Roy Jones

Jul 29, 2012
Roy Jones Jr. trainer Alton Merkerson told reporters today that while Jones wasn't motivated for his first fight with Antonio Tarver, he is VERY motivated for the May 15 rematch on pay-per-view. However, Coach Merk also admitted that Roy has slipped somewhat. "I'll tell you what I see in Roy at the age of 35," said Merkerson, "and I worked with him in '88 on the Olympic team. Roy hasn't really lost speed, but Roy's very smart. He's lost his ability to maneuver -- and the ring generalmanship, he still has it but it's not as sharp as it used to be when he was younger...he's just getting older. He can't do the things that he did then."

This was said by Roy's trainer a month before the second Tarver fight. I've never known Alton said that, but Larry even mentions it during the broadcast of the second Tarver fight
Reactions: Boxed Ears and dkos

Boxed Ears

Hat not photoshopped
Jun 13, 2012
North Spunchester
I didn't want to go into this but I think now is the time. On a hot summer day on Colonel Angus Blvd, in Orlando, I was eating a frozen dulce de leche. Something that I have enjoyed immensely over the years. I had what was my dog with me, a mere puppy at that time. The puppy's name was Memphis. I've been to Memphis, and I've been to more places than perhaps you could even shake a stick at. But I have never been to such a hell as was experienced that day with Antonio Tarver and his "crew," as they called it. As I blissfully and admittedly ignorantly enjoyed my frozen treat with my dog at my side, a party bus swept through the neighborhood like a Mossberg. Tactically, malevolently and with perverse glee. The first out was a man who went by the name RiceSnap. He was a bad, bad ole hombre. He wore sunglasses and a shirt.

"Hey, Sunglasses MacGee!" I said, with a friendly tone that could be mistaken for nothing but what it was. An acknowledgement that he too was a human being and that we were both men to be respected. He looked at me coldly, with an air of insouciant angst and decrepit gusto. I clutched at the inner loin of my sternum and pulled Memphis' leash to my clavicle, protectively. This man, I knew, instinctively, could hurt my young dog. And I would not let that happen. Not if I could help it. "Say what, jive turkey?" he asked, impractically indolent with porcine protuberance. With a reticent sneer, out came another known only by the reputation of the lesser villagers of Orlando. His name was ChexFlick. He was known to wear shoes, and back then, when those ole hombres wore shoes, you knew they took them very seriously and the aiglets were made out of platinum chainmail of some artisanal kind. But woe be unto the artisan who designed them wrongfully or without the appropriately implied menace. Or rage. These boys meant business.

ChexFlick removed a bag of Skittles and a bottle of iced tea from his bag. I had been on the streets long enough to know that this was an omen of worse things to come. He was backing up his boy, RiceSnap and further still in the bus was potentially another by the name of PeaFlip, who owned a pocket baton, and was known to keep it on him. ChexFlick looked at my dog as if to say "I'm going to poison him with these Skittles and this here iced tea. And what will you do then? To whom will you pray thenceforth?" I stepped back and without trying to cower or show that I was anatomically different from them, I said "Now, whoa, gentlemen. Sirs, you are with Tarver, are you not? The man they call MilkDud?" I almost spat from my dental orifice. Memphis shook, his canine senses knowingly aware of the primeval quandary beset upon himself. And me.

That is when Tarver interrupted my protestation. He longly and tallishly stepped out from the party bus. His eyes dark with shadowy furor and shining with an ancient wisdom of the savannah's provenance. "NO ONE calls ANYONE from my crew NOTHIN'." he bellowed. Memphis dripped with youthful but ostensibly sterile urine. "What does that mean in your speech, Sir Tarver?!" I called out, responsibly but affably and with a sense of outward human equalship. "We wear sunglasses like anyone else." he stated, barely able to hide the triumphance of the Queen's English nor the pride of his demonstration of accepted equalhood. "That is true." I declared for all to see. "THAT IS TRUE!" I yelled, reiterating my understanding for everyone on Colonel Angus Blvd. I could feel the townspeople begin to relax, knowing that perhaps a crisis or many crises over many moons should be averted by my savvy verbal negotiation and artful, albeit humbly stated, diplomacy. Or, should one say, even converted... into something culturally significant?

It was that day that I realized Antonio Tarver was a man. A big, but gentle giant, capable of anything almost anyone else could be, if he applied himself hard enough and restrained his volatile homunculus as he would that day. But he was NOT to be trifled with. I felt terror. I felt pride. But, most of all, I felt Roy should never again fight him. For Memphis was the grandest judge of character and I merely the sage onlooker and witness to history- and Memphis feared MilkDud. If he feared, while I, of course, did not, then I knew he feared correctly, despite my absence of fear and wise display of equalicity. And so too should Jones fear, as the canine. So, that's my Antonio Tarver story. I'm sorry if anyone found it too dark but I feel it was also hopeful. Hopeful that we can all survive in this world, together, with good people like me, who are willing to show similar bravery and tolerance.