He looked tired and confused. He looked the way fighters do when suddenly they have no answers.
"Stop it," he said.
The television microphones picked up his plea to surrender.
He looked old, too, as any 35 year-old fighter does when he's been punched hard for a few rounds. His corner men hovered around like doting aunts over a sick child.
The self-assurance that was his trademark had been smacked out of him. Had there been a reason for him to be so cocksure in the first place? Sure, he had speed and skill and all the tools. For a short time it had seemed like Demetrius "Boo Boo" Andrade had the world at his feet. Now, the viewers at home were watching his Waterloo: "Stop it."
It seemed a lifetime ago when he was fighting in New England casinos. Back then he was a heralded amateur making careful inroads into the professional ranks. His management was feeding him journeymen and unknowns and he was chopping them up.
They always fell before Boo Boo in those days. He was quick, like a martial arts master in the movies, the hands a blur. He used to beat those early opponents so badly that they needed help out of the ring, like they were being pulled from the wreckage of a car crash. That's what happened when you fought Boo Boo Andrade of Rhode Island.
When I met him in those days, a few things struck me. He was being managed not by experienced boxing people, but by a mom and pop outfit that seemed like managers of a local ice cream store. They were friendly, but protective of him. They were wary of anyone who might have deep roots in Las Vegas or the dark world of boxing. They'd be happy if they could keep him fighting in small New England venues forever.
The other thing that struck me was that no matter how humble and well-meaning the people around him were, they were convinced that Boo Boo would be greater than Sugar Ray Leonard and Muhammad Ali combined. He couldn't fail. It was a strange, mixed message - the kid had to be protected, but he was the next icon. They never explained how he might attain this greatness if he never left the Dunkin' Donuts Center in Providence.
He won some title belts - usually vacated ones for the WBO - but there always seemed to be something amiss. He was inactive for large chunks of time, always on the verge of signing for a big fight, then disappearing again. He fought infrequently, usually in some faraway boxing outpost: Boston, Miami, Manchester, New Hampshire. Keeping him out of Las Vegas was one thing, but his career became ridiculous. When, we wondered, would they ever take the training wheels off?
He never developed a following. He had fans in Rhode Island, but otherwise he was a footnote on the fringes of the sport, a guy with a funny name and a tinpot title belt. But you always had a sense that those people who had looked out for Boo Boo were still telling him he was greatness personified, and that his career was moving along perfectly. "We don't want people to take advantage of him," they'd said.
I remember the way he carried himself at the beginning. He was a cocky, smirking kid. There was a bout at a Connecticut casino when he sauntered in late for a meeting with the commission. They fined him for being late; he shrugged and smirked. He had a little posse of gym rats and buddies around him. They smirked, too. Here was boxing's next big star, and he was doing a cheap imitation of the clowns he'd seen in gangsta rap videos. His managers would make you jump through hoops to ask a few questions. Once you were alone with him he'd just shrug and smirk and give you nothing.
By 2018 he was busted for illegal possession of a handgun. He said he needed it for his "wealth and fame." Boo Boo had just beaten a Namibian fellow named Walter Kautondokwa for another of those vacant WBO straps. It meant very little, but maybe in Boo Boo's mind he was Mike Tyson.
Now and then there would be a shakeup at the Andrade camp. People were fired and hired, which isn't unusual in boxing. People in his circle said Boo Boo was still the same likable kid, but "the wrong people got in his ear."
Victor Conte came onboard recently. He's the training guru who served four months in prison for money laundering and selling illegal drugs to athletes. Conte has supposedly turned his life around, but he has that thing in his personality that we also see in defense attorneys and used car salesmen. Nothing he says sounds true.
Conte brought Boo Boo into his California science lab before his latest fight. He measured and probed him like a lab rat. Conte's big on oxygen now. He fits his fighters with special masks and puts them in tents so they can breathe like superman. He told ESPN that Boo Boo was like the son he'd never had. "I'm looking out for him," Conte said. This sounded familiar. People are always looking out for Boo Boo.
In a way, Conte and Boo Boo were a good match. You looked at each guy and thought, "Is he still around?" Conte talked about this fight as a sort of big comeback for both himself and Boo Boo. What a story that would've been, the forgotten fighter and the disgraced steroid salesman, bringing it all back home.
It was a Las Vegas bout, a pay-per-view main event pitting Boo Boo against David Benavidez, the super middleweight titleholder known as "The Mexican Monster." It was the biggest fight of Boo Boo’s career, his first time in such a lavish program. His first, honest to goodness Las Vegas spectacle. He was also trying out a new weight class.
He looked good for the first few rounds. He was moving in and out, using all of the old southpaw tricks. He looked fast.
The footwork was fine. His timing was perfect. He wasn't bothered by Benavidez' size or reputation. When they tussled along the ropes, Boo Boo held his own. The question was whether he could maintain this for 12 rounds.
It all fell apart at the end of the fourth when Benavidez smashed him to the canvas. A caveman with a war club couldn't have done any better. Boo Boo was hurt.
He got up and survived into the next round, but the tide of the bout had turned. Every time Benavidez hit him, Boo Boo would wobble and wince. The Monster was connecting now.
The sixth was bad for Boo Boo. Benavidez stalked him, rattled him with punches to the head and body. Boo Boo took the shots, but he looked like a man trying to survive an avalanche. He didn't come out for the seventh. Later, with heartbreak in his voice, he said something about not being used to the weight class. He said he'd fight again.
Of course he will. He's still youngish. But it'll be different this time. He'll be repackaged for less money. He'll be back in the New England casinos, only the crowds will be smaller. His fights will be part of weekend package deals. There will be a prime rib dinner, an Eagles cover band in the theater, and Boo Boo fighting some guy you never heard of. That'll get him through a few years, and then he'll complain that he can't get the big fights. We can hear him already. It will always be someone else's fault.
They tore him apart on social media. There's little patience for fallen fighters nowadays. And where Boo Boo was concerned, there was never going to much sympathy after his first loss.
But how you felt about Boo Boo may reflect where you are in life. There was something poignant about the scene in his corner. You may have recalled the early days, when Boo Boo acted like he was destined for greatness. Blink an eye, and he's asking his team to stop the fight. That's how it goes. One minute you're young and full of yourself. A moment later you're done. That's life.
That's life whether or not you had good management.
That's life whether you fought in Lincoln, R.I., or in Las Vegas.
That's life for Boo Boo Andrade.
That's life for you and me.
