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My wife and my mate Bugsy agree on one thing about boxing: It’s not for women. Political correctness suggests that, while it may be all right for my wife to hold that view, Bugsy is out of line.
Before he cops any rolling pins from the gals, listen to his side for a minute:
“I love sheilas, any shape and sort. But if they’re on show, I’d like to see all that’s feminine about them. Girls banging away is not the same as two ugly blokes belting each other. Tell me it isn’t true?”
“My feeling is that some things are best meant for sheilas, some are best meant for blokes. And, well, vive le difference!”
In Bugsy’s defence, I would like to say that I have a gut feeling that women approach boxing in a remarkably different way: At the gym, I watch boys and girls sparring – young men and young women sparring. And I have always had a feeling that when women spar they’re “playing”.
With the boys, especially the young men, the element of “machismo” comes in. And whether or not they know it’s only a game, it’s in their nature to move faster, hit harder and don’t-give-an-inch.
Personally, my take on the subject of women’s boxing is to limit women to the amateur code, where boxing is at its purest as a game of wit, skill and speed. Professional boxing should be exclusively men’s business.
“Maybe so,” argues Bugsy. “But I still don’t like watching sheilas shuffling in an amateur boxing ring and banging away at each other.”
Amen to that, echoes my dear wife.