LincolnB
06-07-2011, 09:28 PM
Hey Guys, if you want to critique this, feel free. Or if you want to say good job or bad job just be honest. Thankyou. Also, the title is in progress, any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.
For the Love of Boxing
By Lincoln Barden
The metallic taste of blood in his mouth was one of many agonising senses recognizable by Mark Francis Junior, or Franky as his coach called him. The stinging sensation derived from the sweat that had poured down into his eyes was the least of his worries. This is what he’d worked for over the last twenty-two months, it was now October 1978 and all the ruthless training carried out by Franky day after day had turned him into a ferocious monster and finally taken him to the ring where the likes of Ali, Liston and Frazier had done their duties. Nothing could stop him now, least of all a cut lip and a bruised cheek. Madison Square Garden, a place of beauty and wonder where the chants of thousands filled the arena as this momentous occasion was soon to go down in the record books, but this all seemed irrelevant as Franky prepped himself for a gruelling round eleven, possibly the defining moment of the fight.
It was a chilly winter morning in December 1976 when Franky was asked to fight his first professional bout for a measly $400. His whole life, Franky had been an amateur boxer, boxing low-life thugs in Eddie’s gym on the corner of 6th and 12th street, New York. He stood at a meagre 5 foot 8 and weighed in at a miserable 170 pounds. To the naked eye, Franky was a runt-sized ‘wanna-be’ boxer but his trainer Eddie saw all the traits necessary to become the world’s best, the same traits that took Ali and Tyson to the top. Franky had the cocky attitude of Ali as well as the ‘get down to business’ approach made famous by Mike Tyson. But all this wouldn’t matter the slightest if Franky couldn’t capitalise on this golden opportunity to kick-start his career.
Nine long, arduous rounds had taken place and the tenth was almost finished. He yearned for the delectable sound of the bell and had he received his wish an instant later, an entirely different outcome may have aroused, none the less, to Franky’s delight the bell sounded. Franky had been beaten from left to right, knocked onto the floor on multiple occasions, there was no doubt about it that Franky was down on the scorecard. Round eleven was approaching and Franky’s left cheek was so swollen, his vision had been impaired, leaving Franky’s depth perception seemingly useless. However, this did not faze Franky, he loved the art boxing, the knowledge that anything could happen, the feeling that nobody expected him to succeed, the understanding that he was the under-dog.
The bell rang to start the eleventh round and with the crowd’s favour supposedly leaning towards his opponent, he knew something special needed to occur. Not surprising to the crowd, Franky copped an early flogging to the body at the beginning of the round, but when Franky’s opponent chucked an upper- cut towards the head of Mark Francis Junior, his instincts kicked in. This sparked a turning phase of events with Frankie dodging this punch only to react with a counter-blow that knocked out his opponent. As easily as the wind changes directions, the crowd began to applaud Frankie with shouts and cheers of approval. This is what he lived for, this is what he loved, and this is why Frankie chose to become a professional boxer.
Eddie knew Frankie had the goods to kick it with the big boys but not in his current physical state. After a tumultuous and enduring twenty-two months, consisting of high-performance coaching, hundreds of hours in the gym and numerous local and state-wide bouts, Frankie was in tip-top shape. He was now five foot nine pushing on six foot and weighed in at a monstrous 230 pounds. However, it wasn’t the stature and the training that made Frankie love boxing, it was the recognition he received when he’d given his all in the ring and was re-paid with the cheers and chants of the crowd. And it was this recognition that told boxing organisers that the people wanted more of Frankie.
In August 1978 Frankie received a call informing him he was to fight Max Crawford, the current undisputed heavyweight champion of the world. Franky could not believe what he was hearing, he imagined how his name would go down in history if he won this match, how his picture would be on the front page of every newspaper with the headline reading, “Mark Francis Junior, Champion of the world.” He craved for this and now this reality was within an arm’s grasp.
It was round eleven, Frankie’s favourite round; many of his fights had been won in this crucial stage of the fight. His trainer Eddie had changed him in a way, he had turned him into a mad man, a fighting machine that cared for no one else and ached for the feeling of acceptance by the crowd, only then would he be satisfied. The bell sounded signifying the start of the round and not a moment sooner had Crawford started to lay into Frankie. This surprised Frankie and he had not expected such an outburst of punches so early in the round, copping a punch with enormous power that made perfect contact with the right temple which knocked Frankie onto the ground. Lying on the ground, Frankie could hear the crowd’s chants reverberating along the walls and seats of the arena. Slowly and shakily Frankie stood on one knee with the referee yelling, “6... 7... 8...” Only for Frankie to stand to his full height.
With the thought of his dream being taken away, Frankie became a person that not many had seen before. He threw himself at Crawford knocking him to the ground and sitting on his stomach. Punch after punch was landed to Crawford’s head knocking him unconscious. The referee attempted to pull Frankie off of Crawford with no avail. The punching continued until several men including Eddie held Frankie off. The crowd fell to a silence, a scene like this had not been witnessed by a crowd since Black v. Freeman back in ’43; no one knew how to react. The medic on duty for the fight quickly rushed up into the ring checking the pulse of Crawford. Slowly yet steadily, she stood up, “He’s dead.”
The sudden realisation emerged into Frankie’s head, he had killed a man. The astonishing silence was the opposite of what Frankie craved. Slowly, Frankie fell to his knees, face in his hands and whispered to himself, “If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two.” Frankie desired those days where he was a man that boxed for a way to escape his world, but slowly realised, that by killing Crawford, he had become a different person. He had become an animal that boxed for fame and glory. No longer was he the man that boxed for the thrill it gave him. That man was dead, and would never return, he was gone. And with that Frankie fell face first into the ground unconscious, overwhelmed by the deed he had just carried out.
For the Love of Boxing
By Lincoln Barden
The metallic taste of blood in his mouth was one of many agonising senses recognizable by Mark Francis Junior, or Franky as his coach called him. The stinging sensation derived from the sweat that had poured down into his eyes was the least of his worries. This is what he’d worked for over the last twenty-two months, it was now October 1978 and all the ruthless training carried out by Franky day after day had turned him into a ferocious monster and finally taken him to the ring where the likes of Ali, Liston and Frazier had done their duties. Nothing could stop him now, least of all a cut lip and a bruised cheek. Madison Square Garden, a place of beauty and wonder where the chants of thousands filled the arena as this momentous occasion was soon to go down in the record books, but this all seemed irrelevant as Franky prepped himself for a gruelling round eleven, possibly the defining moment of the fight.
It was a chilly winter morning in December 1976 when Franky was asked to fight his first professional bout for a measly $400. His whole life, Franky had been an amateur boxer, boxing low-life thugs in Eddie’s gym on the corner of 6th and 12th street, New York. He stood at a meagre 5 foot 8 and weighed in at a miserable 170 pounds. To the naked eye, Franky was a runt-sized ‘wanna-be’ boxer but his trainer Eddie saw all the traits necessary to become the world’s best, the same traits that took Ali and Tyson to the top. Franky had the cocky attitude of Ali as well as the ‘get down to business’ approach made famous by Mike Tyson. But all this wouldn’t matter the slightest if Franky couldn’t capitalise on this golden opportunity to kick-start his career.
Nine long, arduous rounds had taken place and the tenth was almost finished. He yearned for the delectable sound of the bell and had he received his wish an instant later, an entirely different outcome may have aroused, none the less, to Franky’s delight the bell sounded. Franky had been beaten from left to right, knocked onto the floor on multiple occasions, there was no doubt about it that Franky was down on the scorecard. Round eleven was approaching and Franky’s left cheek was so swollen, his vision had been impaired, leaving Franky’s depth perception seemingly useless. However, this did not faze Franky, he loved the art boxing, the knowledge that anything could happen, the feeling that nobody expected him to succeed, the understanding that he was the under-dog.
The bell rang to start the eleventh round and with the crowd’s favour supposedly leaning towards his opponent, he knew something special needed to occur. Not surprising to the crowd, Franky copped an early flogging to the body at the beginning of the round, but when Franky’s opponent chucked an upper- cut towards the head of Mark Francis Junior, his instincts kicked in. This sparked a turning phase of events with Frankie dodging this punch only to react with a counter-blow that knocked out his opponent. As easily as the wind changes directions, the crowd began to applaud Frankie with shouts and cheers of approval. This is what he lived for, this is what he loved, and this is why Frankie chose to become a professional boxer.
Eddie knew Frankie had the goods to kick it with the big boys but not in his current physical state. After a tumultuous and enduring twenty-two months, consisting of high-performance coaching, hundreds of hours in the gym and numerous local and state-wide bouts, Frankie was in tip-top shape. He was now five foot nine pushing on six foot and weighed in at a monstrous 230 pounds. However, it wasn’t the stature and the training that made Frankie love boxing, it was the recognition he received when he’d given his all in the ring and was re-paid with the cheers and chants of the crowd. And it was this recognition that told boxing organisers that the people wanted more of Frankie.
In August 1978 Frankie received a call informing him he was to fight Max Crawford, the current undisputed heavyweight champion of the world. Franky could not believe what he was hearing, he imagined how his name would go down in history if he won this match, how his picture would be on the front page of every newspaper with the headline reading, “Mark Francis Junior, Champion of the world.” He craved for this and now this reality was within an arm’s grasp.
It was round eleven, Frankie’s favourite round; many of his fights had been won in this crucial stage of the fight. His trainer Eddie had changed him in a way, he had turned him into a mad man, a fighting machine that cared for no one else and ached for the feeling of acceptance by the crowd, only then would he be satisfied. The bell sounded signifying the start of the round and not a moment sooner had Crawford started to lay into Frankie. This surprised Frankie and he had not expected such an outburst of punches so early in the round, copping a punch with enormous power that made perfect contact with the right temple which knocked Frankie onto the ground. Lying on the ground, Frankie could hear the crowd’s chants reverberating along the walls and seats of the arena. Slowly and shakily Frankie stood on one knee with the referee yelling, “6... 7... 8...” Only for Frankie to stand to his full height.
With the thought of his dream being taken away, Frankie became a person that not many had seen before. He threw himself at Crawford knocking him to the ground and sitting on his stomach. Punch after punch was landed to Crawford’s head knocking him unconscious. The referee attempted to pull Frankie off of Crawford with no avail. The punching continued until several men including Eddie held Frankie off. The crowd fell to a silence, a scene like this had not been witnessed by a crowd since Black v. Freeman back in ’43; no one knew how to react. The medic on duty for the fight quickly rushed up into the ring checking the pulse of Crawford. Slowly yet steadily, she stood up, “He’s dead.”
The sudden realisation emerged into Frankie’s head, he had killed a man. The astonishing silence was the opposite of what Frankie craved. Slowly, Frankie fell to his knees, face in his hands and whispered to himself, “If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two.” Frankie desired those days where he was a man that boxed for a way to escape his world, but slowly realised, that by killing Crawford, he had become a different person. He had become an animal that boxed for fame and glory. No longer was he the man that boxed for the thrill it gave him. That man was dead, and would never return, he was gone. And with that Frankie fell face first into the ground unconscious, overwhelmed by the deed he had just carried out.