There was a time when being in those arms was a very dangerous place.
For those immersed, and well versed, in the saga of Mayweather, they can recall the perilous grasp of Floyd Sr. clutching his baby boy.
At once subdued of a career, that offered grandeur from a piece of lead that traveled some 400mph into his leg, he held on to the promise he made- and would go on to make. Only to see him leave.
That baby prodigy, of course, was Floyd Mayweather Jr.
This past Saturday night, in front of a partisan Mexican crowd in his adopted hometown of Las Vegas at that, Floyd became a now unquestioned all-time great, in addition to perhaps the best pure boxer who has ever lived.
The wound left behind that day can never stay far away from memory. Not only does "his anatomy remind him", but also that of his son's, both in style and in deeds.
I found myself smiling- and actually, on the edge of tears before the start of the 12th round during Mayweather's mega-fight with future ring immortal Saul "Canelo" Alvarez. The: 55 second or so interval between rounds is supposed to be about recovery and instruction.
But this one was marked by reflection and atonement.
A prodigy no more, finally in the professors eyes, Floyd Sr. stood amid the backdrop of a blue-hued spectacle to offer an incandescent look of pride at his work of art.
If depression is rage turned inward, then elation is joy expressed outwardly. It was as if he was respecting a former feeling of emptiness, while not knowing how to describe his feelings of euphoria or absolute fulfillment.
His son has now etched his place in fistic lore, while fully accrediting the man who'd given him such resolve and purpose.
In looking for chinks in his armor, I'd identified his chin as the source that would leave him undone in this fight. But the "chin", in boxing terms, encompasses so much more than that small area on the face.
Floyd's all out assault on himself in training turns him into something like the walls of Troy. He is built to withstand torture, while conveying a countenance that suggests an inability to break him under questioning. He was hurt several times this weekend- but you didn't know it.
Neither did Canelo.
Floyd's canvas has been difficult to understand and his painting has been equally enigmatic. His colorful natures don't really seem to mix, until you ask for perspective of what it is that you see.
Then his brushes with ring danger start to shape a vision.
The paint job he put on Alvarez the other night was a remake of none other than the Dutch master Rembrandt's classic, "The Prodigal Son". Through sophisticated, computer glitch-like feints, sequential movement and strategic strokes of brilliance, Floyd signed off on his latest creation.
As he approaches the zenith of his stellar career, like Rembrandt, he has begun to survey himself without vanity and with the utmost sincerity.
There was, of course, the moment in the 11th round, when a missed Alvarez punch that landed on the ropes caused Floyd to glance at his work with a sarcastic and acerbic wit. But this was more a mocked metaphor of sorts, aimed at those (like myself) who more or less doubted he'd win- or "hoped he'd lose".
Where does he go from here?
His career, and his life, having entered an age of renaissance, should only be paired with a contemporary of the same substance- if not style.
Alas, there is a Leonardo da Vinci of his time, who has made an art out of science and a science out of art, and is the archetype of everything that he isn't, while being notably associated with him.
This is of course, Manny Pacquiao.
Next May, he'll probably re-apply his craft against Philadelphia braveheart Danny Garcia, who is shaping up to be a Raphael of his time. But no matter what Floyd does from here, his face is now carved among the Mt. Rushmore of the sports' greats.
Upon seeing this, I can only imagine his father would say upon gazing at such a sight, "Well done son."