CENTRE POINT
The lesson of the Benn v. McClellan fight: bring back bare-knuckle boxing
SIMON JENKINS
I was first taught the Noble Art of Self- defence by the 'boxing poet', Vernon Scan- nell. I doubt if he remembers it. Half his time he thumped 'Earth has not anything to show more fair' into our ten-year-old skulls, the other half he tried to thump it out again.
Scannell had persuaded the headmaster of that remote Kent prep school that box- ing was character-forming, a concept to which the headmaster was addicted. A ring was duly strung up in the assembly hall, boys were roughly matched for height, and into the ring we were pushed. The result was an intriguing exercise in child psycholo- gy. Small boys who spent their every waking hour brawling in playground, corridor, classroom and dormitory were suddenly seized with terror. We gazed at each other over huge boxing-gloves, petrified. Half the contests saw no blows landed at all, as a result of secret pre-fight non-aggression pacts. Scannell would prance up and down in frustration crying, `Jab, jab, one-two, one-two.'
He was a good teacher. Because of him I stuck with boxing (and poetry) through to university. Whether it did anything for character, heaven knows, but no fear has ever seemed too awful after those few min- utes before entering the ring. I liked boxing because it was skilful, solitary and the ulti- mate test of physical endurance. The only sports with like appeal were tennis and bat- ting at cricket. So there I was by the televi- sion on Saturday night, watching Benn and McClellan beating the hell out of each other, on the edge of my seat with excite- ment. I cannot deny that I was enjoying the same pornography of violence that others get from watching 'real life' crime-scarer programmes or Michael Winner movies. But the excitement had nothing to do with McClellan's injuries. Boxing spectators are not like the ghouls who watch Grand Prix racing in the hope of a crash.
I never know why occasional injuries suf- fered by boxers give rise to cries for the sport to be banned. This week the British Medical Association, the Guardian, Roy Hattersley and others leapt forward to demand the end to the 'ignoble' art in the interests of 'a civilised society'. They claimed that boxing is dangerous, and even if not, then it is uncouth, exploitative and enjoyed by far too many ordinary people for liberal-minded comfort.
Deaths in the professional boxing ring are extremely rare, averaging less than one a year. As for serious injury, boxing is not on any official chart. In terms of numbers injured, soccer is by far the most dangerous sport. The Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents lists rugby union as the most likely to cause lasting damage as a propor- tion of those participating. It is particularly bad for back and spine injuries and is notable for the role of foul play in serious injuries to the head, neck and eye. Skating, riding, skiing, swimming and gymnastics all produce appalling disabilities. To ban box- ing on the grounds of physical risk would surely eliminate motor racing, moun- taineering and point-to-point riding. Of all sports, boxing is the least likely to put you in a wheelchair for life.
If the meddlers really wanted to reduce brain injuries they should do away with gloves. Padded gloves cause more damage than they avoid. The reason is that to deliv- er a blow to the skull or jawbone capable of knocking someone senseless would usually break every bone in the hand. The great prizefighters of the Regency could battle for hours, but it was mostly wrestling. Heavy blows to the head were avoided. They did more damage to the hand than the head. The famous pugilist Daniel Men- doza fought Herculean contests, including one of 53 rounds at the age of 40. He was only five foot nine inches tall, yet such was his skill that he could take on and defeat heavyweights. He died in comfortable old age after writing two books on the science of boxing. In those days most contests were decided by throwing in a towel between rounds because of exhaustion. A knock-out was rare.
It was the advent of gloves under the Queensberry Rules in 1867 that made heavy blows to the head safe for the hitter, and thus damaging to the victim's brain cells. I am convinced that what makes any sport dangerous is the distancing of a par- ticipant from the body's natural vulnerabili- ties. The advent of helmets and padded shoulders made American football lethal. The use of high-tech equipment encour- ages mountaineers to be reckless. As for sitting behind a wheel and hurtling round a race track at 160 m.p.h., boxing is a stroll in the park by comparison.
The critics object that boxing is inherent- ly immoral. Its purpose is not to score more goals or run fastest but to inflict damage on an opponent's body. This is plainly true. But the distinction is a fine one to anybody who watched the England scrum descend on the Welsh halfback line at Cardiff Arms Park earlier this month. All contact sports are about securing physical supremacy over an opponent. Rugby union is a violent game that has long avoided proper regula- tion by being run by middle-class amateurs. The theory is that decent chaps do not real- ly kick heads, gouge eyes or crush vertebrae by collapsing the scrum. If they do, they are not prosecuted but 'sent off'. Rugby is the sporting equivalent of Lloyd's.
Boxing is the favoured spectacle of the working class, nowadays sponsored by sharp-suited Cockney entrepreneurs. As Mohammed All once said, it is about white men paying big money to watch black men trying to kill each other. As a result, it is awash with publicised tragedy. An injured boxer is always headline news, as is a cor- rupt promoter. Successful fighters are among the world's biggest earners. But boxing still embodies Orwell's cynical defi- nition of sport. It has 'nothing to do with fair play but with hatred, jealousy, boastful- ness, disregard of all rules and sadistic plea- sure in violence'.
Boxing is sport stripped raw. As such you will never persuade middle-class opinion of its worth. Gentlemen sportsmen can dice with danger and take their own risks. The plebs must be protected from themselves and their pleasures.
Simon Jenkins writes for the Times.
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