Only Seat in the
by Christopher Dean Heine
note: CDH will be writing a sports
column every month for Blastitude from his tiny studio
apartment in the rough-and-tumble East Flatbush neighborhood
of Brooklyn, NY. The apartment is so small, that outside
his bed, the chair in front of his computer is indeed
the only seat in the house.
Tita Goodbye, Hello Albany!
3rd 7:30 pm
(Tito) Trinidad is all low-fat steak and bones. But there
the Puerto Rican stood last night on the second rope in
his corner, waving victoriously to Bayamon, Ponce and San
Juan deep in round 12 versus Fernando Vargas. Still undefeated
and still champion.
Vargas has thick features. The type
of goods that can allow a man to turn himself into a body
builder or a street bully. But not the physical makeup that
allows a man to win the 154-pound title. He looked slow
compared to Tito. Vargas entered the bout cocky, only to
leave the Las Vegas casino speechless and on his ass.
Tito is wiry, but I wouldn’t call him thin. He’s like a
rose vine barbed by Canadian Thistle. His body is tight
and interesting-looking, but not intimidating. You’d definitely
give it a shot – you’d fight Tito, especially in a parallel
universe where he does not train as a prize fighter and
add those small bulbs to his arms and calves.
So let’s go to his native San Juan, certainly a parallel
universe by our standards. You like the ladies and you enter
a nightclub con Latinas and pick up Trinidad’s 18-year-old
sister Tita. She and you are heading for the double doors
when Tito stops you and tells you to stay away from his
sister, you old lecherous fool! But you want to take her
home and make rivers and rolling hills of that brown skin.
And you are as dull as Wallace Matthews, boxing writer for
the New York Post.
Matthews has looked at Tito’s thin arms and legs and picked
him to lose his last four fights. This is how boxing prognosticators
pick fights, you know. They ask, can I get away with fucking
his little sister? Sportswriters certainly must be afraid
of those big creatine-induced-looking Mexicans like Vargas,
because they all picked him to win last night. And then
there’s Tito, and you can take him, you think, with the
cute little Tita at your side. Her bro’ ain’t that big a
man. And then Tito’s fist finds a home on your nose! But
he doesn’t knock you to the Macarena dance floor because
the Puerto Rican is not a devastating puncher. Even after
that solid knuckle sandwich you’re still stupid enough to
think that you could take him with your goofy honor and
alcoholic muscle. Hell, you’ve done your pushups this week
. . . you ain’t too drunk
. . . you kicked the snot out of that fat kid in 7th grade.
You say, “Shit ain’t lookin’ too damn bad for me, Tito motherfucker!”
He hits you again. You didn’t see that one either. Kiss
Back here in the states, Tito did to Vargas what he did
to another Mexican, Oscar De La Hoya, and plenty of others
before that, and you don’t want to know what he did to .
. . damn! They all underestimated this runty bandito! Tito
has flesh that won’t break and jackhammer bones in those
arms and legs. The only thing that can beat this man is
God or the Mob. The Mexicans sure as hell can’t.
December 8 12:15 am
I had thought about going to the Army-Navy game last weekend
upstate in West Point to provide some material for this
column. But then, the Friday afternoon before the game,
I learned the contest was at Navy in Landover, Maryland.
Well, I hear it was a helluva game anyway. I’m sorry that
I don’t have anything to report back. What a scene that
must be: Two big huddles of third-tier athletes going for
blood. And those nappy uniformed throngs filling both grandstands.
Those uniformed throngs and their battle cries, entirely
intent on building a frenzy among the very best of fourth-rate
Days before the ballgame, I had thought about how funny
it would have been if a naked guy would have run out in
the field deep into the fourth quarter wearing the ESPN
“Answer” mascot’s head piece with “THIS IS SPORTSCENTER”
blocked up in black magic marker across his chest.
I probably wouldn’t have found a man to do it for my ceiling
price of 50 bucks anyway. Maybe next year I will.
13th 9:11 pm
Two college-aged black men were riding the subway home from
lacrosse practice in my car tonight. They discussed the
Xs and Os of their sport, of their team, and expressed a
displeasure with their coach’s substitution scheme.
“Yeah, we’re good when you are in at forward, but then we
miss Jimmy’s defense. Man, if you don’t get back in time,
we are g-u-unna pay for that! We need to bring H in wit
ya to pick up the slack on D. We all need to pick up the
slack on D!”
20th 12:22 am
No timely observations to report right now. I have learned
nothing new from sports in the last week and God knows I
have tried. So let me end this month’s column with a story
that dates back to the last spring.
My friend Pat and I were laughing on the sidewalk in Brooklyn
at seven in the morning, fresh from the jaws of a 250-pound
woman who could do a bang-up job with Ricki Lake’s character
in “Hairspray.” I had just stolen 60 dollars from a huge
wad of money she had in her purse. This was funny. After
all, she was seemingly rich and passed out and we had no
cab fare. And she tortured us all morning long by repeatedly
singing Glenn Campbell’s “Wichita Lineman” word for word,
stereo crackling in the background. So I did what I needed
to do and what I wanted to do -- have 60 more dollars.
So after busting our guts for awhile below her flat, we
finally took off down the street looking for a cab. We walked
a block, turned the corner and shuffled towards Bedford
Street. A homeless, skinny man soon approached us asking
us for change.
I immediately responded, “What’s the capital of New York?”
“A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a . . . . Albany!” he said.
I handed him a clean twenty. His eyes lit up like Rockefeller
Center after Thanksgiving and Pat and I went off laughing
some more, jerking and dipping our shoulders in a physical
applause. Skid Row Jeopardy! Pat and I were little bastards
At least that’s the way it looks from here. The only seat
in the house.