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by David P. Greisman - I was a fan of Arturo Gatti back when I could still be a fan of a fighter, back before I was a writer, back when it was just my father and I bonding over boxing on Saturday nights.
I’d often return home from work to find the television tuned to HBO, the undercard already under way. Many of those evenings I’d acquiesce to exhaustion in the middle of the action, “just resting my eyes,” I’d say, submitting to unconsciousness on the couch some time before a boxer would do the same on the canvas.
Not when Arturo Gatti fought.
I had to stay awake – not that you could do anything but keep your eyes open, and your mouth, too. His skin swelled. His flesh bruised. His eyebrows cut. His knees shook. And his punches somehow kept coming.
He was an action hero.
He wasn’t an invincible Arnold Schwarzenegger, nor was he an ass kicking, wise cracking Steven Seagal or Jean Claude Van Damme. Rather, he resembled Bruce Willis as John McClane or Sylvester Stallone as Rocky. There was no doubt that he would take a beating. And there was no doubt that he’d find a way to still be standing.
But it was hard to watch when the action became more one-sided, when the beatings got worse, and when it wasn’t just skin swelling, flesh bruising, eyebrows cutting and knees shaking. It was hard to watch when it was also his body succumbing, when his punches were no longer coming and he no longer could find a way to remain upright. [Click Here To Read More]
I’d often return home from work to find the television tuned to HBO, the undercard already under way. Many of those evenings I’d acquiesce to exhaustion in the middle of the action, “just resting my eyes,” I’d say, submitting to unconsciousness on the couch some time before a boxer would do the same on the canvas.
Not when Arturo Gatti fought.
I had to stay awake – not that you could do anything but keep your eyes open, and your mouth, too. His skin swelled. His flesh bruised. His eyebrows cut. His knees shook. And his punches somehow kept coming.
He was an action hero.
He wasn’t an invincible Arnold Schwarzenegger, nor was he an ass kicking, wise cracking Steven Seagal or Jean Claude Van Damme. Rather, he resembled Bruce Willis as John McClane or Sylvester Stallone as Rocky. There was no doubt that he would take a beating. And there was no doubt that he’d find a way to still be standing.
But it was hard to watch when the action became more one-sided, when the beatings got worse, and when it wasn’t just skin swelling, flesh bruising, eyebrows cutting and knees shaking. It was hard to watch when it was also his body succumbing, when his punches were no longer coming and he no longer could find a way to remain upright. [Click Here To Read More]
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