Junlong Zhang vs. Victor Emilio Ramírez ...?

Trust me, the post does no justice to how epic that battle was in my head when I used to fantasize obsessively about it. (Darnell really, really, really pissed me off with his comments, perhaps more than any troll on here has ever gotten under my skin. It was a matter of honor, like the code duello of olden days; he Hamilton to my Burr).

I even had my trash talk prepared. Since he prides himself on his physical strength my plan was to emasculate him by standing in the center of the ring the first time a clinch organically developed in the course of things, driving a shoulder into his chest and using my knowledge of anatomy and physics (and some very rudimentary training in judo) to take a position so as to make myself immovable as he tried shoving me off, or toward the ropes. I knew that my heels might skid a few inches involuntarily when he brought his bulk to bear, but once I dug them in he would be unpleasantly surprised at finding it like trying to tackle a brick wall, unable to budge me beyond that short initial gain. Then as the frown of confusion and annoyance spread over his expressive features, I would lean in close and start my chant in a low whisper in his ear , meant only for him (at first). "You can't shift me, Ding. "

Then we'd break, continue to box for a bit, with me circling wide and sprinkling quick light jabs between his eyes like a gnat, until my earlier words festered in his mind and drove him to rash action, charging me like a bull in an attempt to rag-doll me in another clinch or make some other macho display, like spearing me into the ropes or simply ramming me horizontal with his big beefy shoulder. I would pivot and tap him on his temple lightly with a check hook, not meant to hurt, just further annoy and ultimately enrage. I would then announce in a normal room tone "You can't shift me, Ding. ".

He would then come at me endlessly roaring and flailing, missing wildly, as I tiptoed around him poking him with soft counter jabs and repeating with increasing volume the reminder that "YOU CAN'T SHIFT ME, DING!", until the onlookers gathered around started to murmur it in sync with me and punctuate each word with a clap.

YOU. CAN'T. SHIFT. ME. DING.

(with that least beat, on his name, accompanied by a love tap check hook on his jaw after I spent the first four ducking and weaving in rhythm)

Then finally, after he thoroughly winded himself in his undisciplined fury, I would rush toward him in a running crouch and swoop in as he was sucking in a deep inhalation and jam my elbow and/or shoulder into his diaphragm, sending him keeling onto his butt.

His team and entourage would start screaming themselves hoarse "that wasn't a knockdown!!" and I would smirk and shake my head in agreement that no, it wasn't, it wasn't meant to seem like one, that wasn't the point.

I'd look down at my foe, extend my hand condescendingly to help him up, and in a calm voice remark "You couldn't shift me, Ding. But you just got shifted like an antique roadster, didn'tcha? "

...at which point he would shoot up to his feet off the canvas and either

A) put me violently to sleep, via sucker-punch uppercut rising from the floor, or else with a barrage at point blank once standing to club me quite literally senseless (this was, after all, a not too far past his prime fringe world contender, and explosive KO artist at that...a guy in the 95th percentile in the world, a pro boxer more dangerous than most people on the planet in a close quarters melee...versus my scrawny, if scrappy, little never-was quixotic ass. I like to think I have a pretty decent chin for a Joe Schmoe but real talk, if an enraged Ding caught me flush my head would be flying into e nineteenth row). But it would be worth it to me, just for the pyrrhic victory of having made him lose his cool and elevated his blood pressure. I was that mad at the homie.

...or B) - and this is the less plausible version of the fantasy but the one about which I more often liked to daydream - he would be so fatigued and fed up that he would shake my hand and concede.

(and then as soon as my back was turned give me a playful shove in the small of the back with both palms, sending me into a face plant and yelling "gotcha, you shifty little punk!!" causing all of us to burst out in good natured laughter. Freeze frame, cue 80's sitcom canned laugh track, roll credits.)

I seriously "remember" that more vividly than most of my actual real life memories from that same time period.

 

Yeah, there is probably as much reasonable doubt of wrongdoing in Resto vs. Collins as in this one.

 

Football is a much greater neurological threat and in terms of gross injury statistics way more dangerous than boxing overall, and slowly the general public is coming around to acknowledging this.

A parent today should be a lot more reticent to sign their little one up for Pee Wee than putting them in headgear and having them lightly spar and learn the ropes under close supervision.