Most writers will confess to soft spots for certain fighters. I pointed out my own affection to John Ruiz, the most unloved of heavyweights, only this week but the reasoning or events that form and fuel these affiliations are often curious and minuscule. It doesn’t stop at boxing, I always urged old Rex Williams on in the snooker championships because we share a birthday. Tenuous but a rivet-strong bond all the same. Colin Lynes is another fighter for whom I always wish good fortune.
Continue reading “Behind enemy Lynes against bucking, ducking Branco”
It was painful to view. And my scorecard reflected my desire to prolong the feint hope of Junior Witter finally securing the chance to face arch-rival Ricky Hatton before both got too old or too fat for anyone to care. Placing the credit for the victory at the door of Ricky Hatton, given it was young Timothy Bradley in the ring throwing punches, would be ungracious and unfair but there was certainly a shadow of the wealthy Hitman over the split decision triumph for the American. 
Every one of us lives by certain unfathomable rules; idiosyncratic lines we never venture across. Superstitions or clichés collected from life experience or bestowed from those who formed us. “Never drink in pubs near the market in a strange town” my Dad always implored, a directive I wish I’d adhered to when I was in Stoke-On-Trent in the early nineties but that’s another story.
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