Despite appearances, these two don’t see eye to eye

LAS VEGAS -- The big pre-fight news conference is over and Oscar and the little shrimp come together at center stage for a faceoff, and right away Mayweather is in Oscar’s face and yelling at him.

“You’re not that big,” he shouts. “You’re not that big.”

Oscar realizes there’s something not right, or Mayweather has had a growing spurt. Shane Mosley is standing right there and looking at the little shrimp’s feet and tells him, “You’re wearing boots,” while pointing to the three-inch heels.

Mayweather doesn’t know what to say, Oscar laughs and that gets Mayweather going. He goes to the crude language, later telling reporters exactly what he said as if he really is a big man.

It’s only Wednesday, but Mayweather has everything in perspective. “I’m willing to go out and die” to win this fight, he says, and maybe he’s right when he says this will be his last fight.

A few minutes later he’s ranting about not caring what people say, although he cares enough to say so. He also sounds a little discombobulated. “If it’s broke,” he says, “why fix it?”

He invites the media to watch him train. He says then he’ll place his bets, reportedly as much as $25,000 a day on NBA games, and finish the night off watching “Pirates of the Caribbean.” He obviously likes to watch little guys at work.

He talks about the altitude in Las Vegas, looking to his manager Leonard Ellerbe to confirm he’s got it right. Leonard doesn’t look like he’s big on geography either, but Mayweather plows on, talking about Oscar’s work at sea level in Puerto Rico.

“He’s not adjusted to the altitude,” the little shrimp says, and if he’s as good as he says he is, it’s odd he’s counting on a 2,000-foot difference in altitude to carry the night.

“I’m in the hurt business,” Mayweather says, and business is good. He tells everyone what his ring is worth, his diamond necklace and watch. It adds up to $1 million.

I mention this to Oscar, because all he’s wearing is a wedding ring. “It’s priceless,” he says.

Oscar is loose. He talks about the little shrimp’s arrival, Mayweather driving himself to the MGM Grand in a $500,000 Maybach with “Mayweather” spelled out in silver letters across the rear of the car.

“You don’t drive a car like that, you get driven in it,” Oscar says. “That’s a really big car. He must’ve looked real tiny in it.”

He seems to be having a good time after appearing uptight when he first arrived in L.A. after four months of training. Hard to stay uptight, though, when chasing a 16-month-old son and contending with a wise-cracking wife.

His wife puts their son in a boxing ring in the MGM lobby. On the way down the stairs, the youngster spots a poster of his dad and Mayweather. He goes over to Mayweather’s picture and starts throwing punches at it.

“I wonder who taught him who his dad’s opponent is?” says Oscar’s wife with just the right amount of sarcasm.

It’s been an hour now since the faceoff and Oscar is back in the house he’s renting some 15 minutes from the MGM. There are children’s toys everywhere. Nice to see Oscar is keeping himself busy.

He’s now eating a huge portion of sea bass, smothered in caramelized onions, mushrooms, carrots and jalapenos, cooked in avocado oil, and he wants me to join him. I don’t realize it at the time, but it’s a trap, Oscar luring me in -- just as plans call for him doing the same thing with Mayweather.

Oscar is telling me about the time Salma Hayek invited him to her house for a party, the two of them in the kitchen, “just talking,” he says, but letting me know what good friends they are.

“Then she mentions TJ to me,” Oscar says, “and I thought she might,” I say, before he drops the hammer.

“Yeah, she said she was going to go to Tijuana,” he says. “You know, you just got to be crushed that she’s pregnant now.”

The little shrimp has no idea how mean the old boxer can be.

“I’m wearing red trunks and red boots,” Oscar says, “to attract the bull. I want him to charge me. I hope he doesn’t run. I’m going to be talking in the ring, pushing his buttons.”

He’ll have “Golden Boy” spelled across the front of his trunks and “Atiana/Jacob” on the back in honor of his two children from previous relationships. It was his wife’s idea, since their son’s name adorned his trunks in last year’s fight.

“Oscar really likes those red boots,” his wife says. “He’s got me a little worried.”

Michael Jackson calls. I figure he’s heard about Oscar’s brand new red boots and wants a closer look, but instead of asking for tickets, he wants Oscar to visualize a victory over Mayweather.

The camp has already declined someone’s offer to hypnotize Oscar, but Oscar listens intently as Tom Lasorda tells him to back Mayweather into a corner. I’m a little worried no one thought of this in the four months Oscar’s been working.

His trainer, Freddie Roach, is reading a book about Pete Maravich, so you know Oscar is going to take every shot he gets.

Oscar tells me how the fight is going to unfold, round by round, and we’ll see later if he’s on target. He doesn’t see it going the distance, I’ll tell you that. He broke down his fight with Mayorga before they met, and it went exactly as he said, including the fight coming to a close in the sixth round.

This much is for certain. The night will begin with Marc Anthony singing the national anthem. J-Lo and I’ll be watching nearby. 50 Cent, who had a falling out with the Mayweather camp, is back and will lead the little shrimp into the ring with a song. Oscar will arrive to a mariachi tune sung by his sister, Ceci.

More and more calls are coming in. All for tickets. Jack Nicholson is buying tickets. Everyone pays. Oscar personally invites Michael J. Fox, who will finally tower over someone -- if only he gets the chance to stand beside Mayweather.

Eva Longoria will also be here, which means there’s a better chance of her picture appearing in the newspaper Sunday morning than either Oscar or Mayweather -- because Times photographer Wally Skalij is shooting the event.

--

T.J. Simers can be reached at t.j.simers@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Simers, go to latimes.com/ simers.