Long before Roger Mayweather became famous for twelve-letter expletives and for discovering A-side Meth, he was a bold case study in hot-and-cold, up-and-down, and what-goes-around-comes-around. With a skull-and-crossbones stitched on his trunks and a right hand that could have doubled as a maul, Mayweather alternated upsides and downsides for the better part of the 1980s because of one simple detail: He owned a chin as fragile as a sparkleball. What made him even more compelling was the fact that he knew it. “Live by the sword, die by the sword,“ he told KO Magazine in 1988. “It’s the same with Tommy Hearns or anybody else who’s a good puncher. Come to see me fight and something will happen.” But, more often than not, what happened took place between strange longueurs after the opening bell rang. His career was like a haywire movie theater where the projectionist had mixed up the reels of My Dinner With Andre, with, say, The Road Warrior. Nothing happened for a little while, or something thunderous did, or, more often than not, a little of both, or something in between, if that makes any sense at all. READ MORE FROM THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS!