I remember the night of the fight well; It was the night of a defeat. From afar, as a spectator, I have learned that there are few feelings as humiliating as that of failure when failure is reduced to spectacle.
It was July 27, 1991, at dawn, when I returned home after seeing Poli Díaz humiliated by Sweet pea. The Norfolk boxer put Vallecano on the ropes several times. and in one of the last rounds he forgave him for the Machiavelli-style knockout, aiming him at the center of the ring, demonstrating that dosed evil does more damage than when it is applied immediately. “I will not spare your life, I canI will take it away from you; but not suddenly; I like seeing you suffer, let’s go to the center”, Pernell Whitaker seems to have said to Poli Diaz, who seemed dazed
poli Díaz’s fight against Pernell Whitaker divided the world into two halves. From that moment on everything began to happen faster than expected. rationalism and its pragmatic version, that is, the market, have triumphed over passion and the humors of the blood. Since then, since that night, we have begun to swim in the icy waters of selfish calculation. A year later, Urtain threw himself into the void, crashing his body against the hot morning asphalt. He was 49 years old and had a lot of debt. Plagued by delays, Urtain suffered from dizziness and fell from the tenth floor. El Morrosco de Cestona He didn’t deserve that end,nor did Poli Díaz deserve to lose that battle in which with punches he faced the reason of a market that would have finished him,little by little.
Years after the defeat I met Poli working for a Brazilian club in Callao; He held a broken mirror in his hand and followed with his gaze the white line that crossed the Madrid of the time. It was the end of the 90s, and together we followed the same line that led him to rent me a tent on the edge of an open field, near the shantytown that was the setting for my frist novel: thirst for champagne.
Twenty-five years have passed since that moment, but the memory is still alive, just like one of those fictions that life projects when life smiles at you with its toothless teeth, thanks to the slap of a boxer as cold as the market fluctuations. Today I remember the silence that followed the defeat, the slow air in my room and the wide open balcony, giving way to the gray hour of the morning. It was July 27, 1991 when I learned that defeat, in addition to being a feeling, is the ingredient that memory needs to create literature.
#main #fight
