Last Sunday, I went to watch Ricky “Hitman” Hatton vs. “Pretty Boy” Floyd Mayweather, at Shooters, a local sports bar. When I entered, I was immediately thrilled to see the telecast beamed in, on the big screen. Then, I took a second to survey my surroundings. I was greatly outnumbered by boisterous Englishmen, already well-liquored. Until this point, I had not taken sides. Mayweather, being one of the great spokespersons of the excess associated with the “bling” movement, had not exactly endeared himself to me. Hatton though, had the tough, gritty, underdog personality that I can appreciate. However, that afternoon, with the feisty English fans booing the American national anthem, and the distinctive racial overtones pervading the atmosphere, I quickly found myself not only rooting for Mayweather, but wishing Hatton might swallow some teeth. I was granted this consolation in the 10th round, as Mayweather landed a beautiful left hook, sending Hatton flying, headfirst into the turnbuckle. Hatton made it to his feet, only to eat a few more hooks and uppercuts, before the fight was stopped. Hatton collapsed onto his back, sweet victory.