[Vision2020] Ah, Memories of Nate Wilson Breaking His Nose...

[Douglas Stambler]

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FROM MARCH 2003

On Breaking My Nose
    On Friday night, I clambered into the ring with Dirk Dewinkle, a
dairyman from Southern Idaho. Against all wisdom I stuck my 6'4" 215lb
frame toe to toe with my opponent's 6'7" (some doubters say 6'6")
270lbs. It didn't take long before there was blood on the referree. I
should have been dancing, but that little voice in my head that informs
technique. . . well, it went dumb. Or perhaps I went deaf. Regardless,
early in the first, a big right cross met my face and my nose broke.
Blood ensued, but not too much. The ref wanted to stop the fight, and I
talked him out of it. The 2nd round began, I was feeling good, but the
blood increased. My face was indistuingishable from my red headgear. My
chest and shoulders were striving for color coordination. Dirk's eye
went black, and his nose began to bleed. But his red ounces were
thoroughly outclassed by my pints. Time was called but the ring doctor
couldn't stop my bleeding. We finished the round, but my nose bleed had
reached Vietnam status. The fight was called a round early. The victory
went to my opponent Dirk Dewinkle by TKO, the better man.
   The night was a success, and highly enjoyable. It was a night of
poetry and crude beauty. Twenty times, men and boys danced under the
lights. Twenty times, the ref raised the victor's arm. These were not
the sonnets of Shakespeare, or the couplets of Donne. Those were not for
Friday night. This poetry was coarser. Anglo-Saxon kennings. Though my
fighting more resembled the rhymes of Milne.

Nate Wilson




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<P>FROM MARCH 2003</P>
<P>On Breaking My Nose<BR>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On Friday night, I clambered into the ring with Dirk Dewinkle, a<BR>dairyman from Southern Idaho. Against all wisdom I stuck my 6'4" 215lb<BR>frame toe to toe with my opponent's 6'7" (some doubters say 6'6")<BR>270lbs. It didn't take long before there was blood on the referree. I<BR>should have been dancing, but that little voice in my head that informs<BR>technique. . . well, it went dumb. Or perhaps I went deaf. Regardless,<BR>early in the first, a big right cross met my face and my nose broke.<BR>Blood ensued, but not too much. The ref wanted to stop the fight, and I<BR>talked him out of it. The 2nd round began, I was feeling good, but the<BR>blood increased. My face was indistuingishable from my red headgear. My<BR>chest and shoulders were striving for color coordination. Dirk's eye<BR>went black, and his nose began to bleed. But his red ounces were<BR>thoroughly outclassed by my pints. Time was called but the ring doctor<BR>c!
 ouldn't
 stop my bleeding. We finished the round, but my nose bleed had<BR>reached Vietnam status. The fight was called a round early. The victory<BR>went to my opponent Dirk Dewinkle by TKO, the better man.<BR>&nbsp;&nbsp; The night was a success, and highly enjoyable. It was a night of<BR>poetry and crude beauty. Twenty times, men and boys danced under the<BR>lights. Twenty times, the ref raised the victor's arm. These were not<BR>the sonnets of Shakespeare, or the couplets of Donne. Those were not for<BR>Friday night. This poetry was coarser. Anglo-Saxon kennings. Though my<BR>fighting more resembled the rhymes of Milne.<BR><BR>Nate Wilson<BR></P>
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