A proper pugilist, it is said, is a hardened creature. Toughened by brutal encounters in the ring and battles in back alleys.  He is not a creature of sentiment; his only sentiment is a longing for the next battle, the next bloody, brutal encounter.  Nor is he a creature of reflections of the emotional, sentimental sort.  His reflections are reserved for the craft of boxing, for looking back upon each match and scrutinizing every mistake, misstep, miscalculation, and hesitation.  It is more than reflection, more than precaution; it is preparedness - an essential method in the process of self-perfection.

As a pugilist, I am espoused to self-perfection.  I serve it with dogmatic devotion.  Honing technique and condition are preeminent duties. I restrict sentimental reflection from becoming anything more than the rare retreat from the arduous path of self-perfection.

I allow some leisure in my life - theatre productions, opera, and the occasional evening with a fair lady.  But these are not distractions of sentiment, but rather measures a gentleman must take to maintain cultural refinement.  However, this morning was a rare morning, a morning in which I was moved by reflection and sentiment.

I awoke at dawn. Sunlight arrived majestically and transcended the drapes shrouding my balcony doors. Upon rising I properly adjusted through a series of stretches.  Following a breakfast of fruits, eggs, oats, whole wheat toast and tea, I stepped out of my mansion and was buoyed by the caress of cool winds blowing over the hills. I started down field toward my private gymnasium, but was stopped by the whispered sounds of fluttering.  I looked to my garden and discovered a gathering of butterflies. Their wings shimmered soft metallic shades of yellow, orange, red, and green as they  played in the vibrancy of dawn.

As I strolled to my training facility, roving through my father's labyrinth of towering rose bushes,  I reflected upon my fascination with butterflies as a child.  My mother’s garden, I had believed, was the delight of all butterflies in Britain.  On late-Spring mornings I would sit in the garden, transfixed by the colorful visitors and their aerial dance.  They moved excitedly, celebrating the joys of sunlight and nectar, savoring the open embrace of their fragrant perennial lovers.  Soft lives for soft creatures.

I enter the gymnasium and am enlivened.  The delightful smell of salty sweat fills my nostrils and lifts my lungs.  Now I begin.  Now I celebrate.

The heavy bag shudders from a sequence of jabs fired against its aged, brown, leather skin; it rocks from the blast of a right cross. I slip in, out, in, dancing elusively with designs on a concluding blow.  I slip left and roll forth, unleashing a thunderous onslaught of left hooks into the body of the bag.  Finally, I leap, launching a rocketing right uppercut.  My aged, leathery adversary crashes against the ceiling.  It’s chain snaps as it returns to earth.

I reflect upon a promise toward perfection.  My heart flutters.

Greetings. Allow me the pleasure of introducing myself. I am Dudley, the gentleman pugilist of the world renowned World Warrior tournament. I am admired worldwide for grace, poise, and the ability to administer two-fisted destruction in distinguished fashion.

I was born to wealth, but it is not monetary riches that define me, but instead, the high pedigree of my lineage. My late father, Manchester Smith, is England's greatest Olympian. Since childhood I have aspired to live as fully and gloriously as he. And it was at a young age that I found my distinction in the boxing ring.

When I arrived to the professional ranks, the sport of boxing was monopolized by crude ingrates and savage brutes. Their abilities were blunt and bloody, devoid of scientific technique and elegant artistry. Most appallingly absent was a sense of class.

With a combination of finesse, blinding speed, decimating power and ring mastery, I claimed championships across Europe and carried each with dignity. No longer would a champion be a buffoon and braggart blinded by instant gratification. The champion was once again the standard-bearer of courage and integrity.

Balancing university studies with victories in the ring, I claimed each heavyweight crown in Europe and was poised to battle in America for the World Heavyweight Championship. But as destiny neared my father fell ill. He had lost his fortune and his beloved red Jaguar convertible - the first product of his prosperity. Gill, a delusional sort who fancied himself a modern deity, extorted my father's Jaguar from him. The loss was too much for my father to bear; he perished soon after.

To avenge my father and win back the Jaguar wrongfully taken from him, I abandoned my quest for the World Heavyweight Championship and entered the third World Warrior tournament. By defeating fighters from across the globe, I would win the right to face Gill in the final match. I never reached Gill himself, but by fighting his demented brother Urien to a standstill, I won the cult leader's respect and the keys to my father's prized possession.

With the symbol of my father's prosperity reclaimed, I once again strive to achieve ultimate refinement by perfecting myself as a pugilist and English gentleman.

Here below is an animated depiction of my technique and footwork: