Boxing is the most amazing sport I am aware of. I actually practice boxing as much as possible, wherever I go. So far, I have trained in four different countries, but can already count the legendary Gleason’s Gym in Brooklyn, USA, among the gyms I have trained in. Not that there is a prerequisite to join, but if you are hardcore about boxing, this is where to go. And this is one of the great things about boxing; you rarely feel as if you are gloating just because you had the chance to train somewhere of renown or with someone who may be on the brink of celebrity status. I had no idea, for instance, that that guy with the hard, eastern european features who skipped jump rope in front of the mirrors while I was already finishing my training circuit was Yuri Foreman, newly crowned WBO champion of the World. I was actually informed of his existence by a fellow competitor here in Brussels, who thinks the world of Yuri. Then I knew Foreman was in the Pacquiao-Cotto undercard and I became interested in the rabbi understudy and professional boxer. I can relate to that strange mixture of occupations, to a lesser degree perhaps, as I am also, apart from a boxing amateur (in the literal french, a ‘lover of’ boxing) an artist and exhibition curator.

Yet another instance of the small magic of the world of boxing is how my first trainer at Gleason’s was Martín Gonzáles, who improbably fought my long time trainer in Honduras, Geovanny Baca, in the early nineties, fighting him both in Nicaragua and Honduras; each fighter drew a victory. I made a video for Geovanny and took some photos of the old clippings of their fights. In Honduras, these images drew a long, sustained gaze from Geovanny, as if time was performing strange motions. He seemed immersed, as if watching something both frozen yet secretely alive in some unknown place; Geovanny was happy to receive confirmation that such a moment had indeed existed; only a moment of fleeting joy and promise, which is a rare thing for boxers, even more so for those in the third world, but he was happy nonetheless.

The Manny Pacquiao victory over Miguel Cotto was an event I had waited for four months to match. I was giddy, anxious, and nervous as the day came. I liked both fighters, as it is hard to dislike genuinely nice guys such as Manny and Miguel, and I must say, the hispanic heritage of Cotto struck a deep note in my identity instrument. Yet, Pacquiao was my favourite; for some reason I can relate more to him, as he is more in tune with the problematics of his own third world nation than Cotto is (this is not a criticism of Cotto, by any means) and his complete generosity towards everyone. Plus, I am also a very big Freddy Roach fan, and the dynamism between these two, as trainer and fighter, mentor, is one more reason I enjoy watching these two perform.

In the previously mentioned fight, Cotto had a size and weight advantage; he was the bigger man against whom Pacquiao would have to put on extra weight to be able to handle his strength. Pacquiao is definitely faster than Cotto, but we didn’t know how he would react to a Cotto left hook, or to his furious jabs. As it turns out, Pacquiao seemed impervious to his blows. By contrast, the bigger Cotto was mystified, then overwhelmed, that Pacquiao could actually knock him down; and if Cotto was not careful, out. This show of power from Pacquiao was truly magnificent; no one seemed to think Pac-Man was able to do it; we knew he was fast, but not that fast; strong yes, but not that strong. Alter the fight was stopped in the 12th round (somewhat late to be honest; it could have easily been stopped a round or two before) a sense of watching something bizarre yet compelling, brutal yet oddly beatiful, and real as anything made me search for my bed dumbfounded. Why do I like this sport so much? The question, it finally dawned on me, is irrelevant. If you know the answer, you know it cannot be transmitted to anyone else, except via clichés, which is yes, a cliché. Which is another reason I love boxing: it feels like a secret society which only some can understand (another cliché). Maybe that’s blatantly idealistic, but you don’t really get that way about football or basketball, do you? Maybe you do, but everyone can love and relate to these sports; you cannot say the same for boxing. As far as I know, the only film about football also stars Sylvester Stallone, which is a strange coincidence, don’t you think?

This entry was posted on Miércoles, Diciembre 16th, 2009 at 8:55 and is filed under Journal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.