LIKE boxing, the world of literature is littered with unreliable narrators, from Humbert Humbert in Lolita and Frank Cauldhame in The Wasp Factory to the unnamed narrator in Fight Club. Seemingly readers, like fight fans, are drawn to such characters; drawn to them not only because they can tell a tall tale, but also because there is something undeniably exciting about believing in something we deep down know is probably closer to fantasy than the truth.
In boxing, of course, most unreliable narrators tend to be either promoters, whose very job it is to spin a yarn, or the boxers themselves, whose entire ability to box is predicated
