On September 19 of last year, Floyd Mayweather Jr. made a triumphant return to the boxing ring following a brief retirement (a “retirement” that included a devastating knockout win over 500 pound wrestling sensation Paul Wight). Over 12 rounds of scintillating action between two evenly matched athletes, Mayweather battered Juan Manuel Marquez, derailing the enormous Mexican’s plans to take dominion over the 147 pound division.
True fans were thrilled to welcome the Pretty Boy back in hopes his gritty, warrior style would inject a little excitement into the welterweight division which has been nothing more than a barren wasteland of club-footed, glass-jawed flailers since his brief ascension. Pillow-handed wimps like Shane Mosley, Miguel Cotto, Paul Williams, Josh Clottey and Manny Pacquiao turned ashen at the news that PBF had swept back down to regain his kingdom, having believed their years of ducking and dodging had been successful. While his adversaries have rued the day, his bankers were thrilled given the adoring, sold-out Las Vegas crowd that turned out to witness his conquest of Marquez. It was a feat so remarkable, so unpredictable and so other-worldly, the only parallel that comes to mind is the parting of the Red Sea so long ago. And as the new Moses, Mayweather will lead us, his people, through the barren desert that is the welterweight division. There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide. Floyd Mayweather is back to recapture P4P status and to steamroll anyone who stands in his way.
First up on the Mayweather hitlist was my mom. A force to be reckoned with, but never touted as possessing the kind of God-given talent of a Floyd Mayweather, my mom accepted the challenge and the two clashed at the MGM Grand in December 2009. Originally proposed as a catch-weight fight to be held at 144, Mayweather’s issues prior to the Marquez fight factored in and my mom graciously conceded and agreed to meet at full welter. Critics and commentators immediately reacted out of concern for my mom’s safety as it is well-known she typically walks around at about 112. The Mayweather team countered, citing the fact that my mom is, in fact, about 120 soaking wet. Asked about the controversy, my mom replied, “I think I can get to 142 or even 145 without too much problem but, instead of throwing it away, I’ll have to drink the fat from my George Foreman Grill.”
There was a great deal of respect shown between the two warriors…at least at the beginning. Things quickly devolved, however, with vicious taunts coming from both camps. Mayweather’s barbs focussed primarily on the age of his opponent who, at 67, has likely lost a half-step. In a move that angered the AARP, PBF took the low road in mocking my mom’s medical condition stating, “You think your osteoporosis is debilitating? Wait til I’m through with you.”
My mom mostly laughed it off, but refused to let the verbal assaults go unanswered. At one point during a press conference she got up in Mayweather’s face with some venom of her own, “Back in my day, we treated our elders with respect,” she shrieked, adding “You’re lucky I can’t bring my wooden spoon in the ring with me.” For all Mayweather’s bluster, he was the one to back down from the exchange.
The weigh-ins yielded more fireworks as my mom refused to allow her weight to be read aloud. Even with her bathrobe and slippers on, however, she managed to come in well under the 147 pound limit. Mayweather, sporting a Kanye West shirt, came in two pounds under at 145.
The tension in the air at the MGM Grand was palpable as the crowd was firmly divided along longevity lines. Chants of “Money” were almost immediately drowned out by the overwhelmingly pro my mom delegation who cheered, “My Mom” at ear-splitting volume before succumbing to coughing fits and spasms. In an early highlight, my mom entered the arena to “Dear Mama”…as song she’d originally dismissed as ‘too noisy’.
As the fighters came to the center of the ring, the size difference was shockingly apparent. Mayweather towered over my mom who stands a paltry 5’,1”. In fairness, it is true she has been shrinking over the past few years but has refused to acknowledge this fact or be measured. Even more striking was the difference in physical conditioning. Mayweather, taut and sculpted, appeared to be in fantastic shape as per usual. My mom, on the other hand, was limping badly and unable to conceal the obvious fact that her weight gain had been almost exclusively brought on by 6 months of inactivity and excessive binging. In particular, her arms, were considerably more flabby than her younger opponent. Nonetheless, my mom was ready to go and when the bell sounded she was all business. This is how it broke down:
Round 1: Mayweather looks calm as he paws with his jab. Already the speed difference is apparent as he lands some crisp shots and my mom is mostly just circling. Cheers once again erupt from the audience as my mom waves to me from the ring.
Round 2: Lacklustre round from both fighters as Mayweather seems reluctant to engage. Showboating from beyond my mom’s range, his supporters are getting more and more impatient. My mom gestures at him, shouting “Come on, pretty boy”. I’ve never seen her like this.
Round 3: My mom is getting tired and sweat is making her muu-muu translucent. It’s disturbing, but she is hanging in there. Floyd comes in with a lightning fast combo, darts back outside and peppers her with crisp body shots before landing eight unanswered punches to my mom’s head. She just smiles and walks right through them.
Round 4: In between rounds it’s apparent there is minor swelling below my mom’s left eye and her glasses are pretty fogged up now. My dad is there with Kleenex, but he can’t seem to get the condensation under control. This could be trouble going forward. My mom does a little shoeshine in the middle of the ring and the ref deducts a point because she was actually shining his shoes.
Round 5: All Mayweather. My mom can’t see anything and looks to be having an allergic reaction to the End Swell. PBF still unable to capitalize and seems more interested in fawning to the HBO commentators.
Round 6: Desperate for my mom now. She has taken off her glasses and is wincing badly with every step. It’s sad watching someone age right before your eyes, but clearly my mom’s best fighting days are behind her. Mayweather cocky now, battering my mom and talking to her. Mayweather eats a huge, desperation shot from my mom and is wobbled briefly. Her thumb was tucked under her fingers, rendering the punch less effective as it might have been.
Round 7: My mom is bleeding badly now as Floyd continues his dominance. The ref steps in and calls it off declaring Floyd the winner by technical knockout at 1:36.
In the post-fight interview, Mayweather was effusive in his praise of himself. “That’s Money. That’s pound for pound. I ain’t never left and now I’m back. You seen it. That’s heart. That’s training. This is what I do. I don’t wanna take anything away from Chris’ mom, she’s a good fighter. She tough. But I’m the best of all time. This is my world. You step in with me, you get taken out.”
Asked about what’s next, my mom said, “Well, there’s a pile of laundry waiting for me and those dishes aren’t going to do themselves.”
In the end, Floyd silenced his critics by handing my 67 year old mom a pretty solid whoopin’. Had the fight taken place at 115, who knows. Clearly, though, Mayweather is now poised to take yet another step in further cementing his P4P status. Rumors have already begun to swirl as to who will be the next opponent, read victim, of the PBF juggernaut. Much to the relief of other belt-holders and contenders, speculation has largely swirled around my gramma.
