Kiss Tita Goodbye, Hello Albany!

December 3rd 7:30 pm
Felix (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 Tita goodbye.
           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 American minds.
           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.

December 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!”

December 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 that morning.
           At least that’s the way it looks from here. The only seat in the house.