I was driving home after dropping my daughter off at work at the Inner Harbor on Friday, driving down Baltimore Street, right past the spot where I split that dindu’s head open with the pipe way back when. And there he was, right in front of the Central District Police Station, on the sidewalk, with his lighter heating up his spoon to shoot heroin right there in front of the police station—a good ole dindu. It was High Noon and he was sure enough getting high. That’s Baltimore Police for you. The incompetence is bad enough. But now, in top of that, they’re not supposed to touch the dindus. They’re still good for beating the shit out of some old white guy trying to cop his dope but the dindu can shoot up right in front of them.

The very next day, yesterday, I was driving back home again from dropping my daughter off and was a little further along, at Gay and Orleans, still in the shadow of the police precinct, on a Saturday afternoon and see two sixty-year-old black men squaring off to fight. I pulled over to watch. People were driving by shooting. One guy was in a crouched boxing guard, coming in. the other guy was on the outside with open hands parrying in a waving fashion. They trade a few, no contact and then this huge dindu—about the same age—just tales the guy in the boxing stance. So I pulled off, disappointed I the officiating you might say.

-Big Ron

Fighting Smart: Boxing, Agonistics & Survival