Via Prague

'Has it started?' I ask.

'No,' Liam said. 'They're in the first fight right now. I'd say you've got about an hour.'

'Alright! See you there!'

Suddenly I was excited. Everything came back, like when you're a kid and you wake up on Christmas. The Mayweather-whatisname fight! I was Ali again, on my feet, dancin'! Dance! All night long! Sucka, you aint nothin'!'

I got a shower. It was still dark, just after 5 am. The night before at Pavels, Liam had said the live fight would be broadcast early, 200-crown cover charge. He said he'd get me if I didn't have it.

With the shower, I was definitely up. The fight in Kinshasa, Ali-Foreman, it was at 4 am, the temperatures something close to 90 with the humidity. And through all that he danced! If Ali could do it, you can. But once again, you're not Ali. Be careful.

Outside the streets in Vinohrady were wet, but it was warm. No snow for the past week. I walked to the tram stop. The night trams were still running (or did they stop after 5?). A taxi sat at the corner. I walked by it and kept going. The taxi sped away. Damn, should have at least had him run you down to IP Pavlova.

Maybe you could have got it for like 50 crowns, here- just here, take it, IP Pavlova, dobry? Super! Oh, well. It'll do you good to walk. And just think! Three years ago you would have taken that taxi and paid 300 crowns, and now you can just walk there for free. Some sort of accomplishment.

There were only a few cars out, now and then a tram empty except the last refugees from the bars. I let the fight build up in my head. It was better than coffee. Dance! Stick! Move! I'm pretty! You too ugly! Too ugly to represent! Dance! Dance! Bundini's snake charm rhythms are in my head now ... By the time I got to IP Pavlova I'd pretty much knocked out everyone in the universe, except Ali of course. A strange, somnambulant song hovered in my head. Da-doo-duh-Lo-Ahh-me-fey. Da--doo-la-AAAAYYYY!!!! And strange, blue rhythms, faint rustlings, like the feather sticks jazz drummers use, flickerings and dim crashes.

Oh, but you forgot cash -- again. Might need that. Cross over to the metro station, find an ATM.

The Gold Star (Zlaty S) is on a street with a steep hill overlooking Wenceslas Square. The street was quiet, as it usually is. The place looked closed, and for a minute I was afraid Liam had meant another sport bar.

Come on, he said Sport Bar and we all know there's only one that counts.

It's open though, and when I go in I'm expecting a crush of people, like it is during the Manchester United and Chelsea matches. I'm ready to pay the 200 crown cover. The upstairs is quiet though. I try the doors to the main hall and they're locked. But I can hear a roar, action. Downstairs. Down through a winding set of wooden steps into the basement that looks like an old wine cellar.

The fight's on, but the place isn't that busy. Maybe 20, 30 people. Liam's sitting at table next to the bar. The fight's on two screens, showing on opposite ends.

'It's started?'

'First round,' Liam said.

I went over and ordered a beer. Everyone in the place are male, and mostly British. The bartender is a young, tall Czech girl. But she looks absorbed in the fight as much as the guys. She looks at me a little resentfully when I call her over. 'Just pivo.' 'Pivo?' 'Dik'

The fight! It's blur at first. You shouldn't walk in on a fight already in progress, especially the all-important first round. I'm rushing to catch up, to make some sense of the swirl of mashing flesh, the clashes, Mayweather's flashing jab and hook catching Hatton each time he tries to come in, Hatton coming, coming, getting hit again, the high, big lights, the roars from the crowd, both on tv and off, the roar and silence of the incessant night, the rattlesnakes and herbivores in my head have signed a truce.

'Hatton's from Britain, not to ask the obvious?'

'Yes.' Hatton's wearing a pair of trunks with a huge Union Jack emblazoned on the ass.

I think I started to catch up by the sixth or seventh, when Hatton, already cut over the left eye by Mayweather's stinging and moving style, had Mayweather against the ropes, and Mayweather, in a show of defense, turned his back, and Hatton clubbed him over the back of the skull. Point taken from Hatton, caution from the ref. Both fighters had already been cautioned, Mayweather for using his forearm during the clinches on Hatton's bad eye. 'But the referee's not going to be able to do anything about reducing the intensity of this fight,' Larry Merchant said. Good old Larry, who helped discover the great Joe Frazier.

Listen for a while to Larry's commentary. He's all praise for Mayweather at the moment. 'He can move, he can jab, he can use the Sweet Feet, he can move horizontally ... and Hatton, he's ...'

A bell rings.

'So there's a cut, is there?' Liam asks.

'Yeah. Mayweather doesn't have a mark on his face.' Camera is in both fighters' corners.

'No, Mayweatha‘ looks like he's walking in the park.' Liam acknowledges.

'Is he from Britain?'

'No, Grand Rapids, Michigan.'

'OK.'

Bell again. The fighters are back on the ropes, Hatton pushing up against Mayweather, seeking his chance, one blow that will trigger something, that will shatter Mayweather's incollapsible cool. Again the ref separating them, cautioning, motioning to continue. Mayweather's feet moving, side-stepping, dropping into a crouch to invite Hatton to come in, catching him each time he does, zooming back out of focus, Hatton driving Mayweather to the ropes again (or is Mayweather letting him do that, like Ali in Kinshasa?)

'A little rope a dope?' I ask Liam. His expression is one of patriotic concern for his countryman, though at the moment he’s also passively absorbed in a roll-your-own. He just tips a nod.

Fast forward to the ninth. Hatton comes in once again, and suddenly his head rocks back, he's literally looking up at the sky.

'OHHHHH!!' escapes from everyone.

'Damn,' I said to Liam.

'He won't last this round,' Liam said.

But somehow Hatton manages to survive, mostly by tying Mayweather up.

'I've got it 6-3' Liam said. 'But even that might be too generous.'

I go up and get another beer at the bell. The ninth's just finished. This time the Czech girl is nicer. 'Good fight?' I ask.

She smiles.

On the TV, we see Hatton's mother and other family members. The mother looks drawn and slightly pale, but composed.

The tenth starts. And soon it's all over. Mayweather, his back to the corner, Hatton coming in, and Mayweather meets him with an astonishing left hook, turning with Hatton as he comes in, driving the blow home. Hatton down. Another great roar.

Hatton up. A flurry from Mayweather, in for the kill. He catches Hatton with two stiff blows, followed by a crushing right. Hatton, with a look of hurt surprise, stumbles and falls backward into a corner.

'THAT'S IT! IT'S ALL OVER!!' one of the announcers cries.

Hatton being helped to his feet. Mayweather, bent over hugging his knees, nearly kissing the ground.
Then the post-fight orgy of emotion and posing begins. The fighters embrace, Mayweather placing his gloved hands over Hatton’s battered head. Everyone's talking about how the fight lived up to the hype.

Now the post-fight hype begins. Larry beside Mayweather, his hand over his shoulder like a proud, concerned grandfather, asking questions while seeming to administer advice. 'You knew, Floyd, didn't you, that you could -' 'And would you agree, Floyd, that -' and Mayweather nodding his head, sweat pouring off of him, thanking everyone in the Mayweather Productions universe, profuse in his praise, to Hatton. 'He showed me why they call him the Big Hit --'

Then Larry with Hatton, again with the paternal (or is it eternal?) questions. Fortunately, Hatton looks and sounds like he's still in possession of his mental faculties. 'At least with this weight class, they can still get up and talk about it five minutes later,' Liam observed. 'Not like the heavyweights.' Hatton saying 'I didn't stick to my strategy,' 'was a bit gung-ho,' and praising Mayweather. A shot of Hatton's mother. The other girls around her, maybe a girlfriend, collapsing in inconsolable grief, while the mother looked bravely on.

Then the station goes off, the TV changes to snow.

'Can we get one more?' ask the group of British guys.

'Sorry, closed.'

The guys pack up and leave with an air of disappointment. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

Liam and I still have half a pint or so.

'Did you have to pay the 200 crowns?' Liam asked.

'No.'

'Me neither. They'll probably put it on the bill.'

'No,' I said. 'She didn't charge me when I paid for the beer.'

'Oh, you've paid your bill?

'Yeah. Just don't say anything.'

'She's been here all night,' Liam said. 'I was here at 430 yesterday watching the football and she was here.'

Liam went up and paid. The girl, who was cleaning up, charged him 50 crowns.

'Dlouhy den,' he said. Long day.

'Co?'

'Dlouhy den.

'Ano. Ano. Mluvisti anglitsky?

Yes, of course.'

'Hope you made some good money today,' Liam said.

'Yes, it's good money. Better than in most other places, but --'

'How did you like the fight?' I asked.

The girl was picking up glasses from the tables. She stopped and came over.

'I don't know,' she said. 'It's first time for me, something like that.' Her face was shining, lost in thought.

'It was something like in Lord of the Rings, so --' Her eyes narrowed and she sort of shivered. 'I don't know, how they can do that, two people do that, just beating, and not think of the future. I am a sensitive person, I am not this way -- I'm sorry I do not have the English to express it.'

'Who did you want to win?' I asked.

'Oh, I am not for one side or the other.'

'But you liked it,' I said.

'Me? What?'

Her face was still shining in a curious way.

'Your face,' I said. 'I can see it.'

'Maybe,' she said. 'I must take some time and absorb it.'

'What's your name?'

'Alena.'

'Nice to meet you.'

Outside, it was just past seven and still dark out. We walked back toward IP Pavlova.

'We're just about near the shortest day of the year,' Liam said.

'Yeah.'

It felt strange to have woken up so early and had beer. It would be good to sleep, but I didn't want to. It
somehow would have felt wrong, to mar the horrific beauty of the fight, the ugly shattered beauty of awakening.

'Mind if I come by for a bit?' I asked. 'You said you had 'When We Were Kings.'

'Yeah, sure. I'm just going to smoke a spliff, see what they say in the English papers about the fight.'

The trams on Sunday morning are really slow. We waited at IP Pavlova, then walked to the next stop at Namesti Miru. The tram was slow in coming so we walked to an all-night potraviny and got some beer. We missed the tram ( it came when we were paying), and ended up walking all the way down Francouska Street, down the hill past Pavels and into Vrsovice. It was beginning to be light out, and it was cloudy. The grey, skulking panalaky, ghosts of Lenin, looked sullen in the early morning, and debris spilled over from the dumpsters in front of the youth hostel.

Something had been broken, smashed against the hard night, but to be honest I wasn't aware of it then. I was only aware of an immense calm. Vrsovice has a beat-up, Philadelphia look to it in places, but at that moment everything looked arresting rather than depressing.

'I like this part of Prague,' I said.

'I don't know,' Liam said. 'It's a bit run down.' He pointed to the debris. 'You'd think they'd come by and pick this stuff up. You can clearly see the difference between here and Namesti Miru, where they've got a bit of money, different city districts.'

'Maybe in a few years it will be better.'

'Yes, I suppose the money will begin to spread outside of the center.'

'It was a great fight though,'

'Yes, it was. What do you think the newspapers will say?' Liam asked. We were going down a set of steps, nearly tripping over a big rock absurdly left at the foot. 'Who the hell put that there? So, you think the papers will say 'MAYWEATHER DOMINATES HATTON?' Well, I suppose it's true.'

'I don't know.' I searched mentally through my old stock of newspapery cliches, to drape a suitable hand-me-down quote over the evening, but gave up.

'I can't remember the last time I actually watched a fight live,' Liam said.

'Me neither. It would have to go back to the Tyson days.'

'Yes, Tyson.'

'I suppose most of the time I stay clear of it because I can't stand all the sleezy, the Don Kings, etc --'

'Yes, the sport itself is good, just everything around it isn't,' Liam said. 'Most of these blokes, even Tyson,
though he was screwed up from childhood issues, most of the blokes are alright, they just get exploited.'

'Yeah.'

'I gotta piss,' Liam said. He went over to a bush. 'But Mayweather he was amazing tonight.'

'Yeah. But Hatton went a good 10 rounds.'

'True, but he just had no answer.'

'Yes, Mayweather just got him each time. At least Mayweather went over and embraced him after.'

'Yes, he was quite gracious in victory, wasn't he?'

We arrived at Liam's place, and took a small, creaky elevator. It was a small, but well-kept flat, with an impressive book and DVD collection. Liam put in 'When We Were Kings' for my benefit, then himself went to his laptop on the kitchen table and went to listen to the BBC's report on the fight.

'Dominant Mayweather Stops Hatton, that's what the BBC is saying,' Liam said. He passed a joint.

Later we checked out ESPN. 'Pretty Convincing,' as the headline. 'They've got it 9-1.'

'That's fair,' Liam said. 'But what's this?' We were looking at the round-by-round analysis. 'They say here
Hatton won the first round ...'

'Well, ESPN, they've always got different guys who make their own calls. It's probably something like that.'
I sat with a beer and watched the video, Ali talking it up. 'Be truthful, now. Be men. Raise your hands. You got George? You? You got George? You? All you got George? You? No opinion? OK, I just want to know ... '

But who ever knows? That's a stupid question maybe. In those moments you want to be Ali, so often you do, and in the end come up wanting. To have the prizefight on a late night, flashbulbs bursting ... remember the last image? The slow-motion replay when Mayweather had Hatton, and everyone watching knew it, Hatton probably knew it. The two stiff lefts thrown, driven Hatton against the ropes a last time, there was the young woman in the first row. She was clearly a Mayweather fan, dressed in a bright, garish outfit, a bright, garish smile, and the look on her face just as those last ferocious punches were delivered, the message, she had an expression that was almost cannibalistic in its ecstasy, or was it just sheer joy of triumph? Her man had won, her man had delivered, her man had shown the world. And of Hatton's girl, bent over in tears, friends and family bent with her, speaking gently to her, Hatton's mother standing disappointed but proud. A message had been sent there too. Both are worthy, both are to be honored.

That's what Foreman said when he demolished Frazier, and it's also what Foreman said the night Ali demolished him, after he came to his senses and was informed he’d lost.

We drank the Pilsner and watched the rest of the video, Ali taking Foreman in the 8th, the roar of the Zaire crowd, Ali in the dawn striding victorious, touching hands, embracing the joyous African children and women and young men who’d waited up all night and through the long rain after in hopes of catching a glimpse of their hero.

By then it was mid-morning. Liam wanted to crash, so I put on my shoes and got ready to go.

'Right, well thanks for waking me up,‘ I said.

'Sure – maybe see you at Pavels later.‘

... Outside, a stream, grey and fast running, swirls along, twisting through Vrsovice and past Nusle and the other little neighborhoods. Someone's tossed a sofa chair into the stream, and it sits on its side in the fast-moving water. Other random pieces of rotted furniture pockmark the smooth stream. I wish I had a camera. The streets are still quiet, the sky a hard, winter grey. Time to go home. There's a strength there and an emptiness, you feel it, but it's as though they switched places. Sometime during the night they changed – no, it wasn’t then, it was when you woke. What was the girl’s name? Alena. Maybe she really did like it, or at least part of it, at least when the two fighters embraced at the end. At least that maybe.
There will be other fights and other nights. But certainly not again the night Mayweather fought -- not beat -- but fought Hatton. Was it one of the greatest fights of all time? Perhaps not. But it was certainly worth getting out of bed at 5 on a Sunday morning after a roughhouse night. It's why we bother getting up in the first place, right? The night Mayweather fought Hatton! Walking up the hill on Francouzka toward my flat, I felt good. It felt like my city again, the old girl I knew three years ago who surprised me with her charm and loveliness. Later we’d all meet at Pavels and talk about it all again.