Dylan Hernandez Those wanting to join Hernandez, Zokaei and other losers at the Spearmint Rhino’s Gentleman’s Club in Downtown can e-mail Hernandez at dhernandez@media.ucla.edu.

My colleague Mayar Zokaei wrote a column Monday about people who take sports too seriously (“UCLA’s defeat evokes intense spirit typical of modern sports,” Nov. 27). He complained that he was bombarded with hate mail in response to a playful piece he wrote on the men’s basketball team.



I guess Mayar was a victim of some sorts, but then again, all of this is part of sportswriting. What I want to tell Mayar is that he isn’t the real victim – these fans are. They’re victims of life. Just imagine what losers they are. I mean, what would drive a person to waste a couple hours of their day and write a six-page e-mail to a complete stranger?

I can explain this quite easily because I too am one of these need-a-lifers (although I’m far too lazy to ever write long letters to the editors of substandard news publications).

In general, I’m pretty laid back. Some people say I’m too apathetic. I’m not a vengeful person either. So much so, I believe, that I’m three-quarters on my way to Nirvana.

I’ve forgiven my parents, who brought me into this world by mistake. I’ve forgiven God, who gave me the brain of a camel. And I’ve forgiven the sports editor, who will no longer let me use profanity in my columns.

But I can’t forgive Felix Trinidad. When Trinidad takes on Fernando Vargas on Saturday in a 154-pound boxing title bout, I want him to get killed. After what he did to me last September, I figure he deserves to die.

It wasn’t Trinidad’s fault that myopic judges gave him a split-decision nod over Oscar De La Hoya, but I need to channel my hate somewhere, so I’ll misdirect it at him.

Up until the point that the judges’ scores were announced in the “Fight of the Millennium” between De La Hoya and Trinidad, my stars were all in line. De La Hoya had boxed Trinidad’s nose off for nine rounds, and while he ran in the last three, I couldn’t ask for much more. He had dominated the fight.

My alter ego, which had been projected onto the television screen in the form of De La Hoya, had done quite well.

Because I can’t fight at all, I had been living through De La Hoya for the last couple of years. At 5-foot-8 and 142 pounds, I’m not a physically imposing figure. My fists are made of cotton. I haven’t been in a fight since the seventh grade – when I was already at my present height – and nowadays, my little brother beats me like a piñata every time we throw on our gloves.

Naturally, I go through occasional periods during which I am left with a substantial amount of pent-up aggression. Watching De La Hoya batter his opponents was my release.

And why not?

If I stretched my imagination enough, I could convince myself that I was a lot like De La Hoya. He’s good-looking (I’m not that ugly), rich (I earn $85 a week working at the Daily Bruin, and I make burritos as a side job) and Latino (I’m half).

We both moved out of rough areas into the suburbs (me, when I was 5; De La Hoya at 20) and are both big-time underachievers (I have made nothing of myself; he never became as good as Sugar Ray Robinson).

Such flawless logic led me to see myself in the ring knocking people out with left hooks whenever De La Hoya fought. When I’d see De La Hoya whack some poor schmuck into submission, I felt as if I had just drilled my editor in the face and I’d be happy for the next couple of weeks.

Then ring announcer Michael Buffer ruined my illusion. As De La Hoya and Trinidad stood in the ring after the 12 rounds were completed, he announced Trinidad as the winner. I couldn’t believe it.

That night, my best friend and I walked through Old Town Pasadena and I was feeling awful. He’d seen me in down times before, but even he said, “Jesus, are you really that depressed?”

My alter-ego was no longer perfect. Going into the fight, De La Hoya was unbeaten. I went to elementary schools in the 1980s, when everyone was concerned about kids’ self-esteem. From the age of 5, teachers filled my head with propaganda telling me that I could be perfect. De La Hoya’s clean slate was a symbol of the perfection I sought.

Even worse, his record had been smeared by a fight he won in almost everyone’s eyes.

It’s been a while since that fight took place, but I’m still bitter. That bout started De La Hoya on a downward spiral. He got slapped around silly by Shane Mosley in December and today, he isn’t even fighting. Instead, he’s putting out cheesy music records.

It’s ironic that I’d turn to Vargas, who hates De La Hoya, to avenge the loss, but at this point, I don’t care. Someone has to knock out Trinidad. I wouldn’t mind if it were Albert Carnesale.

I think Vargas is an excellent boxer and am picking him to flatten Trinidad inside of five rounds, but I admit it’s a prediction based a lot on what I want to see happen.

I’ve already planned my post-fight celebration. My buddies and I will be heading out to the strip clubs.

Mayar, of course, is invited. It’d be a good opportunity for him to get to sympathize with the kind of people who have been bothering him.