Best 682 quotes in «boxing quotes» category

But insensate Time is nothing if not cruel and heartless. It corrodes then destroys, so that the man you literally and figuratively looked up to with your chubby face, who scooped you up to cross the street and patted you on the head to laughter, will later look through you from a crooked hospital bed then blindly up at you while wearing makeup in a bargain casket. The people who now surround you generating warmth will disappear leaving only an empty chill; the body you own and the brain it houses will malfunction. And sometimes, especially in Boxing, a twenty four year old can become a man overnight.

Foreboding, and an all too familiar lack of control, roiled in my gut. My opponent might be hungry for a win, but I was famished. Something in my life would be a victory. Sorry Shark, I wasn’t going down tonight. No chance. - Jason Ayers

Everyone in the place seen me nut him apart from the ref, it caught him on the blind side. I tried to nut him on the eyebrow so it would split open, but I got him on the forehead. The crowd turned right against me, but I made it to the last bell and lost on a unanimous decision.

He felt the guilt of inaction, of simply waiting while his life went to waste. No one was worth the gift of his life, no one could possibly be worth that. It belonged to him alone, and he did not deserve it either, because he was letting it waste. It was getting away from him and he made no effort to stop it. He did not know how.

He can hit a man in the liver so the blood flow stops. It takes a full second before the pain registers and the man falls. I've seen Billy hook men's livers and punch at their hearts. I've seen him break a man's nose in the ring, shatter an eardrum, close an eye. I've seen him hit a man so hard, fist to jaw, the man seemed to fall asleep before he fell, his body so relaxed his face looked calm even when his head slammed against canvas.

Here, then, happiness is obviously a form of strength, a subversion even, a modus of survival, even if at times it appears superficial and misplaced. Besides, for all of boxing's brutality, there is lyricism in its rhythm, too, something that dreamy, romantic Filipinos perhaps recognize. It is almost too facile to ascribe too much significance in this metaphor, but this incongruous combination of lyrical violence is default in Manila, where beauty is scarce, and which flourishes side by side with the hideous. There is pride in that stubborn independence, I think, whether it is on the canvas of a boxing ring or history. How did that killer song end again? The record shows I took the blows and did it my way.

Eventually, it was around midnight, I was told to get ready and put the gloves on. I felt physically depleted and drained of energy, and had no get-up-and-go left in me. I wanted a bed badly, not a boxing ring.

He rested his head on top of mine and whispered, "I'm warning you now. I'm a horrible patient." I smiled in spite of myself and pulled back. "Of course you are. That's why you're a doctor.

I always win.

How's that training coming along, Griff? Good old Max says you're a natural." Turner frowned. Any time a white man asked you about yourself, they were about to fuck you over.

I'd become an uncertain creature in her mind, and I found I liked it; she couldn't fathom what else I might be doing when her eyes weren't on me.

I could not tell anymore how much of the screaming came from my own mouth. I was borne up on the swell of it, I was the sound. We were all howling together, the poor and the quality, the boxing girl and the beast inside my breast. If she was a madwoman, then we were all of us with her, and I had never felt such savage elation, nor known that it existed.

I'd no room left in me for thinking of trifling things. I could feel fear start up and try to take down my rage, but I'd not give it up.

He spouted out, ‘Richy, I’ve just been talking to a bloke from Blackpool on the phone, there’s a boxing show tomorrow night and they are desperate for a heavyweight. Will you fight?’ I retorted, ‘Are you joking. I haven’t trained for four months; I’ll be blowing after thirty seconds.’ He pleaded, ‘Howay, man. It’ll be a night out down Blackpool.

If I lost all, at least I would have played for it. It had always been my philosophy that one must play, or be a loser two-fold.

If you want to chase a runaway ambulance toward what’s left of the American Dream, Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao show you that, still, somehow, boxing remains the yellow brick road in our country.

. . in Old Karate, you learned you Art through pain. You learned quickly that your techniques had to be fast or powerful or both. If you did not embrace pain and it's lessons adequately, you simply did not survive

I had a burning desire in me to win and started to get him on the back foot. I was looking for that one special shot when I put him down with the famous Horsley Muckspreader right hand… an unstoppable force. Incredibly, he got up and took the count and the ref waved us to continue.

I made another comeback in the sweet science of boxing, and nobody say I’ve had more comebacks than Frank Sinatra… ‘cos he’s dead.

It is not uncommon for fighters’ camps to be gloomy. In heavy training, fighters live in dimensions of boredom others do not begin to contemplate. Fighters are supposed to. The boredom creates an impatience with one’s life, and a violence to improve it. Boredom creates a detestation for losing.

I wince. I have no idea what to say. "Do you want to hit me back? You can." "No, I don't want to hit you back, you idiot. I've sent you like thiry texts. Are you okay?" My eyebrows go up. "You are asking me if I'm okay?" "Yes." It's like the moment I realised Dad wasn't going to let me chase him out of my room. I want to crumple on the floor. "No," I say. "I'm not." "Then come on." I don't move. My head is spinning. "Where are we going?" "Downstairs. Get your gloves. If you need to throw punches, let's find something better than my face.

I went after him and picked him off with a right, like a predator and was all over him like a rash! I was in to him with a right hand lead and out to inflict pain, but it wasn’t all one-sided! This guy was on a wing and a prayer when he threw a chopping right hand that whizzed past me with him on the other end of it… I was blessed, or something! I had to turn it on and step it up, because if he connected with one of those shots then I was chicken fodder! I could see that his wasted efforts were tiring him by the second. I boxed him from range and kept tying him up, I was now in to a rhythm, I swung lefts and rights, all of them smashing in to his head with an unrelenting ferocity. By now his face was covered in blood and he was about to go down when the ref stepped in and stopped it. I won; I had defeated Goliath.

In the last round I was so wiped-out that for the first time in my life I tried to get disqualified. He was throwing punches non-stop and he was dangerous with those shots and becoming a little bit too cute for my liking. I backed to the ropes and catapulted off them and nutted him.

Manny has swung with many men, but many men never seen Manny's blissful swing.

Most people who watch a fight think it's all about the muscle: hitting harder, moving faster. And, yeah, sometimes it looked that way. But telling somebody that you won a fight by hitting the other person harder and more often was like telling somebody that the way you kept from drowning was by moving your arms and legs.

Mayweather was already a gargoyle for our era, a gleaming hood ornament on a demented limo running one red light after another, America’s id.

My first sparring session with him saw him bullying me around the ring, so I thought fuck this, and when he came back in close, I threw the boxing code of conduct out of the window and hit him with a cracking right hand in to the balls! That sapped the energy out of him and that was the end of that. In the end, I could take anything he threw at me and then I’d come back with mine, which he didn’t like and people would comment on how much I’d ‘come on’.

Some books have too much tennis. Some books have too much baseball. Some books have too much boxing. Some books have too much horse.

Maybe I broke too many hearts, maybe I crushed too many souls, maybe my own heart was too broken to give a damn about anyone else’s. Maybe the wise man was right, maybe life was like a boxing match. Tons of people cheered for you from the outside but you were alone in the ring to ght your own battles and deal with your own mess. Maybe I couldn’t deal with mine.

Some women chose to embody this new form of physical empowerment & transformed their words into actions. Exhibition boxer Minnie Rosenblatt Besser had spent years training in the manly art of boxing. She promised to meet any willing opponent, male or female, in the ring. Besser specifically called out several famous male boxers but insisted that she was most anxious to meet Brooklyn boxer Eddie Avery, who had been arrested for wife-beating. Besser explained, 'Any man who will strike a helpless woman I believe to be a coward. Should Avery pluck up enough courage to meet me I think I will prove the truth of this proposition to the world at large.

Now, whoever has courage and a strong and collected spirit in his breast, let him come forward, lace on the gloves and put up his hands. (5.363-364)

She pursued his lips,' Zach laughs. 'Another one I misread! Pursued for "pursed." You know. She pursed her lips. So whenever you do that now, reach out and touch my lips to shut me up? I think, she pursued his lips.' 'That's so silly,' smiles Rachel. 'I know that. Now I'm pursuing your lips,' he adds. When Zach kisses her, Rachel is often aware of the pulse in his lower labial, a small heartbeat there. She is aware of a pulsing and a slight thickening of tissue. How many times has this boy bled from his mouth? How many times.

...the band broke into a cover of "Hungry Like the Wolf." I smiled up at mine. He was sexy even in soaking wet blue jeans. "Dance with me.

. . . there are two types of fighters, the former strike all over the place hoping one would land, the latter, assured of their prowess and capabilities, hit once and destroy the opponent's desire to continue the fight

When I reached the age of five, I was told I was adopted as a baby, at that time I was gun and holster mad, a bit of a lone ranger, as was the rage in those days. My parents, Tom and Brenda, told me they went to see all these special kids and they picked me out from them. Waiting for my reaction, I looked up at my parents and chimed, ‘Did I have my guns on?

The mere fact that a boxer covers his face never means that he is much afraid of his opponent. A good punch will give a better explanation for his action!

What is the difference? Tell me what is the difference between you and me. We both kill for what we want," the man asks. "We lived here first.

While guidebooks might tell you that time collapsed here, another theory says that in Latin America, all of history coexists at once.

You know how there are words that never really—they are never really quite right. You can't quite trust them. Use them. You know. Without pause.' 'There are words I stare at,' Zach says. 'Strange. Every time. Misled, that's one. I see mizzled. And unshed. I read unched.' 'Me too! But that's a different thing—except, now you mention it, it's odd about unshed, that it's only for tears. Mostly. Hardly ever blood, for instance, you don't see unshed blood. Unched. Not really.' 'Not in my case anyway. Mine sheds all over the joint! I'm a bleeder all right.

A boxing contest is a brain-damage contest. Who can give out more brain damage and who can absorb more of it?

A boxing match is like a cowboy movie. There's got to be good guys and there's got to be bad guys. And that's what people pay for - to see the bad guys get beat.

A champion shows who he is by what he does when he's tested. When a person gets up and says 'I can still do it', he's a champion.

After 14 years in boxing, the best decision I could have made was to take the last year off. My mind was not in boxing, but since I got here with Freddie, everything is working perfectly again. Boxing is all I know. Boxing is my life. Through boxing, I raised my family and I work to provide the best future for them. They are the reason I love boxing.

Against the odd's, I have persevered, I am the living attestation of the American dream. I am the extolment of this great nation. I have coffee and cocktails with presidents and dictators. I'm an international figure, a citizen of the world. I've made it.

A great champion needs a background in amateur boxing, I’'m convinced of that. There you learn everything that you’ll need later as a pro. Someone who’s got more than 400 amateur fights behind him no longer gets nervous before going into the ring and doesn’t lose his nerve during a fight. You know all the boxing styles, you’re prepared for anything, you’ve got the pedigree that you need to be a successful pro.

The crowd started cheering as soon as they seen him, he was one of them, a local lad from Lancashire. In the first round, I tried to put him away but my punches had nothing in them, I might as well as been hitting thin air. It was then that I knew I had to really dig deep if I wanted to hear the final bell; I threw a clever little corkscrew right. A great shot, but ineffective unless it hits with some vigour, which it didn’t!

We all fight for money, some for power, but most of all for love. But me, I fight to become a champion.

You don’t have to be in a boxing ring to be a great fighter. As long as you are true to yourself, you will succeed in your fight for that in which you believe.

A boxer should quit at the top, as they say. But that’s complicated. There are plenty of people in boxing who make money out off you. And they tell you that you’ve still got it, that it’s still getting better.

A boxing workout is the heaviest thing, but it's the best. The worst part is that boxing gyms are the smelliest things in the universe. You have to lie down on the floor, where everyone has been sweating and spitting, and do 1,000 situps and push-ups.