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By Lyle Fitzsimmons - I’ve got to admit, this one even got to me.
Though I’ve heard it each time for years when my beloved boxing has had one of those nights, not one time have I ever thought, “You know, maybe all these people are on to something.”
Not when Fan Man crashed Bowe-Holyfield.
Not when Tyson gobbled Evander’s earlobes.
Not when Kermit Cintron tumbled to a ridiculous scorecard loss.
And not when Floyd Mayweather knocked Victor Ortiz loopy.
The death knell was sounded – in some places louder than others – after each of those events and several more, but I’ve never been one to give it much thought.
In good times or bad, some folks hate boxing. It’s a fact of life. And those of us who love the sport have learned to ignore the persistent din.
I get it. The prospect of two guys getting into a ring with shoes, trunks, gloves and a goal of inflicting damage on each other isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.
Some prefer more tepid pursuits like golf or tennis.
Others would lose the shoes and put the whole thing in a cage. And there’s always the contrarian bunch who’ll revel in up, left and white when the inarguable stands are down, right and black.
Perhaps it’s a lesson learned from gridlocked genius in Washington.
But regardless of origin, it’s nothing I take too seriously.
Or at least I didn’t until Saturday.
This time, after another several weeks of anticipatory build-up, another anticlimactic five minutes in the ring and another predictable “I’m the real champ/No, you’re not” press conference, I’m feeling a little less like being tied to the whipping post – thank you, Gregg Allman – once again. [Click Here To Read More]
Though I’ve heard it each time for years when my beloved boxing has had one of those nights, not one time have I ever thought, “You know, maybe all these people are on to something.”
Not when Fan Man crashed Bowe-Holyfield.
Not when Tyson gobbled Evander’s earlobes.
Not when Kermit Cintron tumbled to a ridiculous scorecard loss.
And not when Floyd Mayweather knocked Victor Ortiz loopy.
The death knell was sounded – in some places louder than others – after each of those events and several more, but I’ve never been one to give it much thought.
In good times or bad, some folks hate boxing. It’s a fact of life. And those of us who love the sport have learned to ignore the persistent din.
I get it. The prospect of two guys getting into a ring with shoes, trunks, gloves and a goal of inflicting damage on each other isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.
Some prefer more tepid pursuits like golf or tennis.
Others would lose the shoes and put the whole thing in a cage. And there’s always the contrarian bunch who’ll revel in up, left and white when the inarguable stands are down, right and black.
Perhaps it’s a lesson learned from gridlocked genius in Washington.
But regardless of origin, it’s nothing I take too seriously.
Or at least I didn’t until Saturday.
This time, after another several weeks of anticipatory build-up, another anticlimactic five minutes in the ring and another predictable “I’m the real champ/No, you’re not” press conference, I’m feeling a little less like being tied to the whipping post – thank you, Gregg Allman – once again. [Click Here To Read More]
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