Life is a journey of complacency, achieved thanks to our experiences and relations, but the most seeking, showing courage and being fearless.

Muhammad Ali confronted the boundaries almost like no other man. He fought with opportunities, he stood challenging when most of them escaped and did not expose their beliefs about what would be more cozy, less complicated existence.

At the end of the 1960s, he was one of the most despised people in America for accepting the most powerful nation in the world, refusing to support the war in Vietnam and against communism.

But Ali, and then only in the twenty, did not fasten himself under the powerful wave of hostility – calling to be a traitor, the risk of his family’s security – and the threat of prison and taking his world heavyweight.

And now he is probably the most recognizable and recognized athlete in history. He is worshiped not only in his homeland, but everywhere.

The world, not just boxing, was lucky that he had it. Even muted by Parkinson’s disease, Ali retained an unusual and incomparable presence.

Nevertheless, I always wondered why a man would be so lovely and majestic to sport that would expose his handsome qualities or like a warrior so generously blessed with defensive skills and unusual reflexes, because Ali was always absorbed by too many blows on the head.

Those who insist, Ali’s career had nothing to do with his condition, could disagree. But when I look like his criminal fights Joe FrazierKen Norton, George Foreman, Leon Spinks, in particular Larry Holmes, and then thinks about his 61 fights, ending when Ali had nearly 40, and all the burdensome training and sparring that accompanied each test, there is no doubt that the boxer taught Muhamad a cruel lesson.

Even Ali, such an smart boxer, brisk thinker, masterfully brisk and absurd brave, could not avoid this blow.

In the ring he had stunning endurance, he could stab perfectly, throw an excellent right wing, hook and a combination at a time of amazing speed. But he wasn’t a substantial blow. He would usually have to connect several times in which Foreman may only need one. He fought his bad hands for over 10 years.

Also also rarely has ever attacked the body, and he was also a master-lifty master, clever in breaking the flow of the opponent’s attack and not always thrilling to watch. But he was an amazing showman, charismatically in his own world.

Was Muhammad Ali really the greatest? There were smaller boxers, more complex punchers, faster removals and those who competed longer and greater success.

Some will also argue that no one could do a blow like Ali. However, I believe that the unique powers of Ali Ali exceeded its durability.

For me, Ali was not the biggest boxer of all time, because he liked to brag so often. But he WAS The greatest man who ever fights in the ring and a boxer who made the most impressive outside.

Life outside the world in which they lead is a fight for most boxers when they retire. Ali suffered a withdrawal of competition, but he never attention.

Sure, he fought too long and against very challenging men in often cruel duels. He should have resigned after defeating the phrase in 1975. However, he led another six years.

The ring was his stage and the pulpit. It was just as comfortable with crowds and people as it is for his own skin.

However, like every person, he made mistakes. He said and did things years ago that today he might not have agreed. But Ali always defended his beliefs.

Regardless of whether in the ring or outside, Ali was unwavering challenging. But he was also dainty, compassionate, witty and generous.

Not only did those who met or met him entered the life, but also people who lived in the distant lands, who believed in different gods, talked about different languages ​​and had contradictory political views.

Muhammad Ali was not just a boxer. He was an artist and warrior of humanity. He was the first real Globetrotting champion.

Perhaps we looked at him in his later life and we were gloomy, but only because we compare what we see with how he was in its splendor.

How can a man who spoke so smoothly be so devastated now?

How did a man who stood so elegantly, statuesque and physically shining in his youth, maybe he was brought to a shocking start?

Like Ali, once so outrageously witty, delightful, addictive and brilliant, be so devoid of expression?

However, it really doesn’t matter because Ali was elated. His life has changed. He was no longer a boxer. With humility, selflessness and courage he threw himself with blows, and thus provided us with another lesson.

When he was in the ring, he never accepted the defeat, but he boldly lived without inhibition. Its form, movements and means of communication have changed, but remained the same being and unique.

No boxer has never shook the world like Ali and I dare say it, never again.

Given its size – with a population only 3.1 million – Wales is phenomenally good in showing high -quality boxers. From the time of Jim Driscoll, Freddie Welsh and Jimmy Wilde to the era of Joe Calzaghe, Enzo Maccarinelli, Gavin Rees, Nathan cleverly and Lee Selby, the country consistently produced warriors who showed them back. In addition, there were many British and European masters, whose Wales is rightly proud. There are also outstanding talents that for various reasons did not win the title, but deserve recognition. Some were thwarted by the campaign in the highly competitive era, others were victims of improper management or ordinary unlucky.

A few years ago, an experienced journalist and broadcaster Gareth Jones took up the task of the Chronicle of the Life and Career of Each Fared Welsh boxer, including a series of Ringmen, which may not be associated with Wales, but in fact he was born there. Placing so many stories in a book form was a high order, but Jones did a admirable job. He just published the seventh and last installment in his Boxers of Wales series. This latest volume concerns fighters from the North, Central and West Wales. Read as a series, books include fighters from every corner of Wales.

According to his previous volumes, the latest Jones are full of engaging stories, covering over a century of the history of the ring and containing known names and others, which are long forgotten.

Contemporary men like Dale Evans who went with Bradley Skeete and Sam Eggington in the British Welter Honors auction are placed along with unjustified ring heroes, such as Danny Evans, Welsh Hitter and the average weight of the weight of the 1930s.

The differences between eras are clearly observable because the profiles of fighters are read. Scott Gammer, an excellent master of amateurs and British heavyweight in 2006-07, fought for recognition in the era when our national heavyweight list was no longer a home brand. “Perhaps this was a reflection of the boxing landscape, in which the best bulky in the country often bypassed the once desired Lonsdale belt in search of international glory,” writes Jones, “but a man from the Pembroke dock deserved better. As someone said, you can only overcome what is before you.”

While Johnny Williams [pictured above]who won the British heavyweight titles and Empire from Jacek Gardner in 1952 and lost them with Don Cockell 14 months later, he did not have such a struggle for recognition, taking into account the recognition of the British crown at that time.

Most of the boxers after World War II in the book were relatively well managed, but the fighters of pre -war years, when the rules and sports regs were miserably loose, they often fought with surprising regularity. Nipper Pat Daly (whose biography, Born to Box: The Extraordinary Story of Nipper Pat Daly, the author) is a great example. He changed with a professional at the age of 10 and was burned and retired at the age of 17, after over 100 fights. Although he was a Londonian, he was included in the book because he was born in Abercrave in southern Wales, towards the Welsh mother and English father.

The opponent of Daly’s, Jim Crawford of Wrexham, is another warrior whose career was destroyed by improper management. As Jones writes: “Unfortunately, the people leading James Henry Crawford were stunned by the possibilities of regular payments and ignored advice – among others the legendary Jimmy Wilde – from time to time to put the brake foot.”

This last edition of the Boxers Wales series, read in Tandem with other Jones books, contains a detailed picture of the Welsh and more broadly British boxing scene from the beginning of the 20th century to the present day. I highly recommend books that are available in www.st-davids-press.walles.

During the roll in Mexico in the winter of 1993, the great Robbie Davies was in Ringside in his Blazer from the games of the Nations Community. Behind the scenes, in a frigid room used by the student Matadors, Andy Holligan was preparing to fight the hero of all Mexico, Julio Cesar Chavez, for the title of WBC a delicate beef weight. There was no need for bookmakers.

At night, when he approached the ring, the fans were focused on the cheapest seats – not seats, only concrete slabs – around fires burning metal drums. I saw high flames, whenever someone spitted his lips full of beers in barrels. It was a vision of hell from my unthreatening seat, but Holligan had a sedate choice and knew exactly what he signed. “I’m not stupid, I’m fighting a living legend,” he said on Wednesday.

Davies threw his blows, screaming, delighted and dived during the fight. He was a man completely devoid of any concept of fear, that is. He was an ideal travel companion, and he just added a tight, tight blazer to its appearance.

It was a lost and painful cause, and at the end of the fifth round Arthur Mercante, the iconic judge, went to the corner of Holligan. Mercante told Colin Moorcroft: “I think this fight should end.” Moorcroft and Frank Warren pulled out Holligan. It was the perfect break. Chavez moved to 89 wins that night and without failures.

A few days before the fight, there was a run on the streets of Puebly with Chavez, a plain idea in which the Master of Mexico escaped, and thousands would go up to him and down the cobbled streets. It was an elevator from Rocky and there would be stray dogs, boys with shoes, jovial teenagers, cameras and publicity. It made sense; Brief gear, nice photos, and then a word with an idol. However, it turns out that I had the right attitude, but at the wrong height. At 7200 feet I finished after 10 minutes, catching my breath, sweating, fighting and drinking water, hallucinating on the stairs of the restaurant, which gave me chicken with chocolate last night. This is a local delicacy. The run was not nice and the chicken was not for me.

After returning to Maison Del Exportion, a great fight hotel, in which the management increased by prices by about 300 percent without any warning, in the Michael Nunn camp there was an augment in the crisis; The master was bulky, very bulky. He was in the steam room and went out, he looked exhausted and dangerously close to falling. It was a regular thing from Nunn, which had six feet and vast. And he lacked discipline.

The state of Nunna led to one of the largest lines of Don King, a wicked mixture of joke, grain and placement of the product. One day, on the edge of the pool, King was asked about Nunna’s problems with weight and could he recover on Saturday’s fight against Merqui Sos about Super-Middleight WBA.

“Sure, Nunn can soak his balls in frosty crowns,” King said as he pulled a bottle from a bucket of ice, water drips over his Safari suit. It was perfect. Nunn won, beating the sauce at points to keep his title. This was his last victory in the fight for the title of Master and only his last battle with Scales. By the way, Sosa is one of the bravest and the most fearless people I’ve ever seen live.

Hector Camacho and Oliver McCall were also on a long account; They were not guests in the same hotel. I can only imagine a party that I missed tardy at night somewhere in Puebla. I chose a reasonable tardy evening, found somewhere to eat and a place where competing Mariachi teams would sing a lullaby for almost every warrior you asked. It cost a few pesos to hear glory in their words and observe their actions. They tell the story of the fight; They put on imaginary bandages, go to the ring, touch the gloves and tell the action. These hypnotizing, and these wonderful, emotional songs should be called Boxeocorrido, the boxing version of the infamous Narcocorrido ballads, those devoted to drug traders and killers. I have no idea if Nunn, Camacho and McCall have their own catalog.

So many elderly, king’s elderly bills in the nineties had hidden jewels. In Puebla Derrick James, coach Errola Spence, moved to eight and zero, winning with the legendary Irishman of Danny Morgan. In the next fight for the title of world champion Terry Norris was knocked out by Simon Brown for the title of WBC Featherlight-Middle. Norris and Brown is the main event in any language.

It was a arduous, arduous night for Andy Holligan in this distant and hostile place. Chavez was full of respect after the fight, not calling Holligan “a coward, a bitch, a dog”, just like with Greg Haugen at the beginning of the year. By the way, Chavez fought six times in 1993, which includes a draw with Pernell Whitaker. In fact, he fought in Juarez six weeks before the fight in Holligan. It sounds like a warrior of the fifties, not very current.

Chavez would lose for the first time in the next fight, divided into Frankie Randall on MGM in Las Vegas. His troubles started away from the ring.

Holligan was then a British champion and lost for the first time in 22 fights; Only six months later he was beaten by Ross Hale, losing his British title.

Nunn lost his way after Puebla. In the process of having cocaine in 2003, it was claimed that in 1993 there was a year in which he developed a cocaine problem – it was, unfortunately, probably earlier. He was sentenced in 2003 to a stunning 24 years in prison for paying a secret agent of 200 bucks for cocaine; He walked for free in August 2019.

McCall had its demons for years, Camacho is dead. Don King met Mike Tyson again last week in Florida. In Mexico, they are still singing songs about Chavez and what he achieved in the ring, and with even greater attachments, arduous times from boxing. Even Saul Canelo Alvarez will never replace Chavez in the hearts, souls and minds of Mexicans.