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April 30, 2005
Push Weight
Samuel Peter, only 24 years old, swung hooks so vicious that I couldn't help but think of Sonny Liston as he took out Gilbert Martinez tonight; his punches are exciting events, self-willed disasters which do damage whether you block them or not. But why isn't somebody in his camp making him bear down a little? His conditioning is pathetic; prime Tyson, prime Holyfield, prime Lewis, prime Ruddock — any of these would have just pedaled through six rounds and then waited for Peter to fall down from exhaustion. This is why the Klitschko fight which in which Peter expressed much interest whilst gasping for air during a post-fight interview won't, or shouldn't, happen, and why Peter, who would otherwise have a decent chance at igniting broader public interest, won't. Post-Ali, you gotta have a washboard above your waist if you want non-aficianados to watch you fight. That or be George Foreman, of whom there's only one.
Posted by jd at 12:27 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 05, 2005
Becky Zerlentes
Meanwhile, let's hope that the abundance of hot-button stories in the news are enough to distract the press from the sad, not to say "tragic" because "tragic" doesn't actually mean "super-duper sad," death of Becky Zerlentes. In slower news weeks, you'd get the usual calls to ban boxing, institute new regulatory commissions, legislate for better protective equipment, and so on. The Mus Mus Tail is deeply suspicious of anybody who suddenly gets on their hobby-horse when an athlete dies in the ring. "Blunt force trauma to the head," reads the cause of death; blunt force trauma to the head is always on the menu when somebody's agreed to get hit on the head a number of times over the course of an evening, what to speak of months and years. Becky Zerlentes, a geography teacher, died doing something she loved, and, given the societal obstacles between a woman and the traditionally male sport of boxing, probably doing something she'd cleared huge hurdles to do. It's sad, even horrifying, that she died, but who among us will die in the very act of reaching for our dreams? We should all be so lucky. This morning's for you, Becky: you followed your heart as far as it would take you.
Posted by jd at 11:46 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Lights Out
James Toney's trainer, Freddie Roach, is high or something. The only way Toney beats Klitschko is if he brings a baseball bat into the ring, and even then my money's on the Russian.
Posted by jd at 11:34 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack