Gather round, my fellow Neanderthals and other heartless cretins. Let’s kick it, let’s conversate, let’s trash Vicious Victor Ortiz, the gutless weasel who calls himself a professional boxer. The sheer gall, the extreme audacity, the nerve of Ortiz for deciding to quit after nine rounds of wicked ferocity in a fight in which substitute foe Josesito Lopez acted and fought like he was the fighter promoter Golden Boy was counting on to win the bout. Yeah, that’s right. Ortiz bagged it after 27 minutes of exchanging thumping punches with the skinny but always game kid from Riverside. Some say Vicious Vic had a broken jaw, in fact that’s what a mush-mouthed Ortiz told referee Jack Reiss in explaining his exit from a fight where he may have been just nine minutes away from a decision victory. Call the cops, fright fans. This is an outrage. How dare Ortiz quit without losing the use of an important bodily organ? Get maimed or get killed, the stupid Warrior’s Code and all that. It’s not enough, not hardly, that Ortiz’s mouth was filled with blood. It’s not enough that his face looked dented from the last few punches he took flush. No, we troglodytes demand more. This isn’t water polo, this isn’t beanbag or tiddlywinks. But we loathsome, bloodthirsty types we like to have it both ways. If we see or hear about a fighter getting brain damaged (they all get some of this) or killed, we say it is tragic but we applaud him for “going out on his shield.” We salute the memory of guys like Arturo Gatti and salute the Warrior’s Code. We look away when we see Emile Griffith in a wheelchair, unable to speak. We look away when we see a punch drunk fighter drooling on himself. Vicious Victor Ortiz, whose fighting heart has been proven time and time again, went out on his shield, his bloodied gum shield. If that’s not enough, why don’t you go back to your cave? Go beat your donkeys or something, jackass.
