Fresh Meat: Chris “B-hopp” Colbert

BROOKLYN, N.Y.– “I knew I was special when I came out the womb,” says Christopher “B-hopp” Colbert.

It’s a few hours before his pro debut on the Khan-Algeiri undercard. He is lying on the floor of his room at the Hamptons Inn so I can stretch his legs while he simultaneously flirts with his girlfriend; texts Andre Rozier, who is late with the custom trunks; and argues with the cameraman, who wants him to turn off the Meek Mills.

“I’m not paying for these trunks,” he declares.

Andre is always behind the beat, yet nobody stops wearing Havoc. Possibly it’s a brand strategy. B-hopp pulls on a backup pair in blue camouflage and tries to convince the cameraman to go out and buy him socks.

B-hopp is happy. He is eighteen years old and he’s got a pretty girlfriend and a documentary crew and the New York City skyline shaved into his head. The future looks bright, or as bright as it can for a super bantamweight.

When I met him, B-hopp was a fifteen-year-old prodigy, 95 pounds, all long limbs and big paws. His trainer dubbed him “B-hopp” because he shared the Philly legend’s crafty style and gift of gab. He and Earl Newman, Jr., a good-looking light heavyweight, were the stars of Aureliano Sosa’s formidable amateur stable at Atlas Cops and Kids. Both have stayed with Sosa and are now signed with Al Haymon.

Earl was B-hopp’s opposite, a gentle giant, the kind you’d trust to water your plants. B-hopp was a tiny agent of chaos – he broke everything; the worst thing I saw him break was Earl’s collarbone – but it was hard to stay mad at him. If he watered your plants, you could expect to find them dead, gone, or replaced by a topiary jungle that spelled out “B-hopp.”

“He’s got the devil inside him,” said Sosa.

Sosa’s crew rolled deep with a house style of slick, black, ambidextrous boxing mixed with Mexican machismo. Sosa trained them relentlessly under the dissatisfied gaze of their fathers, who sat on the apron complaining of their sons’ shortcomings. The best boys generally came in alone. I never saw B-hopp’s family.

Like most naturally gifted people, he was a little lazy. He had the kind of heart that could sit in for conditioning, at least in a three-rounder.

B-hopp on nutrition: “Junk food is delicious.”

B-hopp on weight training: “The only thing I lift is fat women.”

I never saw his family, but maybe boxing is his family. He calls Sosa “Dad.” He got Bernard Hopkins’ blessing on the name. After he won the Daily News Golden Gloves, he schemed his way into the broadcast alongside Lou DiBella.

When he enters the ring at the Barclays Center, he is wearing the new zebra print Havocs, thanks to Earl, who sprinted ten blocks to fetch them and is now dripping with sweat. You could make money betting consistently on the prettier man in the ring. Beauty does not win fights, but it correlates with things that do: conditioning, youth, financial backing, pride.

The opponent, Marquis Pierce, is short and muscle-bound and stands no chance. B-hopp switches orthodox at the end of the first round and drops him with an overhand right.

They had words at the weigh-in. B-hopp claims Marquis started it, but all I saw was B’s mouth moving, his eyes filled with glee.

“What did you say to him?” I asked.

There’s this cliché about how you play basketball and you play soccer but you don’t play boxing. That’s not really true. Certain fighters never lose the sense of unconstrained joy, not even when they go pro. The money just makes it a deeper play.

When he stops Marquis in the second round, even the ushers cheer.

“Everybody knows B-hopp,” they say.