.
The noble art
obscenely stagger the first round, reeling in search of the strings, always too far away, almost a mirage.
Fists hail everywhere, always ahead, always ahead, always ahead.
clearly remember only the screams of the audience in raptures. Nothing more.
"give him more! Give him more! Give him more!"
"spezzagli the coooorna!"
"to the pallleeeeee palleeeee!"
want me dead.
Like the rest of the blame is not easy to witness a carnage so in style: on the one hand Macigno Jack, 100 pounds of murderous rage, the other I, 87 pounds of regrets and little else.
Towards the end of the third round, Jack breaks out: I am by so many in his face that I become a top. Everyone screams at each stroke: "Down! Down! Down," as if it were possible to finish most of where I came down.
obviously love the abyss. Just like me.
think about it, everyone loves the deep, damn it, but do not tell anyone.
We're just a bunch of assholes.
When playing the gong at last!, Become detached from the off, was for him would have continued for hours.
As I slumped in the corner, someone takes my blood from his eyes.
"I'm in a sea of \u200b\u200bshit", I think.
Macigno Then I look at Jack, "I can do it, there I can still do", I think.
I faint for a moment, then I recover.
"I'm in an ocean of shit", and I think what's more the gong sounds again!.
not even arrive at the center of the ring that Macigno Jack starts to take care of my head.
This time I can not even escape, I can only stand. Like a jerk. Like all the balls.
wonder why you ever became so heroic when you're in deep shit. What I try
to demonstrate, while standing alone and I do massacred by Jack?
What I want to say without speaking?
I'm still a boxer, despite everything?
I'm still a man, in spite of everything?
the public and all stood, jaws wide open, eyes bulging, the nerves of the neck of my thesis waiting agonizing demise.
Audience shit.
How come they call it? Noble art?
Yeah sure: the noble art.
The truth is that boxing, for them, is an art too noble. They want something very different: they want a slaughterhouse.
And tonight, with my stubbornness, with that toothless smile that oppose the fists of Jack Macigno, I'm giving them exactly what they want: a beautiful full-scale slaughter, with much blood and many, many pieces of meat but no longer find their way home.
The noble art. Sure: the noble art. Even the brokers have stopped taking odds, fascinated to follow the meeting. Meanwhile
blood for me and everything becomes muffled noises, echoes in every shot me and broke something.
When your hook is the back of my head fall to the ground.
Pause. Pause. Pause.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.
I get up.
Cold and implacable get a punch in the back, a low blow. Jack has fun. The referee
lo allontana, lui lascia fare.
Io mi rimetto in piedi.
Suona la campanella.
Di nuovo qualcuno mi spruzza acqua in viso. Torno a vedere qualcosa, ombre indistinte, colori sbiaditi, macchie dappertutto.
"Ce la posso ancora fare", penso. Svengo per la seconda volta, questione di secondi, poi mi riprendo. Riecco la campanella.
Mi riporto al centro del ring.
Non lo vedo nemmeno arrivare.
Mi spacca un paio di denti mentre il mondo per un attimo smette di girare.
La voce dell'arbitro sembra giungere da un altro pianeta.
From here the world is different, it seems more clear, the pain is gone, everything goes and goes.
You see only the legs of Jack boulder hopping all pleased with his massacre, the flash of journalists eager for pictures and the white shoes of nurses who tinkered around me.
From here I can finally understand how much time has passed, I can understand how important it is and forget how precious the right to forget that we all have, I can understand that life is just great.
"Can I still do," murmured the nurse next to me.
"I do not know, boy," he says.
It 's very old, the face all pitted and green eyes that shine at night like shooting stars, I see tinkering with my arms, moving from side to side, then drops it.
I do not feel anything and, after all, is rightly so. Life is a very witty joke. So witty that we understand all too late, when no longer laughing.
Fists hail everywhere, always ahead, always ahead, always ahead.
clearly remember only the screams of the audience in raptures. Nothing more.
"give him more! Give him more! Give him more!"
"spezzagli the coooorna!"
"to the pallleeeeee palleeeee!"
want me dead.
Like the rest of the blame is not easy to witness a carnage so in style: on the one hand Macigno Jack, 100 pounds of murderous rage, the other I, 87 pounds of regrets and little else.
Towards the end of the third round, Jack breaks out: I am by so many in his face that I become a top. Everyone screams at each stroke: "Down! Down! Down," as if it were possible to finish most of where I came down.
obviously love the abyss. Just like me.
think about it, everyone loves the deep, damn it, but do not tell anyone.
We're just a bunch of assholes.
When playing the gong at last!, Become detached from the off, was for him would have continued for hours.
As I slumped in the corner, someone takes my blood from his eyes.
"I'm in a sea of \u200b\u200bshit", I think.
Macigno Then I look at Jack, "I can do it, there I can still do", I think.
I faint for a moment, then I recover.
"I'm in an ocean of shit", and I think what's more the gong sounds again!.
not even arrive at the center of the ring that Macigno Jack starts to take care of my head.
This time I can not even escape, I can only stand. Like a jerk. Like all the balls.
wonder why you ever became so heroic when you're in deep shit. What I try
to demonstrate, while standing alone and I do massacred by Jack?
What I want to say without speaking?
I'm still a boxer, despite everything?
I'm still a man, in spite of everything?
the public and all stood, jaws wide open, eyes bulging, the nerves of the neck of my thesis waiting agonizing demise.
Audience shit.
How come they call it? Noble art?
Yeah sure: the noble art.
The truth is that boxing, for them, is an art too noble. They want something very different: they want a slaughterhouse.
And tonight, with my stubbornness, with that toothless smile that oppose the fists of Jack Macigno, I'm giving them exactly what they want: a beautiful full-scale slaughter, with much blood and many, many pieces of meat but no longer find their way home.
The noble art. Sure: the noble art. Even the brokers have stopped taking odds, fascinated to follow the meeting. Meanwhile
blood for me and everything becomes muffled noises, echoes in every shot me and broke something.
When your hook is the back of my head fall to the ground.
Pause. Pause. Pause.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.
I get up.
Cold and implacable get a punch in the back, a low blow. Jack has fun. The referee
lo allontana, lui lascia fare.
Io mi rimetto in piedi.
Suona la campanella.
Di nuovo qualcuno mi spruzza acqua in viso. Torno a vedere qualcosa, ombre indistinte, colori sbiaditi, macchie dappertutto.
"Ce la posso ancora fare", penso. Svengo per la seconda volta, questione di secondi, poi mi riprendo. Riecco la campanella.
Mi riporto al centro del ring.
Non lo vedo nemmeno arrivare.
Mi spacca un paio di denti mentre il mondo per un attimo smette di girare.
La voce dell'arbitro sembra giungere da un altro pianeta.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10: FINITO!
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10: FINITO!
From here the world is different, it seems more clear, the pain is gone, everything goes and goes.
You see only the legs of Jack boulder hopping all pleased with his massacre, the flash of journalists eager for pictures and the white shoes of nurses who tinkered around me.
From here I can finally understand how much time has passed, I can understand how important it is and forget how precious the right to forget that we all have, I can understand that life is just great.
"Can I still do," murmured the nurse next to me.
"I do not know, boy," he says.
It 's very old, the face all pitted and green eyes that shine at night like shooting stars, I see tinkering with my arms, moving from side to side, then drops it.
I do not feel anything and, after all, is rightly so. Life is a very witty joke. So witty that we understand all too late, when no longer laughing.
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