I wrote this when it all started. I took it down because it felt melodramatic. Now, in London and little more than six months later, it is a crime to wrestle. We have to hold on to what we had, and make sure it comes back. So I am re-posting it. A private citizen's charter for the restoration of the right to fight.
Remember that crackle of air as you win?
Your forearm, his forearm; leather on skin.
Feeling that feeling of "I got it right!".
Pacing it, timing it, angle and height.
Fooling him, feinting him, slipping his jab;
blocking his cross, and smacking him back.
Then raising the hairs of his still-outstretched arm
as you slide your big overhand home with a slam.
Explosion of foot, hip and shoulder in sync.
Confirmed by your spine as the shock wave came in.
A batsqueak of sadism. Fire between eyes.
A bell in the background. Steam hanging high.
And then from shocked nostrils a dribble of blood
as his bent nose returns to the shape that it should.
In this torn apart world where viruses rage,
a punch is a punch, whatever your age.
So come with me, boxers, to park or to gym.
Bring gum shield and head guard and all that's within.
Let's train and do push ups, work technical drill.
Then touch gloves and spar while the planet lies ill.
While stock markets waver and industries fall
while people nurse loved ones, adrift in it all.
While crowds cannot gather and travel is banned,
we'll find, in our game, something closer to hand.
Courtesy honour respect and fair play.
And there as we square it'll all be okay.