On Violence, Boxing, and Another Greatest

Men love violence.
Controlled violence, anyway. What we can
contain and admire, and sometimes participate
in.
There are limits to our bloodlust, boundaries
no sane man would cross. Watching Saving
Private Ryan will not make you wish you’d
stormed the beach at Normandy. And most
men are not twisted enough to get pleasure
from seeing a woman or child harmed.
But there is a cathartic appeal to violence,
and the benefits of surrendering to its
pleasures are normal and natural. It's
acknowledging your own dark side without
becoming part of it.
Men watch John Woo movies for the thrill of
seeing Chow Yun-Fat blast a bunch of bad
guys in slow motion. As boys, we play cowboys
and indians or cops and robbers or army men
practically from our first steps.
We need it. We need that vicarious thrill
violence provides to satisfy the cravings of our
interior demon-angel.
I'm not making this up. It's sounds new-age,
and you can call it what you want, but there is
something in men, demon-angel or whatever,
that wants to suck some blood.
That is one of the reasons men love - even
need - the sport of boxing.
There is tremendous skill to the art of beating
the hell out of your fellow man. Millions to be
made from it, too.
Much ink has been spilled about how the
sport appeals solely to our baser instincts, but
that is to call nature base. It appeals simply to
what Man is: in the words of Tom Wingfield,
“Man is a lover, a hunter and a fighter.”
Boxing: A guy opens a cut over an opponent's
eye and then beats the cut as often as
possible so the flesh tears and the hole gets
bigger and the blood runs down the face and
he is hit so hard the snot blasts out his nose
because its jolted loose in his nasal cavity and
look puncher captures a perfect picture of the
sweat flying off his opponent’s head the
moment he slam his fist into it and look the little
droplets are all suspended in mid-air and tiny
rainbows shine in their pools and look his eyes
are closed and his nose is flat and here it
comes the uppercut and now he's flying
backward in a perfect arc oh my God how
beautiful and he gets sucked to the canvas like
a magnet to metal and the crowd goes blood-
mad and the corner throws in the towel
because nobody wants a dead man and the
puncher gets his red glove thrust up in victory
and now all his dreams come true and now he
is the champion of the whole entire planet and
now he gets to ride in limos black and shiny as
a raven's eyeball and now he gets to have ice
buckets full of embarrassingly expensive
champagne inches from his diamond clad
fingers and now sighing blonde showgirls are
just dying to meet him and his brand new bank
account.
This last part is only the big time, of course.
Your average boxer is not a champion, he's not
even a contender. He's a dreamer, and for
every champ there are thousands like him
plugging away in clubs for no money, hoping
for that big break that in all likelihood will never
come.
We men go for this pulp show in a big way.
We love the fight. Why?
Yes, it excites us, and we need that operatic
rush that only controlled violence can give, but
there is something working on another level,
too.
When the loser gets floored, we grimace, we
wince and we sympathize because how often
does that happen to us? Not literally, we don't
get pummeled by physical specimens usually,
but we certainly get hammered by the unfair
disappointments and excruciating
bewilderments of everyday.
Sure, and isn't that a fair reason why we root
for favorite boxers, too? Because we like them,
in the same way we like soccer players or
cricket stars?
Well, not really. It's hard to get all rah-rah
about a guy who bites off ears or does time for
rape.
Not that I’m judging. Boxers do not display the
character they did back in the 1970s, but
character is a commodity lacking in all
professional sports these days.
That doesn't stop us from loving it. Or
needing it.
There are good guys in boxing. Men so good
they disprove the notion that boxing is a sport
shrouded in darkness.
A month ago, I was prowling the Internet and
saw George Foreman's website listed in the
What's Hot box on Yahoo.
Foreman, a juggernaut from Houston, Texas,
won the heavyweight boxing championship of
the world on January 22, 1973, in Kingston,
Jamaica, when he KO’d Joe Frasier, one of the
all-time greats, in the second round.
Foreman knocked Frasier to the canvas six
times before the ref called it. He killed him,
basically. It wasn't even close.
After that, he was considered unstoppable.
There was only one thing that could keep him
from legend and his name was Muhammad Ali,
one of the great athletes of century last.
On October 30, 1974, in Kinshasa, Zaire, they
met in what the honey-tongued Ali dubbed The
Rumble In The Jungle.
Foreman went down in eight, a victim of The
Greatest's rope-a-dope strategy.
After that fight, Foreman went through a
period of depression that lasted ten years. He
said he never understood why people didn't
embrace him as champion. He did everything
that becomes one: He was a solid citizen, a
great boxer, very religious, clean, family-
centered. At least that's what we heard.
And nobody cared.
George Foreman is a professional pitchman
these days, and has been for several years.
He has his brains and sense of humor intact.
He has five sons, all of them named George.
On Foreman's website, www.georgeforeman.
com, there are ads for the various things he
puts his name on. If you need a grill or an
autographed boxing glove, it's the place to be.
The site also a “contact us'” link.
As a child, I was a big fan of his and I always
thought he got a bad rap as a champion. I had
a lot of things I always wanted to say to him.
Now, thanks to the Internet, I could.
"Dear George Foreman:
"When I was a kid I liked you because you
were a great boxer and a good guy and you
waved the flag at the Olympics. To me, you
were the people's champion.
"Ali always scared me. One of the earliest
memories I have is of Ali on TV talking about
how much he hated white people. I was six. I
had no idea why this good-looking black man
would hate me at all."
People don't like to remember that about
Muhammad Ali. On this talk show, I remember
he said white people were all like snakes.
Some were evil and some weren't. But we were
all snakes. He said that dealing with a white
person was like having a snake outside your
door. You didn't know if it was evil or not, so it
was best to just not let it in. (Also on this same
show, I remember he said white people created
the names for cake, and that's why angel food
was white and devil's food was chocolate).
I continued with my email. I told Foreman that
I have enormous respect for all that Ali
accomplished, which I do, "but when you're a
kid you feel vulnerable, and who likes to be
hated?
I went on. "I remember when said you were
champion to all, to everybody, black and white
and yellow and brown and I liked that. I thought
that was cool.
"George Foreman, I thank you, from the six-
year-old that lives inside the heart of this
middle-aged man, this boy that still sees you as
the shining example of the way an athlete and
a human being should be.
"Okay. One last thing. Please include on your
website the reason why you named all your
sons George!!!''
Much to my surprise, he emailed me back.
"Hey Will,
"Most people only have things like that said
about them when they are passed on; well, one
never hears them.
"But God was good this morning, to me; I lived
to hear (see) them.
"Things like what you just said give me my
smile.
"When someone asks me today: "George why
are you so happy?' I never have to say a word.
I know something they don't. Thanks so very
much.
"Oh, and in answer to your question about my
boys, after you have boxed for so long, the
only name I can remember is "George' (smile).''
If you want to write to George Foreman, his
email address is george@biggeorge.com.