Father's Day in Nicaragua (Part II)

They stretched, and one did a few pushups in the sand to show off.

Then, with the crowd screaming and egging them on, and heavily armed policemen standing by in case things got out of hand, someone smacked a pan with a spoon and it was underway. The self-appointed referee bobbed in and out of the way of the gloves, which had gone from being sort of heavy looking, burdensome things, to an extra weight on the hand to be thrown at the opposite guy’s face. They went at it like there was no tomorrow, aided by the frenzy on yelling that was coming from around the ring. Suddenly, the guy from the corner closest to where I was standing threw out a quick left jab, catching his opponent in a brief moment of weakness. The sweaty, dirt-covered glove connected with a solid “thwack!” on his left eye, and he went down…hard.

The crowd went nuts. A knockout, that’s what they had wanted to see. They screamed and threw their arms up into the air, whistling and chanting the winner’s name all the while. Someone in the audience handed the winner a bottle of Plata white rum, Nicaragua’s cheapest, and he proudly took a huge swig and flexed for the ladies, demonstrating his obvious superiority in the testosterone department.

It was one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen in my life.