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   stand.And if he could beat Frazier in the rematch  we would have
   stand.And if he could beat Frazier in the rematch  we would have
   at last a national hero who was hero of the world as well. (''King'' 92–92)
   at last a national hero who was hero of the world as well. (''King'' 92–92)
Ali was a national hero, for his moral and physical courage.His heroismhad
fascinated Mailer for years. In a short piece, “An Appreciation of Cassius
Clay,” he wrote: “[I] don’t want to get started writing aboutMuhammad Ali,
because I could go on for a book” (''Errands'' 264). He went on to condemn
Ali’s exclusion from boxing because of his conscientious objection to the
Vietnam War and concluded: “Therefore we are all deprived of an intimate
spectacle which was taking place in public—the forging of a professional artist
of extraordinary dimensions...he was bringing a revolution to the theory
of boxing....” (264).And when I asked him,“... now that it’s pretty well documented that Ali has been damaged by boxing, do you love the sport as
much as you did?”Mailer responded, “Well, I don’t think I love it as much as I used to. One reason is because he’s out of it” (Leeds 1).
All of this of course points directly to Mailer’s most significant work on boxing, ''The Fight''. Suffice it to say that Mailer’s obsessive preoccupation with
existentialism and Manichean polarities, his newly found fascination with
African mysticism and the concept of ''N’golo'' (or force), his vision of
Muhammad Ali as artist and hero, find their serendipitous confluence here.
As in virtually all of his work after 1968,Mailer treats a factual situation,
and the people involved, in terms of highly subjective and fascinating digressions.
Thus, in addition to an in-depth account of the fight and the circumstances
preceding and following it, the reader is offered observations on
African religion and politics, allusions to Hemingway, Hunter Thompson,
and George Plimpton, and further candid insights into Mailer himself: the
status of his projected big novel, his compulsion to walk parapets, his hatred
of jogging.Most amusing, however, is the self-deprecating anecdote in which
Mailer, returning late at night along a jungle path on which he had been
doing road work with Ali, hears a lion roar.He proceeds through a series of
serio-comic reactions, culminating in the fantasy that he is about to be eaten
by “Hemingway’s own lion”waiting all these years for a fit substitute, and the
final recognition that the lion he hears is probably caged in the city’s zoo ~91–
92!. This announces, I believe, an attractive new modesty in Mailer.
Such modesty pervades “The Best Move Lies Close to the Worst,” in
whichMailer recounts his adventures and misadventures in boxing in a consistently
self-deprecating manner. Boxing with José Torres is described thus
(''Time 1048''):
  He was impossible to hit and that was an.  interesting experience you
  felt as if you were sharing the ring with a  puma.... Over ten
  years of boxing with José Torres I was able to catch him with a
  good right hand lead twice, and the first  occasion was an event.
  He ran around the ring with his arms high in triumph, crying
  out, “He hit me with a right—he hit me with a  right!” unconscionably
  proud that day of his pupil.
The story, in a mildly oversimplified form, has circulated for years that
Mailer gave Torres writing lessons in return for boxing lessons. Actually,
B A R R Y H. L E E D S { 389
Mailer first began to learn boxing under the tutelage of the father of Adele
Morales, his second wife. In the “Sixth Advertisement for Myself,”Mailer
states:
  I was doing some boxing now.My father-in-law had  been a professional;
  he was always putting on the gloves with me.... I was
  in nice shape, and my senses were alert. (''Advertisements'' 331)
Most interesting in the later collaboration are the parallels that Torres and
Mailer found between the two occupations.When asked if there is a difference
in the discipline required for writing and boxing ~in an interview with
Jessica Blue and LegsMcNeil for Details!, Torres responded,“No fucking difference”
(''Details'', nd., 86). But earlier in the same interview, he tells of how
Mailer “told me that writing was about truth.... He knew that boxing was
the opposite. It’s about cheating and deceiving and lying, and he said that it’s
a very hard transition.... You’re cheating the other guy by feinting with a left
and cheating with a jab” (''Details'' 85).
Another regular at the Gramercy Gym in the 1980s was Sal Cetrano,who
is mentioned ~though not by name! in “The Best Move.” In a hitherto
unpublished interview with J. Michael Lennon (dated May 24, 2007),
Cetrano disarmingly recounts a series of anecdotes regarding his experiences
with Mailer, Torres, and Ryan O’Neal.
Cetrano first met Mailer by accident on Broadway in 1980, and the first
thing they talked about was the Paret/Griffith fight. Subsequently, Cetrano
wroteMailer a letter which was reciprocated by a postcard that simply said,
“Be at the Gramercy Gymat 10:30AM Saturday.” Sal had been in the Golden
Gloves as a kid, but he“weighed about 145 pounds and everyone seemed bigger.”
His solution to this problem, since “I had been a distance runner as a
kid,” was to keep opponents at arm’s length. Of the relationship between
Mailer and Torres, he describes it as one of “power to power: Norman was a
king of literature; Jose a king of boxing.”
When asked byMichael Lennon of the parallels betweenMailer as boxer
and as writer, Cetrano responds ~with deprecating laughter as risking a cliché!
that he’s “existential” in both:“He does things to their fullest.” Although
Norman had a “wonderful teacher in Jose,” he’s not a fast boxer.“He wades
in and clubs you to death.” This suggestion of Mailer’s legendary fearlessness will echo for anyone who knows his life and work, in every act or stunt
as well as every piece of prose.
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