Little King

The Little King

Years ago there was a rugged little bastard  named Roberto Duran, one of the greatest lightweight fighters in the history of boxing.  He was a mean little bastard who grew up stealing his dinner in his native Panama.  He mostly hung around the docks and wharfs and was a street kid with a huge punch.

The poverty of his early life fueled a furious boxing career and the game dubbed him, Manos de Piedra–Hands of Stone.  More than once he knocked out opponents with body punches.  Sugar Ray Leonard ducked him for a long time; until there was nobody else left for he, or Duran, to fight.  Not that Leonard was a pussy (far from it)  but back then nobody was in any big hurry to fight Duran.  He was like a Tasmainian devil who’d not just punch guys but, swarm them.  He was like a human helicopter blade; chop-chop-chop.  He was great to watch.  He didn’t just score knock-outs; he changed the shape of his opponent’s heads.

Small owls are tough little fuckers.  They often kill and eat things twice their size and they are always hunting.  Rodents can’t breed fast enough for these little bastards. They’re often compared to “cats with wings.”

I’m going on an owl watch with some friends when they figure out where they are.  I miss seeing them in the wild.

What people most remember about Duran was him quitting inexplicably in the eighth round of a rematch with Sugar Ray Leonard.  This is a shame.  I saw lots of his fights and pound for pound he may have been the best I ever watched.

This owl is for him.  It’s called, “Little King.”

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