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It was a great night for boxing.
My friends and I got to the fight early. I was sent along to brave the Will Call window alone. There was a group of disappointed girls in line ahead of me that seemed to have bought their tickets from a scalper, only to realize later that they never actually received their tickets.
Ouch.
I struck up a conversation with a guy in front of me. He was a Texas fight scene patron, going to all the big fights in recent Texas history. Pacquiao-Barrera I, Chavez-Whitaker, heck…he’d seen them all.
The guy beside me was from Los Angeles. He told us he’d been to the past five big fights in Vegas, along with all of the Israel Vazquez-Raul Marquez masterpieces.
Feeling a little out of place standing there with my two in person fight resume, and nothing as big as any of those fights, I took solace in the fact that each of us seemed just as excited as the other.
I led our group on the long, arduous trek up the Houston’s longest escalator all the way to the fourth level of the Toyota Center. I didn’t even know the Toyota Center had a fourth level.
We wound our way all the way around the top of the stadium, only to find out our seats had been moved to the other side. I didn’t know that could happen either, but my posse and I were undeterred.
Our seats were right in front of a raucous group of young, Mexican fight fans. Their fervent cheers for Marquez started during the undercards and never stopped. They were less than cordial to the hometown Diaz, but you have to admire how Mexico supports their fighters.
It seemed like everyone in the arena was eager in anticipation, especially us in the cheap seats. The production value of the card was less than impressive.
It still amazes me that you can go to high school football games that seem more organized than the three fight cards I’ve been to, but not even idiot boxing promoters could ruin this night.
When Juan Diaz came out, the fans erupted. Diaz, Diaz, Diaz! The crowd roared. I was glad to see Houston come out in full force for their fighter, and I screamed loudly right along with them.
Marquez came out to a mixture of boos and cheers, but the cheers were even louder than the one’s Diaz received. Like me, many fans cheered for both fighters, seemingly sensing what beautiful savagery they were about to witness.
We were right.
The fight itself was one of those rare times when everyone in the boxing world knows its going to be a great fight and it actually happens. It was full of ups and downs for both fighters and both men lived up to their nicknames.
“The Baby Bull” rushed his opponent the entire night, seeking to gore the Mexican legend with sharp, quick combinations, and Dinamita’s counterpunches seemed to explode against the determined will of his oncoming foe.
And just when it seemed that every moment of the fight had begun flow together into some kind of poetic verse, Juan Manuel Marquez reached his glove down into the depths of hell as he whipped sharp uppercuts into the chin of the perpetually charging Juan Diaz.
The fight would soon be over.
When Juan Diaz fell for the second and last time in the ninth round of the fight, everyone in the arena was standing in adulation. Not just for Juan Manuel Marquez, whose brilliant performance just reinforced what everyone already know about him, but also for Juan Diaz, whose ferocious onslaught was bested by the only thing it possibly could have been that night: a great fighter fighting a great fight on a great night for boxing.
