Boxing in Las Vegas: Kieran's letter to Chico.htm

Hey Diego,

It’s me, Kieran. You remember me, right? Butch’s friend, the writer? We’ve talked a few times, spent some time together.

I’ve been meaning to write for a few days now, but it’s been really hard to find the words or to even put myself in a place where I could write them without choking up.

How are you, anyway? How are things where you are? I have to tell you, we really, really miss you down here. I’m sure you’re doing just fine. I’m sure you’re in a better place, where the demons that so often raised their heads, and which had been troubling you again lately, can never touch you again.

But none of us wanted you to leave us. We never even had a chance to say goodbye.

Dammit, Chico, why did you have to go?

It seems so surreal, still, so unreal. I used the word “unbelievable” on the phone this morning, but Kevin Iole—I know you remember him—corrected me, pointed out that in some ways it was all too believable.

I mean, you take all that punishment against Castillo before pulling off that incredible comeback. You took a thumping against Joshua Clottey—he was always going to be too big for you, Chico, that was always going to be bad matchup. You take all those damn punches to the head, put your body at risk by boiling down to make weight all those times, and then you go and die on a freakin’ motorcycle.

What the hell were you thinking?

But then, that’s the reason why on one level it really is believable. If anybody was going to flame out like that, it was always going to be you. With the sky diving, and the swimming with sharks—to say nothing of the way you fought inside the ring—you were always the one who flew closest to the flame.

I remember when I first spoke to you—Butch introduced us over the phone, for an article I wrote for this website, I think. And I remember when I first met you: at a party for Ishe Smith, after he had beaten Randall Bailey a few years back.

(Ishe says hi, too, by the way. He misses you, too, man. Remember those times you guys sparred together, or when you appeared on the same card? If you get a chance, maybe you could say hi to him sometime, somehow. Even though you guys had fallen out of touch, I know he really liked you. We all liked you, even when you were being a butthead and trying to mess things up for yourself, even when you didn’t return calls. We all knew what a good person you were inside).

And I remember when I talked to you, and when I met you, and I was struck by how gentle and quiet and soft-spoken you were. You were this gentle guy with these big, brown eyes and the softest of voices and the kindest of natures, and it was hard to equate that with the in-ring warrior.

And what a warrior. We all knew that when you had that first fight with Joel Casamayor, when your mouthpiece tore your lip to shreds, and there was so much blood that one ringside reporter thought he was going to be sick. But man, were you ever pissed when the doctor stopped it. You were pissed when Ray stopped the fight with Mayweather, too, even though you had ruined yourself on the scales and Floyd was bouncing you off the canvas all night long.

When Joe Goossen started training you, you said you’d kill him if he ever tried to stop one of your fights. And you proved it on that magical night against Castillo. That was a night that those of us who were there will never forget, the way the battle grew and unfolded, sucking us all in, all of us sitting there, eyes wide, mouths open, scarcely able to believe what we were seeing. And then that tenth round, maybe the single greatest round of all time, when Castillo had you down and seemingly out on two occasions and you somehow rallied to have him out on his feet when Tony Weeks stepped in to halt the action.

I’ve never felt anything like that ringside before or since, that raw, primal roar that erupted in the arena, the sense of astonishment and admiration.

You carved your own place in history that night, Chico. That was the night that defined you, and made your name.

And then, two years later to the day, it was all over.

The Mandalay Bay was clearly visible that night as your body lay in the street. The crowds had stopped roaring, and there was nothing now but gentle sobs and the crackling of police radios. Yours had always been a wild and dangerous ride, and its end, even if it is hard for the rest of us to deal with, was somehow appropriate in its suddenness.

I have to tell you something. I apologize, and I hope you’ll forgive me, but I won’t be able to come to the service on Tuesday. Long-standing commitments: I have to go back to my old home in Alaska—you remember us talking about the time I lived in Alaska, don’t you?—and so I won’t be around. I’m sorry, Chico, but I hope you’ll understand.

I’ll be thinking of you that day, though, as I’ve been thinking of you every day since the accident. I can type the words, “Diego Corrales is dead.” But then I see a picture of you and I shake my head, because it just can’t be.

I have a dream.

I’m walking through the MGM Grand, through the lobby, heading down Studio Walk. There’s a huge know of fans, all gathered around a familiar-looking figure. It’s you, Chico, and as always, you are patiently, obligingly, and willingly signing every autograph, posing for every photograph.

You glance up and we catch each other’s gaze, and you smile.

“Hey,” you smile. “Where you been? Don’t be a stranger.”

And then the dream fades, my eyes open, and you’re gone.

See you, Chico.

Thanks for everything,

Kieran

Kieran Mulvaney covers boxing for Reuters and of course is a contributing writer to Boxinginlasvegas.com

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