Margarito (left)/Cotto (right):
Our seats at the Cotto-Margarito fight. "We must have got the last three seats in the Garden."
"He might be hurt a little."
"...when we encountered two of the cutest little girls I've ever seen."
"Margarito!"* (*Note the odd looking right eye behind the glasses).
So now with all the build-up I’ve given to the Cotto-Margarito fight, you might assume that’s what this post is about; but I don’t have much to say in terms of the fight itself. We must have got the last (3) seats in The Garden; and of the 21,000 + in the crowd I’d say Jules was one of maybe two-dozen Margarito fans.
But our tickets were waiting so that credit-card proved good. At least, good enough to get us in; and as of this writing’s no one’s tried to contact me. Course Buttons loved all the macho nationalism and testosterone-induced stares just as sure as Jules loved the Puerto Rican gals and the street-cred of The Garden. He knew I rooted for Cotto, but every half hour or so one of his California friends would call and hype him up on Margarito. Before the fight started, Jules flipped his cellphone closed and turned to me:
“My boy says Margarito walked Cotto down last fight and then busted him up. He’s got too much come on. I’d see guys like that in the joint. Can’t hurt ‘em. Determined, you know. Not determined...obstinate. You know?,” (here Jules passed me a shooter from an inside pocket of his jacket), “Like a mule or something. My boy says Cotto danced around last fight, got his licks in; but couldn’t ever slow my guy down. Then Margarito gave him a beatdown. That was him just now (Jules gestured toward his cellphone) “telling me Margarito’s gonna do it all over again. In Cotto’s own town!”
Oh man I couldn’t wait for Cotto to shut Jules the fuck up. Never did he mention the plaster eventually found in Margarito’s gloves or the damage done to Cotto’s face. And Jules was talking so loud amidst the pro-Cotto crowd! With complete disregard for who heard him. The whole fight, even as Cotto whooped Maragarito round after round, Jules just rode Cotto.
“Oh man, my guy’s not hurt. He’s just too slow! But Cotto can’t hurt ‘em. He’s a powder-puncher. My guy never stops coming. Oh no ref--don’t stop the fight! No--NO! Look--my guy’s not even hurt! He wants to keep going. Let the Mexican keep going!--right?! (pointing at the lone Mexican flag amidst the Puerto Rican crowd several rows down and over). We want a knockout! He’s not even hurt--right Lodo?...Right?”
“He might be hurt a little.”
But Jules wasn’t hearing it and in fairness he was probably right that Cotto couldn’t hurt Margarito. He injured Margarito; but never really backed him down.
"That is one tough fucking Mexican," Jules repeated over and over as we filed out. It was hard to tell if he was deriding Mexicans or had genuine admiration for Margarito’s toughness since he’d consistently stress the word Mexican. Like it meant something to him, though I wasn’t sure what. Maybe he didn’t know either, but my niece Jaybird is Mexican; so I was sensitive to the subject.
But with Jules it was always up, down, and all over the place. No sooner did I feel one way about him than he spun me ‘round 180 degrees. We filed our way toward the main Garden exit; Jules at full voice and volume about the toughness of Mexicans, when we encountered two of the cutest little girls I’ve ever seen. Mexican girls with long braided hair, in what appeared to be their best, white Sunday dresses. Neither could have been more than 10 years old and they were probably younger. Both had tears in their dark eyes as they clung to their dad’s tight Wrangler jeans and watched in shocked confusion as the crowd filed past, somehow able to go on with their lives despite the loss of their great Mexican champion, Margarito.
Cute.
As we walked past, Jules gave the older of the girls a pat on the head much like I’d give to my dog Spiffy.
“Margarito!” he said to her with intense, avuncular eyes and a playful shake of his raised fist. The girls stared at the strange man and retreated further between their father’s legs.
“He never quit, right?” Jules said simultaneously to the girls, then to the father. “He never backed down!”
The girls looked to their father for a translation, which he proceeded to provide in soft Spanish. The girls wiped their eyes as they listened, nodding their heads in affirmation towards Jules.
“Margarito!” he said again with a big loud grin so that the whole crowd could hear. Some jeered him, but Jules just waved them off--performing for the girls. They smiled at his antics and glowed as though something had been restored.
“Margarito!” they chimed back with hesitant giggles as they looked up toward their dad for reinforcement. Then to my amazement, the dad yelled, “Margarito!” proving the eternal moronity of the human race.
But for whatever reason I liked that little exchange. Took notice of it as we walked outside.
“Cute girls, eh? I said.
“Yeah, I liked ‘em,” Jules responded. “I’ve liked the whole night Lodo. That pub we went to seemed like a real place and even those seats were good considering how late we got in.”
“I’m glad,” I said as Buttons snuck me a hug that sent a flood of warmth through my bones.
“...The only thing I’d have changed, “Jules said, “was how that fight ended. I’d have liked to have seen if that Mexican could get knocked out.”
* NOTE: For me to complete this post as originally conceived, its probably going to take another 2-3 parts. Problem is I'm going out of town until after New Years so...not sure what to do. I've had this happen before with other posts and I've just bailed on 'em, but I kind of want to start finishing these multi-part posts. Come back in a few days and I promise to have something posted--even if its just an intermission to tide things over. Thanks for reading and Happy Holidays!!!
**ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images with the exception of 2nd from the top, which was taken by me on the night of the fight. All rights reserved on my pic.
Tidak ada komentar:
Posting Komentar