Last Tango in Cleveland
BY SCOTT RAAB, Esquire Magazine, September 1, 2004
<snip>
Truth is, she's faster than anybody I've been in with—by far. Truth is, she's taking it easy on me. Oh, she dug in on the body shot, but it was a left. Her head shots are aimed at my headgear, not my nose and mouth. She's a pro. She's being nice. Thirty seconds in, I throw a jab, followed by a right cross. The jab is short, the right finds her. She comes back with two rights, then the hook that turns my head, the one in the photo. That's when the ref steps in to give me a standing eight-count. What are you doing? I ask him. Truth is, I'm pissed off. I know I'm getting knocked around. The whole thing is embarrassing enough without a bullsh#t standing eight.
She comes back jabbing. I try the right again, but she hooks her left over it before I can land, then shoots a fast straight right. Her hands are low, her eyes fixed on my head. No question: Wolfe can do anything she wants in there. Anything. And she knows it. She moves back to the ropes; I follow. Instead of throwing, I keep my hands up against my face. Where's the bell? She lands two more lefts downstairs, and when I try to crowd her up against the ropes, she lands a right to my ear and dances out—then turns, gives me four noogies on top of my head, and follows them with a just-for-kicks uppercut.
At the bell, I plod back to my corner.
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