It wasn’t exactly blood and guts after the boxing

Like you, I’d do anything for my kid -- even work with her.

I just took for granted she’d do the same, especially now that she’s an adult and really counting on her weekly allowance.

But here’s what happened Saturday night in Las Vegas.

Mayweather beats Oscar, and I’m fortunate enough to have access to Oscar’s dressing room, so I’m there to see how he handles defeat after dedicating the last four months of his life to winning. He doesn’t throw anything, stomp his feet or swear at anybody, which makes him so different than Gary Matthews.

At some point, Oscar’s wife tells me she’s pregnant, letting me know before she informs Oscar so I can catch him if he faints.

She also tells me Oscar has just told her he will never fight again, which means I have to rewrite my column and deadline is just minutes away. So I’m sitting there with my computer on my lap, comedian George Lopez arriving at the same time, and he’s pointing at me, speaking in Spanish and everyone in the room is laughing at me. At least now I know what it feels like to be Dwyre.

I finish my column, and then move to the arena to catch the post-fight news conference. Mayweather is wrapping up, and someone tells me the little shrimp has already called me out in front of all the media -- telling me to “stand up.”

I hear this, and turn to Oscar and ask him if he’s got my back, but then realize this is the last guy I want defending me. I wish I was friendlier with Bernard Hopkins.

Mayweather is apparently still smarting from our visit earlier in the week when I mentioned he might lose, and he looked at me as if I’ve told him he’s got to eat dinner with Jim Lampley all week and listen to his old boxing stories.

“Where is that guy? I told him I would give him $1,000 if Oscar beats me,” Mayweather tells everyone at his news conference. “But I told him if Oscar don’t beat me, he better write that Floyd Mayweather’s the best fighter ever.

“Stand up,” he yells, I’m told later. “Come on, stand up. I need to see you. Stand up. Where you at? He’s from the L.A. Times.... “

At that point, one of the reporters in attendance yells out my name, and Mayweather says, “Where’s he at? T.J., he ain’t showing his face now.”

Dwyre is sitting in the audience, acting as if he hears nothing, and I’m guessing his batteries had gone dead.

But the daughter is also sitting there, Miss Radio Personality as she insists on being addressed at home. My own flesh and blood. And she’s trying to hide her head, scoot down in her chair and act as if she’s never heard of the guy Mayweather is calling out.

That’s when Ed Sheftel, a salesman at 570, who usually makes it a practice to ignore Miss Radio Personality and act as if they have never met, starts chirping, “That’s T.J. Simers’ daughter over there, that’s his daughter.”

Mayweather obviously knows the difference between reporters and freeloaders, so he pays no attention to the guy who doesn’t belong at his news conference, and besides, by now the daughter is under her seat.

How proud I am to hear that later. I figure my kid stands up, and she identifies herself and tells the little shrimp, “Hey, the old man is busy with Oscar, and another thing, I think Oscar got robbed.”

But later I learn she tells the guy next to her, “Simers? Never heard of the guy.”

I hear all this, and I find Mayweather still on stage along with 50 Cent, or Cents. Right away I’m thinking how much fun we’d have, the shrimp, 50 Cent or Cents and Page 2 -- going out on the town and maybe hitting the clubs.

Anyway, “The Best Damn Sports Show Period” is about to do an interview with the little shrimp, but he spots me, and right away he blurts out: “I’ll still pay you the $1,000.”

So I figure right away he knows the judges got it wrong too, and while at the time I have every intention of writing he’s the best fighter ever, if he doesn’t really think he beat Oscar, I see no reason to contribute to the farce.

As for my daughter, all I had to do was tell her I was buying dinner again, and she immediately came out from under her seat.

STOPPED BY the Angels’ game, and ran into Mr. HGH -- you know, Matthews, the guy who ordered HGH because he had no intention of using it -- and asked him if he was going to continue the Silent Sam routine. He replied with an obscenity, and while I can’t imagine Arte Moreno having the same potty mouth, Moreno would’ve been forgiven had he said the same thing about Matthews after learning he had just signed a free agent with an HGH resume.

I asked Matthews about his choice of obscenities and he said, “I’ll talk to you when I want to talk to you.”

Now I don’t know what it is about players who have a history that includes drugs in some way, but I would think by now they’d know how to deal with an intervention better than this.

ANGELS GAMES have never been more exciting. On any given night now, the opposing pitcher has a great chance of throwing a no-hitter against the eight guys who can’t hit and Vladimir Guerrero.

The Angels are in first, but it looks like a mirage with the likes of Reggie Willits, Robb Quinlan, Shea Hillenbrand, Erick Aybar, Chone Figgins and Mike Napoli carrying bats to home plate. Hillenbrand is the team’s designated out, which tells you the kind of job General Manager Bill Stoneman has done in addressing the lack of power the last few years.

Manager Mike Scioscia talks about getting Garret Anderson and Howie Kendrick back, and he begins to sound like Mitch Kupchak and Phil Jackson, who said the same thing all year about the Lakers and how good they’d be once everyone was healthy.

For some reason, though, I don’t expect Guerrero to stand up publicly and demand the Angels surround him with better hitters before his career comes to a close. He’s too much of a team player to do that.

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