Boxing? You want to talk about boxing? Two feygeles in girly little gloves tanzing on a mat? This isn't boxing.

In my day, we stood on cobbles in bare feet! And gloves? How do you call it a fight without the taste of blood on your knuckles? Gloves. Feh!

In my day, we fought like shtarkers. Real men like Mendoza the Jew.

You've never heard of Mendoza the Jew? Oy, you boytchiks think if you didn't see it on one of those meshuggenah Playboxes it never happened.

Mendoza the Jew was five foot seven if he was an inch. 160 pounds if he was a stone. Your Uncle Mendel and I once saw him fight a giant for 52 rounds without breaking a sweat. A giant, I tell you, with arms like your bubbe's briskets, G-d rest her soul. Of course in my day, we called 50 rounds a furlong. A furlong and two rounds he went, we would have said.

Mendoza the Jew was a real man, not like today with your fancy pants and your electric shoes!

On the way to a match one day, Mendoza got into a fight when he was cut off by a cart. A fight when he didn't like the way someone was looking at him. A fight when a shopkeeper tried to cheat him. It was three pence for a dozen onions, the shopkeeper said! Three pence! In my day, you could get a dozen onions and a sack of potatoes for that much those lousy gonifs!

Mendoza the Jew, you hear me! The father of modern boxing! Eh, what do you know from anything you lousy schmoigers.