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Adolescents sidestep each other methodically avoiding confrontation. Skinny lengths of irony, ungainly presented and held captive in a roped off square. My shoulders bob in sympathy expertly picking punches that I will never throw. The words of a thousand commentaries ring in my ears, masquerading as wisdom when in reality, I have only second hand advice. At last they come together. Disciplined at first, measured strikes from the coaching manual. Yet soon it degenerates, stung into action tired arms throw brawly blows. Headgear barely cushions haymakers and one boy reels, fireworks before his eyes, he bobs, weaves, ducks and dives. For a split second the barbarity appals, I know a million brain cells end prematurely. A vision of Ali and a dozen punch-drunk fighters suddenly question the art of this sport. Yet adrenalin dismisses common sense as my son counters… with a perfect, beautiful straight right. |