Everything I need to know, I learned from men's pro heavyweight boxing

I know I wax a bit philosophical about a sport that many consider to be brutal and inhumane, but I wanted to share this bit of wisdom with you.

From a boxing commentator:

"A fighter who's never been knocked down can't take certain risks that another fighter can."

So maybe a perfect record isn't always an asset.

Since I couldn't sleep and classic boxing runs at 12:00 am some Saturdays, I watched the 1992 men's heavyweight title match on tv. Evander Holyfield and Riddick Bowe, mismatched in size by 30 pounds, duking it out for the highest honour (and prize purse) in boxing.

It's good to be by yourself when boxing makes you misty-eyed. There's a moment in the 7th or 8th round when Holyfield, the smaller of the two men, gets knocked down. That's usually the end of things. But it isn't - get pulls himself up and musters whatever lives inside of him that makes him go, that makes him a champion, and he comes back harder than before. You can see in his eyes a drive, a spark that isn't extinguished by the fall.

There's something about someone reaching deep within themselves and giving their all, every scrap of themselves that moves something inside of me.

And he keeps going, keeps going another few rounds and there's a gash over his eye, and he's faltering, and by round 12, I am almost crying because I hate this part of fights - I want it to be over. Somebody's gotta give up or somebody's gotta finish it, because one of them is suffering, dragging themselves around the ring, holding their head up waiting for the bellring, they are dangling by threads.

The twelfth round breaks my heart over and over.

And then it is over, the championship is transferred to Bowe, the challenger, and everything begins again. A change in boxing royalty is like springtime, because all the flowers and weeds, everything starts coming up and everyone holds their breath to see what flourishes.