Bullfight critics ranked in rows
Crowd the enormous Plaza full
But only one is there who knows
And he's the man who fights the bull.

The bravery of this man is immense, but still it is undeservered... he know the picadors early in the fight hamstrung and stabbed the bull, killed it before he even walks to the ring he's won. Still, to fight a bull is fairly brave. Stupid, almost as stupid as I am, but very brave. He doesn't know what power this particular bull might still have. What deep hatred and rage this 2000 pounds of corded muscle and bone and blood and horns might still be harboring for one last drive. One last push through to Valhalla, a thrust past the crimson stripe through his enemy. His own death assured he fights like a man who knows that all his being will be glorified with the trampling and goring of the matador. Ferdinand, he may not be.

In such an instance, I can't help but hope the bull loses.

I'm fighting before September. Some tournament, or on an amateur level, I need to get back into my own self. The purest example of myself is in the pursuit of such competition and I have totally lost sight of that, my alcoholism, my smoking, the total disrespect I show my body every day. I miss flowing with the go and the dull thuddwack of shins and fists on thai pads and focus mitts. AISH AISH. Exclamations of acceptance. Quick as a snake and smooth as summer silk. It's hard sometimes, to remember what it was like to run unbroken for 5 miles or to look once at a clock and see 6:35 pm and glance back 5 minutes later to see 10:17 pm.

It's times like these when I would see the bull charging, close my eyes and open my arms.