Tai Chi wrote:
Heard it on the news this morning while flipping pancakes. I know next to nothing about boxing, nor about these particular boxers, and very little about Steve 41oo, except that he's a Brit and seems to have a lot of close calls while riding his bike. Nevertheless my first though was, "Ah that's a shame; Steve will be disappointed". I need to get out more.
Thats very nice of you TC.
Yes, you do. It is a GOOD thing when steve is disappointed.
Thats bloody typical of you Bernie
I'll tell you guys why I was interested in this fight. I think boxing is abhorent. But then there's a side of human nature which is abhorent. And no matter what those boxers say before the fight, no matter their financial motivation they are supremely fit, and extremely courageous. I know lots of stuff has been written about the noble art, but you only had to catch a glimpse of Hatton's mother and girl friend to immediately understand the emotional impact. Hatton could have been killed in that ring. (As could of course Mayweather, I'm not doubting his skill and courage).
But I particularly like Hatton. Of course he likes the money, but his mates and his family mean more. And he has a particular self deprecating sense of humour which makes it difficult not to warm to him. Plus he comes from Hyde as did my mum and dad and hence me!
So he lost and I'm disapointed but hey life goes on
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
If you can keep your feet when being punched very heavily in the head
If you can stay awake when all us Brits are in bed
If you can punch and punch, when all around you punching stops
Then you could be world champion, or maybe I'll call the cops
My dad, an unrepentant Englishman, loved boxing. As kids, my twin and I would sit with dad around the radio whenever a big fight was on, intently listening and eating raw porridge with sugar. Dad thought we ought to learn the manly art and bought boxing gloves and a punching bag (the whappattawhappattawhappatta little sort). But as I've worn glasses since I was six, and as you can't wear them boxing, even the neighborhood girls could throw punches I wouldn't detect until they were a small franction of a second away demeaning me publicly. I didn't talk to my brother (the peckerhead had good eyesight and is still evil) about this fight, but he'd be on top of it all. He may well have paid to watch. As a more mature bully, he'd probably watch while eating uncooked moose with sugar.
My interest in the sport flagged after Ali.
You Scots have an ear for poetry
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
raw moose and sugar!
raw moose and sugar!
There's a song about that
McTag will know...he's into anything lyrical with food