Werewolf in Canastota: Regis Prograis Bites Joel Diaz Jr
by Sarah Deming
CANASTOTA, N.Y. — If only all of life were like Hall of Fame weekend. If only you always had a ringside seat to a crossroads fight, a cottage by a lake, and an entourage of friendly millennial men.
If only everyone were as kind as the historians of New Orleans you interview on the train ride to Canastota. When you tell the historians that you are a boxing writer researching werewolves, they do not act like you’re insane. They patiently describe the Acadian migration, the geography of the Atchafalaya Basin, and the legend of the shapeshifting creature called the Rougarou.
“It’s like a monstrous dog with glowing eyes,” says Rachel, a Ph.D. student at the University of Louisiana. “It can have horns but not always.”
By now you are at Turning Stone Casino, ignoring the snickers of your friend Corey, who is listening to your conversation as he fiddles with his fancy podcasting gear. As a serious broadcasting professional, Corey’s approach to the evening’s card is less werewolf-centric than your own, but boxing invites a multiplicity of interpretations. You ask Rachel what the rougarou symbolizes.
“I think it represents this idea that there is a monster inside everybody and that people can overcome that. There’s this balance of restraint and fierceness, man and animal.”
Corey goes off to interview Sean Porter, and you sit on press row, where you experience fleeting euphoria at the beauty of the ring, followed by the usual existential despair of the early undercard.
Olympian Charles Conwell elevates the tone with a deft stoppage of Jeffrey Wright “The Prototype,” who has more pride and better trunks than your average journeyman. Promoter Lou Dibella stalks around crowing.
The main supporting bout is an eight-rounder between Maryland’s once-beaten Demond Nicholson and a guy from Toronto called Steve Rolls. You root for Demond, because you always root for fighters from Headbangers Gym, even though Coach Barry Hunter once told you that you don’t know anything about boxing. If you had a dollar for every time a man told you don’t know anything about boxing, you could charter a private jet to Canastota. Corey is pretending to be objective, but journalistic objectivity is a myth and you can tell he’s pulling for the Canadian.
Demond gets clipped by a left hook and goes down in the opening round, but he gets up and recovers. It’s a satisfying fight in which both men take turns hurting each other. Demond shows off some of that Headbangers style — the slick pivots, the body shots — but his jab isn’t effective and you watch his focus go in and out.
Rolls just keeps pressing, and maybe it’s true what they say about the undefeated having superior willpower. You can’t relate. You’ve always been good at losing.
By the end of the sixth, Demond is holding and glancing over Rolls’ shoulder at the clock. You want to shake Demond and tell him to go home and do some sprints. You agree with the split win for Rolls.
Finally it is Rougarou time. Super lightweight Regis Prograis, 20–0 (17 KOs), takes the ring in his signature werewolf mask. Your Internet research has revealed that tonight’s full moon is called the Strawberry Moon and that Joel Diaz Jr., though undefeated in 23 bouts, looks like the perfect victim: too plodding and predictable to challenge the Rougarou.
This is your first time seeing Prograis fight, but you are already a little in love with his dancing southpaw style. After a feeling out round, he drops Diaz to the canvas at the top of the second. This turns out to be a case of southpaw-orthodox-foot-tangle, but the following three knockdowns are legit.
Prograis fights like he wants everyone in the room to have a great time except Diaz. He breaks at the waist to slip punches and shoots the left cross from surprising angles. At one point he does a scampering hop that reminds you of that time you babysat a ferret. The fourth and final knockdown sends Diaz into a backwards somersault, and the ref waves it off at 2:55 of the second round.
You are very happy. Quick knockouts are ideal for many reasons, not the least of which is that the casino bars are still open.
You are hoping to see the Rougarou, but he’s not there. You do chilled whiskey shots with the entourage of millennials. It is a top-shelf entourage, deep with boxing knowledge and solidly committed to hedonism. You were planning on leaving early but decide to stay.
At the memorabilia show the next morning, you buy a metal sign advertising Joe Louis Punch. Corey buys more tee-shirts. Aris gets a De La Hoya snapback and a stack of Ring Magazines from the Steve Farhood years.
You go back to the cottage and swim in the lake. Josh points to his dog Bagels, who is rolling ecstatically in the sand, and says that is how happy he feels right now. For dinner you eat steak and oysters and dance to bad country music in a bar with an Airstream trailer.
On Sunday, you go to the induction parade, and that is when you see him. The Rougarou. He is standing right beside you, watching the classic cars. Tattoos peek out of the sleeves of his Ray Robinson tee-shirt and darling pink bruises adorn both his cheekbones, attesting to the heaviness of Joel Diaz’s hands.
You embarrass yourself immediately by saying that you love him, but he gives you time to recover. He tells you his dad called him Rougarou because he trains like a beast. He first walked into a Nola boxing gym in May 2005, and the storm came in August, filling his house with eight feet of water. He attended five different high schools before settling in Houston, where he found Savannah’s Gym.
When you ask if Katrina inspires him, he says, “Subconsciously, I feel like it does. I’ve been through a lot. My city has been through a lot. We got put on the back burner by the whole country.”
You can tell he means it when he says he loves boxing. He talks about Henry Armstrong and Mike Tyson, Roberto Duran and Pernell Whitaker. He beams when he tells you he met Marvin Hagler. It is restful to stand there in the sunshine and talk to him.
You eat a last supper at Graziano’s, the greatest bad restaurant in the world. Corey points out the signed photo of Roberto Duran whose autograph is so drunken that “Roberto” is misspelled.
Corey says, “This is probably the only restaurant in the world where three people are shadowboxing at the same time.”
You get back in the entourage-mobile, and Josh drives you all the way back to Brooklyn while Mike files stories furiously from his phone and Aris repeatedly loses his sunglasses. You get to hold the dog Baxter on your lap. You still feel happy about your werewolf sighting.
Rachel said, “The Rougarou is not necessarily evil. There can be good ones and bad ones. Sometimes it’s just a man who has been cursed.”
Regis Prograis is clearly blessed, and you are, too.
As Steve Farhood said in his induction speech, “When people ask me why I cover boxing, I always say, ‘Why would I want to cover any other sport?’”
