Back in the day my brother used to stage boxing bouts in his room. He was the promoter, the announcer, the opponent, the trainer and the roaring crowd of fans. The champ was my 4 year old sister. Pete would tape her hands and use ski mittens for gloves.
"In this corner, we have, weighing in at 34 pounds, from Philadelphia Pennsylvania, with 43 titles, 2 losses, and an unbelievable 40 KOs, the indisputable, the unstoppable, the unquestionable, heavy fleaweight champion of the world, BABY JANE FRAZIER. (roaring crowd aaaaaaaaaaaaaa)
"And in this corner, weighing in at an 63 pounds we have--"
At this point, my sister would step up and windmill him to the side of the head. He took it in slo-mo --head turn, neck snap, face scrunch, sweat spray, faaaaaall baaaaaaack--but kept announcing: What the... ladies and gentlemen (aaaaaaaaa) Baby Jane has (aaaaaaaaa), the crowd is going wi (aaaaaaaaaa) this is unbelievable (aaaaaaaaaaaa), never before (aaaaaaaaa) history of the sport.
All while baby Jane Frazier kept pounding him in the face.
I don't really know why I woke up with this memory this morning except that it's Monday and I feel like Pete, playing all the roles in a boxing match.
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