When I stopped by the Wild Card last week, I spoke to Roach about Pacquiao and the upcoming fight against Timothy Bradley in Las Vegas. But mostly we talked about two conversions: Pacquiao's born-again experience three years ago and a dramatic change in Freddie's own life that involved no religion at all.
I call it the shakeys. My Dad has it, too. He never bothered naming it or getting diagnosed with it, and I was almost 40 before I stumbled on a magazine ad (in a March issue, of course) which made me say, loudly and out loud, "That's it!" in the waiting room of a doctor's office, the only place I ever read magazines.
There, just inside, is my mother -- or at least what's left of her. Today, I do not know who is in there. But I am damned if I am going to speak to her like the aged infant she appears to be. She deserves the dignity of being someone's mother and for this small while, I allow myself the indulgence of being her child.