The Harder They Fall: That Cat Mayweather can Fight! Now Pacquiao has to show his mettle!
By Sunset Thomas (May 30, 2012) Doghouse Boxing (Photo © German Villasenor)
Floyd Mayweather - Miguel Cotto
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A couple of times a week Frankie Gambino and me head over to Montana Meat Company and talk boxing.  These little tete a tetes at our local watering hole are always accompanied by shots of Irish whiskey (a beer back for me, bitters and soda for Frankie).

Just the other day we were three pops deep into pugilistic pugnacity—the conversation all over the place…

“I gotta say kid, that Pretty Boy Floyd fought a beaut of a bout against Cotto. He earned my respect in spades—that cat can fight. I knew he could take it, but Mayweather can dish it out as well. I’m a believer!”

I had to agree with Frankie, Floyd fought a slug-fest, not his typical style and he—despite being an elder statesman—didn’t flinch, but fought and rested like a sly possum and then pummeled. Wow—what a fight—well worth the Pay-Per-View price!

“Now Pacquiao has to show his mettle,” growled my Ghost of a Gumba. “He has to show more than he did against Marquez, that’s for sure. But I’m not changing my stance. The no-longer Philistine Filipino must be decisive—prove his pound-for-pound pomp and then Mr. Merry must accept a bout—50/50—man up!”

I guess I agree; and only time will tell. But if Manny is decisive over Bradley then Floyd simply must do his time and then tow the line. Fight fans need and want this bout. Haggling over the Marvin margins after Pac Man accepted the pre-fight drug drudgery is punk. Fight 50/50 like Frankie says. If you win—there’s your advantage—money will rain like a good night at a strip joint!

We fed a twenty into the slot at the bar while Enrico (the boss-man at Montana) poured us another round.
Did you hear about Mike Tyson’s one man show here in Vegas? I asked Frankie—who probably hasn’t seen a Vegas show since the Rat Pack packed ‘em in at the Sands.

“Tyson was a one man show in his prime,” Frankie mused. “The kid fought every month, just like Joe Louis. And he fought with brains—he was unstoppable but something happened. How does Buster Douglas beat him? I’d sure like to hear him talk about that fiasco. Let’ me tell you kid, that fight seemed like a one man show to me!”

Since Frankie is a ghost, I really don’t know where the booze goes, but it was getting to my head.
Personally, I think Mike Tyson is special and he’s like an onion in the peeling process. I’m proud of him and I hope his show goes on the road!

I hit four twos with a kicker and Enrico brought my cash and a fresh set, which got Frankie to reminisce (as he so often does).

“You know Babe Ruth used to drink booze and smoke cigars in the dugout during games,” Frankie said, while sipping his Jameson. “Nowadays, athletes can’t do that stuff but they’re hopped up on these performance enhancing cocktails!”

That brought the conversation to Andre Berto—here’s a guy who can’t come clean (like Mike’s trying to do). Here he has a shot at Victor Ortiz, who by-the-way fell to the bottom of the cheap-heap in my book when he said he’d headbutt Mayweather again if given another chance—what a putz!

Anyway, Berto hires the guy from Frisco that was involved in the Barry Bonds case. And viola, he comes up dirty—trace amounts—which is like a little bit pregnant. What are those guys thinking?

“I don’t get it,” Frankie lamented. “Back in the day, boxers weren’t buffed; they didn’t look like Charles Atlas (nice old school reference Frankie). The old guys were strong but agile and they used their bodies in the ring. Hell, it seems like the weigh-in has become a body-building contest. This Berto kid’s a bum!”

I’ve got to say, it’s hard to be harsh regarding Frankie’s assessment. Here you have a big pay-day, a chance to prove yourself and you feel the need to cheat and in the stupidest of ways.

Speaking of dummy-drug-dabblers—what about Lamont Peterson? He gets a home-town pass in his first fight against Amir Khan and then, when he has to—can do—prove he’s a fighter; he comes up dirtier than his decision in D.C.

“Yep,” howled Frankie, “I guess he had to supplement juice for judges this time around. What a stronzo this Peteson.”

Frankie likes Khan and so do I—class act, a boxer and puncher—a breath of fresh air…

As I watched cards flash before my eyes on the computerized screen, Enrico came over and poured us another. Frankie grew solomn as he raised his glass!

“To Johnny Tapia!”

We clincked glasses—took the amber serum in a gulp…

Tapia was a troubled sort but a tough and entertaining fighter whose drug issues were out, not in, the ring—I have a lot more respect for a guy like that…

The machines were drying out and I thought I probably should too—I ordered some black coffee…

How about that Brit Boxer David Price! The Liverpool Pug has power! I said, blowing steam from the just arrived cup of Joe…

“He’s something of a Klitschko,” Frankie added, “only I suspect more of a brawler. I think the kid is willing to mix it up.”

He does have power and style and seems fairly comfy in his 6’8” frame but we’ll need to see him against stiffer competition. But he is a breath of fresh air, just like Seth Mitchell—guys like this make the Heavyweight division something to look forward to again—Yippie!

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Sunset Thomas and Siarhei Liakhovich

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