The Ballad of Andy Lee

leeNick Cave wrote some wild songs in his day, with the macabre tales of his Murder Ballads album up there with the best of them.  Within Cave’s lyrical fables, the Lee family is well represented.  We learn of Stagger, the murderous foul-mouthed pimp from 1930s Missouri, and Henry, an 18th century Scot stabbed to death by a spurned lover.  So perhaps it is apt to weave a Cave-esque narrative to tell the story of Andy Lee’s gun-slinging victory over the leaden-handed John Jackson in Madison Square Garden in the early hours of this morning.

Get down, get down Irish Andy Lee, get down to 154.  There aren’t many six foot two Light Middleweights out there and we can presume there is a good reason for that.  It can be as big a gamble dropping down a division as it is going up one.  Two losses, one avenged, at higher weights perhaps forced the hand of Lee and so down he went.

And down further he went in the first round tonight as he fell to the ring floor.  A brutal right from the chip off the old Jackson block would have ended many contests but Lee refused to lie there till 10.  He rose, spat the saw-dust from his mouth, and as his Irish blood boiled from the embarrassment of his skin touching canvas for the first time in his professional career, he sought vengeance upon the soul who put him down.

It wouldn’t take long.  A blow from Dah Rock had caused the damage but Lee had been in with bigger stronger minerals at Super Middle.  He decided to slug it out.  Jabbing appeared outlawed as both protagonists simply waited for the opportunity to plant their feet and swing from the hip.  Take to give.  Give to take.  Take more if you have to.

Lie down, lie down John Jackson, till the flesh drops from your bones.  Lee backed himself to take and take whatever Jackson had and for five rounds he did just that.  He absorbed it all.  It was risky but calculated for he knew, or in doing so learnt, that his foe dropped his left as he threw overhand rights and Lee just needed to time his own right hand counter to connect on an unguarded chin.

Lucky, smiled Jackson, when his lights flickered back on, but I’ll give more credit to Lee.  It was a short sharp punch filled with lead, fired straight and true, and it threw Jackson’s consciousness into a deep dark well.  It took at least a minute for it to be hauled up in a bucket and poured back over his sleeping body.  You have to make your own luck in this Garden, Jackson.  Now hand over your holster.

And the wind did howl and the wind did moan,

La la la la,

La la la lee,

This is the Ballad of Andy Lee.

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