Roy's Gangsta 17

Please excuse the profanity, but these needs to be transcribed accurately:

"My hand's fine. I ain't got no excuses, ain't got no reason to be here but the No.1 reason is to kick some ass. That's what I came for and that's all I got to cotdamn say!" -- Roy Jones Jr. at Thursday's Tarver-Jones press conference.

It was one of the few times I desperately wanted to take off my reporter hat and just be Vince. The Tarver-Jones press conference was that ill. It wasn't crazy. Like when Iron Mike tried to G Lennox. It was just gangsta and all because of my dude Roy Jones Jr.

I was searching for a pic to post, in case people hadn't seen the highlights on ESPN or what have you. It was gonna be the Twist blog's innagural pic, that's how ill he was. To see Roy up there with cap to the back and about three months of unshaven facial har was...I mean...sun is just a G.
As with many sports related things, yet another window into the cultural divide that seperates athletes and most media members. And me and most media members, for that matter. My nigga Kyle, a young star reporter for the Sentinel, calls me an apologist all the time because of the way I view things like this press conference. I hate that. I wanna call him a conformist in return, but I usually digress knowing that's not entirely true. And if HE thinks that, I can only imagine what the average media member thinks. But whatever...

To set things off you gotta realize that noone has seen or spoken to Roy since this fight was scheduled. And everyone was wondering if Roy was even gonna show up. On the ride to the Times Forum, me and my two co-wowrkers were wondering ourselves.

After we get there and the room slowly starts filling up. I see Big Corey, a kat my crew in Orlando hipped me to. I see lil Mexican George Diaz, Nascar and boxing writer for the Sentinel, one of the most cordial dudes you can meet. I see fatty-fat-fat Dan Rafael, ESPN's boxing guru. I see my uncle Tim Smith of the NY Daily news. All the boxing media heavyweights are there and a couple groupies slipped in there two. Nothin special though. But there was this PR gal. She was a gorgeous, petite Mexican number. She wore these form fitting gray slacks and slinky blouse, with stillettos that made her stuff poke out. I was clockin like Mekki Phifer. Even her cohort was a little fly, in a Kate Hudson kinda way.

Anyways, Roy was due at noon. Well, noon passed and there was no Roy. 12:15 passed, no Roy. The Mexican cutey was by ALL MEANS there...but no Roy.

12:20...what...a little comotion, heads start turning around. I look back and here comes Roy w/ his Pensacola gangsta troupe. He's smirking and he's strolling. He's strolling that nigga stroll (one I love so much), chest puffed out, head cocked in the air with his chin all the way up, arms swingin with rythm.

Jean shorts, crisp white Uptowns, T-shirt and the patchy beard. My heart started pumpin faster because I felt that vibe. I just wanted to shout, "Yeah nigga!" But I couldn't. I had to be a journalist.

Then he got on stage and spit the above quote and I almost lost it. My man in the section to my right, a Jacksonville jitterbug in Nate Campbell's camp actually did lose it. He was yelping. You heard him on that tape if you've seen snippets.

"WOOOOOOOO!! LOOOOOOORD HAVE MERCY!!! GO HEAD CHAMP!!! WHOOP SOME A$$"

Roy turned to him and smiled. At least somebody understood.

But it was so gangsta how Roy strolled through, got to podium, hit us with a novel's worth of info in 17 seconds and his appearance and jetted.

"That's all I got to cotdam say!" That's how he greased the ending and then he hopped off the podium and kept it movin. You don't know how hard it was for me to not get up and start actin like my father or Uncle Ronnie. Inside, I was doing what me and my crew did when Vince Carter caught the alley-bounce, put it between his legs -- in the air -- and threw the thunder down during the dunk contest. Or what me and my other crew did in San Fran when B-Nast dropped the Sonny-Billy on us for the first time and that alto-tenor head dropped like an anvil in an ACME cartoon. I wanted to throw my note pad in the air, cup my left hand around my mouth and yell "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO", while I stomped my feet like a Ferry & Wholers wino and pumped my fist.

Because, the point is, Roy got his tail whipped twice in a year. Once by Tarver and then, almost beat to death by Glenn Johnson. Vegas has Tarver as a signifcant favorite and some have even questioned if Roy is being negligent, considering the Levander Johnson death, by going back in the ring. I just finished a story about it a couple hours ago.

So just like Bobby Brown, just like James Brown and just like Jim Brown -- Roy is on his Defiant Nigga m.o. rght now. And he doesnt like Tarver or the media.

You know I love when black men act like themselves in front of media judges that hate who they are. After Roy's Gangsta 17 (what I'm calling it from now until I die), the writers got up, scowling, frowning and unhappy. Rafael, a bpxing big-wig, asked a group of his buddies, "Why do we put up this? Huh, why do we keep putting up with this?" And his boy answered, "Because we're idiots."

It's that mock-humility, insincere self-depracation that white sports reporters have perfected. The conversation can be translated, thusly: "Why does that jacka$% do this to us. He knows it affects how well we can do our job. So why doesn't he cater to us?" Buddy: "We're idiots for putting up with this too-big-for-his-britches-blackie. Someone needs to put him in his place. But we don't. So we're idiots."

Shut the EFF up bozos!

And here's where the cultural divide comes in. Because I loved it. And so did all the young black undercard boxers love it too.

I kicked it with my man Andre Ward. He ctually remembered me from when I did a piece on him for the AJC back in 2004. He was in Atl for the Titan Games, a primer for the Olympics. He ended up going to Athens and winning gold. He's a cool young man and a rising star with the gloves.

His reaction: "Oh you know I loved it. I was feeling it. Even the beard. He's lookin grizzly. You can tell he's been in the woods handlin his business." Ward left a little while later, turns out. He was only there to see Roy.

And my dude Nate Campbell had an even more applaudatory (check that nonexistent word..but it's hot aint it?) reaction: "I loved it! Loooooooved it. In the hood we call that livin like a savage. You know he's ready. And what more he have to say. What he said on that stage is all he needed to say. Then he stepped off and kept it pimpin."

You think when I called my man Gee on the cell he thought any different? Of course not.

Roy's Gangsta 17 was as much for the media as it was for Tarver. the way he emphasized COTDAM said it all. The way he moved his head as he stressed each syllable said even more. Go on Roy!

Scoop Jackson, one of my fellow apologists, had this to say. The thing is, I wasn't even a HUGE HUGE HUGE Roy fan. But you better believe I am now.

I mean, we haven't even discussed if Tarver gonna pummel Roy or not, because, after the Gangsta 17 I really think is ready. He knows whats at stake. And he's fighting against more than one opponent, at least that's what he feels.

Later that day, me and my man Cotey, our boxing writer, were yappin. And we got on Pretty Boy Floyd Mayweather and why he wasn't a huge star, even though his skills are breathtaking and stomach-dropping. And Cotey spit truth, "He's just a little too hard. He tries to be too hard and too hiphop."

Because of that, he can barely get pay-per-view off his own immense talent. he needs some italian goon like Arturo Gatti to get his paper. Then, coincidentally, me and some co-workers were at a restaurant later that night and got on Brett Farve. And I said plainly, "Brett is great. But he was also a stupid quarterback who made some of the worse footbal decisions ever. Was an addict, etc. If he weren't such a spitting-image of the Everyday Man, he'd not be nearly as popular as he is." I expected a mele. But it only took me maybe five minutes to prove my point.

Media and fans would APOLOGIZE for Brett all the time. He throws an interception and it's moxie. He calls out a teammate and he's a straight-shooter (like that clown played out each of his contracts).

Imagine Roy's Gangsta 17 was Brett's Good Ol' 17. And Brett walked in to the press conference with some cowboy boots, jeans, plaid shirt and Jack Daniels cap tht's been the rinse cycle a couple times. I magine if he stepped to the podium and ended his Good Ol 17 with, "I'm ready to whoop some tail and that's all the hell I gotta say yall."

He'd be speaking a lot of peoples language. Perhaps some of the guys could identify with that. Perhaps some of the guys in that press conference admired that gung-slinger steez.

It'd be, "Boy, Brett's on a mission, huh?" Or, "I'd hate to be the Vikings this Sunday." Very few jerks, very little mock-humility. Just a lot of inner fist-pumping -- not by everyone, but by a critical mass.

And that's cool. I don't mind that. I've never begrudged Favre's status with the media nd his fans. But I find fault with the double-standard.

Just think, if Pretty Boy Floyd looked and acted just like Brett Farve, he'd be one of the 10 biggest sports stars in America. period. Roy's Gangsta 17 is all the evidence you need for that.

Lord have mercy. Go head champ.