Ah! the sweet sound of knuckles cracking against flesh! The scent of Iron and Calcium upon the breeze! The faint aura of pulverized bone and mists of blood misting in the atmosphere! These are but a few of the many delights to be beheld upon the viewing of two expert Pugilists practicing their science. I recall with delight the first match I glimpsed as a wee child. My father, reeking of his unique home grown blend of chewing tobacco and q'at left me unattended as he went on a mission to raise hell at the local seed co op for their multitude of insults in attempting to fend off upon him inferior brands of alfalfa as well as spreading ill-mannered rumors that his sorghum had grown a blight. I had intentions of loitering about the local pharmacy to see what manner of sweet sundries a fleet fingered child could lay claim to, but as luck would have it I was distracted by a rumbling mob gathering in the gravel, their locus point a cloud of dust obscuring violent thuds. I shoved my way through the knees of the bystanders to behold Bertram the local butcher striking Phineas O'Flannery the farrier a wild uppercut that lifted the Irishman right off the ground. From that second until the moment my father lifted me by the seat of my pants and informed me of rocks that could not wait a minute more to be plucked from a certain field I was enraptured by the spectacle. And to this day I still recall with intensity that as my father gathered me away from the melee, I heard a resounding crack from behind and almost simultaneously felt something hard and wet strike the back of my neck. Turning as I walked, I saw that the Irishman's jaw had been punched straight off with such force that it had arced all of the way to my neck, where thence it ricocheted off into the boot scuffled dust.
The art of boxing can be traced back to the gladiator matches of ancient Rome, which itself adopted the form of hand to hand combat known as Pankration from the Greek Olympic games. In these games, men fought either bare knuckled or with the aid of the cestus, a leather battle glove often enhanced by metal chains or spikes, thus having the entirely opposite effect of the modern boxing glove. Bare knuckle boxing was rediscovered during the Enlightenment's general fascination with classical past-times, and became something of a Gentleman's sport in 18th and 19th century Britain thanks to the influence of such notables as John Broughton, the man who invented many of the rules of what he named "the noble art of self-defense," and "The Rake of Rakes" Sir Barry, 7th Earl of Barrymore, who himself both patronized and participated in dust ups through out his time. In time, both Oxford and Cambridge Universities initiated their own amateur pugilists' societies, who to this day compete annually in the True Love Bowl.
One aspect of Boxing that remains unchanged from the Enlightenment on is the prominence of Personality. No famed pugilist goes without at least one nom de guerre, and many have made names for themselves by their striking manners of speech as much as their manners of striking. To "top off" this slight essay, I shall offer a brief array of distinctive aliases of but a few of my most favored of the Sweet Scientists in hope of turning yet another young mind to studying the annals of structuralized violence.
Kevin Kelly: The Flushing Flash
Calvin Brock: The Boxing Banker
Scott Walker: The Pink Cat
Willie Monroe: The Worm
Michael Nunn: Second To
Andrew Lewis: Six Heads
Lew Jenkins: The Living Death, and The Sweet Swatter from Sweetwater, Texas
Peter Quillin: Kid Chocolate
Micky Walker: The Toy Bulldog
Adam Richards: The Swamp Donkey
Josh Barnett: The BabyFace Assassin
Alexis Arguello: Explosive Thin Man (or El Flaco Explosivo as he would have it)
Mike McCallum: The Body Snatcher
Bobby Watts: Boogaloo
Jonny Bumphus: Bump City
Michael Carbajal: Little Hands of Stone
Donnell Holmes: The Real Touch of Sleep
Calvin Grove: Silky Smooth
Nate Campbell: The Galaxy Warrior
Primo Carnera: The Ambling Alp
Oliver McCall: The Atomic Bull
Henry Armstrong: Homicide Hank
Benny Leonard: The Ghetto Wizard
Henry Buchanan: Sugar Poo
James Braddock: The Cinderella Man
Lance Whitaker: Goofi1
and of course, Darnell Wilson: The Ding-A-Ling Man
A disclaimer: In case you have not yet noticed, you are reading this on the inter-net, a veritable den of lies and numerous other such iniquities. As such, I shall refrain from offering any but the vaguest of references to any of the informations that I share with you, here or elsewhere, as any critical thinker worth his salt in this day and age should verify any information for his self. You may consider yourself warned, and enriched for the experience.
1It has been said that he actually legally changed his first name to Goofi
