BUDD Schulberg, who wrote boxing's most poignant line, which was spoken by Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront ('I could've been a contender'), once said of this wretched theatre of fisticuffs: 'As much as I love boxing, I hate it. And as much as I hate it, I love it.'

Everyone understands this. As bloody sweat flecks the canvas, as death lingers beside bravery, as kidneys cry unheard when hit, boxing makes you want to look away. And yet you cannot. Especially not when Manny Pacquiao, a pugilist of hard muscle and soft smile who fights Miguel Cotto of Puerto Rico this weekend, puts on his gloves.

Boxing, in truth and the films, was heroic yet seedy, full of aching dreams and hopeful fighters, a dance of glory and gore. It was a sport to which writers were drawn and of which a weary Joe Frazier said: 'It is the only sport you can get your brain shook, your money took and your name in the undertaker book.'

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