LONDON – I could touch the emotion in London’s O2 Arena last night. I could feel the stakes. I heard the screech of anticipation. I could see the expectation. I could also see the dread.
Filip Hrgovic’s nearest and dearest sat in the row behind me as I cradled this laptop like a small child, making sure it didn’t tumble from my lap each time one of them stood up to roar at their countrymen.
While the men behind me never faltered in their impassioned encouragement, there were two ladies in the row, both wearing white.
One was a stoic figure, elegant, graceful, transfixed, and that was Hrgovic’s wife.
The other, also in white and with more make-up, watched every moment as though she was a second or two from complete hyperventilation.
The face of panic never shifted from her face. She held her trembling hands up either side of her face constantly as they involuntarily twitched and each time Moses Itauma landed with anything meaningful, she shrieked. I’ve never seen someone so terribly invested in a fight that they clearly couldn’t bear to watch but could not bring themselves to miss.
Even after the fight, there was no sign of relief that Hrgovic had sprung such a considerable upset. Like a roadside victim after a car crash, she stood beside the ring with her face showing the scars of trauma, frozen, locked in relief, unable to smile, celebrate, rejoice. The nine mostly one-way rounds took more of a toll on her central nervous system than it did Hrgovic’s, and that’s saying something, because Hrgovic took some almighty stick.
*
After the fight, in the bowels of the O2 Arena, as I zigzagged my way through the crowds, I saw Charles Itauma, one of Moses’ brothers.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Exhausted, he was just exhausted,” Charles sighed.
There was not much else to say, really.
