It’s like the world is one big boxing ring and dating is like a match with infinity-bouts of infinity-rounds of infinity-minutes.

You don’t even know what fight you’re in. You just go from one to the next.

At some point you notice you’ve got a swollen right hand and a left fist you can barely close. The other guy is five for five, all KOs, and all you can think is: Keep ‘em off balance, win. Win and you can get out of the ring for good.

But the thing is: You’re not Sugar Ray Leonard, 1976, photos of the ones you love taped to your socks.

My journey has ended. My dream is fulfilled. This is bare-knuckle boxing. No one lifts the rope up for you when you enter the ring. And no one touches gloves with you before the fighting begins. There are no girls, increasingly less-dressed as the night advances, girls wearing platform heels, circling the ring, holding up cards that mark the moment. There’s no one to let you know where you are in the midst of it all, or to give you just a minute of rest. Instead, somehow when you arrive you’re in the middle of the ring and it’s the middle of the fight and you’re already a bit dazed.

The fact is, your ring work isn’t epic. You think I’ll probably kiss the canvas. You’re not even in shape, or not as in shape as the other guy. There are no weight classes; half the time he’s twice as big as you. There are no coaches or trainers; no one to help set the strategy or cheer you on. No one yelling Gloves up! Gloves UP! or What did we practice? Stay steady! when you’re feeling the pain.

There’s no cornerman waiting to offer you water, to reduce the swelling, to stop the inevitable bleeding. And there’s certainly not the third man in the ring to call out the long series of obvious and intentional fouls, the head-butts and low blows.

You can’t go the distance, and there’s no one there to throw in the towel.

Keep ‘em off balance, win.
I’m finished…I’ve fought my last fight.
My journey has ended.
My dream is fulfilled. – Sugar Ray Leonard, 1976