Mother’s Day came a week early for me. The kids knew most of them would be away so they decided to jump the gun and surprised me last Sunday. I loved it.
Huge letdown
We were gathered for the Fight of the Century at my son’s home at The Fort and, after that huge letdown, I needed a boost. We all did.
There were lovely gifts and a heart-shaped chiffon cake with marshmallow icing. It was noisy. There was singing.
And for a brief moment we had a respite from the blues. For a few minutes we stopped trying to analyze what happened in those 12 nerve-wracking rounds.
Everyone had an opinion. I was quiet. I took it out on the delicious brigadeiros on the table. After all, what I know about boxing can be contained in a thimble. (Do they still use those things?)
But I do have vivid memories of sitting in the bleacher section, very young and very pregnant, watching the wannabe “Pacmen” of our time. We couldn’t afford ringside. But we didn’t mind it one bit. We happily munched on boiled peanuts and shared a warmish Coke. Ah, love!
When our finances got better and we could sit up close, I decided that seeing all the blood and gore was not for me. I stopped tagging along. My loss.
For the rest of the afternoon and into evening, we shared and compared entries posted online about the fight. We were one with those who vented their disappointment and disgust and unleashed eloquent and creative, sometimes vulgar but funny prose on social media.
Celebrities weighed in. Jim Carrey said the “Fight of the Century” was more like “Dancing with the Stars.” There was a video of Barney asking Floyd for a “great big hug.”
Some comments were downright mean, but let’s face it, we needed nasty at the moment. We could have used downright dirty.
I think it was a forgivable display of mal perder. Humble pie never tastes good. Neither do sour grapes. But it almost felt good taking a cheap shot or two. Why not!
I’m sorry but sometimes it takes a while for your better lights to come on.
Two very articulate commentaries emerged that afternoon. One by Greg Bishop, senior writer for Sports Illustrated, who said, “Floyd Mayweather defeats Manny Pacquiao but will never have the victory he wants the most.” He goes on to say: “The fighter who has never lost has one fight he cannot win.” And that, of course, is to win public perception; “to be known as a world-class fighter, not a serial batterer.”
Local blogger Jio F. Deslate wrote “On the Mayweather Victory and Why It Doesn’t Matter.” He said, “Mayweather may be undefeated but he is not a champion. Manny is and always will be.”
Now we hear stories of a conspiracy, a lawsuit, about sloppy handlers, surgery and a rematch. I don’t like this type of postmortem. Leaves a bad taste.
Enough already, I want to say. Pacquiao is teaching us more by losing than he could ever have by winning and wearing that gaudy belt: One need not win to be a champion.
Three mothers
My heart went out to Mommy Dionisia that night. She was subdued, not her feisty self after the fight. Why do some commentators ask you how you are at the worst time of your life? Her concern was that her son was not bleeding or unconscious on the floor, knocked out cold. She was thankful he was unscathed. And regardless of the outcome you could tell she was mighty proud.
I applaud the mother who rushed to the scene of the riots in Baltimore when she recognized her 16-year-old son wearing a hoodie and a mask, with the mob throwing rocks at the police.
“I lost it,” she said. “I was angry because you never want to see your children out there doing that.” She chased after her son and smacked him over and over again. Someone shot a video and it went viral. She has been dubbed Mother of the Year.
Well done, Toya Graham! May your tribe increase!
And then there’s that one mother whose daughter was spared the firing squad and granted a reprieve. But she takes to the streets to join the rabble-rousers, not an ounce of gratitude in her soul.
Go figure! Let’s not even go there.
Being a mother is not easy. They call us the vacation-less class. We do it all for free.
A mom is psychologist, driver, cook, housekeeper, laundry woman, accountant, banker, doctor, nurse and tooth fairy. She is the fixer of broken toys and mender of broken hearts. We kiss booboos up to heaven, and the angels make it better.
If her child falls, a mother feels the pain.
To mothers all over the world, take a bow, ladies. What a job it is! No wonder it was assigned to women!
Mother’s Day 2015
My thoughts travel back to once upon a time very long ago. She was only 55 when she left us. And it still hurts. I miss her.
I wonder what she would think of how we all turned out—her two daughters, her grandchildren. Would she be pleased, maybe even proud?
When I think of my mother, the word “kind” comes to mind. She was beautiful, inside and out. She had the patience of a saint. Even when I didn’t deserve it, she never gave up on me. Thank you, Mama.
Happy Mother’s Day in heaven, Lulu Corrales Razon!
