Floating Like a Butterfly, He Got Stung in the Eye

A poet needs mood. A poet needs atmosphere. Even in darkness, a poet can have insight. Even in blindness, a John Milton can compose “Paradise Lost.” And even with the blinds drawn, even wearing a patch over his left eye, a Larry Donald can take pen in hand and share his unique vision with the world.

So, ladies and gentlemen. . . . From a dimly lit room overlooking the Mediterranean Sea . . . in this corner of the Olympic athletes’ village here in BAR-ce-LO-na . . . weighing in at 205 pounds . . . from Cincinnati, Oh-HI-oh . . . the undisputed super-heavyweight contender of the United States boxing team . . . the writer’s fighter . . . Lar-REE DONald!

Coming from the USA I am the prettiest fighter in the world today So listen to what I have to say There’s not a man in this world who stands in my way I’ll be the heavyweight champion, which is really OK. Ahhh, from sunny Spain, land of song and enchantment, kingdom of Quixote, we proudly present the rhyme and verse of Larry Donald, pugilism’s poetry in motion, the wanna-be Ali.

I am the new boxing sensation Through years of dedication Anyone tries to take this from me I’ll whip them so bad they probably will never see. Words to live by. Requiem from a super-heavyweight. Yet at this exact moment, five days before the Olympics’ opening bell, with his eyes clearly on the prize, it is the poet himself who can scarcely see. A corneal abrasion in his left eye has forced Donald to retreat into the sanctuary of his room, where Dr. Jim Montgomery, the American team’s trainer, has agreed to peel the patch from the boxer’s eye only on the condition that the window drapes be pulled tight.

“We have to keep him out of the sunlight,” the doctor says with tender loving care, like a gardener talking about a plant.

Although the fighter does require watering between rounds, he does not so much need a cornerman as he needs a cornea man. This is the second time in recent weeks that an eye of Donald’s has gotten itself, literally, into a scrape. In a minute waltz of sparring Monday with a teammate, Danell Nicholson of Chicago, who is fighting in the heavyweight division even though, at 212 pounds, he is heavier than the super-heavyweight--don’t ask--the thumb of Nicholson’s glove scraped the cornea and sent Donald backpedaling into the darkness of his lonely dorm.

“Rather be fighting,” he says.

Oh, but lo, how then could the bard of Barcelona continue his mighty effort to prove that the pen indeed be mightier than the glove? How else can “Larry Ali,” as he is wont to refer to himself aloud and in ink, pave the way so that at the Pavello Club Joventut Badalona, site of the Olympic boxing finals, Donald becomes the proudest and loudest ringmaster since all Rome hailed Cassius Clay?

Give me speed with my left And power with my right When I hit him one time He will sleep for the night. As he lie on the floor While the ref counts to 10 He will pray to God He never sees me again. In the kingdom of the blind, perhaps the one-eyed man truly can become king. Larry Donald doesn’t think so. He knows so. He does more than announce his presence. He shouts it. He even rhymes it.

What astounds people the most Is that I’m the best from coast to coast I like to brag, I like to boast. There is no room to surrender After I have beaten every contender. It may sound like slander. But one day I’m going to knock out Evander. As with Clay-Ali when he went after Sonny Liston, all bark and all bite, Larry Donald is doggedly determined to become the latest, greatest lip of the Olympics and then go after the champ, in this case Evander Holyfield, leading with his mouth.

Donald is a 25-year-old Cincinnati kid with Ali’s height and footwork who didn’t even take up boxing until four years ago, then promptly won consecutive national Golden Gloves championships. Like the later Muhammad, he does not particularly pack much of a punch. He does, however, have quick wrists and ankles and considerable athleticism, and, perhaps his greatest asset, or perhaps his ultimate downfall, a self-confidence bordering on egomania.

This is a story about a man With a beautiful tan So all you people have no fear Because Larry Ali is finally here. Does he float? Does he sting? American coaches would like to think so. Promoters, too. They could use a guy who would put his mouth where their money was. When Donald defeated a fine Cuban boxer, Roberto Balado, at this year’s World Championships’ Challenge, he was indisputably impressive. Whether he has a glass jaw remains to be seen, as does whether he has a glass eye.

Montgomery, giving his patient the once-over, says that the two recent corneal abrasions should in no way impede Donald’s performance or keep him from passing a physical exam the International Olympic Committee has scheduled for Saturday, the day before boxing combat begins.

“He’ll be OK,” the doc says.

“It’ll be cool,” Donald agrees.

Cool? Aw, he can do better than that. He is, after all, the self-proclaimed poet laureate of this summer festival, a veritable boxing madrigal, likely as not to quote Milton that “to reign is worth ambition,” while perhaps choosing to omit the part about it being better to rule in Hell than to serve in Heaven. Not all poets need be bleak.

And all of you who are in my way Better retire from boxing before you have to face me someday Because I am a billion-dollar fighter and I’m not here to play And everyone I fight will have to pay. The whipping will be necessary And the suffering will be legendary. --Larry Donald, 1992