Thing is, despite the admiration I have for boxers, the grueling training regime and the prospect of getting my face rearranged every time the gong starts, was enough to keep me more than an arm's length away from the nearest boxer. Unless, of course, it's through a camera lens.
The one and only Ali (who else) is at his peak. I am an unknown challenger. We are fighting on a hot muggy night in Kinshasa. The crowd is baying for my blood. Ali's punches rain on me like a torrential Indian monsoon downpour. Each blow turns my insides into mush. Like a chef tendering a piece of meat with a club. But he doesn't deliver a KO. He's toying with me. He's a well fed cat, bored out of his skull. I am a rat running ragged.
He's floating around me like a butterfly on steroids and stinging like a bee raised on a steady diet of bullet ants (Trivia: Bullet ant stings are considered the nastiest). But I hang on in there. My body recoils in disgust at my inability to admit defeat. Years of Shaolin training has made me very focused. My left eyelid is cut and closed shut. I am wearing a mask of blood. But despite everything, I keep on absorbing the sledgehammer blows, waiting for the right moment.
Millions are thrown at me. Including a custom-made pink Cadillac and stock options at a company named after the fruit that made Adam look differently at Eve. But I leave everything and go back to my mastah in the Jade Mountains. And live happily ever after on a steady diet of dumplings.