Boxer

Allstate arena roared. The show was standing room only for the Pacquin-vs-Rasa bantam match. Pacquin was a killer. A machine. A boxer’s boxer. He was strategic. He thought in the ring. He taunted the blowhards, and he outmaneuvered the ones who could dance. Pacquin outpunched every fighter in his weight class, every fighter in the feather weights, and half the guys in lightweight. The big guys were secretly glad he was small and would never qualify in their division because they knew he would ruin them.

His opponent was different.

Here's how boxing works. It’s a business. The professionals have a team: a manager, a promoter, a media crew, a doctor and countless other employees depending on them to stay upright and win. Even the new guys, the emerging terrors, even they have a manager, a promoter, and a coach.

But not Rasa. He didn’t have a crew. He didn’t have a pitch man. He didn’t even Instagram. Motherfucker just walked in wearing a t-shirt and shorts. He taped his own hands. Nobody knew where he trained. Nobody knew where he lived. Nobody knew nothing about nobody about Rasa. Even the mob was shut out.

At the weigh in, they were nose to nose—for a second. But when Pacquin tried to drop a stare onto Rasa, Rasa leaned in a millimeter and stared through Pacquin, and the Pack Man, on a live stream, this killer, 11 KOs and no technicals, this brilliantly murderous tirade of exactly 118 pounds, looked away.