Boxing is not, and has never been, a perfect sport. Even in the throes of an enthralling duel like Joseph Parker and Fabio Wardley's last Saturday night, you might find yourself shrinking into your sofa under the violence or bursting forth in rage at a controversial stoppage. It depends on your threshold for violence, but the violence itself is just
However much grumping you might do at the water cooler-about the stupid idiot coach and his refusal to trust the rookie, or about the big brick-handed lummox mucking up the offensive spacing, or about the sleazy executive with his hands on the purse strings-when it comes to games and scores and outcomes, you have to root for your guys. That's your end of the deal.
What is it all for, these early mornings and evenings in the park with her notebook? The bruises and the pain? She wonders about it many times, but is quiet, self-conscious. She does not spend too much time trying to answer the question. And whatever answers she comes by are less interesting, anyway, than the quality of the light at dawn, and the crash of bodies, and what she's recording in the notebook.
It helps when I look at the standings and see that they're still only three games behind the Los Angeles Dodgers. Could be worse, but also very easily could get worse quickly if they don't turn it around.