by James Ellroy
Lou Di Bella. Mr. HBO. State commissioners.
Morales. Barrera. Promoter Bob Arum.
Morales looked calm. Barrera looked drained.
Weight.
Stabilize. Walk at 135. Make 122 by tomorrow.
Weight.
Eating disorders. Boxing’s dirty secret. Cosmo—take note.
Intros went around. Honchos sanctified. Arum worked the mike.
His cheeks glowed. Perfect circles. He Mexicanized.
His kids spoke Spanish. We all should.
Mexicans were great fighters. Mexicans were great people. Mexicans were great fans.
He cited Mexican battles. He overpronounced names.
He coaxed his boys. Speak English, por favor.
Morales spoke. Barrera spoke. They spoke haltingly.
They pledged results. They showed their youth. They oozed dignity.
The gig broke up. Morales and Barrera mingled.
Reporters closed in. Interpreters assisted.
Standard stuff.
Nobody said, “You get my rocks off.”
Nobody said, “You make me feel alive.”
Nobody said, “Nationalism is all shuck-and-jive.”
I thought about youth. I thought about glory. I wondered how brain cells dispersed.
I thought about middle age. I grooved on self-preserving circumspection.
Morales brought some guys. They vibed buddies. Barrera brought some guys. They vibed entourage.
They wore reflecting sweat suits. They waxed sullen. They looked like the Tonton Macoute.
They brought some girls. The girls brought babies.
One baby cried. Mom fed him Pepsi. Mom shut him up.
Bob Arum mingled.
He glowed. His cheeks glowed. His cheeks looked rouged and augmented.
TICKETSSOLD. Mexicans bought them.
They eschewed “Latino.” They eschewed “Chicano.” They were born here. They were born there. They were “Mexican.”
Tickets sold fast. Tickets sold out.
I schmoozed PR flacks. They extolled the demographic.
Working folks. Mexicans. Cognoscenti.
I prowled the Mandalay Bay. I caught the weigh-in.
Barrera looked drained. Barrera looked scared. The Tonton looked apprehensive.
I prowled the casino. I surveilled the ticket booths. I cataloged rumors.
Morales hates Barrera. Barrera hates Morales.
Turf tiff. T.J. versus Mexico City. Class clash. Middle meets moneyed.
They had soccer teams. The Morales Marauders. The Barrera Banditos.
They played. They clashed. The hell-bent jefes almost hurled heat.
My wife flew in. Some friends drove up from L.A.
We viewed a friend’s wedding. We ate in mock cantinas. We strolled mock-Mexican streets.
We polled personnel.
The cognoscenti said walk-through. The starstruck said war.
The fans arrived. Mariachis piped them in.
It got loud.
The walls boomed. The walls trapped noise. The walls echochambered.
The fans lugged posters.
Morales. Barrera. Exhortings en español.
Balloons tapped the ceiling. Tricolored all.
A sound system cranked. Mariachi shit exclusive.
The room filled. The room roared. The room vibed bullring.
Fans positioned. Fans waved signs. Fans slugged cerveza.
Factions mingled. Factions placed bets. Total strangers held money.
I sat with the press. I watched the prelims.
They went fast. They went loud. The Mexicans drew cheers. The non-Mexicans drew silence.
TKOs. One decision. One woman’s fight.
I hit the john. I crashed a rehearsal.
A baritone. A prime gig. The Mexican anthem.
We talked fights.
He liked Morales. Barrera was shot.
I bopped back. The noise reignited. I sat with my wife and friends.
A Morales guy flanked me. He was expansive. He was loud.
He waved a roll. He peeled C-notes. He placed bets.
Barrera guys bet him. A neutral popped up. He held the dinero.
A band filed in. Thirteen musicians.
Sombreros. Embroidered threads.
They entered the ring. They played loud. HBO cameras turned.
Fans held signs up. Cameras panned. Signs eclipsed views.
The noise built.
The fighters filed in.
The noise built.
The ring announcer spieled.
He spieled bilingual. He rolled his r’s. He rolled rich and rapt.
The noise built.
That cat sang the Mexican anthem.
The noise built.
The announcer introed the officials. The announcer introed the men.
He ratched his r’s. MoRales extended. BaRReRa rolled long.
The noise built.
The men derobed. They’d added weight. They’d sapped and replenished.
The ref gave instructions. The men touched gloves.
The noise built.
They went to their corners. They knelt. They crossed themselves.
The noise built.
The bell rang.
The noise stratosphered.
They moved. They squared off. They hit center ring.
Morales pops a jab. Barrera hooks to the body. Morales moves back.
Barrera. Fast hands. A shock.
Barrera moves in. He lands a right. He left-hooks downstairs.
Morales moves back. Let’s bait and counter.
Barrera moves in. Barrera cuts off. Barrera double-hooks low.
Fast hands. Shocker. “Shot”—bullshit.
Morales backs up. Morales moves in. They trade right hands.
Morales backs up Barrera. His rights sting.
They square off. They trade. Morales backs up Barrera.
They circle. They pause.
Morales backs up. Let’s bait and counter.
He taps the ropes. Barrera’s on him. They trade hooks at the bell.
The 122-pound showdown between Erik Morales and Marco Antonio Barrera for the junior featherweight title would become the fight of the year. (Photo by Ben Watts)
The noise built. The noise leveled. The noise leveled loud.
Round 2:
Barrera stalks. Morales jabs.
It’s a range finder. It’s a sizer-up. It’s a reach enhancer.
He’s dancing. He’s on his toes. Barrera closes in.
He lands a left hook. He lands a left/right.
Morales stands firm. Morales steps inside. Morales lands an uppercut. Morales rocks Barrera.
They stand. They trade. They deliver.
Morales has right hands. Morales has uppercuts. Barrera has killer hooks.
They disengage. Barrera moves in. Barrera hooks low.
Morales jabs. Morales moves in. Morales lands lefts and rights. Morales eats hooks.
He’s fighting Barrera’s fight. He’s standing in. He’s taking to give.
He’s fighting close range. He wants to. His work vibes abandon.
He’s pausing. Barrera’s on him. He’s launching hooks.
The bell. Hard to hear. One mini-gong.
The noise built. The noise releveled. The noise releveled loud.
Round 3:
Morales circles. Morales jabs. Barrera lunges. Barrera hits his knees.
He gets up. The ref wipes his gloves. Morales comes on.
Morales jabs. Morales leaves a jab out. Barrera hooks low.
Morales moves back. Barrera stalks. Barrera lands hooks.
Morales moves in. He lands two-handed. He moves back.
Barrera presses.
He misses hooks. He lands hooks.
Morales leans on the ropes. Morales blocks hooks. Morales eats hooks.
Morales spins off. Morales lands two-handed. Barrera spins off. Barrera moves in. Barrera repins Morales.
> He lands. He misses.
Morales launches. Barrera launches. They trade fucking wild.
The bell. A beep in a cacophony.
The noise cranked. The noise releveled.
I yelled. My wife yelled. Words went undiscerned.
A sign bopped me. A guy apologized. The Morales fan yelled. I read his lips. He said, “Barrera!”
Round 4:
Barrera stalks. Morales jabs. Morales spins and falls.
He gets up. The ref wipes his gloves.
Breather.
In round 4, Barrera focused almost exclusively on Morales’s thin frame, investing in punches to the ribs that would weaken him later in the fight. (Photo by Ben Watts)
Barrera circles. Morales circles. They’re rubber-band-tight.
Barrera works the body. Morales moves back.
He flurries. He moves. He flurries. His work rate’s up.
They regroup. They’re in sync. They’re synced to stand and deliver.
War. Collaborative. Mexican.
They fight off the ropes. They spin loose. They reverse positions.
It’s wild.
It’s war in sync.
Barrera flurries. Barrera rings the bell.
The crowd stood. The nose releveled. I got the gestalt.
Bipartisanship. National pride. Love inclusive.
It had it even. Morales: punch stats. Barrera: aggression.
I held a piss. My heart fluttered. The noise hurt my head.
Round 5:
They move. They meet. They trade jabs.
Barrera hooks to the body. Barrera plows Morales. Morales hits the ropes.
Morales flurries off. Morales pops Barrera. Morales dominates.
Morales lands rights. Morales staggers Barrera. Morales lands uppercuts.
Barrera wobbles.
I vibe turning point. I vibe wrong.
Morales fades. Morales wings arm shots.
They both weave. They both wing. They both miss.
Barrera comes on. Barrera backs up Morales. Morales taps the ropes.
Barrera fades. Morales wings arm shots. Morales extricates.
They square off. They weave. They circle and stalk.
Sync. Pre-attack mode.
Barrera sucks it up. Barrera pounds Morales. Morales taps the ropes.
Barrera flurries. He’s got juice. Morales fires weak.
The bell. A peep. One heartbeat heard.
I watched the prompters. I got close-ups.
I saw welts. I saw bruises. I saw deadpan will.
Round 6:
Slow-mo now. Save it. Sync the breather.
Jabs. Center ring. Barrera’s lead right.
It’s weak. Morales taps the ropes. He’s weak. He pushes off.
He jabs. He lands. His jab looks weak. His arms look heavy.
Barrera hooks to the body. Barrera hooks twice.
Morales hooks to the body. Morales hooks twice.
They separate. They pause. They breathe.
Barrera lands. A right. A left. Body rockets.
Morales measures. Morales jabs. Morales uppercuts.
Morales stuns Barrera. Morales pushes him back.
The bell. Loud now. Loud against held breath.
Six down. Six to go. My card: three rounds each.
The noise notched down. The noise went hoarse. The noise deleveled.
Round 7:
They meet. They square up tight.
They brush heads. They trade body shots.
They work. They rest. They breathe. They claw at momentum.
Barrera’s stronger. Barrera lands a right.
Morales jerks back. Morales moves back. Morales hits the ropes.
Barrera’s on him. His head’s down. He’s landing combinations.
Morales rests. Morales reaches. Morales rallies back.
He comes off the ropes. He lands a right. He rocks Barrera.
Barrera takes it.
Barrera reaches.
Barrera rallies back.
Barrera rocks Morales.
The crowd yells. The crowd stomps. The crowd outrings the bell.
It was Barrera’s fight. Barrera made Morales fight it. Morales wanted to fight it. Barrera made him. Barrera stamped the ticket. Barrera defined their mutual will.
Round 8:
Barrera moves in. Morales moves back.
They jab. They exchange. Barrera lands a one/two. Barrera rocks Morales.
Morales moves back. Morales hits the ropes. Barrera works the body.
Four shots. Evil. Evil shots back.
Morales shoves off. Morales lands lead rights. Morales lands uppercuts.
Barrera eats shots. Barrera goes low. Barrera lands to the liver.
They stand.
They deliver.
They launch arm shots.
They land and miss.
The noise schizzed on me. The roar went normal. Time schizzed. Three-minute rounds took six seconds.
I checked the prompter. I caught the damage.
Barrera bruised light. Morales bruised dark.
Dark rings. Sharp cheekbones. A ghost effect.
Dark eyes. Both men. Will smashed insensate.
Round 9:
Center ring. Exchanges. Barrera’s advantage.
Morales hits the ropes. Morales flurries. Morales rallies back.
Barrera rallies back. Morales hits the ropes. Morales rallies back.
He finds some snap. He dredged it. Barrera takes it.
Sync:
They’re both fried. They circle. They buy some breath.
Barrera charges. Barrera knocks Morales back.
They both flurry. They both miss. They both land.
They rest. They regroup. They earn breath.
They’re slack. They’re arm-shot. They’re on deficit.
Barrera comes back. Barrera lands. Barrera hurts Morales. Barrera pounds him to the ropes.
The bell rang.
Fans screamed.
Fans screamed “Morales!” Fans screamed “Barrera!”
The syllables blended. The names clashed. The names unified.
Round 10:
Center ring. Wide punches. Misses.
Exhaustion. Bilateral. Cumulative.
They come close. They lean close. They brush heads. They punch way wide.
They breathe. They dredge.
Morales gets air. Morales lands three rights. Morales hurts Barrera.
Barrera sways. Barrera wobbles. Morales loads up.
He’s fried. His tank’s dry. He stands still. He moves back.
They rest. They breathe. They dredge.
Barrera gets air. Barrera gets legs. Barrera drives Morales back.
Morales stands. Morales swings. Barrera swings back.
They’re insensate. They’re on Queer Street. They’re the standing dead.
The bell. A peep in screams.
I checked the prompter. I caught close-ups.
Barrera bled. One sliced bruise. Morales wore black hollows.
Round 11:
They trade jabs. They trade rights. They plant and hold.
Barrera lands body shots. He’s got more pop. Morales lands arm punches.
They lack pop. They hurt anyway. They push back Barrera.
He backpedals. He takes more. He sucks it up.
He shoves Morales. Morales lays back. Morales finds the ropes.
Barrera plows in. They tangle. The ref extricates.
Barrera lands a right. Barrera lands body shots. Morales slides left. Barrera shoves him back. Barrera taps the body.
The bell. Loud again. 360 sound.
I checked my card.
Even at 6. Barrera takes 7 to 9. Morales takes 10. Barrera takes 11.
Barrera—4 points up.
A sign sailed. I saw Morales upside down.
Round 12:
They touch gloves. The crowd stands. It’s respect.
They swarm. They flurry. They catch big breaths.
Moral
es bounces. Morales moves in. Morales hooks downstairs. Morales backs up Barrera.
Barrera plants and stands. Barrera backs up Morales. Barrera backs him into the ropes.
Barrera’s fists left Morales’s face bruised, but he ended the bout with a large wound under his own left eye. (Photo by Ben Watts)
Morales flurries off. Morales moves back. Morales looks shaky.
Barrera jumps. Barrera lands hooks. They’re close. They tangle. Morales goes down.
It’s a slip. It’s not a knockdown.
Morales took no punch. Morales slid and fell.
The ref rules a knockdown. The round goes 10–8. Miscue and break to Barrera.
Morales gets up. Barrera goes in. Wild punches arc to the bell.
It’s over.
I sat down. My legs caved. My bladder said, “Run.”
The Morales fan slapped my back. I dredged some high-school Spanish. Barrera’s fight. 10–8 to clinch. Insurance past a 10–9.
The Morales fan smiled. Fuck it. Coin comes and goes.
The crowd breathed in. The crowd breathed out. The crowd stood still.
The bell rang. The announcer coaxed applause. The crowd delivered.
The announcer scanned his cards. The announcer delivered.
Judge Duane Ford: 114–113—Barrera.
Judge Carol Castellano: 114–113—Morales.
Judge Dalby Shirley: 115–112—Morales.
The crowd booed. Signs sailed. I saw “Barrera” upside down.
The Morales fan shrugged. The neutral tried to pay him. The Morales fan blew off the money.
Heist.
Dry hump.
Fucking.
Misappropriation.
Consensus thinking.
The WBC.
“World of Bandits and Charlatans.”
The fans reviled the verdict. The fans glowed through it. The fans yelled, “Barrera!”
The crowd walked out. I joined my friends. A chant built. The one word: “Barrera!”
I felt punch-drunk. I felt de-Protestantized.
My dad should have seen it. My dad had perspective. My dad had race and geography.
We walked out. We hit the HBO party. We ate some Mexican food.
The walls leaked sound. Chants crashed the party. The one word: “Barrera!”
We all felt punch-drunk. We ate and split. We roamed the casino.
Jackpot gongs went off. Whoops and red lights.
I peeled my ears. I heard echoes.
“Barrera!”
I saw the Tonton Macoute. They held coin cups. They wore reflecting sweat suits.
They brought their girls. Their girls brought babies.
A baby cried. A girl fed him Coca-Cola.
Where I Get My Weird Shit
