Blood n Guts

We went to the first night of the San Francisco Golden Gloves on Tuesday, and I tell you what? It was so electric, that I went on Wednesday! If I had it my way, I would have gone the consecutive five days. Subsequent to my first experience with a live knockout, I'm like an addict longing for more rock. I was certain that it was a brainless sport, considering that constant brain shaking. But, I have been proven wrong once more. There is more medulla oblongata than meets the eye. Although it’s amateur boxing, still it fleas any sport. I wish I discovered this sport a long time ago. I feel like I’ve been asleep all my life. Once again, I've been shafted.

Flashback: September 29, 1977, world heavyweight Ali vs. Shavers dad ate, drank, crapped, spat boxing. No one was allowed to speak, much less breath, during the fights on television. I awoken the wrath of dad fueled by disobedience, he utilized his fists to silence my silly plight with my sibling. I understand that it was the only outlet he had away from his ten children and mom. It was his only pleasure that brought him happiness well next to mom, of course. Because of his outlet, it fused a hatred for boxing for decades.

I have never felt such a sense of satisfaction. It is my nucleus to my all. I’m happy that my form of meditation and serenity allows such raw exertion. Perhaps, Shane is ecstatic he has had to avoid dealing with a wife that needs much minding (not that there was any problem in that department to start off with).

Lesson: A witless grasshopper is one that resurrects his plastic spoonful of aspect before burying the golden spurn.