Boxing

Well, I've been topped. How can I possibly follow a post like the last one. It's good to be back though. I am dragging you from tender to tough with one swift yank. The man in the picture is my great uncle, Randolph Dallas Price. Once know as "Blackjack Price". He was a professional boxer around 1917. He boxed in the West and Northwest and was at one time the middle weight Northwest Champion. He was a couple of years older than my grandfather. My grandfather had the first two knuckles on his left hand pushed back from their original location. I asked him once how that happened and he said that's how far up a bully's nose he pushed his hand in a fist fight. My father also boxed in the Navy during WWII. I did some boxing, and have enjoyed watching the sport over the years. My wife does not share my fascination with the sweet science. I don't enjoy the current boxing venue, but I occasionally watch to vicariously satisfy some innate need. It is probably something in the Welsh and Irish genes. I tried to put the sport in perspective in poetry. I have numerous versions of this poem, because I found it difficult to put verse and boxing together. This is my latest attempt. (9th edition)

Rocky Marciano and Jersey Joe Walcott

The Fighter

Sweat covers his body,
forms dark stains on
satin trunks,
a sheen on
red leather gloves.

Years of training
in stale smelling gyms
to fight.

He shuffles forward,
posing,
moving,
punching.

Sweat drips pink
over scarred eyelids
to taut canvas.

The beauty of his work
lost in its brutality.