On February 14, 1951, in Chicago, Robinson and La Motta faced each other for the sixth time. And never like that night did the ring become a slaughter…
It was as if Harlem and the Bronx climbed over the ropes every time with the two of them, who embodied the two opposing boxing hemispheres that no one was able to represent better than them. Sugar was the epitome of style, a tuxedo adapted for fencing; a lethal grace that disguised the power of the punches delivered with the same punctuality with which seagulls fish with their beaks at the surface of the water. Toro was someone who even put his feet inside the glove, as if he managed to compress every muscle fiber in the stretch from the forearm to the knuckles; with his whole body he suffered and at times offered himself, in the same way he was capable of raging. He started slowly, then continued inexorably, raising the pace in the final part. He was someone who managed to come back from hell every time, even when his eyelids were sealed shut from the swelling. He came to sway, but always remained standing, even when he no longer understood the difference with being lying down.