Notes On Boxing (From A Former Fan)

I used to be a boxing fan.

I’m a fan of the Olympics, as well. These two fandoms were birthed at the same time: the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City.

I distinctly remember watching Bob Beamon do the unthinkable in the long jump:

Those old fashioned graphics in white standing out from the gray, the lighter gray, and the lightest gray on our old black and white Zenith.

I also remember Tommie Smith and John Carlos raising their fists in protest on the medal stand and thinking they were so happy to win medals, they’re acknowledging the crowds with pure joy.

And then there was George Foreman taking out a balding guy (I later found out he was a Russian) for the gold medal. My patriotic pride swelled (there’s a term that’s aged poorly).

I still love the Olympics.

They’re weird and jingoistic and sometimes controversial, but the spirit of competition mostly shines through, judging mishaps and strange technical rulings aside. I kept up with the fights through the next decade or so, too, mostly because of the transcendence of Ali, who all of my high school friends worshipped, mainly for his skill in the ring and his effervescent personality outside of it.

We didn’t understand most of his political/religious stuff. We didn’t care to.

What was most important was that he was cool, he was voluble, and he was, from time to time, the heavyweight champion of the world when that meant something to the sporting public. And when he wasn’t the HCOTW, we discussed why he wasn’t and why he should be. Less good, we vilified his great rival Joe Frazier, who was by all accounts a swell guy.

On the other hand, he was also known as ‘Smokin:’’ One of the best nicknames of the day. It was a time.

My boxing fandom grew:

Through the unfathomably great ‘76 Olympic USA Boxing team (Spinks bros, Sugar Ray Leonard, et al), the rise of Roberto Duran, Thomas Hearns, and Marvin Hagler. Wilfred Benitiez. Jose Cuevos. Carlos Palomino. I knew of these men, I knew their styles, their records, their upcoming bouts. I even knew – and loathed – the differences between the WBC and WBA. It wasn’t baseball to me (nothing is), but it filled a slice in my sportsgame pie, bigger than hockey, smaller than basketball or tennis.

I never was able to understand the subtleties, the science of the ‘sweet science,’ though.

I was awed by the athleticism, entertained by the spectacle, and, yes, experienced base, lizard-brain pleasure at watching two men try to beat the crap out of each other. I never questioned following my favorites, or looking forward to the next big bout.

And then came Aaron Pryor v. Alexis Arguello.

Billed as ‘The Battle of Champions,’ the 1982 bout had it all:

Contrasting styles both inside and outside the ring, each fighter holding a championship belt, controversy and possibly shady doings, celebrities sitting in seats close enough to be sprayed with sweat.

But the thing I remember most is how much punishment each man doled out and took in.

After a while, eight or nine rounds in, I couldn’t help but flinch at every effective punch.

• How could they still be standing after so many blows?
• How much pain would they be able to withstand?
• What drove them to follow this path and end up in this ring and suffer through so much physical abuse?

(If you answered money, well, let’s talk about the pros and cons of capitalism next!)

And then, for the first time, I asked myself:

Why was I watching this?

What is the point? All the answers I came up over the days and weeks afterward were personally uncomfortable and unsatisfactory. I was trying to be a civilized human being in the 20th century.

Did I really need to satisfy my need for amusement by repeatedly watching a sport this nakedly bloodthirsty?

It took a bit, a year maybe, but finally, I answered myself: there was no reason to witness this. There is no point to it. I haven’t watched a boxing match on purpose since.

Now I find myself in the same place regarding the NFL.

I’ve never lived and breathed the sport like baseball, but have followed my team with clockwork regularity for nearly half a century. I’ve worn their gear, cheered their championships, looked forward to every season.

While not as nakedly brutal as boxing, a good measure of the sport’s allure are the big hits, violent collisions, men at the very top of the in-shape pyramid heaving themselves at each other at impossible speeds with precision and discipline.

Granted, they’re ensconced in the latest high-tech armor, but the sight of one player crumpling another is cause for celebration. Injuries are rampant and go unquestioned. 

Is there more nuance involved here as opposed to boxing? I suppose. Two men facing off in a ring is a good deal less complicated and more brutal than 22 racing around on an artificial turf field while being hemmed in by a novel’s worth of arcane regulations. There are opposing and often complicated strategies applied to the offense and defense as a whole, and every individual on either side, as well.

It’s dense, even to the long-time fan.

Playbooks are thick as Russian novels.
The official NFL rule book is enigmatic as Tolkien’s dwarvish runes.

But the toll on players’ bodies is immense.

Some escape unscathed, but others less fortunate live shorter lives, are more susceptible to mental disorders, limp and ache and live with disabilities. Why do this? (Again, capitalism.) And are we, as fans, responsible for at least a little bit of the carnage the game inflicts on its athletes?

I’m still struggling with the answer. I have a longer history with football than I did with boxing.

I have countless memories involving my family and friends and the bonds we forged (at least a little) through shared victory and heartbreak.

My kids are fans (it was osmosis, I promise!), and I look forward to sharing those kind of moments with them, as well. But the question is still there.

I’m going to have to answer it at some point.

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