Quick Jabs: Mayweather/Hatton 24/7 Continued, Fights That Must Happen, Fights That No One Cares To See, A Must-See Prospect And A Bad Idea

All right. It's settled. I think I'll just go with "Quick Jabs" for these collections of musings from now on. Until I think of something better. Maybe I'll even come up with a logo or somethin'.

• The final scene in the most recent episode of HBO's Mayweather/Hatton 24/7 documentary series was absolutely spine-tingling: A palpably intense Ricky Hatton sitting in his car, bucking his playful image and declaring resolutely that he wanted to win more than Floyd Mayweather. Summarized, it doesn't sound very special, but the contrast, both in Hatton's tone compared to his usual nature and in the photography itself, was really something. My affection for Hatton continues to grow, as does my disinterest in Mayweather's constant harping about how much money he has. It's fascinating to see how the series has a number of writers hedging their bets about Mayweather blowing out Hatton. I've never thought this was going to be as easy as some predicted; snide remarks that Mayweather would dispatch with Hatton as easily as he did Arturo Gatti have been way out of line. Hatton is significantly more versatile, having proven he can win via all-out mauling or controlled, safety-first boxing, and has beaten significantly better fighters than Gatti ever did. But I don't want to get ahead of myself. The point of the series is to promote the fight, and it's easier to promote if the show emphasizes Hatton's chances. Scenes like the one in the car do that incredibly well.
• We'll find out by the end of this week whether Manny Pacquiao fights Juan Manuel Marquez in March or David Diaz. On the off-chance that Google search algorithms pick up this post when an official with Top Rank, Pacquiao's main promoter, is playing on the web, let me once again stress that Pacquiao must, must, must fight Marquez. There is not a more important fight in boxing right now than a rematch between these two top-five "pound for pound" best, to settle unfinished business from their mightily entertaining 2004 draw. Last time Marquez was to blame for the rematch falling through, when he demanded too much money. This time if it fails, the blame is entirely with Pacquiao. Even Top Rank head honcho Bob Arum admits that Marquez promoter Golden Boy has been "reasonable" in contract demands, and Marquez is willing to move up in weight from 130, where Pacquiao has begun to strain, to 132 or 135. While I'm at it, I'd like to again lobby for Bernard Hopkins to take on Joe Calzaghe at light heavyweight (175 lbs.); it's arguably the second most important fight yet to be scheduled. The two remarkably spry old men are two more of the top-five pound for pound fighters, with Mayweather rounding out the other slot. Word is that Hopkins is being difficult, and no surprise there. His handlers want a rematch with Roy Jones instead, which may make sense financially and aesthetically but is far less preferable in terms of settling legacies. Boxing's on too much of a hot streak not to make Hopkins/Calzaghe and Pacquiao/Marquez happen. Should one or both falter, all this great momentum will have been for naught.
• Light heavyweight Antonio Tarver is the rare culprit in not making a big fight happen in 2007, when he ducked Chad Dawson by insisting on absurd money. He's up against an unknown Saturday night in a Showtime triple-header also featuring junior middleweight (154 lbs.) Vernon Forrest and flyweight (112 lbs.) Nonito Donaire in against heavy underdogs. I'm not sure where anyone got the idea that this was a good card, but I'll probably watch if I'm around and root for Tarver to lose. This is a bizarrely atypical card in a year loaded with amazing ones, although, at least Donaire's opponent is recognized as something of a contender. I'm predicting victories for the guys I know.
  
• While I'm dispensing advise, if you haven't had a chance to ogle prospect James Kirkland yet, I highly recommend you tune in to Showtime Friday night. Mike Tyson comparisons are thrown around so much in boxing as to be meaningless -- witness Joan Guzman's nickname "Little Tyson," even though he fights nothing like him and hasn't knocked anyone out in forever -- but Kirkland, a junior middleweight, does a lot of what Tyson did. Crushing power. Underrated speed. A single-minded adherence to destroy, destroy, destroy. While Mike Tyson is getting more headlines with his jailtime lunch menu than all of what's good in boxing these days, Kirkland's doing what Tyson used to in the ring. His opponent Friday is another nobody, but Kirkland isn't far away from a title shot or at least a fight where we find out if he's for real.
  
• It's old news, but Jermain Taylor's decision to go with Ozell Nelson as his trainer for a 166-pound rematch with Kelly Pavlik in February is out of the frying pan, into the fire. I'd lobbied for Taylor to part ways with Emmanuel Steward, given the unproductive nature of their relationship thus far, and everyone thought former Taylor trainer Pat Burns would return, since Burns led him to the middleweight (160 lbs.) championship. Instead, the unproven Nelson, a close Taylor adviser who had a bad relationship with Burns, is in the driver's seat. This is an awful decision. Awful. By the sound of Burns' interview with ESPN, Taylor wanted Burns to return and told him so. Taylor just keeps making the wrong choices in the end, from settling with Nelson for reasons no one yet understands to not throwing the uppercut in the 2nd round against Pavlik when that would have ended Taylor's night in a victory instead of in a heap, slumped over unconscious. It's sad, because Taylor has a gift and he's immensely likable, but this bodes for another devastating KO in his near future.

Reflections On Mike Tyson

I've spent several hours this afternoon viewing "Fallen Champ: Mike Tyson," a documentary produced in 1993, two years after Tyson raped a beauty queen named Desiree Washington. It's a remarkable piece of work for a great many reasons. For instance, the numerous off-key defenses of his actions with Ms. Washington are shocking. On one hand, two of his bodyguards say, respectively, "'People say we touch women's asses. Well, people want to be touched," and "We get accused of reaching out and grabbing women. But if I grab you, that means you're close enough for me to reach you, and that says a lot"; on the other hand, there are the ministers, among them Louis Farrakhan, mocking the idea that Ms. Washington might not have wanted to be forced into sex. In the audience, Don King laughs along at this bit of unhilarity. Such scenes illustrate perfectly one of the central premises of the film, the notion that Mike Tyson was a troubled youth who, when positive role models were supplanted by destructive ones, became dangerous to himself and others outside the ring. (Even with good role models, Tyson was fragile. The first half of the documentary contains amazing footage of Mike at 15. In on scene, following a quick knockout of his opponent at the Junior Olympics, he had to be coaxed back into the building for the next fight by trainer Teddy Atlas. Tyson was outside crying for what appears to be no reason.)

This insight into Tyson, about influences and his fragility, is not original, although the film adds tremendous depth and contour to it. What I found most compelling were two insights contradictory to conventional wisdom, one of which I have long subscribed to and the other of which I had never heard uttered.

The first is a challenge to the orthodoxy on Tyson that I was glad to see someone else besides myself espouse. The traditional line of thinking goes that as soon as anyone stood up to him without fear -- Buster Douglas originally, then Evander Holyfield and others -- Tyson was revealed as a sub-par heavyweight who thrived on intimidation. The bully theory is kind of accurate; the look of terror in his opponents' eyes was at times palpable, and can't have been conducive to victory. But that, along with the sheer power he was blessed with, was only part of what made Tyson great. In reality, Tyson was once a skilled boxing technician who gobbled up fight footage like candy and tied his legendary power to ring intelligence, compounding the threat he posed. By the time Tyson faced Douglas, his boxing technique had long faded. Watch early Tyson, even Tyson from the start of his heavyweight reign, and compare him to the fighter who stepped into the ring in Japan. He was a different boxer. Douglas hit him at will. Early Tyson got hit cleanly only on rare occasions, because of his constant, almost manic head movement. Early Tyson was a ferocious body puncher who also set up his biggest punches with a jab. By the Douglas fight, he swung for the home run almost exclusively and neglected the body, ignoring the old boxing maxim that "if you kill the body, the head will die." Although the documentary does not make some of those points explicitly, it features the first experts I've ever heard making the point that it was more than a bad divorce with Robin Givens and a brave Douglas that did Tyson in that night -- it was rust on his skills that accumulated then culminated in one of the greatest upsets in sports history. Tyson, always a small heavyweight at about 5'10", would have had trouble with the tall Douglas anyway, even if he had maintained that excellent technique, and if his unbeaten reign had survived Holyfield in this hypothetical world (I think it would have), then Lennox Lewis (at least, a seasoned Lewis) probably beats Tyson. Too bad we never got to see if I'm right.

The second revealing point the documentary made to me -- more a question it raised than an argument, per se -- is that Cus D'Amato, the trainer and father figure to Tyson credited with turning him from an armed robber into a semi-dignified champion, may not have been the saintly influence he is thought to have been. Certainly, Cus deserves a great deal of credit. But numerous examples in the film suggest D'Amato's willingness to let Tyson get away with indiscretions may have been too generous. When Tyson threatened a teacher with violence, he was not severely punished by D'Amato. Teddy Atlas said of this incident that it established in Tyson's mind that there were no repercussions for treating people with disrespect. When Tyson sexually propositioned a much younger girl, Atlas took matters into his own hands, apparently threatening Tyson at gunpoint, apparently in part because Atlas was close to the girl in some way. Atlas probably went too far. But rather than work out the differences and righting both wrongs, Cus kicked Atlas to the curb and stood by Tyson. D'Amato died in 1985, shaking Tyson right to his core. It no doubt was one key element of him becoming a "Fallen Champ." But it is clearer to me now than it was before that had Cus lived a few more years, it would not have stopped Tyson from doing something that would have landed him in jail eventually. And that makes all those hypotheticals about what "might have been if" so much more distant, to my lament.




















Too bad this version of Mike was never to return.

Evander Holyfield: Like Don Quixote, But With A Storied C.V. And A Better Chance Of Defeating The Windmills

Bite his ear off, dislocate his shoulder, palpitate his heart, turn him in a 44-year-old man... nothing stops Holyfield, at least not for one more big fight. (from slam.canoe.ca)


I never experienced Evander Holyfield the way more veteran boxing fans did, in real-time, from his prime to his endless tragedies and resurrections when he was still one of, if not frequently the, best that the heavyweight division had to offer. Rather, I have experienced him as he was in the distant past via the wonders of old fight replays and as he has been for the last several years. The former is by far the preferable.

It did not take long for me to recognize from fight tapes why "The Real Deal" was so beloved. The cruiserweight version of Holyfield may have been the best, but no one ever pays much attention to the cruiserweights; the division, now limited to boxers below 200 lbs., has always been a temporary stop-over for the visibility of fighting the biggest of the big at heavyweight. The cruiserweight Holyfield had it all. He was faster than most everyone, and certainly more powerful. He put together flashy, destructive combinations then nimbly bounced around on the way to throwing more beautiful, devastating flurries. Holyfield eventually succumbed to the temptation of becoming a heavyweight, where his speed still mattered but his power mattered less. It is here where Holyfield became a living legend. Routinely smaller than his gigantic opposition, he fought with such pure guts that he became the people's champion -- the small guy who could step into the ring against a monster like Riddick Bowe and soak up such punishment that it was impossible not to root for him when he stormed back into the fight, as he did in the classic 11th round of their first scrap. By the time he got his long-sought match with Mike Tyson, he'd been through so many vicious wars that people feared he would very likely die should Iron Mike connect with one clean punch. But whereas Buster Douglas' victory over Tyson looked like a fluke in so many ways, Holyfield more than anyone punctured the invincibility of Tyson. In every other fight I've seen of Holyfield's from his glory years -- even those down times when he lost and was suffering from heart conditions and shoulder injuries -- what stood out more than anything is that just when it appeared he was about to lose, he would find a way to reverse it all. The fifth round rally against George Foreman, the knockdown of Bowe in their rubber match... there were so many amazing moments.

The latter way I've experienced Holyfield is as a shell of his former self. When his boxing license was pulled in New York after his listless loss with Larry Donald in 2004, I couldn't have agreed more. All the signs of a magnificent boxing career coming to an end were there: He'd been defeated by a never-was; he looked bad losing, not like he was always clawing toward victory as he was in his defeats of old; and he'd won a total of two fights in five years, losing five and drawing once. Someone needed to pull the plug for Evander, because he wasn't going to do it for himself.

Holyfield insisted, upon his most recent comeback via the states that were willing to license him, that he was merely injured, not shot, and that now he had recovered. He insisted, once again, that he would win the heavyweight title. Even when he clobbered Jeremy Bates in his first two rounds back in the ring in nearly two years, no one was convinced. Bates was an insurance salesman who moonlighted as a boxer, although one who was very good at getting hammered around by better fighters and delivering the occasional dangerous-looking punch. Some of Holyfield's more recent competition was slightly more accomplished, but not a threat to even a B-level heavyweight. The pleas continued. We beg you, Evander, stop fighting. If you think you're going to win a title, you're delusional, and you need to stop getting hit in the head.

Having only moments ago viewed his defeat of Bates for the first time, I can vouch that he looked infinitely better than in his previous unflattering showings, but Bates, by virtue of walking directly into his punches, certainly helped on that account. With each successive win, though, boxing writers have warmed more and more to the idea that the now-44-year-old Holyfield was only injured after all, and that there are heavyweight champions Holyfield might stand a chance to beat in an era of heavyweights among history's worst.

And now he has just that heavyweight: Sultan Ibragimov. Ibragimov is probably the most vulnerable of the four men wearing a championship belt, and once a unification bout fell through with another vulnerable champion, Ruslan Chagaev, Sultan picked Holyfield as a replacement for Oct. 13. Unlike with Mexican warrior Erik Morales, a subject of a recent post, I am going to give Holyfield the benefit of the doubt. I am going to say I believe he will win this fight.

There is a type of athlete unique to boxing that simultaneously provokes thrills and anxiety. He takes unbelievable punishment and soldiers on still. He suffers career depths that are all but insurmountable and somehow surmounts them. He switches from victim to superhuman from round to round, fight to fight, year to year. You grow to love him because of this, but you fear for his life for the same reason. They are the Marco Antonio Barreras, the Aruto Gattis, and yes, the Evander Holyfields. I don't know for sure that Holyfield has more than one big fight in him, if that. But he's proven he has at least a little something left. May he summon it all for the conclusion to his latest, and hopefully last, resurrection.

Knock Off All That Cuddling, Professional Face-Punchers

On the long list of reasons a great many of my friends don't follow boxing is... All. That. Hugging. I don't mean after fights, when it never fails to pleasantly surprise me how two men can spend nearly an hour punching each other in the face, then embrace like old friends. No, the scourge I speak of is what in boxing terms is called a "clinch." It's when one fighter grabs the other and holds him, for reasons that vary from strategic advantage to salvation from a knockout punch for a boxer on the verge of hitting the canvas. Performed excessively, it is illegal, cause for having points docked for judging purposes or even disqualification. And yet, if anything, more -- not fewer -- big-name boxers appear to be relying on excessive holding as a tactic. It must stop.

The heavyweight division has, and always will be, marked by clinching. As this informative HBO article describes, even one of the most aesthetically appealing ring stylists, Muhammad Ali, held. All the time, in fact. It's the only thing about "The Greatest" that irritates me when I catch old Ali fights on ESPN Classic. Some of this is merely a question of size and space. Often, two giant men in a tiny ring will throw their punches and get entangled by accident. They have the option of trying to work their way out of this clinch or holding on until the referee separates them. Usually, alas, they take the latter option.

This heavyweight entanglement is in some ways understandable, but it also is one of the reasons I have never cared much for the heavyweights. Another kind of clinch is even more understandable: the aforementioned hold to avoid being knocked out. No one trying to maintain a grasp of his consciousness should be penalized for holding on for dear life. Sometimes it works and the fighter regains his senses, and the hold suddenly seems almost noble. On woozy legs, stars around his head, a fighter who manages to avoid the KO has done something dramatic. Especially since, quite often, the fighter on the verge of knocking out his man succeeds in wriggling free and putting him to sleep.

No, it is the strategic deployment of the hug that is a plague upon boxing. In the days of Mike Tyson, this strategic hold was more a matter of fright at being crushed by a sledgehammer uppercut. Tyson's victims entered the ring thinking survival, not victory. Fast forward to the 1990s: The most adept modern practitioner of holding is former heavyweight champion John Ruiz, and by my reckoning, he is to blame for the spread of clinching. Ruiz was an up-and-coming heavyweight before he was obliterated by David Tua. For anyone who saw Ruiz' fights with Evander Holyfield, notice in the Tua fight how willing he is to trade heavy blows compared to how he behaved against "The Real Deal." Ruiz realized after Tua that he could not compete in the heavyweight division on the strength of his punch alone, and began his patented "hit and hold" strategy. He would see his opportunity to land a blow, then let his forward momentum carry him into a clinch with his opponent. After the referee broke up the clinch, he would get into position to repeat this hit/hug cycle. If he did this often enough, and his opponent failed to hit him often enough, he would pile up points and win.

Lennox Lewis is the biggest-name fighter since to employ a similar holding-based strategy, but because Lewis had real power, it was never quite as boring as when Ruiz did it -- although it was boring enough to make Lewis an unpopular "baddest man in the world," as the heavyweight champ is sometimes known. For a very, very tall heavyweight, this strategy allows him to stay on the outside, jabbing his opponent at will and mixing in the occasional power punch; when he gets rushed by the smaller man, he grabs him, and that gives the bigger heavyweight a chance to reestablish his favorite distance. His successor as the clear-best heavyweight in the world, Vladimir Klitschko, has now adopted this holding style. That their trainer is the savvy Emmanuel Steward suggests a method to the madness.

But two big-name non-heavyweights now make holding a key to their strategy. Recently, all-time great Bernard Hopkins Ruized his way to victory over fellow future hall-of-famer Winky Wright, not the first time he has Ruized. Ricky Hatton, Great Britain's charismatic little Tazmanian devil, has hit and held his way to several frustrating-to-watch wins. Decades ago, Ali brought a little man's sweet science -- speed mixed with power -- into the heavyweight division and elevated the big man's game in the process. Why taint the little man's game with big man tactics?

This is not mere whining. My friends who dislike boxing are not alone in their disdain for holding. I've actually turned off fights when there was too much grappling. When a true fan of the sport can't stand all that wrestling, doesn't that suggest that this is a big problem? And excessive holding has arguably been the key to victory for several of the fighters I mentioned. Ruiz didn't have the talent to win against the best any other way. Lewis and Klitschko would still be excellent fighters without holding, but their opponents often didn't even get the chance to hit them because of all the copious hugging. Hatton nearly got knocked out by a body punch from borderline talent Juan Urango this year, forcing him to abandon a newly-adopted entertaining boxing style in favor of hit, fall in, hold. And Hopkins, 42, was able to keep Wright off-balance and prevent him from firing off his patented jab by hitting, falling in, then holding him. In these cases, cheating aided the winning, so the impact of clinching cannot be disputed.

The answer to this problem is a simple enough concept. Referees should enforce the rules. When a fighter is holding excessively, as the referee in Hopkins-Wright noted with repeated warnings to Hopkins, he should be docked points. This doesn't happen enough now. The referees need to get reacquainted with the rulebook, as the results suggest, but also as suggested by the HBO piece's quotes from referees. Richard Steele has always been a terrible ref, but his litany of excuses for why holding continues is laughable. Ruiz held and we let him get away with it, so he kept getting away with it, said Steele. Ali held, Steele said, but it was Ali and everyone liked him so he kept getting away with it. And sometimes, Steele said, he would let a hugger get away with it because the huggee was not struggling enough to get out of the hug! This rulebook makes no mention of the criteria proffered by Steele.

Given this, it looks like, barring a powerful public outcry, the best hope for ridding boxing of strategic huggers is individual vigilance. Light heavyweight great Roy Jones, Jr. defeated Ruiz despite a size disadvantage in part because the referee had been lobbied beforehand to be on the lookout for Ruiz' illegal tactics and warned him early and often. That nipped it in the bud. Floyd Mayweather, Jr., Jones successor as the most gifted boxer in the game, would be wise to mimic the Jones team's [;pu when he takes on Hatton later this year. Otherwise, Mayweather might have his perfect record hugged right out of him. And any of my friends I recruit to watch Mayweather-Hatton will say, "See? What's with all that hugging? I told you boxing sucked."

The Wild Man From Nicaragua And The Fine Art Of Hilariously Villainous Behavior

Boxing made a rare appearance on SportsCenter recently when Ricardo Mayorga and Fernando Vargas brawled at a press conference to hype their upcoming showdown, and the clucking of tongues predictably ensured from boxing types who believe this kind of behavior jeopardizes the dignity of the sport. It probably does. The difference between street fights and boxing is that the latter does have at least an air of propriety, rules and so forth. But my bias is toward trash-talking and hilarious antics, and so I have little but praise for the kind of circus Mayorga, appropriately oft-referred to as "the wild man from Nicaragua," brings to boxing. After reading of the brawl-free follow-up news conference this week to promote Vargas-Mayorga, it would be nice, I thought, for people to have one place to go to read about some of the more bizarrely villainous behavior of a limited but tough and strong fighter who has become the sport's premiere "opponent" -- dangerous enough to test most anyone, but safe enough for the best of the best and certainly loud enough to bolster pay-per-view buys.

Mayorga most famously drinks beer and smokes cigarettes after his victories, a thumb in the eye for a sport that demands more than any other that its athletes be in supreme shape if they have any hope of succeeding. The day before fights, he has on more than one occasion stepped onto the scale for the weigh-in while chomping on a slice of pizza, or helped himself to some fried chicken in a brazen show that he is in such exceptional combat shape that he does not fear coming in under the weight limit. He does some of his best work at news conferences, such as wearing a matador outfit, presenting a dress labeled "the Golden Girl" to Oscar De La Hoya prior to their fight to mock his "Golden Boy" nickname, attempting to backhand Vargas and thereby inciting their brawl or slapping the back of De La Hoya's head when he wasn't looking. He once attempted to start a fight with an opponent upon his entrance to the ring area. And when in the heat of battle, he is prone to jutting his chin out, daring his opponent to punch him, taking flush shots from murderous punchers like Tito Trinidad, then, after surviving the onslaught, flailing toward them like a windmill with swinging, looping, hard punches.

But he saves his finest material for his verbal assaults. By "fine," I do not mean anything remotely approaching "good." I mean "fine" by the standard of a villain, in which case the nastier equals the better. His news conference pronouncements range from profane to funny to some combination of both. Among the best, keeping in mind those definitional caveats:

• He promised "to deliver" Cory Spinks to his mother, recently deceased.
• "You better start injecting steroids again, cause you are going to need it against me," he told Vargas, referring to the most shameful incident of Vargas' career -- his positive steroid test after a loss to De La Hoya.
• "I'm going to detach his retina or stop his heart," speaking of De La Hoya, one of his many repeated retina-detaching warnings toward "The Golden Boy."
• He frequently threatens to have sex with the wives and other family members of his opponents, with his quip to Vargas that "I'm not going to lay down. You're going to lay your wife down to me" being his most recent.
• Perhaps his funniest threat was to Vernon Forrest: "Not even Forrest's dog is going to recognize him when he goes home." Because after all, isn't a man's dog the creature on Earth most likely to recognize him? I can imagine Forrest's mutt, cocking his head sideways as he tries to discern Forrest behind this new stranger's misshapen face.
• He often wants to make himself the "daddy" of his opponent or his opponent's family. As he said of Forrest, "I am upset because he did not call me for Father's Day. I am going to give him a whipping because I did not get my present." He volunteered to be the "step-dad" to Vargas' "kids" after their fight.
• When in doubt, he just resorts to name-calling, with "faggot" being his favorite, employed against Vargas and Forrest (elaborated upon with a "Tell Forrest whether he runs, stops or bends over, whatever he does, I will knock him out in two rounds"). "Fatty" was a slightly more creative one, leveled at Vargas, who is notorious for blowing up to more than 200 lbs. before squeezing down into the 154 to 160-pound range. Playing on the notion that De La Hoya was over the hill, he remarked, "You remind me of an old lady that's past her prime that should be sitting home in a rocking chair doing nothing."
• Two rounds seems to be about the most generous length of time he's willing to give his opponent to stay conscious, unless it's for exhibition. "I will knock out Forrest in two rounds whether I have a cigarette or not. I know a lot of people want to see me fight more rounds. So, if HBO wants, they can pick two sparring partners for me to fight after I knock out Forrest. That way, the audience can see me fight 12 rounds."

And so it goes, on and on, a non-stop parade of filth and hijinks. It is not clear, as many wondered with Mike Tyson for some time, whether Mayorga is just straight crazy or if he knows his flamboyance sells tickets. He seems to have an erratic side (practically begging De La Hoya just prior to the fight for more money, after slandering him and his family endlessly), a good side (his family adores him as a provider and he donates money back home to the needy) and an evil side (unless there's a word besides "evil" that prompts a man to mock another's dead mother). I'd prefer not to solve the puzzle, and just enjoy the show instead. Don King summed it up best when flustered by Mayorga's threat to pull out of the De La Hoya bout: "He doesn't change his mind. He ain't got no mind. What are you talking about? Change what mind? I don't know what goes through a man like that."















Mayorga, resplendid in matador gear, strikes a pose that the most cartoonish movie bad guys would envy. (from msnbc.com)

UPDATE: Dan Rafael's Friday column at ESPN.com has a Mayorga gem from this week's news conference that other boxing writers apparently failed to translate or think of as quote-worthy. "I had a dream last night that I threw a rotten orange at Fernando Vargas and hit him in the chin and he went down, and he didn't get back up. He's ready to go. He's like a rotten piece of fruit," he said. The internal logic is lacking (does one throw rotten fruit AT rotten fruit, Ricardo?) but the comedy value is there.