Rumble in the Caribbean

Round 3

"Are you there God? It's me, your boy, Louie. This guys like a chess player out there, man, memorizing every combo I throw at 'em. If I get some strength for the next five seconds, I'll owe you big."  

"Six!... Seven!... Eight!..." yelled the ref, jabbing his index finger in the air.

My heart was throbbin' in my chest as I tried to lift my arms up, they felt as heavy as an eighty pound dumbbell. There was mad blood allover me too, but it wasn't mine. For a dude that bled so much, he sure got the best of me.

He swung a clean jab across my jaw and there I stood on my knees.

"Don't buckle." I kept repeating trying to keep my legs steady.

My coach was yelling at me frantically. In my corner stood "Mongoose" Lewis, the greatest trainer in Brooklyn, with a disappointed look on his face, an almost ashamed of me expression. After 10 grueling months of hard work, this was how I repaid him? In three rounds, three lousy good-for-nothing rounds of being dominated by Berbick.

I mustered up something before the ten count.

God gave me some inspiration, and reminded me of my cousin Pepé.

Referee gave me a final vetting. "Are you ready to continue!? You good!?"

"Yes, Papi! I'm solid!"

"Alright."

Then the ten-second wood block clapped.

The Puerto Rican-Destroyer, Berbick was opposite of me in his yellow, black and green trunks prematurely celebrating his win. It bought me a few seconds to catch my breath. Then the big smile on his face quickly turned into a menacing scowl. He was a sniper on the battlefield ready to take me out with a perfectly placed stinging haymaker. I lifted my arms up with all my might and avoided the bullet, and kept my head low.

It felt like Derek Jeter was sluggin' me repeatedly across the head.

It was a miracle I survived.

Then, ding, ding. The bell saved me.

Round 4

Berbick rushed in and whispered "Twenty-Five-Eight-Teen!", taunting his soon to be record of 25 wins, Zero Losses, and 18 Knock-outs.

While our heads were touching, he swung another nasty blow.

"Dat fi mi belt!" he assured me.

I wasn't going to be a statistic. Drinking water during the rest period seemed to replenish some bit of energy. And having my lacerations treated helped see his formation a little clearer. I tried to study him and react.

"Protect yourself at all times!" yelled the ref watching me do an imitation of a punching bag, taking Berbick's terrifying blows.

He took a breather.

My moment to shine, I hopped over the trenches swinging an impeccable combinations of punches, with 80 % of them landing. One-two on his cheek, then some clean body shots. He hid under his fists for the rest of the round and spat out blood.

"You're using asses and elbows out there, kid. Keep it up!"

He grazed me with an uppercut.

"No! My man's cut! Cover your face!"

I'm back at it again, catching him slippin'. Blood streaming down the side of my face like a gutted pig, you feel me? I threw more combinations at him, ain't no way I was gonna let him get motivated. I kept him in check.

I needed to remind myself who I was up there, a gladiator. Me and Pepé both were... We were sixteen-year-old when Pepé and I got into fighting in the streets of San Juan. After our fists were getting nice and ugly, we decided to move to Spanish Harlem to pursue our dreams after graduation. Pepé said he needed boxing to battle away his inner demons, it was all we had growing up, in a way it all made more sense to me after his death. He needed a discipline, an addiction to fulfill. Wish he was stronger.

He died four months into my training for this fight, from a drug overdose. They found Fentanyl in the Heroin he was using. He was supposed to be in my corner tonight, enjoying the lights in Madison Square Garden, rooting me on. I knew he would have laid some guap under my name. 

Berbick made a comment about his death during the weigh-in, I couldn't forgive, it was shocking since they had history. They knew each other. He came out with his entourage, said he would take me out so I could visit Pepé again. The thrive to win in this business brought out the worse demons in all of us, but I needed to beat him some manners.

Round 5

"Rule dem man, like how Moses rule him rod!" yelled his coach.

Berbick, after getting bested in the fourth round, was ready to keep up a momentum. With his corner egging him on, he assaulted me with an ugly right cross and a pattern of jabs, keeping me away from his circle.

His reach was at an advantage.

"Don't play with this man, he's hungry! Let 'em see your fangs, kid!"

I'm pivoting now, brushing off punch after punch.

How long can I keep doing this?

Then, I saw an opening, I needed to push him off me. I took a gamble and swung a straight right power punch to his temple using the entire weight of my hip, he didn't see coming. I was a southpaw after all. Left me open though.

I remembered perfecting that hit. It was when I first entered Mongooses gym. A gym filled with a motley crew of tough immigrants comprising of Puerto Ricans, Ukrainians, Cubans, Filipinos and Ghanaians. One of the biggest hijos de puta trained with me the first week, I think his name was Iago, he had 50 lbs over me.

After beating the grains off a nearby heavy-duty bag, we sparred.

The conversation was the same every day.

"Punch like this."

"Like this?"

"No! Like this!"

"Ok."

"No! Use whole body!"

"Ok!"

The punch landed good like he taught me, putting my hip into it. Berbick took a breather and backed off me, played Defense for a while.

So much for "The Jamaican Coming of Christ", or Mister King of the Caribbean. I'll give it to him though, he was good. His story was an inspiring one for the ages, he came from the biggest crime-ridden city in his country, and persevered. He was a mentor to all the little boys and girls who ever wanted to be someone in this world and overcome adversity.

But, in the ring that didn't matter, to me.

He was a tyrant, an enemy. And I was the harbinger of death, ready to take him out.

Round 7

Berbick eyeballed me like his pissed-off meter was gonna burst red. He was wildin'. Sweat pooled down his forehead and his eyes were now two different sizes.

He finally approached me first.

As I took my first few steps forward, I began to feel the strain of all his punches. My ribs felt like something was rickety in there, and I could feel my nose was probably broken.

I evaded a shot, and felt the breeze on the side of my face.

Quickly shot a left hook on the body.

His arm returned for another attempt.

Don't swallow the blood.

Go for his other rib.

Don't let him breath.

I shot a few more.

A quick glance at the crowd looked like their heads were gonna pop out their necks. He kept dancing, and skipping back and forth. He's playin' with me.

Some small body shots hurt me.

"Yuh Irie?" he grunted, a little smile in there somewhere, maybe.

Show 'em, B. For mi gente!

A right hook gets me stumblin'. He's caught me off balance now.

The wood clapped then the salvation bell again.

Round 12

Last chance, Louie.

By this time, we were both bursting with the last bits of energy stored up. It was Judgment Day. I pushed him and lunged so quick, my fists were ready to go in through him.

He took it effortlessly, with all that adrenaline pumping in his veins, my punch was dismissed.

He gritted his teeth. Blood droplets on his trunks were getting bigger.

We exchanged nasty punches back and forth. It was a brutal dogfight in the ring.

Madison Square Garden held their anticipating screams as they gawked.

Berbick had a mean offensive style, but left himself vulnerable too many times. I was waiting for the right moment to strike and trick him changing from South Paw to Orthodox. 

"He's open! Get em, kid!" yelled Lewis.

It was like emptying the bullet chamber, I couldn't believe I had this much energy left. I proceeded with a deadly combination.

I had a conversation with Pepé in my head going in Slow motion.

"Louie, Hermano, this all you got? How long we trained for this?"

"Been Five years."

"Real talk? How many times we watched the Ali Vs Frazier fight in preparation?"

"Damn near a thousand times!"

"Prove it to me, B. Prove you got what it takes."

Me and Berbick clashed like the Titans we were.

I bobbed and weaved and jabbed and punched with blood blinding my eyes.

Everything else was just static noise until the bell rang.

When it was all over, he whispered again.

"Respect." he said reaching to pound my fists in a congratulatory way. "Much Love. Him wudda been proud."