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He used the classic stance of Sugar Ray Robinson, his weight forward, raised on the balls of his feet, his chin tucked into his shoulder, his left jab aimed eye-level at an opponent, his right hook a blur of light.
Even though the guy was half a foot taller and thirty pounds heavier, Giamalva floored him with an uppercut that would have made Sugar Ray proud.
For two weeks I stand in my underwear in the predawn, the hour now twice confirmed in e-mails to Sugar Ray to be the optimal hour for breeding, watching while my does reject the most earnest efforts of the big sand-colored buck, my hopes dimming for that late-summer day when freshly butchered, milk-fed fryers hang cooling in the morning air.
Essentially, Sugar Ray observes, to his operation this doe constitutes a waste of perfectly good food.
“We can give it a try,” says Sugar Ray skeptically.
Sugar Ray extols the virtues of his breed and the waft of rabbity purpose is overwhelming.