The Cuban I’d seen him fight the Cuban. He was coming off two losses, but they had been sensational wars. The boxing scribes judged them Panama’s best fights of the year, and in a place like Panama where great fighters were as common as bright light, that meant...
Agua and Water. Agua couldn’t read or write, but he had organized his intellect in such a way that when he performed tasks it put me in mind of a chef laying a plate: everything had a system, precision was imperative, and the result had to leave him with an aesthetic...
I had been training at the squat, red and yellow boxing gymnasium in Panama-city for years. The house of stoush that stood on the edge of improving anarchy, had become my second home on each of my irregular trips to the small Central American country. A solid...
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