Let me try this one because this is kind of--
I hadn't planned on reading this,
but I have a friend, Martín Espada,
who says if you're Hispanic, you have to have a boxing poem.
[LAUGHTER]
I finally qualify.
Affirmative.
Action.
So when I was a young man, the champion of the world,
I think at about 150 pounds, was from Mexico,
and his name was Gaspar Ortega--
a good fighter.
There was a guy from our neighborhood named Joey Limas--
a good fighter.
And I swear that I will never see a better fighter than--
I'm not a boxing fan.
But this thing looked like it was choreographed.
It was ballet.
They would hit and counterpunch for I
think it was 13, 14 rounds, I don't know, maybe probably 12.
It was a non-title fight.
And I felt that Joey Limas, who later
did nothing and kind of just sat around drinking wine--
there was not much more in life for him.
But I felt he had triumphed and had been cheated.
And I make a reference to Palookaville.
Those of you who've seen On The Waterfront,
in one scene of Marlon Brando where
he tells his brother, who just saw them down the tubes,
he's a boxer.
He says, "I could have been a contender.
I could have been a contender."
And he says something like, we saw people this and this,
and you saw me, you gave me a one-way ticket
to Palookaville--
meaning nowhere.
So I guess this also states some of my feelings about
my hometown,too.
"Poem for Joey Limas."
"I was there the night you battled Gaspar Ortega.
Your fists as fast as his.
Whirling defiant counterpunches, you beat the champ.
At worst, a draw.
But the money wasn't on you.
I, who did not learn to hit back,
never stopped being proud of you.
Even though you're quiet, a gentleman,
your fists were ungracious.
This was not the first time you lost in your own hometown.
This had always been, and would forever be--
Palookaville."