by David P. Greisman
Don’t look at the result.
Forty-seven minutes of story, of conflict and drama, of falling and rising action, summed up in just two letters, one for the protagonist, one for his foil. The “W” went to Lucian Bute; the “L,” to Librado Andrade.
From the earliest chapters, the conclusion seemed inevitable. Bute was the hero, the Romanian transplant who had found a welcome home in Montreal, the city where he became a star and a champion, defeating all he had met. Andrade was his tough and relentless challenger, slower, less skilled, a super middleweight who had fought to the top but was bound to end up eighty-sixed by the best at ’68.
Plots twist. Major players confront fatal flaws. And sometimes lesser characters come forward from the background to hold more influence than minor roles are typically permitted to have.
Look at the referee. Normally one would not. The third man in the ring tends to flit out of the camera frame and into the periphery, only noticed when necessary, auxiliary to the action. Marlon Wright, a former fighter with a brief, unspectacular career two decades ago, had since traded in the gloves and trunks for black slacks and a white dress shirt.
Wright is a veteran referee of eight years who was working his fifth title fight. At a moment when Bute’s title belt was hanging in the balance, Wright was in the wrong, noticed when not needed, and unashamed when confronted with the controversy he caused.
Andrade is a pressure fighter who grinds his opponents down, chopping away deliberately until they are left debilitated. Bute moved well around the ring, however, and while Andrade could rarely catch Bute, he caught plenty of beautiful, quick combinations. As time wound down, Andrade was left swinging with more urgency, searching for shots that would drop Bute in one fell swoop.
In the desperation of the last three minutes, Andrade finally closed the distance and trapped Bute within his grasp. The mauling left Bute with his arms down, falling forward, defenseless, holding on because he could no longer run so as to run out the clock. Those clinches would be broken with Wright inserting himself between the combatants far longer than required. [details]
Don’t look at the result.
Forty-seven minutes of story, of conflict and drama, of falling and rising action, summed up in just two letters, one for the protagonist, one for his foil. The “W” went to Lucian Bute; the “L,” to Librado Andrade.
From the earliest chapters, the conclusion seemed inevitable. Bute was the hero, the Romanian transplant who had found a welcome home in Montreal, the city where he became a star and a champion, defeating all he had met. Andrade was his tough and relentless challenger, slower, less skilled, a super middleweight who had fought to the top but was bound to end up eighty-sixed by the best at ’68.
Plots twist. Major players confront fatal flaws. And sometimes lesser characters come forward from the background to hold more influence than minor roles are typically permitted to have.
Look at the referee. Normally one would not. The third man in the ring tends to flit out of the camera frame and into the periphery, only noticed when necessary, auxiliary to the action. Marlon Wright, a former fighter with a brief, unspectacular career two decades ago, had since traded in the gloves and trunks for black slacks and a white dress shirt.
Wright is a veteran referee of eight years who was working his fifth title fight. At a moment when Bute’s title belt was hanging in the balance, Wright was in the wrong, noticed when not needed, and unashamed when confronted with the controversy he caused.
Andrade is a pressure fighter who grinds his opponents down, chopping away deliberately until they are left debilitated. Bute moved well around the ring, however, and while Andrade could rarely catch Bute, he caught plenty of beautiful, quick combinations. As time wound down, Andrade was left swinging with more urgency, searching for shots that would drop Bute in one fell swoop.
In the desperation of the last three minutes, Andrade finally closed the distance and trapped Bute within his grasp. The mauling left Bute with his arms down, falling forward, defenseless, holding on because he could no longer run so as to run out the clock. Those clinches would be broken with Wright inserting himself between the combatants far longer than required. [details]
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