In an age melodrama, of preening prima donnas and reckless marvelling at magnificent mediocrity, the world of sport is largely bereft of proper contests. Few and far between are the modern classics, where the margins between the combatants are so minute that it is thrillingly impossible to venture which of them will win.
Sport has always held a fascination for us mere mortals because, at its essence, it wipes away class, background, social and financial standing, and lets men be equal in the field of battle. Football used to be like this; a joyous retreat for the people, a religious respite from the rigours of the weekly grind, where the masses congregated to celebrate those whose feet were sprinkled with stardust.
The beautiful game has long shed that innocence, and is now coated with 50 shades of murky shame. Corruption, cheating, bullying and, worst of all, money have muddied the waters and taken players further and further away from the little boy in the stands.
The antics this week of Chelsea, during their defeat to PSG in the Champions League, when almost their entire team hounded the referee to send off Zlatan Ibrahimovic for what was a clumsy but hardly malicious tackle, spoke volumes about the modern footballer’s sense of entitlement and self-importance.
By any means necessary, they reckon. Rules are bent, dives are perfected and the “spirit of the game” they so brazenly flaunt before each game goes out of the window at the first whistle. Win first and worry about winning over friends later.
Happily, the sporting gods still have a cheeky sense of humour and every neutral in the world chuckled when the 10 men from Paris stole the tie late in the London night.
But that is often not the case. Usually, the bully wins, the cheater thrives, and nobility is rewarded with nothing but belated sympathy.
It is no wonder, then, that more and more people are starting to get their noble sporting fix from contests where the rules are nigh-impossible to manipulate.
The brutal simplicity of combat sports, where you are hell-bent on inflicting more pain upon your foe than they on you, has held an allure because of one thing: There is no hiding place. You simply have to man up and deal with whatever mayhem confronts you.
Each generation is blessed with a few protagonists whose paths to greatness are destined to collide, if only to settle the debates and doubts that rage in their heads about whether they are the best.
The chosen ones of our time, Floyd Mayweather jr and Manny Pacquaio, may have taken their sweet time to get it on, but the mere fact that this is finally going to happen on May 2 is enough to banish the bitter recollection of promises broken for myriad reasons.
The clamour for seats close to the action come that mystical night is unprecedented, unbridled, for this truly is one of those generational events. You don’t even need to be a fan of boxing to be piqued by the media tsunami triggered by these two superstars.
Their rivalry has all the makings of those fabled tales of good versus evil. The smug, smirking Yank who measures his magnificence by the million against the Filipino Robin Hood, concerned congressman by day and rabid ringmaster by night.
It is an intriguing clash in lifestyle, a contrast of character and fighting habits; the deftly brilliant defence of Mayweather against the relentless attack of the Pacman.
Yet, take away the flash cars and ridiculous robes of the one, and the elevated public profile and popularity of the other and they are two men who have come from very little to achieve much through the brutal brilliance of their hands.
It simply doesn’t matter why this never happened in 2009, or 2010, or last year. Those who will rise at ungodly hours to witness the magic will tell you that it’s like several birthdays, and possibly Christmas, all rolled into one glorious night. And the sporting world can’t wait.