Another big fight on Saturday in Vegas: Britain’s welterweight Ricky Hatton vs the accomplished American Floyd Mayweather. Victory for the four-square brickhouse banger from Manchester will, you see, have him headline-hailed back home as Britain’s finest ever — totally preposterous, of course, as were the ditto hosannahs hurrahed from the hillsides just a month ago for the talented Welsh middleweight Joe Calzaghe. Prizefighting has been awash with hyperbole ever since Kid Cain won the decision against Sugar Ray Abel all those biblical aeons ago.
I’ve crossed the pond for quite a few bloody late nights down the years and I admit that on days like today I still miss the concentrated huddle and hubbub of ringside and, yes, the chivalry, skill and heroism inside it. In the States, they stage much more of a buzzy social gala on big fight-nights: promenaders greet and strut, the dandies dress for the occasion and it helps — with Las Vegas being nearer Hollywood, I suppose — that their celebs somehow have a more starry substance.
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