The Mailer Review/Volume 2, 2008/Fighters and Writers: Difference between revisions

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By exaggerating, Ali made Joe think that he was fooling. He conned him
By exaggerating, Ali made Joe think that he was fooling. He conned him
good.”
good.”
Ali did eventually regain the championship, and he did so by again digging into his bag of tricks. He prevailed over George Foreman by fighting a very different fight than most expected. Rather than dancing around the
ring, using his speed to outmaneuver the famously hard-hitting Foremen, Ali
positioned himself on the ropes, allowing Forman to tire himself out throwing punches. While the “rope-a-dope” might not have been a good practice if concern for long-term health had been a primary concern, it was a successful tactic that morning in Zaire. Looking back on “Rumble in the Jungle,” Foreman conceded that Ali had him fooled.
The sport, as Ali so skillfully showed, shares elements with confidence
games. In ''The Big Con: The Story of the Confidence Man'', David Mauer
observes that such deceptions are not as simple as unscrupulous exploitation of the naïve. Con men prey not on the gullible and good but on the devious. A mark must have more than money ready for the taking. As Mauer
puts it, “he must also have what grifters term ‘larceny in his veins’—in other
words, he must want something for nothing, or be willing to participate in
an unscrupulous deal.” The delicious irony of this is that con men are themselves susceptible to swindles. They have the very trait, the “thieves’ blood,”
that they try to exploit in others.
Confidence games would not be so compelling if they were as simple as
taking candy from a baby. Cons, whether big or small, take some ingenuity;
otherwise they would be mere thievery. Con men and their targets navigate
a world in which not everyone is honest and not everything is as it appears.
Thus, confidence games have provided artists such as Herman Melville and
David Mamet with material because they entail questions of practical epistemology: Who can you trust? How do you know your information is reliable? And how can you use it to your advantage?
The same is true with boxing at its best, at least according to one way of
looking at it. Boxing is much more than two brutes beating up on each other.
It is also more complicated than one fighter tricking an unprepared dupe:
mismatches may be a part of the game, but they are boring. When the fighters are well matched physically and also shrewd strategists, with each seeking to exploit the other’s desire to find an opening, an advantage, a
weakness—then the sport rises to the level of art.
An art with very real consequences. As Mauer observes, a confidence man
“cannot fool his associates for long. Either he takes off the scores or he
doesn’t, and he stands or falls in his profession by the record he makes for
himself.” The importance of cunning in boxing doesn’t lessen the very real
physical perils. Boxing is not professional wrestling; the violence is real. The
sport’s mental aspect, which Torres so prizes, comes into play when physical abilities are comparable. Ali, the “Louisville Lip,” was able to back up his bluster, even if he did so with an unorthodox style.
The idea that boxers, individuals who choose to engage in a brain damaging game, are smart might strike the uninitiated as peculiar if not ridiculous. Indeed, the strangeness of associating fighters with intelligence
cause some to doubt that Torres actually wrote his books ~he also published
a biography of Tyson!. A rumor suggested that Mailer actually wrote Torres’s
portions of the Ali book. Jonathan Rendell, in his brilliantly titled ''This''
''Bloody Mary Is the Last Thing I Own'', recounts hearing a version of it. “Mailer
wrote it for him,” the man on the next barstool explained to Rendell. “That
was the deal they had. Torres taught Mailer how to box and Mailer wrote
Sting Like a Bee for him. Ain’t that something?” Mailer and Torres were
friends, and Mailer admitted to providing editorial aid to the fighter, who did
give the novelist some boxing pointers. Still, Mailer insists that the book is
genuine and not another instance of a boxer’s con game. For he did share his
friend’s views about pugilistic trickery. In his 1975 account of the Ali Foreman fight, Mailer explicitly invokes the D’Amato-Torres philosophy, a key component of which is that a skilled boxer can block or evade any punch
they can see coming. “Champions were great liars,” Mailer explains in ''The Fight'' “They had to be. Once you knew what they thought, you could hit them. So their personalities became masterpieces of concealment.”
However, Mailer elsewhere expresses the other widely held view of boxing, the one in which fighters are heroic warriors, which is precisely how
Mailer imagined writers, or at least himself. Although the solitary writer
slouching at a desk seems worlds apart from a well-conditioned fighter confronting an opponent in a ring, Mailer saw them as very similar. In The
Spooky Art, he insists the demands writing makes on a novelist, including
physical ones, are much like those a fighter confronts:
<blockqoute>Only a writer can know how much damage writing a novel can
do to you. It’s an unnatural activity to sit at a desk and squeeze
words out of yourself. Various kinds of poisons—essences of
fatigue—get secreted through your system. As you age it grows
worse. I believe that is one of the reasons I’ve been so interested
in prizefighters. I think often of the aging boxer who has to get
into shape for one more fight and knows the punishment it will
wreak on his body.... Even if he wins the fight—even if he wins
it well—he is not going to get a new purchase on life out of a
dazzling success, not in the way he did as a young fighter. That’s also true of my profession. Often, you have to make grave decisions: Am I going to attempt this difficult venture or not?</blockquote>
Put another way, writing is hard, just as boxing, more obviously, is hard. In
this comparison of fighters and writers, Mailer does not invoke cunning and
craftiness. Instead, he stresses earnest exertion.
Mailer goes even further in his search for commonality, arguing that boxers and writers are similar not only in the rigors they put themselves through
but also in their willingness to hurt others:
<blockqoute>Just as a fighter has to feel that he possesses the right to do physical damage to another man, so a writer has to be ready to take
chances with his readers’ lives. If you’re trying for something at
all interesting or difficult, then you cannot predict what the
results of your work will be. If it’s close enough to the root, people can be physically injured reading you. Full of heart, he was
also heartless—a splendid oxymoron. That can be the epitaph
for many a good novelist.</blockquote>




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