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The lead up to the Mayweather/McGregor fight Aug 26th has been fascinating. Two aggressively annoying and arrogant and lilliputian men — one a quasi-illiterate domestic abuser and the other either a racist or someone just fine with donning a racist’s costume (which is just as bad as a racist) — attempting to out-douche each other is like watching a house centipede and an albino cockroach wrestle. Sure you’ll watch, but you just want them both to lose somehow and never be seen in your home again. And you’ll feel all itchy and crawly and shit for the rest of the night.
Also, this is very, very stupid. Not the build up and the hype. (Although that’s very, very stupid too.) But that this fight is even happening. And even that it’s been billed as a fight.
Regardless of how you feel about Floyd Mayweather’s solid fuckboy bonafides, it’s without question that he’s one of the best boxers ever. Yes, he’s a few years past his prime. But that merely downgrades him from “maybe the best in his class ever” to “maybe just the best in his class right now.” Conor McGregor is an MMA fighter who boxed some several years ago. This is not a fair fight. It’s not even McGregor bringing a knife to a gunfight. It’s McGregor bringing a fucking feather.
And in order to explain how doomed McGregor’s race-baiting ass is going to be, I need to tell you a quick story.
As many of you already know, I “played” division one college basketball. (And “played” is in quotations because a pastichio of injuries and apathies made my career whatever the level below “underwhelming” happens to be.) And while I’m almost two decades past my personal athletic prime, I still hoop pretty regularly, and I’m still quite good. If you’re reading this and you think you can hoop a little, there’s a ninety-five to ninety-eight percent chance that, at 38, I’ll still bust your ass.
There’s a regular Thursday night pick-up game I’ve been a part of for over a decade now. The regulars range from 25 to 60; most are former college athletes who relish those Thursdays as a rare opportunity to keep that competitive fire going. It’s also an open gym. Anyone can play — although if you call too many fouls or play too little d or take too many ill-advised shots, you might not get invited back — so you never know who might decide to show up. And for a two month stretch last summer, Chevon (Chevy) Troutman — a former star at the University of Pittsburgh who played professionally in Europe for 10 years — came pretty regularly.
Now, I’ve known Chevy since we both played in the Connie Hawkins Summer Basketball League when we were both in college. He’s obviously continued playing at a high level, and I’ve replaced the daily workouts and Mikan drills with wifi hot spots and milkshakes. Basically, he’s a professional basketball player. And while I can still hoop, I’m not. The distinction between the two was made painfully clear when he’d show up to Thursday Night Hoops, and would basically be a terrifying hybrid of Kevin Durant, Kyle Lowry of the Toronto Raptors, and an actual velociraptor. Remember, these pick-ups are comprised of former college athletes with a few gallons of game and guile and pride left in the tank. And Chevy would do whatever the fuck he wanted against us. Like, he was so physically dominating that when we tried to foul him, we’d get hurt.
Anyway, in order to believe this taunting Irish dandy has any chance of beating arguably the best boxer ever in a fucking boxing match with boxing rules and boxing judges in a boxing ring, you either need to be so blinded by (admittedly justified) hate of Floyd that you can’t see straight or you’re complete unaware of the astronomical and astronomically ridiculous distance between “professional athlete” and “someone good at a sport.”
Or maybe you just saw Rocky too many times, and you believe Try Hard Whiteness is all McGregor needs to beat the Black boogeyman. But you’re forgetting one thing: Rocky was a boxer too.