In the early 2000s I had a close friend named Tyrell; he and I were about as different from each other as you could possibly imagine. For starters, Tyrell was black; I’m white. He grew up in Ventura, an hour and a half north of Los Angeles along the coast—where I was born—and I grew
The dressing room was an overcrowded sauna swarming with the wriggling bodies of family, reporters, and old white people from the Boxing Commission. An unholy roar filled his ears, like listening to music underwater. None of it made sense, and through it all, Ronny Lipton had only one question; Why was he so goddamned cold?