The future - My last CQN Post

In the far corner the mighty combatant flexed his magnificently toned, honed, and oiled muscles as the oppressive atmosphere of the capacity filled hall raucously anticipated the bell announcing the first round.

He bounced on the balls of his feet sending secondary tremors across the expanse of the ring!

He was the man and everyone who was anyone not only believed it, they knew it!

He shadow jabbed, swung left, swung right, and in perfect harmony planted his right foot forward and swung a left upper-cut. The beads of sweat flew of his huge but taught arms and landed with a sting on anyone standing nearby

He fired that smirk of the confident, shot that grimace of the cruel, and despatched across the ring that scowl of disdainful certainty that he would be walking out the ring and his opponent would be stretchered out!

Beside the arena, stars of stage and screen (and even some real actors) in the front row, hangers on, groupies, and corner men mostly turned to each other knowingly and scribbled their betting slips anticipating the riches to come, the parties to be enjoyed, the photographs to be re-touched and the reflected glory of being able to say

‘I was there, I knew that man, I predicted his win’!

The pack of hyenas who scribbled at their obituaries, epitaphs, and paeans furiously recorded their accounts of the fight, minute by minute, punch by punch, cliché by cliché confident that they would only require a slight reordering and a bit of topping and tailing to get their literary masterpiece ready for despatch and consumption by their family of expectant scavengers.

In the opposite corner to the champ, almost cocooned in a field of mental tranquillity, the once great champion but now apparently resigned underdog sat in studied contemplation as first his hands were tightly bandaged and then each glove was almost reluctantly forced on.

Things hadn’t been going too well for him as the six weeks sparring in unaccustomed humidity and heat had taken its toll, physically draining his energy and mentally draining his will, as partner after partner found each and every limitation, each and every weakness, each and every flaw!

Each morning, each hour, each round had been the same.

A left, a right, a retreat to the rope or the corner. Batter, punch, parry, deflect, jab! Jab! Defend defend defend!

From corner to rope, from rope to corner, covering up when he could and taking punches his nerves screaming for mercy, when he couldn’t!

Every minute of every day, the piranha of the press had torn at his psyche, had undermined his belief, but most of all had disrespectfully laid their bets and their sordid little reputations on their predicted outcome, based not on their judgement, experience or real knowledge, but on their prejudices, their desires, and crucially on their own agendas!

The reports of course had already made their way back to the big favourite’s camp.

“Listen champ, that guy is finished, last legs, gasping for air, will take the money and limp away’!

‘Hey champ, you’re the man, even his corner and his supporters are putting their bangers and mash on you’!

The champ knew different!

And now the sparring, the training, the waiting was over.

A single bell rang for the adversaries to enter the ring and as they eye-balled each other, raising their fists to touch gloves, the discredited challenger looked at the champ and with the clarity of strategy born not in sparring but in studying his opponent, he smiled and winked!

The bell tolled and in a mad rush of adrenalin, the champ rushed towards his opponent and started swinging, swinging, and swinging!

The hooks landed on the challenger’s wrists, gloves, arms and kidneys!

The challenger couldn’t dance for long anymore, but he could still deflect and avoid the testosterone induced machismo that was coursing through the distended veins and arteries of the champ’s muscles.

But the punches weren’t scoring and the challenger’s defences were holding, and while they were holding, he was thinking!

The crowd in their ignorance was on its feet as the champ drove the challenger, his gloves and arms protecting his upper body, into first one corner, and then pushing, punching him along the rope into the other.

The crowd was not only on its feet, it was screaming, the bloodlust destroying all sense of humanity and rational thought as it sensed a kill, a final blow, a beaten and broken body, and another victory for brute force and ignorance.

The challenger rocked and swayed, he peered through a gap in his gloves, he saw the staring eyes, he saw the fear, and he heard the laboured breathing.

Round after round passed. The pattern was the same.
A rushed assault from the champ, a defiant painful defence from the challenger.

But the assaults were getting shorter by the round, the respites longer, and the champ’s laboured breathing ever more pronounced.

The challenger jabbed sometimes, but most of the time he covered up!

He took the best that the champ had to throw. He felt the bruises rise, the blood vessels burst, his brain rattling inside his skull and he felt thankful for the the numbness anesthetising the worst of the pains.

But he also heard the anguish of the press’s cries as their scripts were discarded to the dustbin and they had to think for themselves. He heard the crowd start to turn as the animal screams for carnage turned to honourable cheers for a hero.

He opened his gloves again, he saw the confusion in the champ’s eyes, he heard the despair from the champ’s corner, he saw the champ’s arms drop for a second and his shoulders hunch.

THE CHAMP HAD NO PLAN B!

Like a gazelle the challenger leaped, like a tiger he roared, like a lion he pounced, but like a man he cast of fears and doubt and revelled in his own certainty as one, two, three, four! Jab jab, hook, uppercut! And the champ sank to his knees, rolling over onto his back, staring blindly out into the depths of the night sky, now as the ex-champ!

‘Sparring’ he thought to himself ‘Pah what a load of rubbish. That just kept me fit’
‘Now, thinking, planning, and most of all belief now that’s what heroics, heroes and winners are made of’

Anyway I can’t think of any valuable response to the opinions of those who think we are heading down the road to perdition. That isn’t a surrender by the way,

You see, I reckon that if I’m miserable because we might fail, and then we do! Guess what?

I’ve been miserable all friggin week.

However If I am happy because I am confident that we are going to win and then we lose!

Well I’ve been happy for most of the week, miserable for a few hours and then the happy drug kicks in again about the following week!

But suppose (and this does tend to be borne out by history) if I am happy because I am confident that we are going to win, and we do!

Well, hallelujah! Unsurpassed ecstasy and a life of never ending bliss!

So in the philanthropic interest in world happiness and peace, and in my own sanity I think I’ll just stick with dreaming ofa glorious future for Celtic.

Just as all those years ago everyone had written off Mohammed Ali when he fought George Foreman and it was only Ali who really believed that he would win!

Hail Hail

Estadio

Ps Aiden McGeady will never be this season’s Shaun Maloney!

That is because Aiden is going to be this season’s Aiden McGeady and will be exceptional.

Shaun will be this season’s Shaun and will be exceptional,

Naka will be this season’s Naka and will be exceptional and

Jari will be this seasons’ Jari and will just be very good.