Honestly. I consider this sport to be the most beautiful sport in the world. One on one, man to man, no excuses. The difference in winning and losing sometimes by a single point, the desire of your opponet, or shady judging officials who hold your livelihood in their hands.
I think Diego Corrales sumed it up best when he said "One on one, it can be beautiful.". At it's highest level, boxing is poetry in motion. A blistering, fast-paced war of skill and will.
As a fan, I sit here and watch these guys do what they do in amazement at the level of their craft, and the size of their hearts. It takes a special breed of man to climb into a ring with a man who wants nothing more than to take him out and end the night early.
Watching an epic fight from start to finish is something like being able to watch Rembrandt paint, or watching Scorsese direct. It's absolutely beautiful to me and I never tire of it.
But on the flipside of the coin, it's also the most heartbreaking sport in my opinion. As fans, we watch these guys go toe-to-toe in brutal bouts that would kill lesser men. Sometimes they win, sometimes they lose. And there's always another prospect on the horizon to look out for.
We watch them build their careers from the ground up with their fists, like watching a construction crew erect a skysc****r. The guys we like, we support. The ones we don't care for, we pick apart. All the while we have no idea the amount of pressure these guys feel from people like us, or the amount of pain they are in when they're in the ring.
There comes a point in every fighter's career when the foundation collapses, the the skysc****r falls. And we look over it, discuss it, analyze and debate it, and rank the fighter in terms of skill and accomplishment. Then we set our sights on the next one, and the one after that.
Who really cares about these guys when they're no longer competitive? When nobody will pay to see them fight. When they're at home on the couch watching tapes of themselves back in their prime wishing they could go back? When the arenas have long since emptied, and their name only rings a bell in the halls of one's memory? How must they feel at such a moment?
I know I've touched on a lot of different subjects. Feel free to comment on any, or all. Or you can just say I'm gay for thinking about it in such a way. But I was watching some old fights on youtube of guys who are long since gone and it really got me thinking about it.
I think Diego Corrales sumed it up best when he said "One on one, it can be beautiful.". At it's highest level, boxing is poetry in motion. A blistering, fast-paced war of skill and will.
As a fan, I sit here and watch these guys do what they do in amazement at the level of their craft, and the size of their hearts. It takes a special breed of man to climb into a ring with a man who wants nothing more than to take him out and end the night early.
Watching an epic fight from start to finish is something like being able to watch Rembrandt paint, or watching Scorsese direct. It's absolutely beautiful to me and I never tire of it.
But on the flipside of the coin, it's also the most heartbreaking sport in my opinion. As fans, we watch these guys go toe-to-toe in brutal bouts that would kill lesser men. Sometimes they win, sometimes they lose. And there's always another prospect on the horizon to look out for.
We watch them build their careers from the ground up with their fists, like watching a construction crew erect a skysc****r. The guys we like, we support. The ones we don't care for, we pick apart. All the while we have no idea the amount of pressure these guys feel from people like us, or the amount of pain they are in when they're in the ring.
There comes a point in every fighter's career when the foundation collapses, the the skysc****r falls. And we look over it, discuss it, analyze and debate it, and rank the fighter in terms of skill and accomplishment. Then we set our sights on the next one, and the one after that.
Who really cares about these guys when they're no longer competitive? When nobody will pay to see them fight. When they're at home on the couch watching tapes of themselves back in their prime wishing they could go back? When the arenas have long since emptied, and their name only rings a bell in the halls of one's memory? How must they feel at such a moment?
I know I've touched on a lot of different subjects. Feel free to comment on any, or all. Or you can just say I'm gay for thinking about it in such a way. But I was watching some old fights on youtube of guys who are long since gone and it really got me thinking about it.
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