A Terrible Whipping
Lonardo got me this book for the 31st - a funny coincidence, since Pat gave me a Jonathan Ames book and Joyce Carol Oates is Ames’ mentor.
Oates is an amazing sideline reader of boxing - her many assessments rang so true they made me drunk. Well, I suppose I mean that the kamikazes-on-the-rocks had help.
Oates is at her best when she assesses the attitudes of the lovers and haters of the “sweet science of bruising”. The lovers building their towers to tear them down; “the contemplation of ruins is a masculine specialty.” The haters refering with disdain to the “so-called sport”.
As Oates astutely comments, the haters are correct in their logic. Sport by definition means “harmless play”, and perfectly describes the group activities of my childhood in which the peak of achievement was discovering an athletic activity that could serve as one’s narcissistic backdrop. In boxing there is no portrait, no backdrop, no ambiance, and no opponent. There’s only you, fighting yourself, in the middle of a dirty gym.
