I love boxing. That is why I once persuaded Al Brown to take a fresh plunge into this poetry of action, into these mysterious conformations that were the glory of his youth. I took an interest in the destiny of this boxer because for me he was a kind of poet, a kind of mime or magician who brought to the ring the perfect expression of one of the human enigmas: the marvel of presence. Al was a poem in black ink, a paean to spiritual strength in its victory over mere physical force. A poet wished a boxer to become world champion again and, when the victory of intelligence over strength had been established, I advised Al Brown to leave the ring. The enterprise was accomplished, and the final word of the poet was to be the final blow of the fighter, the fighter who had displayed, during the course of his career, such a multiplicity of talents and shown the world the spectacle of his fragile strength and cobralike dance.
It is for you, dear Georges Peeters, to fill in the period between the total defeat in Valencia and the resurrection at the Palais des Sports, and to describe the gestures, feints, traps, tricks, science and hypnotic power of the Panamanian, Al Brown.