(Only in a freakshow match like this would you hear an audience member ask “What’s he waiting for?” after approximately 4 seconds of fighting.)
Yesterday, the world was introduced to a man by the name of Nick Capes (which based on his fighting style, we can only assume is a pseudonym for Greg “Ranger” Stott), a hapless marshmallow of a man who somehow found himself in a boxing match against former Atlanta Falcons defensive end Ray Edwards. The results were hilarious, not in the Mark Kerr vs. Ranger Stott kind of way, but in the Dan Severn vs. Shannon Ritch kind of way. Capes flopped is what we’re saying. He flopped hard. Capes flopped so hard, in fact, that he has since been indefinitely suspended from boxing in North Dakota, which should give him plenty of time to continue pushing the fighting style of RIP on methed out tweekers near and far. As TwinCities.com reports:
Combative Sports Commissioner Al Jaeger says a video review of the fight between Nicholas Capes and a much larger Ray Edwards clearly shows Capes was not hit before he dropped to the canvas. Officials are continuing to investigate.
By “continuing to investigate,” we assume they mean “emailing this video to their entire contacts list with a subject line reading Re: Fatty takes a tumble LOLZ.”
In the original Pioneer Press piece, event promoter Cory Rapacz was quoted as saying that the backlash aimed at Capes was “unfair.” However, upon reviewing the footage a couple hundred times like the rest of us, even Rapacz was forced to admit that “Turbo Tax” deserves whatever criticism that is likely headed his way in the coming weeks:
I was the promoter of the event in West Fargo, ND on Saturday night. I was misquoted. I said the criticism of Edwards is unfair. Not the criticism of Nick Capes. Thank you.
No, thank you, Cory. Thank you for providing us with a lifetime’s worth of memories in just 13 seconds of fight footage. Not since — and I’m just spitballing here — Ranger Stott vs. Mark Kerr have I been so entertained by a 50-pound mismatch that ended in triumphantly anticlimactic fashion. Other than my high school prom night, of course.
