me. They have that wan replacement with barefoot guys with manbuns rolling around on the mat and barfighting occasionally. I’m not interested. Barfighting ain’t boxing.
Way out West there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of Manny. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. The Manny, he called himself the Manny. Now, Manny — Manny didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.
The latest fight reminds me of one of Pacquiao’s fights from a few years ago. Even though he’s way past his prime, the man can still kick an ass like nobody’s business. I would rather get my faced ripped off by a rabid racoon than fight Manny Pacquiao. He’s not the scariest looking guy, but in a heartbeat he can rearrange your face to look like one of Picasso’s drunken nightmares. He’s a beast. His beastliness wasn’t really reflected in last night’s fight, but that doesn’t make Pacquiao any less terrifying.
I really don’t know what to make of Mike Tyson’s boxing. He’s not the biggest fellow, but that doesn’t make him look any less intimidating. He doesn’t have the swagger or stunning theatrics of Mohammed Ali, and he doesn’t really look like the sort of man who could peddle a grill. He’s half Tiger tank, half Pit Bull. If you get within arm’s reach of him, he’ll beat you within an inch of your life, and if you try to run away he’ll chase you down and politely ask you not to do that. Just kidding, he’ll still beat you to a pulp.
He’s eighteen years old in those first fights. Eighteen. I didn’t look like that when I was eighteen. I was mostly sitting around on the beach with a mouth full of sand. I can see that in the first fights none of the other fighters thought that much of him. They came in swinging wild and they got put on their ass in the first 20 seconds. Half of them only take two hits before going down for good: One hit to knock some sense into them, and a second hit to knock it back out again. Well, as Iron Mike said, “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.”
I didn’t watch the whole video, so the last 20 minutes could just be Mike eating raw Tyson chicken from a bag while staring longingly at the ring-card girl until his court-ordered electric sex pants give him a jolt. I assume the rest of the matches are equally as spectacular as the beginning. And by spectacular I mean we get to watch Mike Tyson stand around for a bit while a team of doctors desperately try to revive whoever he was fighting.
I always liked watching Mike Tyson box because he fights like he’s got somewhere to be in about 20 minutes and he really doesn’t want to be late. He’s usually halfway to the locker room before his opponent hits the floor. Of course, he somehow manages to get lost on the way back to his corner, but there’s four corners to choose from so I can see how he’d get confused.
I even enjoy watching his interviews because it’s like watching a slow-motion train wreck as he slurs and spits his way through every syllable. It makes you appreciate how some humans are built to do one thing and one thing only. While some people are natural-born accountants or used car salesmen, Mike Tyson is a janitor — he takes whoever is within arm’s length and mops the floor with them. He takes out the trash like you wouldn’t believe, and it appears that he really likes his job.
I’d like my job too if I got sent a six-figure check for a match that had a longer weigh-in than actual fight. That seems like a pretty good deal.