He's baaaaaaaaaaack.
At this point, we'd all rather he'd go away. Just go away.
Jose Canseco rolled into town Friday trying to drum up support and interest in another boxing match, this time against radio DJ Danny Bonaduce.
There was a lightly attended press conference followed by a visit to WIP for an interview with Howard Eskin.
Canseco gave a profanity-laced tirade at the press conference but left out the expletives with Eskin, insisting that his embarrassing performance against me in July (KO'ed in 97 seconds) was a "fluke."
He went on to say he took it easy on me because I'm smaller, "thinking we'd pitter-patter and eat up some time," until of course, I ended the fight in the first round. He offered Howard a list of excuses why he wasn't prepared, including his low estrogen level, I mean testosterone (85 - I guess that's low, but what guy do you know, knows his exact testosterone level?), cramps, retaining water and a host of other maladies that somehow slipped past the team of New Jersey state-appointed doctors who gave us our physicals.
They tested for everything except pregnancy which they probably should have since he was caught in September trying to smuggle fertility drugs across the border from Mexico. Good luck at your shower - hope you get some cute things.
He went on to say that given another opportunity, he would "cripple me," and do other mean and terrible things to me. Wow. Hostile. And scary stuff.
Jose, listen closely. Because it's obvious you're even more dim-witted than I thought. Your lack of intelligence is frightening. Off the charts.
Find something else to do with your life. Gardening. Needle point. Stamp collecting. Join the Peace Corp. Volunteer at a homeless shelter.
But you should NOT be fighting.
Because in July, you came to a gun fight with a sling shot.
Apparently, you were the only one in the arena that night who thought it was an "exhibition." At the very least, I figured the chorus of boos as you entered and at your introduction would've given you inspiration to shut up the partisan crowd by destroying me. I was also a little shocked to learn that up until I hit you in the mouth, you were thinking it was to be a choreographed, pro wrestling-type event. I must've missed dress rehearsal. I certainly thought you meant it when you challenged me on our "10! Show" appearance to "get past my 77 inch reach," by showing off your impressive wing span. You even duped ESPN by telling their reporter beforehand that you had "devastating knockout power, " which they dutifully reported on SportsCenter.
If anything, your spots on "Real World" should prepare you for a Hollywood career because your acting was superb.
I figured as a former world class athlete, you would've sensed in my voice at the weigh-in that I was deadly serious when I looked up at your flared nostrils and growled, "I'm gonna take you DOWN!!!"
Admittedly, the one time you had me worried was at our initial press conference when you stated that in addition to your martial arts experience, you were a "weapons expert." My trainers didn't prepare me in case you had brought a hand grenade or rocket launcher. In retrospect, I bet you wished you had, huh?
Look, I don't fancy myself as a fighter. Not anymore. As a kid, I was pretty good. Had I turned pro, maybe I would've been a contender, maybe not. There's no way of knowing because I quit boxing to pursue football.
Fighting you in July was for me, recapturing a moment of my youth. I've never taken steroids or abused drugs, so I'm very in tune with my body. I've kept myself in pretty good shape. Yet, I knew as I was preparing for our fight that my reflexes weren't what they used to be. Sure, I could hit harder, but only because I was heavier and more muscled than I was in my teens.
As a boy, I was lightning quick. And I had a devastating left hook, as you well know.
But I've settled those demons. I'm in a good place. Good home. Great marriage. Kids in college. Respected in the community for my work with foster and adopted children.
Must be hard for you though. I mean, everywhere you go this follows you. Heck, for a week in the summer we were YouTube darlings.
Well, you were. Champs aren't called darlings.
That's right. Champ. Of you. I own you, chump.
I hold the cards. So here's how it's played.
You will get a re-match with me but I'm guaranteed $50,000. I will donate the entire sum to my five favorite charities which will each get $10 grand. Your problem will be selling the fight. Because you won't be a 3-1 favorite this time and I'm betting you won't sell 100 tickets.
But because I'm always in excellent condition and believe in redemption, I'll make this standing offer. I'm willing to fight you for free if you're looking to exorcise your demons and regain your honor.
Harrowgate Gym in Port Richmond. We'll invite Eskin, John Clark and a few other media-types to be witnesses. Otherwise, no promoters. No tickets. No purses. No cameras.
Just us.
Like at the end of Rocky 2.
Uh, don't forget your grenade.
And your lunch.
