It's a horrible feeling when you're being put out to pasture to the world's delight. You get hit with a crisp combination and you have no answer for it, those exploding and lethal blooms of a boxing glove hitting you, a telegraphed left hook that drops you, your reflexes are gone, your legendary hand-speed and power, a skeleton of what it once was.
It's not fun watching an old favorite gladiator be mauled by a younger one, to walk on Bambi legs, to be battered and bludgeoned in a brutal ballet of fists, to be torn apart and fed to the eternal lions that devour all boxers eventually.
It's a smoky and squared circle, the twilight of a career, to be hit with thudding punches and to stagger around helplessly, though no help shall come, only the black curtain, only a vicious right, the blurry crowd in a frenzy, the final embrace among the explosions and blood on the canvas floor, the unloved arms, the ropes the only thing holding up the defeated warrior.