In a wonderful development, my girlfriend has really gotten into boxing in recent months, becoming invested in fights IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢d turn on while she studied for law school exams. It was pretty much a no-brainer, as I think anythingÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s better than reading that stuff, but it got to the point that she watched Bernard Hopkins-Jean Pascal two weeks ago without me.
No, honestly, I was ecstatic. And I wanted to make sure to pick a fight that would properly represent the experience, and hopefully have her interested in going to more.
We ended up going to SaturdayÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s Super Six semifinal between Carl Froch and Glen Johnson. It didnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t disappoint — I wouldnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t term it a great fight, but it was certainly a very good one that wasnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t short on action. There was a decent helping of suspense; it was a tough fight to call live, and sure enough, one of the judges had it a draw.
There was also the requisite amount of danger; Froch outclassed Johnson down the stretch en route to a majority decision, but the old warhorse pressed him the entire fight and managed to connect flush with a couple of not insignificant right hands — one in particular, in the eighth round, that produced a satisfying gasp from the assembled masses.
But more so than the fights themselves, we enjoyed the intimacy of the proceedings — which, in all honesty, is what keeps me coming back.