Heart of the Fight
I fell in love with boxing long before I ever stepped into a gym.
It started in a small living room in Cleveland — a city built on grit and hard knocks — somewhere between the hum of a tube TV and the sound of my dad’s voice calling out combinations before the fighters even threw them. Those nights in the 1980s and ’90s were sacred. HBO and Showtime were our cathedrals, the commentators our choir, and the fighters our saints. Tyson, Holyfield, Leonard, Hagler, Hearns — they were larger than life, yet human in a way that only men who fight can be.
My dad wasn’t a boxer, but he had a fighter’s heart. He understood the rhythm of the sport — that boxing is jazz with gloves. He’d lean forward on the couch, beer sweating in his hand, eyes locked on the screen. “Watch how he sets that up,” he’d say. “It’s not just about power — it’s patience, timing, and knowing when to take your shot.” He taught me that boxing wasn’t about anger. It was about art. It was about character.
Sometimes we’d watch a fight twice in one night. Once for the punches, once for the story. Because every fight had one — from the underdog chasing a dream to the fallen champion trying to claw his way back. My dad loved the guys who left everything in the ring. The ones who didn’t have the biggest names but had the biggest hearts. Arturo Gatti was our kind of fighter. Gatti wasn’t perfect — he was real. He bled for the crowd. He fought for the love of it. And when he won, you felt like you’d fought right there beside him.
I dabbled in boxing myself, enough to taste the sting of leather and the humility that comes with it. That first jab that pops your head back, the first time you realize your lungs burn faster than your ego — it teaches you something. Boxing strips away the noise. There’s no hiding behind teammates, no excuses, no shortcuts. It’s just you, your will, and your reflection in the other guy’s eyes.
When I moved to Las Vegas in 1997, it felt like coming home to boxing’s Mecca. This city breathes in rhythm with the sport — every casino has a story, every hotel has hosted legends. I’ve seen it all here: the neon lights flashing over a packed MGM Grand, the quiet buzz before a title fight, the parade of entourages, the heartbreak of split decisions. I’ve seen the golden ages come and go — from the Tyson era to Mayweather’s precision and Pacquiao’s fire. Vegas gives you front-row seats to greatness, but it also teaches you how fleeting it can be.
For the past twenty years, I’ve worked in MMA — another world of controlled chaos, another arena for warriors. I’ve seen legends rise, dynasties fall, and men and women redefine what toughness means. But through it all, my heart has never strayed far from the squared circle. Because boxing, to me, is poetry written in blood and sweat. It’s simplicity at its most brutal and beautiful — two hands, one heart, one truth.
Even now, when I hear that first bell ring, I’m transported back to that living room in Cleveland. My dad’s there, the TV humming, the fighters moving like shadows on the wall. Tyson is walking through another man like a storm. Gatti is on the ropes but somehow finding a way back. Rocky is climbing those steps, not because he’s expected to win, but because he refuses to quit.
Those moments shaped me. They taught me that life, like boxing, isn’t about being undefeated — it’s about getting up when you shouldn’t be able to. It’s about pride without arrogance. Fire without hate. Love without weakness.
Boxing gave me my sense of honor, my work ethic, my belief in redemption. It taught me that pain can be purpose, and that victory means more when you’ve been counted out.
I’ve watched the sport rise and fall, change and evolve. The bright lights of pay-per-view, the dark days of politics and promoters, the endless debates about who’s the best. But no matter what happens, when a fighter steps into that ring — when the crowd fades and the bell rings — the truth of it remains.
It’s not just a fight.
It’s a confession.
It’s heart versus doubt.
It’s me, still that kid from Cleveland, watching with my dad, feeling every punch as if I threw it myself.
Because no matter how far I’ve gone, or what I’ve done — my heart has always belonged to boxing.
