This is one of the most dramatic situations that can arise in a boxing ring. The fight has reached its final round, both fighters still standing. One has clearly outmatched the other and is going to win if the match reaches its conclusion and the points are tallied. However, as long as they are fighting there's still a chance of getting knocked out.

In this poem, the losing fighter's coach and father (common occurrence in boxing for them to be one and the same) is ready to throw in the towel and surrender the match, unable to bear the sight of his son being pummeled by his opponent. However, the son refuses to give up and pleads for his puncher's chance, the dream of getting that miracle victory.

I'll be honest, son,
you have no power
left in your body,
I'm throwing the towel.

No! I want to fight!
I earned the right
to end the night!

He's beat you, son,
this is the last round,
you either knock him out
or you drown.

Give me a puncher's chance!
I'll dance, prance
and advance!

You can't dance, son,
your face is a mess
no more power, endurance,
sight or finesse.

Then why did we train?
Through pain!
In the rain!
Rocking my brain!

I know son,
it's your choice
you can either give up,
or go make some noise.

Let me try!
I'm willing to die,
I'm willing to die!

Don't hold back, son
fill him with dread
go for the kill
and aim for the head.

Roadwork is a recurrent nightmare for boxers. To some, senseless torture. To others, sacred tradition. Running at a steady pace for long distances is one of the most time-tested ways of gaining that much needed stamina that has been decisive in so many bouts in the past.

In this poem, we run besides a boxer struggling through a moment of weakness during his morning run, trying to get his mind in rhythm with his feet.

One, two, three.
One, two, three.

Why the fuck am I here?
I'm such an idiot and I need a beer!

Why the fuck did I agree?
I'm destroying my right knee!

Oh c'mon, I'm not quitting
success is not free,
focus your breathing
to the count of three.

One, two, three.
One, two, three.

Why the fuck did I choose this?
With every punch I'm losing my wits!

Why the fuck did I choose to box?
I'd be better off knitting socks!

What did couch say, again?
That crafty old fox
"box like you train
and train like you box."

One, two, three.
One, two, three.

Nah, I'm quitting, fuck this.
At the gym I won't be missed.

No, fuck you, we're in.
If we don't suffer we won't win.

One, two.
One, two.

Fuck me, fuck you
and fuck my coach too.

One, two.
One, two.

Tell me coach, if I'm to box like I train,
why am I running twelve miles, you shit stain.

One, two.
One, two.

One, two, three.

Some of the most legendary fighters in the sport have never tasted defeat in their entire professional careers. This poem is a cheer to all the undefeated champions.

Unyielding, unbroken,
a true force of nature.

Unworn, undefeated,
never undone.

Unreal, unsafe,
never unsettled.

Uneasy, undying,
allegedly undead.

Behind every undefeated champion, there are sixty losers. This poem is a love letter to every boxer that keeps on stepping into the ring in spite of everything.

Again, your chin gets cracked.
Again, he cracks your will.
Again, your taste the mat.
Again you taste defeat.

Again, your lights go out.
Again, your mouth goes numb.
Again, his hand gets raised
and yours lowers down.

Again, you hit the bags.
Again, you hit the gym.
Again, you tuck your chin.
and step into the ring.

Again, your feet are dancing.
Again, you get into the rhythm.
Again, you fan the fire
and start from the beginning.

Boxing gyms are some of the most diverse places on Earth. People from all walks of life put their differences aside every day in order to become a better version of themselves.

Saints, sinners,
pros,
begginers.

Bouncers, robbers,
cops,
alcoholics.

Mechanics, writers,
moms,
firefighters.

Young, small,
old
and tall.

And hey,
even poets.

Gathas are short Buddhist poems that are made to be recited before performing actions where we may lose our mindfulness, such as eating or riding a car, in order to remain centered.

This poem is a little prayer for the boxer that is about to step into the ring. Never forget your breathing, your jab and your footwork.

Learn something if you lose,
be humble if you win.
Never miss a breath and
always tuck your chin.

Keep throwing your jab,
be quick on your feet,
Don't let your guard down.
You won't taste defeat.

Looking at a boxer through his family's eyes.

My father
is a gallant knight
the champion of the night!
His punch
hurts more than his bite
his enemies' blight!
He is
glory and might
an awestricking sight!

My husband,
has black eyes some times,
And headaches most times,
and always forgets things
all of the time.

It's a matter of time,
before it's high time
for him to quit boxing
in the nick of time.

He keeps wasting time,
he keeps killing time
and killing himself,
time after time.

I love my husband too much,
to watch him get punched.

My son,
is not depressed anymore.
What a relief.

He's no longer
carrying everywhere
that bloody grief.

I saw
his beautiful smile
the other day.

After all,
he managed
to find a way.

To keep living,
in this
cruel world.

My son is not depressed anymore.

A little look at some of the dangers of fighting. It can't all be glory and praise.

Let's skip the talk
about the damage to the brain,
because I know that you know
and that you'll fight anyway.

Let's first talk
about the liver punch,
the prettiest of all punches,
the mightiest of the bunch.

There is no sight as glorious,
no picture more notorious,
as a boxer standing victorious

after landing a mighty left,
just below the chest.

One won't kill you, that's true.
You won't die
out of the blue.

But your liver is not a button
to be pushed off and on,
it's a filter for your blood,
and once it's gone,
you're done.

Each punch chips a bit,
a crack, a split,
just the tip.

You might get blood in your pee
for a few days or a week,
and your couch will say:
"Don't be rash,
this too, shall pass."

And it will, but not really.
For your liver filters now a little less,
and your blood is filled with toxins a little more.

And now your lungs, your heart, your veins,
your kidneys and your arteries share the strains
(and even your brain, but I promised not to talk about that.)

Let's shrugh off the liver shot,
and hold our head high,
just to be rewarded
with a punch in the eye.

Oops, your retina went flying.
Don't worry, you're not dying.

You're not gonna die.
They surgeon is poking,
to check nothing's broken
inside of your eye.

But don't worry,
because the other guy's hand fractured
and will never heal right again,
leaving for life a small
but lingering pain.
(And again,
I promised not to talk about the brain)