The Heart Of Heather Hardy
If she was never punched in the stomach by boxing, she would've never been kicked in the face of MMA.
Only the rare leave a cage of violets to confront a ring of thorns.
If you are a man of hate, she has bigger balls than you; yet, would never attempt to make you feel small or reveal the size of your heart.
Chances are, you are not a fighter and do not know what heart is.
If you are a woman of hate, she has bigger bosums than you; one that empathizes the fake, while the other plate lies on faith.
Chances are, you are not a mother and do not know what love is. That there exists an ambience in basking on the misfortunes of others, is no more telling than the fact that she wouldn't revel in the misfortune of say, Shelito Vincent.
As I gazed at a picture of Heather's face covered in blood in full color, I was reminded of a photograph of her in black and white beaten black and blue.
Perception is often crowned King while disregarding the Queen. For she would tell us that if you can dare to dream and vow to make your life complete, then it is with dignity that you handle both victory–and defeat.
There's a long and winding road that we all must travel, with a prize that patiently waits for those who will prevail. And there's a place for those who stand up tall in battle, up against all odds determined not to fail.
It's not Webster's, but to me that's heart as defined by the face of Women's Boxing.
That's Heather Hardy.