by Niko Tricarico: I love you boxing. In spite of all your flaws and your promotional ineptitude’s, your ignominious undercards and your luxuriant and hollow belts, I still stand by you with blinding obedience. I love you for your bloody knuckles and your swollen lips, for your broken noses, black eyes and bruised ribs. I love you for the fluidity of the speed bag and the repetitious thwacks of the jump rope. I love you for the sounds of a flattened glove smacking against a canvas heavy bag that sways from a jangling chain attached to the ceiling. I love you for the insightful, historical examinations of A.J. Liebling and the gut wrenching emotion of F.X. Toole. I love you for the fragility of an undefeated record and for fighters who cite legacy as their motivation instead of money. I love you because you survived and evolved from the most basic and unsophisticated form of competition to the skillful and complex artistry that exists as a modern fighter’s devastating ammunition. I love the left jab and the right cross, a check hook or a shoulder roll, a lead right hand, an uppercut, a foot shuffle, a bolo punch or even a ghetto whopper! I pound the nearest surface in support of a fighter who comes back to win after getting knocked down. I shadow box between rounds, emulating my favorite styles. I love the survival, the discipline, the tenacity, the resolve of a bloodied and beaten fighter to hear the final bell. I love you for your salvation, your redemption and retribution; for your forgiveness. For all those reasons and more, I love boxing. Boxing, however, doesn’t always love me back.

It is consistent and seemingly content in its own lethargy and hasn’t produced a big event of substance or worth in months. Squabbling promoters squash potentially scintillating fights and sanctioning bodies match up fighters with tedious, “mandatory” opponents forcing them to relinquish their belts if they refuse. Fighters themselves cultivate and harvest their own egos and hide behind them like a shield of invincibility. In boxing, there are no seasons, the sport is perpetual, but often perpetually slow. There are no consecutive or effective professional tournaments, like tennis or forced matchups like the UFC. In boxing, fighters have much more control once they gain even a modicum of status. Andre Berto hasn’t fought since early April and won’t fight again until the end of November. That’s almost eight months of inactivity. That’s almost eight months for a casual fan to forget his name and ignore his next fight. Commentary in the mainstream media is nonexistent and it irks me to think of all the fights that could be happening or would have already happened had it not been for a lack of public support and pressure.

But I love boxing in spite of all its frustrating flaws. And though it is consistent in its inability to sustain its popularity, it is equally consistent in its resiliency. For after a dearth of compelling matchups over the past few months it seems as though boxing is poised to make another comeback. In a little under two weeks Manny Pacquiao, the hardest working man in boxing, will be fighting the formerly disgraced Antonio Margarito. One week later and live on HBO, Paul Williams and Sergio Martinez will duke it out in their highly anticipated rematch. Hard hitting Marcos Maidana will take on long armed Amir Kahn and that same night, Lamont Peterson faces off against sometimes vicious Victor Ortiz. Bradley is fighting Alexander, Abraham is fighting Froch and Ward is fighting Bika. All in all boxing is surely making up for its lackluster summer and fall. With fights happening for Andre Berto, James Kirkland, Bernard Hopkins and Juan Manuel Lopez there is barely a weekend off after the Pacquiao fight and I, for one, am excited.

I love boxing. And while it is rare that I find someone with whom I can have a conversation about upcoming fights and fighters, reminisce about classic matchups or complain about the state of the sport, my love remains undeterred.

It’s boxing; the first sport to ever be filmed and it’s still awesome.