High life
Punch lines
Taki
that I can, hoping against hope that I might pick up some new moves. Last week I went to the Garden and saw the Mike Tyson/ Mitch Green heavyweight fight. Tyson is supposedly the biggest hitter since Rocky Marciano, and his record shows it: 20 knockouts in 22 fights. Records, however, lie. Most of them were stiffs.
Tyson hit Green with everything, hooks, straight rights, uppercuts, liver and kidney punches, the works. Green's legs never buckled, and although he lost his mouth- piece four times, it was more from his bad habit of breathing through his open mouth, rather than the force of Tyson's blows.
Now I know enough about boxing to say with certainty that one can have a great punch but still not be in the class of great k.o. artists like Marciano and Louis. One has to be precise. Tyson's punches hurt but do not put one to sleep. Getting hit on the ear will make it ring for days, but a quaalude it is not. Smoking Joe Frazier had a hook reminiscent of Tyson's — the other way around, rather — and he landed it precisely on his opponent's chin. Not on the temple, the ear, or even the jaw. Right on the chin. It did its duty every time.
What frustrated me, however, was the lack of decorum between the fighters. Ever since Muhammad Ali began to torture and belittle his opponents, every black and Hispanic fighter on these shores has tried to emulate him (with the exception of the great Alexis Arguello). Green spat on Tyson before the match, and Tyson kept laughing and hitting Green after the bell. In the ensuing press conference, Tyson spoke of Green as if he were scum and useless. The idea of honouring one's noble opponent among today's breed of boxers is as alien as, say, telling the truth is for an Iranian spokesman. (Incidentally, the Ira- nian ambassador to the UN got caught shoplifting in Alexander's department store here last week. But he flashed his diplomatic card and was let go. But the store kept the raincoat the crooked diplo had stolen. I am only sorry he didn't get caught in Teheran, where they may have relieved him of his hands.) In the past, being a heavyweight cham- pion, or a contender, always carried with it a certain amount of class. Jack Dempsey and Gene Tunney, two men of dignity, certainly had it. And who had it more than Joe Louis? Go down the champions - Max Baer, Jimmy Braddock, Joe Walcott, Ezzard Charles, Rocky Marciano, Floyd Patterson, Joe Frazier — and you'll find they were all gentlemen of high principles. And men who above all honoured their opponents — especially in victory. But then came Sonny Liston, who was an enforcer and a gangster and who glared at kids as if they were asking for money rather than an autograph, followed by the great patriot, Muhammad Ali, the man who made boxing the wrestling show it is today.
Needless to say, Larry Holmes was even worse. He took to insulting the memory of the dead Rocky Marciano, saying that The Rock could not 'carry my jock'. Well, there's nothing certain about sport in general and boxing in particular, but I'll bet my father's boats (however worthless they are at the moment) that it's Holmes who can't carry Rocky's athletic supporter, and not the other way round. Just as I'm willing to bet that come what may, next week I shall be in London for good, however black or blue I may look, or however goofy I may sound. They even tell me getting knocked out brings on a high. If it happens it will be the first free high I've ever had.
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