Nery v. Figueroa typed live 5.16.21 EST | 5.15.21 PST
There have always been men like me, paying money to watch men fight for our pleasures. Most of the money goes to the house. Fighters, like gamecocks, are cheap. I file these stories for an imaginary newspaper. Bite my fingernails, pick at my eczema blisters, nub a smoke out in the ashtray, listen to doom metal sludge, candle light, tired but it’s my job — — it’s my goddamn job to get my weasel prick boss his story, they fired all the fucking editors (this place is going straight to the shitter, no one reads anymore, only the promoters offer us a scrap of lint to chew on to sing their praises, the entire industry whoring themselves out for dough, well, what’s changed, probably nothing, so if I’m tired or stoned or don’t particularly feel like watching 122 pound men play patty cake with each other it’s live Sunday May 16th 2021 where I live and live Saturday May 15th 2021 where they fight, early morning hours, mild spring night with the windows down, cool breeze, eyelids heavy), so now it’s just me and whatever untimely, deranged bullshit is going on in my head typing out my fight reports.
Rd 1 — These frivolous scribblings. How all the bad stuff is always blamed on Satan. Boxing has not left the bright light Vegas 80s aesthetic and tone. Why Triller was exciting. It felt futuristic in the way the UFC used to. Boxing refuses to change. It’s stubborn beauty: Its stubborn beauty. I’ve seen both these men fight several times. It blends together. 122 is the lowest weight class I can watch, and it challenges me every time. A blur of punches, light as air. I recommend listening to music while watching fights. You see it in new lights.
Rd 2 — I was pretty bored. Neither are doing much. Missing too, lot of swinging and missing.
Rd 3 — You could easily go back to this precise moment in time and determine my thought, seep into my consciousness in another time, on another day, perhaps years and years go by, by having these specific three minutes, and only these three minutes, to put something down from somewhere me. I love you, at this moment and all of the others. I always will. I am here.
Rd 4 — Most nice things make me sad. The passing of time. Temporary. Something lost. I miss things as they are happening. I miss things that have not yet. I obsess over audience in all of my endeavors and I cannot, no matter how tightly I squint, imagine another soul as tuned to the channel I frequent to be interested in these passing [of] notes. There are better fights this year. Fights that will have a story. The winner of this fight fights someone else later this year. Stephen Fulton, Jr.
Rd 5 — Cockfighter by Charles Willeford is a book I recommend. It is about a man. I like to listen to sad music to try and extract that same energy from me, to weaken it, and transfer it to the realm of the unreal.
Rd 6 — I need to leave the house again. I need new experiences. New faces. To feel awkward. I have started to build a shell. I’m barely watching this fight out of the corner of my eye. I’m sure I’m missing something.
Rd 7 — First minute Nery didn’t do anything. Second minute I tried to think of something to write. Third minute Nery looked a little better.
Rd 8 — Brandon Figueroa stops Luis Nery with a body shot, KO. Stephen Fulton, Jr. holds up a World Boxing Association (or Organization, I couldn’t tell) patch. I agonize over whether to post or delete, not knowing a third way, not understanding the difference.
