Dear Floyd Mayweather:

You ain't gotta make your mind up

You ain't gotta make your mind up right now (right now) …

Don't rush, no pressure

—Justin Beiber, No Pressure from “Purpose”

As the White House turns into dark comedy editions of “The Apprentice” with nearly every flick of remote controls, you can almost assuredly expect the appearance of distractionary trolls from the world of sports.

I've come to loathe TV these days, and only muster a glimpse of prison theater during occasional morning visits with my father. He prefers a strong cup of black coffee – having always thought of all-time great Floyd Mayweather as such – and a morning dish of “First Take”, with Stephen A. Smith, Max Kellerman and the lovely Molly Qerim. The topic of an impending rematch in the form of an MMA confrontation with “The Notorious” Conor Mcgregor was the subject. Never known for criticism of Floyd or any black professional of significance, dad derisively labeled Floyd “a clown”. Essentially, he was now regarding him as a cup of coffee gone light n’ sweet.

***   ***   ***  ***   ***   ***

Last year, I dated a woman who thought that I reminded her of “Money”, which immediately prompted a confrontation with the mirror of loose change. Not only am I diametrically opposed to avarice, but even more so by the average person unknowingly consumed by the pursuit of it. The great Bob Marley once told us:

“Money is numbers and numbers never end. If it takes money to be happy, your search for happiness will never end.”

Sage.

If I could, I would’ve actually handwritten this letter to you Floyd; licking a postage stamp as a reminder of genuine days gone by. As if an aside of paid homage to nostalgia in reflection of what made you great in ways we’ll remember, just as what you’re doing now will make you utterly forgettable. The general pulse among fans you no longer know, states that you’re an attention junkie addicted to the limelight. A has-been Apollo Creed just dying to get killed by Ivan Drago if only someone would pay attention.

While Stephen A. and Max made fair points regarding the farcical nature of you in an octagon with McGregor (please understand, you’re a Navy Seal of hubris without technology confronting a Great White Shark in the middle of the ocean), they only really served to promote a fictitious board game of Monopoly, and didn’t delve into the true problem with this affair: racial divide and moral conquer.

I was at Staples Center in Los Angeles for the kick-off press tour of Mayweather V McGregor, as a media member that decided to sit among the crowd. They genuinely couldn’t stand you and that bothered me. Though it was a boxing event, you well know that the crowd of roughly 20,000 was partisan McGregor by a mile. This means that you were [thee villain] among two villains of different colors in your sport of boxing.

Floyd, you’re keen on being the A-side, but in the end, it was Conor who received A-fighter admiration as someone not even remotely close to being a B-fighter in boxing terms. You also showed a sharp and very palpable athletic decline of skills against a fighter in McGregor that Oscar De La Hoya – in whatever shape he’s in right now and despite whatever you think he might be sniffing – would’ve KO’d in two rounds.

Worse, is the prevailing notion that you more than likely carried McGregor; which in and of itself is insulting, because it openly suggests a fixed contest under the premise of authenticity. There was nothing contrived about the most obscenely perverse press tour in the history of sports, which means the MMA style press tour for the rematch will make the original tour look like a Mr. Rogers series for kids.

Conor McGregor will make sure that someone carries you out on a stretcher. This, after no one admires the effort you put up, in contrast to his effort in the ring. It will be an unmitigated slaughter that embarrasses you, your family, and an entire black community that watches you literally get your ass kicked. So the question I have to ask is: Why are you doing this?

You’ve stated on more than one occasion that you are your own boss, someone self-declared as better than Muhammad Ali or Sugar Ray Robinson… You can’t think of better things to do with your greatness other than to defile it with this? Ali was a much older 38 when he faced a lethal Larry Holmes. Within his aged body of work, was the totality of epic ring wars your resume could never understand.

We understood his foolish pride, even if we didn't accept it as he made us cry.

The sour image of penniless Robinson looking nothing like Sugar Ray in a bittersweet Garden send off, is hard to revisit because it should've been unnecessary. Consumption consumed him, just as it is consuming you. The business of boxing is an unrequited love. It is to a stripper what a nightclub full of vultures in expensive cologne would be. If she dances unscathed and leaves with riches it is rare… What would make her go back to the pole if she wasn't swinging in lies?

The same judgement that went into the thinking of the great Bernard Hopkins before he made Joe Smith Jr a trivia question, was the principle reason behind James Toney V Randy Couture. It was “Truth for Dare”, but we don’t love them any less.

People will hate you more for this. Do you really think you deserve that?

The great irony is, you don’t get it; even long after you're gone they'll boo you for being stubborn, only deciding to cheer when pity arrives. It never would Floyd, if your foolish endeavor was Errol Spence Jr instead of Conor McGregor in an octagon. Sure, he would most likely get you Terry Norris’d a la Sugar Ray Leonard, but do you notice how he's honored today?

A legend of your stature should be going out on your shield if you must – in your own sport, against a generational rival like Manny Pacquiao at Madison Square Garden. He was your Joe Frazier, just as Conor McGregor is more Robert Deniro than Jake Lamotta.

Again, what’s making you do this?

The title of the script is “50-Oh!” Floyd, because some people have Money to burn.

Don’t rush. No pressure.