There are two salient pictures of the Katie Taylor–Amanda Serrano trilogy: Taylor walking to the ring on Friday night under the green, orange and white bars of light, her neck like a tree trunk, eyes fixed ahead with stoic grandeur as Even Though I Walk played overhead – and the image, hours earlier, of Yulihan Luna bloodied and bruised, standing beside a ring girl whose hoisted breasts had been shellacked in oil, smiling rigidly at a camera that wasn’t looking at the fighter.
That’s boxing. That’s also being a woman.
