by David P. Greisman - The clothes make the man. Fighters step into the ring wearing only their pride, their trunks, the boots on their feet and the gloves on their hands.
Miguel Cotto was clad in red, fiery when fighting, a man unafraid of having his own blood spilled, stoic amid battle but emotional once victorious.
Joshua Clottey was the man in black, a dark cloud looming, looking to extinguish Cotto’s fire, a panther prowling after his prey.
Each had chosen a single color for his wardrobe. Each choice remained fitting after their war was over.
The moment he was announced as the winner, Cotto closed his eyes and leaned his head back before quickly nodding it forward, letting out a “woo” while raising his arms, clapping his hands and pumping his fists. Signs of relief. His heart pumping. Blood flowing.
Clottey turned his head, opened his mouth, put his arms out and mouthed “no.” Unblinking, he trudged toward Cotto, embracing him out of respect for tradition but not for the decision. Disbelief. His heart stopping. The dark cloud now storming. [details]
Miguel Cotto was clad in red, fiery when fighting, a man unafraid of having his own blood spilled, stoic amid battle but emotional once victorious.
Joshua Clottey was the man in black, a dark cloud looming, looking to extinguish Cotto’s fire, a panther prowling after his prey.
Each had chosen a single color for his wardrobe. Each choice remained fitting after their war was over.
The moment he was announced as the winner, Cotto closed his eyes and leaned his head back before quickly nodding it forward, letting out a “woo” while raising his arms, clapping his hands and pumping his fists. Signs of relief. His heart pumping. Blood flowing.
Clottey turned his head, opened his mouth, put his arms out and mouthed “no.” Unblinking, he trudged toward Cotto, embracing him out of respect for tradition but not for the decision. Disbelief. His heart stopping. The dark cloud now storming. [details]
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