Life in Los Angeles is one big waiting game. Everything has a
line. A long line. It starts in traffic.
Life in Los Angeles is one big waiting game.
Everything has a line. A long line. It starts in traffic.
Claustrophobic cars congregate on the freeways, filling the lanes to capacity whether it’s an hour after lunch or an hour before the bars close. The lines for the bars are also crowded. Lines for dinner are long, but not quite as long. Lines for breakfast are ridiculously long.
Driving from Gilroy to Los Angeles is a fairly long trip, made much longer when car trouble occurs.
Trying to find parking in Los Angeles doesn’t take long. It takes forever.
The only thing that didn’t take any time in Los Angeles this past weekend was covering Robert “The Ghost” Guerrero’s 43-second knockout of Edel Ruiz. If there is ever a question that the Gilroy native is a kind soul, let the record show he handed Ruiz his 22nd defeat with a body blow.
The loser’s expeditious payday didn’t even require a black eye.
It did require Ruiz to spend a couple minutes on all fours, hunched over after every ounce of oxygen was expelled from his lungs following a crisp left uppercut.
The seven fights before the main event took a short enough time that the tension for the main event, Antonio Margarito defending his WBA welterweight title against Shane Mosley, was allowed to build to an almost unnatural level.
HBO said the fight would begin at 7 p.m., and there was no changing that.
During that time, each person in attendance, more than 20,000 total, developed a heightened sense of awareness. The crowd was buzzing. Margarito and Mosley were going to mash each other, and the mob was hungry for blood. Some fans couldn’t wait for the fight to start, as the evening featured two full-scale brawls in the crowd.
Most fans simply stocked up on beer and/or food, and stood at attention in front of their seats.
Music blasted loud from all angles. Affliction T-shirts and tattoos were a dime a dozen. Women in tight, revealing clothing stalked the aisles. Menacing men in flashy suits took aisle seats and observed these women, whispering in the ladies’ ears before sending them quickly on their way.
Celebrities took time getting to their seats, and some never made it to a seat. Michael Buffer killed time by rattling off the names of famous faces he saw, some less famous than the announcer himself.
San Diego running back LaDainian Tomlinson received a luke-warm reception. Mark Wahlberg got plenty of applause. Oscar De La Hoya, who wasn’t in attendance, was booed without mercy. Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger got it just as bad, if not worse.
Sylvester Stallone was a hero.
Sly drew more applause from the fans than Margarito, who was beloved by the largely Mexican crowd. Both fighters heard their names chanted.
A chorus of “Mar-ga-ri-to” was said in a stylish four-syllable cadence, while a familiar call of “Rocky” rolled off every tongue like Stallone had just conquered Apollo Creed all over again.
The Mexican and U.S. national anthems took longer than expected, with the American singer deserving much of the blame. Every word was given extra syllables, as if he was being paid by the minute. He handed the microphone back to Buffer in a dramatic, who’s-the-man manner.
The crowd didn’t care. The time for Margarito and Mosley had come.
Then, without warning, time might as well have stood still. Everyone was simply living in the moment.
Two warriors stood toe-to-toe and unleashed every wicked shot in their arsenal. Each punch made the crowd louder than the one before.
Mosley ended up pulling off what many thought was impossible. He was more active, he was more aggressive and, in the end, he was more than Margarito could handle, knocking out the champ in the ninth round.
Fans quickly dispersed, leaving Staples Center with their bloodlust thoroughly quenched. The fight was well worth the wait, and one that won’t be soon forgotten.
Especially when there was time to reflect immediately after, sitting in traffic on the way home.
