Okay, so I did try to watch last Friday night’s big fight–mainly because it was on Netflix, a streaming service to which I’m already subscribed. However, instead of legendary ring announcer Michael Buffet, we were subjected to incessant buffering, and so I only managed to sit through the first preliminary bout before my eyes began to judder like ping pong balls in a squirrel cage. I don’t remember the fighters’ names–only their colorful costumes–and although one was wearing what looked to be a pink tutu, it was nonetheless a decent contest. That’s because they were Hispanic, and Hispanics tend to be skilled pugilists. I know this because when I was growing up I had many Mexican classmates. Most high school gymnasiums have scoreboards; ours featured a fight card.
Once, I made the mistake of launching a haymaker in the direction of Felix Ortega, the smallest of the Ortega gang. Felix easily ducked the punch and countered with a stiff jab that dropped me like a sack of potatoes. That’s when I realized that fisticuffs was never going to be my strong suit.
Nonetheless, I enjoy watching professional boxing–“professional” being the operative adjective. Prizefighters are smart–much smarter than, say golfers–not to mention brave. Just try to imagine how much courage it takes to face up to someone who is your own size and fully determined to beat you senseless. The bell rings and you have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and no one to hide behind. Imagine that you are Donald Trump, sans security detail. You’ve spent the past several years badmouthing Mexicans, and now at long last you’re in the ring with one, and it’s time to either put up or shut up.
Thus would end our long national nightmare.