The Sports Guy Now Does NOT Think Boxing Is Dead

I'm not sure that I'm content to allow Bill Simmons to jump on the boxing bandwagon right now, even though I took considerable pleasure from his latest piece in The Magazine about his trip to the Mayweather/Hatton fight. To summarize said piece - he had a smashing good time of it at the big bout in Vegas and now thinks boxing is back and so let's all hug it out.

Ardent No Masians no doubt will recall that our very distinguished guest Unsilent laid into the Worldwide Leader in September for their systematic burial of boxing, and also that I took serious issue with the Sports Guy back in April when he wrote this piece about the Oscar/Floyd showdown, calling it in no uncertain terms "The Last Big Fight" and on the whole proclaiming the sweet science a crumbling edifice in need of condemnation. And I quote:

The sport resembles a broken-down mansion that seems as if it can be salvaged -- right until the housing inspector tells you about the water-damaged walls and termite-infested foundation rotted to the core.

Contrast that with his latest pronouncement - "Boxing ain't dead, at least not yet."

But all right, all right, enough of my smug Simmons-bashing. I will just say one more thing to you, Sports Guy, should you happen to be reading this in your Sports Penthouse Made of Diamonds - promise us true fight fans that you will not write another "boxing is dead" piece for at least five years. You owe us that much, and if you stick to the deal, we'll welcome you back into the fistic family with open arms. Clearly you are a fan in your heart of hearts, and this Floyd/Hatton piece you've written perfectly illustrates in its boundless, giddy enthusiasm what to me is the central point to be made about the sport on the whole: It's unpredictable, cyclical, and plagued by vultures, yes... but the fact remains that there is nothing, NOTHING, in all of sports as electrifying as a big fight that delivers on its promise. In a world where we are bombarded with competition and relentless analysis of that competition on a daily basis, where something seemingly goes into overtime every hour on the hour, the vagaries of that electricity strike me even more as something to be celebrated and not disdained. Dilettantes and posers are quick to note a drought and solemnly announce to the world that it will never rain again. But the true believer stays alert, watching for lightning, which, as we all know, strikes when it strikes. That's why they call it lightning motherfucker.