by Bowie Ibarra
One of the best places to watch a great pay-per-view fight is at a titty bar. You can't throw a rock in San Antonio without hitting one of these places. One of the strip clubs featuring the Pacquiao/Bradley Matchup was Sugars: San Antonio.
With that said, tonight I can confirm without the shadow of a doubt that Sugars: San Antonio is, in fact, one of the absolute worst titty bars to watch boxing. And considering how tragically historic the night in boxing was, I think it was appropriate that I watched what boxing pundits and even Bob Arum himself proclaimed as 'the death knells of boxing' in one of the worst places to ever watch boxing in. Ever.
I had arrived literally moments before the fight started, having seen on the Twitter account for Top Rank Boxing that the fight had yet to start as I got out of work hocking lobsters and other seafood to the citizenry of San Antonio.
The place I wanted to go was All-Stars, where I had watched the other ridiculously historic Mayweather/Diaz bout. I remember having a good time there. But it was at least another 10 minutes away from where I started.
The fact was, Sugars was closer to my work. So it was the best choice. As I got to the club, I paid the $15 cover and went in.
I literally hit the floor as the bell rang for the first round. Score. It was 'Standing Room Only', and I found a spot in front of the mainstage with an HD TV just above it.
First thing I noticed as I walked in that indicated that this night was not going to go well was that the DJ continued to play music as the fight was starting. All I remember is that at All-Stars, they turned the music off and turned the TV volume up, and the Slappers all got comfortable for the fight. Even when I watched Pac/DeLaHoya at Palazio in Austin, they did the same thing.
That was not the case here. Apparently, the DJ only had music from a CD that was apparently bought in a parking lot from the trunk of some dude's car off of Marbach in front of the Peter Piper's Pizza. Don't get me wrong. There's a place and time for urban tunes in a strip club. Many of the songs written (I use that word loosely) by hip-hop 'artists' are custom made for booty shaking and titty bouncing.
But for the love of Pete, variety is the spice of life, Sugars SATX. There's other genres of music out there that the sexy and lazy women with no work ethic and lack of self-respect who strut around Sugars: San Antonio can shake their money-maker's to, while earning my $1 tribute.
What I'm trying to say is its time for an 80s night, Sugar's style!
While I'm talking about music, I want to mention that the DJ from my last jaunt to this place a few years ago was still around. This guy looked like the love child of Andy Dick with the voice of Barry White. Basically, the perfect storm for crappy DJ.
Believe me, I worked closely with douchebags who were like this guy, who enjoyed the sound of their own voice, thought they were masters and commanders of the entertainment realm they felt they held sway over, had nothing of value to say, and would not shut the f**k up. This DJ was one of them. And like the others I've know, I wish the zombie apocalypse would hit so I could
punch these cunts in the face find these people and provide some insight on how they are failures at their annoncing duties.
They also look like this dude.
At any rate, the fight continued, with Pac smacking Bradley around round after round. Bradley was game, though, and hung in there with the Filipino. But he was getting the worst of it.
Meanwhile, some of Sugars: San Antonio's best took to the main stage in my peripheral vision. I swear, I've never seen so many strippers with ugly toes in my life. Perhaps some of the ugliest toes I've ever seen.
A message to the tarts chasing that paper for coke money at the end of the night: If your toes are ugly, please do not buy open-toed shoes. Be honest with yourself. If your toes are ugly, there is a wide array of sexy CLOSED toed shoes you could wear to work for the hour/hour and a half you 'dance' and make enough money to feed a small homeless community.
Also, don't waste it all on blow. Your child living in the custody of your equally worthless baby-daddy (or nearest post-retirement or post-working age relative) needs school clothes (and money for a psychiatrist when he/she gets older because you practice your stripper moves in front of them while some creep took a picture of you before you both locked the kids out of the room for 10 minutes to 'Play House'.).
So, I can't watch a combat sport without beer. You can't expect to get that full-Roman Empire feeling of 'Bread and Circus' without libations. So I ordered a brew from a waitress and paid way too much
for a 12 oz.Coors Light.
|Not worth the $6 bucks.|
Neither is the beer.
It's hard to pay $3 for a Coors Light. Don't get me wrong. Coors is a good beer. Especially Coors Original. I've been to Golden, Colorado. I've seen the brewery. I've felt the hops. It's quality. But $6.50?
Anyway, I gave the waitress/future dancer named Diamond or Platinum or whatever a $20 and as I should have imagined, she helped herself to the .50 cents due with the rest of the money. And to think I was pulling out another .50 cents to give to her to make it a solid buck. That's me. Big spender. Enjoy your shame in two weeks as you transition from .50 cents a drink to dry humping a stranger for $20 as an indy hip-hop song discovered from the trunk of a car provides the dulcet tones to your soul-crushing.
So, back to the fight. Late round flurries from both fighters, which were great. I thought it was a mistake for Bradley to do that, considering the wars Pac had with Marquez, who was 10x the fighter Bradley was. And slow motion replays put that fact on display.
Since Tecate sponsored the fight, I asked the question I knew I would regret. If 'The Silver Bullet' was just under $7, then an import must be just under $10. It was the wrong question to ask, but the right answer was given.
"Do you have Tecate?"
"No. We don't have Tecate"
Yes. Little victories, people. Little victories.
And speaking of victories, it was mere rounds later that the fight ended and the judges would reveal their scores, which seemed obvious at the time. Naturally, I would have to read the body language on the HD TV, as Upgrayddd or Em-Sixxxtine or whoever the hell was still hip-hopping his way into my ears.
And it was a surprise as I watched Bradley celebrate by jumping on the middle ropes in victory as Tyga was telling me with all the eloquence of Shakespeare or Marlowe about the glory of Rack City. Or was it Circuit City.
But speaking of days gone by, Pacquiao's aura suffered a terrible blow. When the entire world sees one fight and judges see another, you can't help but think about all the money floating around Las Vegas.
That damn money. That same damn money I worked just over five hours to stuff in my pocket hocking seafood. The same damn money the SATX bints humiliated themselves for. The $15 bucks I paid to watch Pacquiao. The .50 cents the future dancer named 'Sky' or 'Delight' or whatever hustled from me. That's the only way I could explain what happened in Vegas. That damn Money.
People are saying 'boxing died'. #RIPBoxing. MMA is so much better. Pro-Wrestling FTW.
Let me make one thing clear: Boxing will never die. MMA will never die. Pro-Wrestling and all other combat sports will never die.
Because the human impulse to participate in a fight, as a fighter or spectator, and whether it be a combat sport or on the street, will always be a part of our wiring. It's a necessary component of human survival. We need to participate in it, its ritual. To participate as a fighter or to watch and vicariously experience the fight will always be a part of us.
Let's face it. You'd watch a street fight for free as much as you'd watch a cage fight or some of the best prize fighters in the world duke it out. My desire to punch a DJ or announcer in the face will always remain. Your desire to do the same to your own personal bug-a-boos will be there as well. Forever.
And as tonight showed us, when money is involved in any industry, sport or otherwise, there's also another part of our human nature that will always be there. And its selfish heart will continue to beat and gain power from the halls of low-rate sports entertainment venues, to the workplace, to the highest offices of government:
Bowie Ibarra is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press and Simon and Schuster. His latest upcoming book, "Pit Fighters: Baptism by Fire", is a combat-sports themed book featuring as one of the fighters a Mexican luchador who crosses over into MMA. It will be available in paperback, Kindle, and other e-reader versions.
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