Читать книгу No Win Race. A Story of Belonging, Britishness and Sport онлайн

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The crowd, undeterred, chanted ‘Miiiin-tuh, Miiiin-tuh, Miiiin-tuh!’ But Minter’s face was a bloody mess. He now had a cut over his left eye. I wondered how he could see Hagler through all the blood. Midway through the round, Hagler bludgeoned Minter with a right hook; the Brit grabbed his face with his gloves as if his nose, lips, eyes and cheekbones were about to collapse. I didn’t know whether he was trying to stop his gum shield from flying out or his face from crumbling onto the canvas.

When you see fighters in pain or hurt while watching a contest on television, you’re detached. You cannot smell the metallic fragrance of blood. You cannot hear the abused squeals of grown men in pain. You cannot see the saliva flying from the mouths of the fighters after absorbing a punch. You cannot hear the trainers shouting instructions or the audience urging their man to win. You cannot see the fighters’ distorted expressions or the way their eyes roll aimlessly like a metal ball in a pinball machine. But after that shot, I could feel Minter’s pain.