I am genuinely worried about Floyd Mayweather.
I’m on the verge of contacting Skip Tracer, Finder of Lost Persons.
I am not talking about Floyd Jr. He’s been busy in Vegas massaging his ribs, his wounded super ego and maybe his bundle of tax liens.
I’m talking about The Mouth That Roared, Floyd Sr. He may have become The Mouth That Bored during the run up to the Ricky Hatton-Manny Pacquiao bout.
Now it seems has disappeared off the face of the earth.
First, came his radio silence. He became as quiet as a church mouse after Hatton was humiliated, laid low in less than six minutes by Pacman.
Now Pretty Daddy is invisible.
I would ask law enforcement to issue an Amber Alert except for two reasons.
One, those are for missing juveniles, not a full grown juvenile delinquent like Floyd Sr.
Two, I would be afraid the coppers might find him, maybe in a hair salon getting his Jherri Curls put back in place on his humongous head.
It reminds me of when the Joe Pesci character in “Goodfellas” thought he was being laughed at, the “what am I clown, do I amuse you?” scene in the bar which lines were followed up by some Pesci gunshots which made his target do an impromptu Mexican Hat Dance.
Yes, Floyd Sr. is amusing and confusing simultaneously.
He baited (Coach Freddie) Roach so often that he came off sounding like a deranged exterminator. You know, like the old DCon commercials, “Kills Roaches dead!”
But Poppa May told lies and all Roach does is multiply. Right now, he’s the toast of Merry Olde England and will put butter on that toast if his new charge, Amir Khan, cops a world title next Saturday night in Manchester.
(Poor Hatton, now Roach is invading his home turf.)
I want Pretty Daddy back on the scene with his diamond in the back, sunroof top, digging the scene with his dinosaur gangster lean.
Whoever said that silence is golden never worked for page views on Examiner.com, I can tell you that.
Right now, I want my Floyd Sr. back.
Not on his back like Hatton, just back like he was before spewing the same, old venom.
Boxing is a boring place without him.
I know what we can do. We can put out an MPA.
Missing Poet’s Alert.
Hold on to your iambic pentameter, poetry buffs.
As I told my Man Friday on Thursday, we’ll find Poppa May just like we found Robinson Crusoe.
No man, they say, is an island but boxing’s most controversial trainer may be on one.
Why not? If it happened to Gilligan, it can happen to Mayweather.
