The Main Event

I want to be remembered

like Muhammad Ali—

not for the wins,

but for the mouth

that moved mountains,

for the poetry

that punched first.

I want the showmanship

of Prince Naseem Hamed—

come to the ring

like a prophecy,

robe shimmering,

hips laughing

at gravity,

confidence loud

as a drum line

in July.

Give me

the overhand right

of Sugar Shane Mosley—

let it arc

like my grandmother’s

cast iron skillet,

heavy with memory,

seasoned

with survival.

Let my record read

clean and arrogant

like Floyd

“Money” Mayweather Jr.—

undefeated

not because life

was gentle,

but because I studied

every opponent

until fear

forgot my name.

I want the knockout breath

of Gervonta “Tank” Davis—

that quiet coil,

that sudden dark,

that reminder

that small

does not mean soft.

Teach me

to cut off the ring

like Roy Jones Jr.—

corner doubt,

trap hesitation,

make excuses

beg for air.

And yes,

let me borrow

the heartbeat

from Mike Tyson—

that feral,

holy fearlessness

that says

if I must fall,

I will fall

forward.

But understand this:

I am a Black woman.

My gloves

are stitched

from kitchen steam

and bus stop prayers.

My footwork

learned from rhythm,

from monumental bridges

and cracked sidewalks.

I’ve been sparring

since girlhood—

with expectations,

with silence,

with the quiet demand

to be twice as good

and half as loud.

So when I say

I want to be remembered

like legends,

know this:

I’m not chasing belts.

I’m not building myth.

Every round

I survive

is a title defense.

Every time I rise

before the ten-count finishes,

whispering—

I become

my own headline.

Float like lineage.

Sting like memory.

I am gritty.

I am beautiful.

I am

the main event.