by David P. Greisman - There are two types of tears: those for triumph, and those for tragedy.
Witness the contrast between two fighters on one night. Floyd Mayweather Jr., the victor, dropping to his knees, crying out, “God is great.” Arturo Gatti, the vanquished, remaining on his stool, his eyes swollen shut, his head cradled by his trainer, just crying.
There are two types of tears shed from tragedy: those that come from an outside force leaving one broken, and those that come from internal flaws rendering one brokenhearted.
Witness Chris Arreola, brokenhearted and broken, his internal flaws making him all the more vulnerable to external blows.
The winner, Vitali Klitschko, stood tall, a statuesque 6-foot-7 figure raising his right glove high. The wounded, Arreola, hunched over, his right glove covering his eyes.
For 10 rounds, Klitschko was better from head to toe, with a strategy that played to his strengths and exploited his opponent’s weaknesses, with fists that found flesh 300 times in 30 minutes, with footwork that helped both to deliver harm and to deliver himself from it.
For 10 rounds, Arreola was all guts. After, there was no glory.
“I’m so sorry,” Arreola said afterward, attempting to hold back tears. “I worked my ass off. ****.”
Arreola is blue-collar, beer-drinking, belly bulging, brawling over boxing. He can be nothing beyond what he is. It is his character. It is his curse.
“Sometimes I don’t think he gives us the best chance to win,” Arreola’s trainer, Henry Ramirez, said [details]
Witness the contrast between two fighters on one night. Floyd Mayweather Jr., the victor, dropping to his knees, crying out, “God is great.” Arturo Gatti, the vanquished, remaining on his stool, his eyes swollen shut, his head cradled by his trainer, just crying.
There are two types of tears shed from tragedy: those that come from an outside force leaving one broken, and those that come from internal flaws rendering one brokenhearted.
Witness Chris Arreola, brokenhearted and broken, his internal flaws making him all the more vulnerable to external blows.
The winner, Vitali Klitschko, stood tall, a statuesque 6-foot-7 figure raising his right glove high. The wounded, Arreola, hunched over, his right glove covering his eyes.
For 10 rounds, Klitschko was better from head to toe, with a strategy that played to his strengths and exploited his opponent’s weaknesses, with fists that found flesh 300 times in 30 minutes, with footwork that helped both to deliver harm and to deliver himself from it.
For 10 rounds, Arreola was all guts. After, there was no glory.
“I’m so sorry,” Arreola said afterward, attempting to hold back tears. “I worked my ass off. ****.”
Arreola is blue-collar, beer-drinking, belly bulging, brawling over boxing. He can be nothing beyond what he is. It is his character. It is his curse.
“Sometimes I don’t think he gives us the best chance to win,” Arreola’s trainer, Henry Ramirez, said [details]
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