(*First published in 1956 by The Viking Press from collected The New Yorker writings. I am reading from a 2004 edition by North Point Press. SPOILERS AHEAD?)
WUNDERKIND
We kick-off with a pair of saved-by-the-bell instances. (I feel I've been typing more hyphens than usual.) The first of these is a bout between Stanley Ketchel and Philidelphia Jack O'Brien, just one of the many O'Briens to find work in the ring; although Liebling's research as to the actual amount of O'Briens then actively engaged in pugilism shows "the Irish are in a professional decline." Shame, that.
The second instance is what brings the first to Liebling's mind--a 1954 MSG affair featuring a young Floyd Patterson squaring off against a Joe Gannon. I feel as though if L was telling me these or other stories in his own manner of relating such, I'd have to tell him to back up and clarify every-so-often, while thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. Nevertheless, the kind of the crux of this entry is back in '52 when Patterson was an Olympian in Helsinki.
"Pas de danse" is just what I've come to expect from The Sweet Science in terms of, well, terms. It is used here, so you know, during describing a match between Patterson and a 'Rumanian.' In the end, Patterson got to stand on the highest platform of the three available platforms, on top of that was handed an I'm sure lovely bouquet, and the Star-spangled banner was played. "The resuscitated Rumanian at his right" is a fun line.
We circle back to Gannon, he himself at one time a possible wunderkind. He also somehow and in a not easily or even possibly quantifiable way reminds me of today's Caleb Plant. Maybe it's the beard. Nevertheless, "I went to the Garden early, hoping to see a good preliminary." Provides some reasoning behind L's preference for in-person viewing. We then get a recurring theme--the way people ingest and digest what they see--and how it could be quite different from one fight fan to another.
Also, Weill makes another cameo and my oh my, we've built quite the recurring ensemble cast. However, Goldman and Marciano didn't come out for this one. Who did come out were a pair of voices, one over each of Liebling's shoulders as the fight is fought. With Patterson fully in control to L's eyes, the voices see it opposite-like. One says: "But he [Gannon] gotta knock him out, they'll give it to Patterson."
If my guy loses, he was robbed. That's a familiar and constant sentiment among many crappy fight fans. No 'robbery' here though. Just an eighth and final stanza KO by Patterson. "And a minute later, when I turned around, the seats behind me were empty." This entry is more of the same from Liebling, and that same, even when a bit fogged and bogged, is really quite exceptionally excellent.
GREAT-AND-A-HALF CHAMPION
"We fight the best they got, and we hit them in the old kazazza." - Bertie Briscoe
Briscoe is the trainer of Mr. Sandy Saddler, the man who, according to Liebling's take here, had the misfortune of having defeated the legendary Willie Pep on October 29th, 1948 (in what would be the first of their four matches. Saddler would eventually hold a 3-1 record over Pep). Nevertheless, the case made within this installment is that fans don't like the guys who beat their guys. Not exactly shocking. Sports fans are always prone to using 'we' when meaning he or they, as in "We won!" so it's no surprise these matters become oddly personal.
We hear a bit more from Egan, and he is allowed to weigh in on Saddler through Liebling with his indirect deeming of the pug as "a first-rate bit of fighting stuff." Saddler was an early adopter of the sentiment 'if you ain't cheating, you ain't trying.' And proof of this reaches its dirtiest player in the game zenith during he and Pep's fourth and final bout. (Saddler won in the tenth via stoppage.) To make myself clear, I tend to appreciate these sorts of tactics. Enough-so that I found myself (medium)deep-diving this Hall-of-Famer and Ring Magazine 5-spot honoree in their 100 Hardest Punchers list (2003).
This book has given me quite a list of people to look further into. It's also, more uniquely, given me an in-their-time sense of who these almost mythical figures were when they walked the earth as mortal men. So that's neat. Also, "He himself is built like a bundle of loosely joined fishing poles." Is brilliant and regarding Saddler. Looking at some images of him, yeah. He reminds me of the kind of guy who needs to jam his hands deep into his pockets to avoid looking like a tube man inflated outside of a car dealership.
We also get to revisit the deaf Mr. Johnston, although Liebling is seated behind him this time, which makes matters easier in gathering intel about Red Top Davis. He's set to be Saddler's next foe, and we'll be visiting his camp soon as we first visit Saddler's--which is where we are headed currently. Liebling as inside-man here again. I get a sudden feeling of being a bit beaten-up by the rat-tat-tat repetition of all this. The wack-a-mole characters, the tightly recurring themes, the sometimes woozy opaqueness. I could use a standing eight count. My fear is it would be administered in French.
"You look great--who's your embalmer?" is a quality line. "The same stiff that rights your material." is a quality reply. As Liebling relates overheard or even partaken in dialog, I have at times had to soothe myself into believing he's laughing with and not at the conversers and addressers. That's fine. Sorbonne and all. The New Yorker and all. Anyways, it's then fight night, and as per usual, L is a ring-side as well as an audience correspondent for the ages. Saddler wins by a booed unanimous decision. I cheer the heel and as a child, rooted for Cobra over GI Joe. "WE WON," I'd have yelled.
NEXT-TO-LAST STAND, MAYBE
"I root for mature judgment when pitted against the outrageous fortunes of chronology."
This is the tale of the last professional days of Billy Graham who "was as good as a fighter can be without being a hell of a fighter." Liebling again posits the thought that only sorta-half-way slums don't build fighters--only really all-the-way bad slums do. The sentiment remains a tough pill to swallow when administered by a man with a privileged up-bringing. That isn't however to say it ain't true. I'm far less insulted by this than by Bruce Springsteen making millions by singing about the poor working class to wealthy audiences.
Regardless, Liebling very aptly and with perhaps his greatest emotional IQ yet covers the steps to a fighter's winding-down career and their thoughts along the way. This essay might actually and sneakily be a high-point of this collection. Chico Vejar is the younger fighter helping via sharp 1-2s to show Graham the door after handing him his hat. The problem is that after the poignant look at sunsetting, the tale drones on familiarly.
I skim through Egan-like toddles to fights and destinations, visiting a bar. I miss most of the conversation and history. I feel as though I've lost my ability to penetrate the writings. I remember at the beginning of this one, L offers up a definition for the term 'opponent' "A fighter without significance." But also avalanches the reader with historical names, dates, and events all so nuanced and dense and geeky as compared to the need for a glossary of terms. So who is this writing for? Liebling writes for Liebling.
... And that somewhat makes it OK. I write for myself, predominantly. At least what I choose to write about is for myself. As ever, whenever you begin to notice a possibly kindred spirit, they're first met with a sort of repulsion--or is that just me? I should have been born with a silver spoon, maybe we all should have been. Maybe then none of us would have been. Who knows. The heart returns to this oddly heartfelt episode at its close when I begin to read attentively once more. Another bar and from it Graham phones his mother. "It's me.... I'm all right.... Sure."
Someday I just might go back and read the middle of this one. There is a lot of middle.
DONNYBROOK FARR
"Grown men cried their rage in a sea of faces..." John Healy, for the Irish Press.
In this one, we have popped-over the Atlantic Ocean, Bob's your uncle! First to Sussex and the Epsom Derby, and then to Dublin for a prizefight. On the plane to Dublin is where we meet Tommy Far 'an old Welsh heavyweight' who once shared a ring with Joe Louis for 15 stanzas in 1937. Really? "If I didn't, I don't know 'oo put the rooddy loomps on my 'ead." Since that first career, Farr had picked up the second of boxing scribe. And Liebling openly appreciates his work here.
Also here, there are the usual tales surrounding fights and then reports of the fights themselves. I don't feel the need to report on those reports each and every time, so I will not here. What I will say is that not knowing what I speak of due to sampling only a quite slight portion of Pierce Egan's work, Liebling does his best performance as heir not homage-maker to his crown. It reads as a much defter, less ham-fisted and fan-ish nod. It's also an on-brand amount of hard-to-follow, but I place that blame on myself--L's structure is sound.
I've given A-grades to cigars I've not liked personally but have realized their worth. Out of one's wheelhouse is carte blanche to neither skewer nor flame.
This Farr character, a former pug turned to pen, I do have my own albeit somewhat lateral thoughts on this. Currently and for a goodly while, it is a popular position to take in the boxing world, that if a man never fought--how dare he become a pundit. If he's never laced the boots and gloves, his words in re prizefighting should be ignored. It is this thought that has toppled boxing writing from its rightful place atop all other sports writing.
There is a role for Libling and the like (and L did step into the ring but I mean this in terms of professionally-so and of some indeterminate length determined by the fans of this line of illogic). We went from Mailer and Hemingway to three-minute videos of out-of-context KOs in what is historically-speaking a very short time indeed. The role of the professional writer to ply their trade on pugilism is to ward this off and but here it is and it will be here for good.
But Farr, as I said L said, was an excellent writer. What about the lousy others and the lousy ones we have today? (I'm not putting anyone out there by name.) And ex-fighters do indeed have their own set of skills to bring to boxing media. That's on display in this episode when Farr sums up a boxer perfectly. And again, when Liebling handles the communication of that--we are best served. Although I wonder if Farr was even a better writer than Liebling, who never mentioned having a fancy thin watch of his own, and by his own.
I just don't think having been a pro boxer should be a prerequisite for being a boxing writer. I probably sound like I'm pleading my case here but I make no claims of being a boxing writer, just a guy who writes for himself, predominantly. At least what I choose to write about is for myself. This sport is long-removed from the days of filling Yankee Stadium and quite frankly could use some help in rebuilding its lore and mythos. That is done with the pen, with work like L's. How would this book's pages be taken today? This sport is the greatest sport, and it deserves to reclaim its spot.
Also, the small riot here was fun to read about and yet another entry into my 'If my guy loses, he was robbed' folder.
Previously: Book Review: The Sweet Science by AJ Liebling | Part 5 (Other Fronts)
Next: Book Review: The Sweet Science by AJ Liebling | Part 7 (Ahab and Nemesis)
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