I?m loving life on the island and my buddy and I have ten packets of coke in his car and snort one and are ready to do lots more when I?m shot in the face? Edwin Rosario at Home
I grow up poor and start fighting for money at age fifteen and win my first world title at twenty and earn millions and my fourth title at twenty-eight. I deserve some fun and take advantage that women and fans love me and impressive guys are friends who give me drugs. Then I have to buy them. That?s okay. I?m living wild and need a fix or booze but can?t afford either so take a case of beer and get arrested and have other problems leading to a year in prison. When I get out I?ve lost homes and cars and my wife but still have four daughters. And I know I?ve still got knockout power. Maybe I?m an old thirty-four but don?t dwell on that. I?m proud I went through rehab. I?m ready to win another title, and soon beat five guys who aren?t very good. I?m not worried about them now. I?m visiting my daughters but don?t feel well and have to go home. Now I?m living with my parents who know I?m not right. Less than an hour later Dad checks and I?m gone.
The Hector Camacho Experience
I?m only fifteen but in jail and then out I can?t slow down and don?t want to everything?s moving so fast I have to fight fuck dance and talk and I love speeding in stolen cars and taking other things and get more excited in the ring. I?m so much quicker than opponents I belt whenever I want while dodging their punches and prancing away. I?m a father at sixteen when I start winning amateur titles and pound Bazooka Limon for the world junior lightweight championship at twenty-one. It?s really incredible all the girls tell me I?m so handsome and cool which I know I am so wired I can?t stop doing things to make me feel better that?s what coke does I do so much and tell friends and reporters I know I?m going out by bullets I think about that all the time. How are you going to die? I can?t wait I win the lightweight title at twenty-three I?m making millions I?m the macho man of boxing and keep winning at twenty-eight I?m thirty-eight and oh no one can beat me as I enter the ring in Roman armor or Indian headdress or fox fur robe. I?m way too tough for cops and guys in nightclubs I?m the macho man they rob giving Greg Haugen a split decision I get the title back three months later and at twenty-nine I?m in the showdown of Latin idols against plodding Julio Cesar Chavez. He can?t catch me he can?t keep catching me he can?t keep doing this he?s beating hell out of me they say I?m a runner I?m a dancer I don?t like to get hit. You like getting hit? I?m getting hit by everything Chavez has but don?t go down and keep fighting a lion who wins about every round but I raise my hands.
I?m a warrior and still the pretty macho man and at thirty-one move up to welterweight and go after Felix Trinidad?s crown in a war for Puerto Rican rights they?re mine though I?m more from New York it doesn?t matter this guy?s eleven years younger and too big but can?t stop me. I keep fighting and winning and batter old legends Roberto Duran and Sugar Ray Leonard I love those guys they help me get ready at thirty-five to take on another Latin heartthrob Oscar De La Hoya who?s too young and slick and knocks me down but I get up no one?s stopping the macho man. I don?t lose for six years when I?m almost forty-one I?m not afraid and keep beating guys outside the ring and ladies still love me but they and my four sons and ex-wife are expensive and coke?s worse and why I love it so much people don?t understand. Here try it and you?ll see how great it is. I?m almost forty-three and four times a world champion breaking into an electronics store for a payday that ends with my hands in cuffs and ecstasy confiscated but my lawyers keep me out of prison so I can hang out and snort more coke and get shot at in twenty-eleven and a month later I pick up one of my sons by the neck and slam before stomping him. We?ll fix that in court. What the hell I?ve got places in Florida and Puerto Rico and at fifty I?m loving life on the island and my buddy and I have ten packets of coke in his car and snort one and are ready to do lots more when I?m shot in the face by a guy you know?s too scared to step up and take on the macho man of boxing.
Try Hitting Wilfred Benitez
You can?t hit me. I see punches coming before they?re thrown and move my head left right back up and down all over again making you hit air where I should?ve been. I?m so mature, turning pro when I?m fifteen and in little more than two years confusing a great champion, Antonio Cervantes, to win the junior welterweight title, youngest ever to do so. Looks like I?ll be champion forever. I keep moving and confusing everyone so can?t believe Bruce Curry knocks me down when I?m nineteen. I get up and go right back down and also fall once in the fifth but win a split decision and handle him my next fight. I can?t make a hundred forty anymore, I?m only nineteen and growing into a welterweight and in a year win that title, beating a fine champion, Carlos Palomino. Now I?m twenty-one and ready for the biggest fight in the world, defending my title against another unbeaten, Sugar Ray Leonard. I?m still slick but on this night Leonard?s smoother and stronger and stops me in the fifteenth round. Okay, I tell the world in English, we fight, he win. No problem. I win three fights in a row, getting heavier and stronger, and pound Maurice Hope to capture my third world title. I?m only twenty-two. I?ll be king forever, especially after I teach defense to Roberto Duran, who barely hits me. I?m rich and sexy and a hero in Puerto Rico and everywhere else I go.
Next fight I stick my nose under Tommy Hearns? chin during the pre-fight stare down. I look calm but understand he?s one big dude and, despite dodging dozens of his blows, absorb enough to lose the decision and feel bad a long time. I?ll be all right. I?m only twenty-four and master of defense. I?ll show rough left-handed Syrian middleweight Mustafa Hamsho. I?ll dodge and dance and pop. Maybe I will next time. Tonight Hamsho kicks ass, and next year Davey Moore stops me in the second round. Hold it. Sugar Ray Leonard needed fifteen rounds to get me, and Hearns couldn?t stop me in fifteen nor Hamsho in twelve. What?s going on? Some tell me I still have only the strength of a junior welterweight but am slower and shouldn?t fights guys like Matthew Hilton, a burly Canadian who mauls me nine rounds before backing me onto the ropes and knocking me out with a roundhouse that blasts my head back and jars my mouth open. I watch replays on film. I can?t stand to watch. I?m only twenty-seven. What the hell?s happening? Maybe I?m an old twenty-seven. I conclude I?m an old twenty-eight when a journeyman beats me up in Argentina and I lose my documents and stumble around that country for a year or two. I?m retired. That?s a good move. Three and a half years later I?m back for four fights, two losses, and lots more shots to the head. But I don?t think those last four fights are the problem. It?s the punches I took as a kid, and the punches I absorbed as a pro, and the way my brain keeps getting worse, often making me forget who I am. Thankfully, I have a small pension, a sturdy wheelchair, and plenty of relatives to care for me.
