I have a confession. I have migraines and depression. And I let them win.
I started this blog two years ago under the advisement of a friend, a dear, dear friend, who was convinced that it would help me feel better on all fronts. That the positive feedback – or any feedback – would make a difference in both mood and pain.
But I let them win. I have forever. I have talent and dreams. What a failure I am.
I’ve posted all of five times, I think. I managed one last night, one I thought was pretty fun. It’s not bad. So I wanted to start an editorial calendar today but could not imagine what my worthless self would talk about. Anxiety filled my throat with acid and shortened breath.
I’m not looking for sympathy. Just feel like this a lot and wondering if posting would help me lift my head…from time to time.
That one post seemed to change a little something, though, because here I am.
I am wondering what you, my two or three dear readers, think about my friend’s theory. Do you think that regularly posting something, anything, can help fill that hole in your heart? You know, the one you can shrink but never quite sew closed. I can always find a way to slip backwards into that hole. It’s like I want to.
Do you think posting about something, anything, might keep me upright?
Do you think that over time my migraines, caused primarily by stress and sadness, might alleviate a little bit? If posting something, anything, would help alleviate that stress and sadness, I would take a bit. Any of you who have chronic migraines or other pain, I know, would take a bit.
Your thoughts and experiences would be invaluable if you’re up for sharing. In the meantime I will do my best to continue posting about the fascinating and useless things I find while cleaning my closet. Maybe some boxing, too.
An ex of mine, whose default position was flat on the couch, was an MMA fan. For someone so lazy he could not have chosen a more physically demanding sport to follow. It requires strength and smarts to solve each puzzle of an opponent, whose skills may complement or conquer the other’s. For this the sport is admirable. There’s an opening for almost everyone.
Now gyms that smell like sweat and toilets are all over the country, in strip malls and old warehouses, and my ex went to one, at least for a while, to learn Brazilian jiu-jitsu – one of MMA’s primary martial arts. I don’t know what color belt he left with, or why he stopped going. But I can’t imagine a man who ran out of breath a minute into missionary making it five minutes on the mat. With anyone.
Hey, Conor. How ’bout some pants? Photo: The Sun
It was through him that I was introduced to the sport at all. I’d not seen much of it. just enough to find it so much more brutal than boxing. It was often much more boring than boxing, too, with 10, sometimes 20 minutes of two people rolling around in shorts like underwear preceded by five minutes of pat-a-cake. I didn’t get it. Constant commentary would come from the couch. Ah, that’s where all his breath went. I was nice about it. It wasn’t until watching Conor MacGregor, as much an entertainer as a fighter, that I stopped pretending to listen.
It was Friday Night Fights or something like that. MacGregor was wiry and little. Too short for me to date, to be honest. He’s a ginger. Of course, I thought, and there’s the Irish flag. The Irish usually box, I’d said out loud, but was told that wasn’t true anymore because Conor MacGregor.
“Does he have more of a stand-up game?”
“You mean, is he a striker? He does everything right, you’ll see. He’s really fast.”
MacGregor’s got a neck tattoo, a crown declaring his collarbone king, and I thought this career had better work out for him. He would fight in those tiny shorts, the kind sold in the ladies’ department. I felt awkward watching MacGregor go on about his business in such little leprechaun shorts.
My ex was right, though. MacGregor was fast. He was powerful, maybe fighting a weight class lower than what was natural for him. He was flash and not without flaws – he grated. And yet he was thrilling in a sport that silenced its audience because so often there was nothing to cheer for.
Yeah, and fast. Or rather, his decisions were fast. And in the long five-minute rounds of MMA, fast decisions look like lightning.
It must be said that fast in MMA is slow in boxing. Witness the difference between MacGregor’s speed, future opponent Floyd Mayweather, and some children boxing in the dirt:
This is important because Conor MacGregor is set to box Floyd Mayweather (49-0) on Aug. 26. No kicking, no striking, no grappling, no choking. No fighting. Boxing.
MacGregor, as seen in the video, is working on a different bag and different skill set than Mayweather. He’s not on a speed bag. He’s on a heavy bag. OK.
But look more closely. Look at MacGregor, punching in a way that made me understand, finally, that punching isn’t striking and he’s trying desperately not to strike. He punches with forethought, solving the puzzle of an opponent who’s long gone while his legs plant heavy, stalking the octagon in his head.
Note: MacGregor, this is how you punch. Photo: Tom Hogan.
But look more closely. Look at MacGregor, punching in a way that made me understand, finally, that punching isn’t striking and he’s trying desperately not to. He punches with forethought, solving the puzzle of an opponent who’s long gone while his legs plant heavy, stalking the octagon in his head.
Look at Mayweather Look at MacGregor. Look at the kids.
MacGregor could be publishing dummy footage to stack the odds. The Irish love to gamble and win or lose, he could get paid twice. He would not be the first Irish to gamble on his own fight. But is he in league, then, with his sparring partner to publish the same damning evidence? No. Or maybe. I don’t know. MacGregor’s a great fighter but he’s annoying. It’s the tale of his tape. And anything could happen anyway. If Mayweather’s not ready for Irish gamesmanship after 20 years, then shame on him.
I could say the same. My ex, who like MacGregor wore his Irish ancestry like cape and would also not shut up about anything, was exactly who he was, always. This didn’t happen to me when I was 20. This happened when I was 40. I knew his game somehow but like a paying crowd he gave me what I was looking for until I would always seek it. Like sugar. Like booze. Did he leave some in the couch cushions? He didn’t even shower on Sundays, but I was high enough until the next fight. Anticipating, replaying knockout in a sport I merely tolerated for too long.
Until I didn’t. I drew him in then tiptoed away. A fight’s a fight and I won.
To Ron Livingston, Richie Woodhall, and my hero, Claressa Shields (pictured above). Shields fights for the WBC Super Middleweight World Championship at 10 p.m. Aug. 4 on Showtime.
Rances Barthelemy makes one of two intimate shots on Kyril Relikh. Photo: DBN
On Saturday, May 20, Cuban boxer Rances Barthelemywon his WBA light welterweight title final eliminator bout against Belorussian Kyril Relikh in a unanimous decision. Each 140-pounder was knocked down by the other, but only Relikh enjoyed several illegal left-hand backfists and two shots to the junk. 116-110, 115-111 and 117-109 were the scores for Barthelemy.
Like his fellow Cubans, Barthelemy held the outside of the ring. Cubans are the ballroom dancers of boxing: They toe about the edges, ceding control of the ring to their opponents, whom they then draw into jabs and uppercuts timed like a Swiss watch. To do this a Cuban can use several rounds to size up his opponent. Who gets bored. I get bored. So opponents are drawn in and I’m glad for it, because boxing is about punching. But the Cubans are experts at defense, precision, getting out the way. They lead the waltz as they appear to be led.
Kyril Relikh was drawn in. Then he out-punched Rances Barthelemy by a ratio of 2:1. 248-137 in overall punches. 190-91 in power punches. An average of 80 punches per round for Relikh versus 43 for Barthelemy. Relikh out-landed Barthelemy in nine out of the 12 rounds.
Still Relikh lost. He had no reason to doubt the outcome because he did everything right, including dropping Barthelemy in the fifth round with enough power punches to kill a cow. He had the numbers, the proof. He had the crowd. And he lost.
Barthelemy gets the decision, plus a positive reply on OKCupid. Photo: Tom Casino
At this point, you’re not thinking about boxing anymore, are you? You’re thinking, This is online dating. It’s the kind of recognition I saw onKyril Relikh’s face he watched Barthelemy fall to his knees in gratitude, knowing he would go home alone without any clue what happened…and never would.
Online dating requires an incredible investment of your time before you ever even meet someone. It’s like a six-month training camp, including an hour a day sparring just to get to coffee. You get pretty tired. So when you come across someone who’s the right height, uses good grammar, has all his teeth, whatever, he gives you the hope of a no. 1 contender.
It doesn’t start out that way. Like the man who contacts you simply because you’ve clicked an interest in their profile. On paper he’s a catch, but he’s checked the tape: so are you. He mentions his ’69 Buick. You know about ’69 Buicks. So you ask questions about the ’69 Buick because what guy doesn’t want to talk about his ’69 Buick with someone who knows about ’69 Buicks? Not this one. Did you ask the wrong questions? Or the right ones? Don’t care. Took a flyer on this one anyway.
Then there’s the man in whom you see a number of commonalities, including but not limited to compatible sun signs. That’s become one of the best signs out there. He’s an Aquarian, like you, and his humor seems uncannily similar. A lefty to your righty, you bet. You send a funny inquiry, and you know it’s funny because you can read. Must’ve been too funny. Or not funny enough. Note to self: test your material.
Then there’s one with the funny hat. Why aren’t you using your photo with the funny hat anymore? He meets your now-minimal standards and you expect even less. Yet, there he is, changing that photo immediately, writing immediately, writing you back immediately. It’s quality work, a conversation filled with the kind of one-liners you think about once a conversation is over except that it’s all happening right now. You ask for him out for coffee. Because you’ve done everything right. Right?
You thought you drew him in. Now you’re six inches from the ropes and Funny Hat is six inches in front you, stepping on your foot. Judges never look at the feet.
Kyril Relikh, right, dislikes the Western Hemisphere, Match.com. Photo: The Mirror
In October 2016, Kyril Relikh fought Scot Ricky Burns for the WBA World super lightweight title in Glasgow, Scotland. Relikh was the world no. 1 contender; Burns clinched Relikh, ran from Relikh, and failed to land Relikh for much of the fight. He was gassed. He looked to have lost rounds one, two, four, six, nine, 10, 11, and 12. If you’re counting, that’s most of them. Burns said he felt like he’d been hit by a bus. For a boxer to say that after a championship bout means that his opponent truly did everything right.
The judges scored the bout 116-112, 116-112, 118-110 for Ricky Burns.
Kyril Relikh, if you ever step foot in the English-speaking world again, get in touch. I think I’ll be available.
Note: The WBA has recently ordered a Relikh-Barthelemy rematch. No date has been scheduled.
This post is dedicated to Ronald McIntosh, Richie Woodhall, and Claressa Shields, who would be doing quality work on Funny Hat’s face.
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