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{{Byline|last=Leeds|first=Barry H.|abstract=Boxing has provided a significant moral paradigm throughout much of Norman {{NM}}’s life and work. Mailer’s significant writing about boxing begins with ''[[The Presidential Papers]]'' in the long and riveting essay entitled “Death,” originally titled “Ten Thousand Words a Minute,” one of his “Big Bite” columns for ''Esquire''. Not only does this piece prefigure and announce the new mode of Mailer’s nonfiction writing in the late 1960s and 1970s, notably ''[[The Armies of the Night]]'', it is the key to his fascination with boxing.|url=https://prmlr.us/mr08leed}}

{{dc|dc=B|oxing has provided a significant moral paradigm}} throughout much of Norman Mailer’s life and work. In his seminal essay entitled “Death” in ''The Presidential Papers'' (1963), Mailer uses the first [[w:Sonny Liston|Sonny Liston]]/[[w:Floyd Patterson|Floyd Patterson]] championship bout as a point of departure from which to develop a profound series of perceptions about the American national temperament, particularly that of blacks. In ''[[King of the Hill]]'' (1971) and more strikingly in ''[[The Fight]]'' (1975) he deals nominally with a specific championship bout, but goes beyond journalism to find certain normative precepts in the sport. But there is another level on which boxing informs and conditions Mailer’s vision: In his fiction, most notably ''[[An American Dream]]'' (1965) and ''[[Tough Guys Don’t Dance]]'' (1984), boxing experiences help define the protagonists. Stephen Richards Rojack and Tim Madden respectively find “the reward of the ring”{{sfn|Mailer|1965|p=16}} applicable to their existential quests for self. Ultimately, Mailer’s views on boxing are far from simplistic. From the powerful account of [[w:Benny Paret|Benny Paret]]’s death in the ring at the hands of [[w:Emile Griffith|Emile Griffith]] to his statements to me about the ill-fated conclusion to [[w:Muhammad Ali|Muhammad Ali]]’s career to his 1988 article on [[w:Mike Tyson|Mike Tyson]], “Fury, Fear, Philosophy,” Mailer has found in this arena of ritualized violence a rich source of perception about the human condition. In fact, in his 1993 essay in ''Esquire'', “The Best Move Lies Next to the Worst”, he deals with his own boxing experiences at the Gramercy Gym with [[w:José Torres|José Torres]], [[w:Ryan O’Neal|Ryan O’Neal]] and others. The title of the piece comes from the comparison of boxing to chess.{{sfn|Mailer|1998|pp=1045–1052}}

Very well, then: Mailer unabashedly uses violent confrontation as a touchstone for his vision of life and art. He has persistently perceived himself as embattled. But witness the artistic regeneration, the prolific and truly significant output that resulted as a direct consequence of this attitude. Mailer’s significant writing about boxing begins with ''The Presidential Papers'' in the long and riveting essay entitled “Death,” originally titled “Ten Thousand Words a Minute,” one of his “Big Bite” columns for Esquire. Not only does this piece prefigure and announce the new mode of Mailer’s nonfiction writing in the late 1960s and 1970s, notably ''The Armies of the Night'', it is the key to his fascination with boxing.

{{quote|In the twelfth, Griffith caught him. Paret got trapped in a corner. Trying to duck away, his left arm and his head became tangled on the wrong side of the top rope. Griffith was in like a cat ready to rip the life out of a huge boxed rat. He hit him eighteen right hands in a row, an act which took perhaps three or four seconds, Griffith making a pent-up whimpering sound all the while he attacked, the right hand whipping like a piston rod which has broken through the crankcase, or like a baseball bat demolishing a pumpkin.... I had never seen one man hit another so hard and so many times. Over the referee’s face came a look of woe as if some spasm had passed its way through him, and then he leaped on Griffith to pull him away. It was the act of a brave man. Griffith was uncontrollable. His trainer leaped into the ring, his manager, his cut man, there were four people holding Griffith, but he was off on an orgy, he had left the Garden, he was back on a hoodlum’s street. If he had been able to break loose from his handlers and the referee, he would have jumped Paret to the floor and whaled on him there. And Paret? Paret died on his feet. As he took those eighteen punches something happened to everyone who was in psychic range of the event. Some part of his death reached out to us. One felt it hover in the air. He was still standing in the ropes, trapped as he had been before, he gave some little half-smile of regret, as if he were saying, ‘I didn’t know I was going to die just yet,’ and then, his head leaning back but still erect, his death came to breathe about him. {{sfn|“Death”|1960|p=244-245}}}}

{{quote|Something in boxing was spoiled.... I loved it with freedom no longer. It was more like somebody in your family was fighting now.And the feeling one had for a big fight was no longer clear of terror in its excitement. There was awe in the suspense. {{sfn||1960|p=247-248}}}}

Ali ''was'' a national hero, for his moral and physical courage. His heroism had fascinated Mailer for years. In a short piece, “An Appreciation of Cassius Clay,” he wrote: {{quote|I don’t want to get started writing about Muhammad Ali, because I could go on for a book.{{sfn|“Errands”|1960|p=264}}}} He went on to condemn Ali’s exclusion from boxing because of his conscientious objection to the Vietnam War and concluded:{{quote|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.{{sfn|“Errands”|1960|p=264}}}} 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, {{quote|Well, I don’t think I love it as much as I used to. One reason is because he’s out of it. {{sfn|“Leeds”|1960|p=1}}}}

The story, in a mildly oversimplified form, has circulated for years that Mailer gave Torres writing lessons in return for boxing lessons. Actually, 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:

{{quote|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. {{sfn|“Advertisements”|1960|p=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 Legs McNeil for Details!, Torres responded, “No fucking difference” {{sfn|“Details”|1960|p=86}}. But earlier in the same interview, he tells of how Mailer {{quote|“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”. {{sfn|“Details”|1960|p=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 wrote Mailer a letter which was reciprocated by a postcard that simply said, “Be at the Gramercy Gym at 10:30 AM 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 by Michael Lennon of the parallels between Mailer as a 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.

Since Mailer’s death on November 10, 2007, there has (not surprisingly) been an outpouring of retrospective summaries and evaluations of his life and career in magazines, newspapers, radio, and television, virtually all mass media. Equally unsurprising is the fact that Mailer has been almost universally portrayed as a fighter for everything he believed in, and more precisely, in many cases as a boxer. For example, in an article in ''The New York Observer'' (Nov. 19, 2007, 8) Leon Neyfakh tells the story of how Mailer acquired the original David Levine illustration of Mailer “as a boxer, his... body in a crouch and his gloves at his face.” Mailer had just published “Some Children of the Goddess” in ''Esquire'' (July 1963, rpt. ''Cannibals and Christians'', 1966) in which he took on his major novelistic contemporaries and rivals and was photographed posed in the corner of a boxing ring. Neyfakh goes on to recount how Mailer took the cardboard-mounted illustration to show Jose Torres, who teased Mailer’s vanity by idly bending it almost to the breaking point. Apparently, by remaining silent (if not unperturbed) Mailer passed the Torres modesty requirement.

It is, in fact, almost impossible to enumerate the many retrospectives appearing immediately after Mailer’s death which either pictured him in a boxing contest: with gloves on or actually in a ring. Many others referred pointedly to his predilection for fisticuffs both in and out of the ring. Thus, it is clear that boxing has always been and will always be associated with the Mailer legend. ''Sports Illustrated'' titled Kostya Kennedy’s tribute, “The Pugilist at Rest.”

What I further consider significant here is Mailer’s fictive vision of fighting. Violence in personal confrontations outside the ring, both in heterosexual relationships and between male adversaries, is central to Mailer’s fiction. Christian Messenger, in a related article, makes some interesting points, but I think it’s a critical commonplace to trot out Mailer’s 1959 story, “The Time of Her Time,” as the beginning of all this. As early as ''A Transit to Narcissus'' (1978), Mailer was already concerned with the smoldering violence between sexual partners, alluding to “the most terrible themes of my own life: the nearness of violence to creation, and the whiff of murder just beyond every embrace of love”. (Introduction x)

And the darkest side of this vision is disturbingly revealed in ''The Armies of the Night'' (1968), when Mailer writes with horror of federal Marshall and American soldiers brutally beating young women during the night after the 1967 march on the Pentagon: Such men, he suggests, “may never have another opportunity like this—to beat a woman without having to make

love to her”. (304)

It’s true that in “The Time of Her Time,” Sergius O’Shaugnessy, just back from Mexico after the end of ''The Deer Park'' (1955), does throw Denise Gondelman “a fuck the equivalent of a fifteen round fight” (“Time” in ''Advertisements ''501). Sergius has been a boxer in the Air Force, and in bed he and Denise are “like two club fighters” ~490!. But it is she who gets in the last literal punch: “I might have known she would have a natural punch. My jaw felt it for half an hour after she was gone...” (494–495). And in the story’s last line, he muses that “Like a real killer, she did not look back, and was out the door before I could rise to tell her that she was a hero fit for me” (503). This is, therefore, a battle of equals, which prefigures embryonic-ally the growth toward the graceful, loving equality of the central Rojack/Cherry passage in ''An American Dream.''

{{quote|Spasms began to open in me, and my mind cried out then, “Hold back! you’re going too far,  hold back!” I could feel a series of orders whip like tracers of light from my head to my arm, I was ready to obey. I was trying to stop, but pulse packed behind pulse in a pressure up to thunderhead; some blackbiled lust, some desire to go ahead not unlike the instant one comes in a woman against her cry that she is without protection came bursting with rage from out of me. {{sfn||1960|p=35-36}}}}

This inflammatory scene introduces a more significant bout: that of Rojack with himself, in the heroic struggle to purge his own moral weakness and set out on that terrifying journey into the labyrinthine recesses of the self, on the existential quest for the true identity that lies at his core. This quest is punctuated by successively more frightening confrontations: first the scene of hellish fornication with the “Nazi” maid, Ruta, which establishes the allegorical nature of Rojack’s pilgrimage to salvation in an infernal world of Manichaean choices; then with Ike “Romeo” Romalozzo, a brutal and corrupt ex-boxer; and with police Lieutenant Roberts, who is described after Rojack outwits him as a crooked wrestler who hadn’t known it was his night to lose.

Insofar as each of these characters has allegorical as well as literal value in the novel, Rojack’s struggles with them may be seen as confrontations with the worst aspects of himself, which he must overcome and purge. On a larger scale, his progress is a peculiarly American one, a repudiation of the false American dream of meretricious corruption and an embracing of a new, true American Dream of authenticity of self. Rojack comes to represent what was best in the American character after WWII, what was shamelessly corrupted, and what Mailer suggests may be redeemed by courage, discipline, and a commitment to selfless heterosexual love. And he does this with the aid of representatives of marginalized groups: Shago and Cherry. ''Tough Guys Don’t Dance'' is a lesser novel: a pale reflection, a distant echo of the masterful An American Dream. But a few points are worth touching on. Again, Tim Madden has been an amateur boxer in his youth. He does fight and defeat Spider Nissen and Stoodie, the badness twins, with the aid of “Stunts,” his dog, who dies with Spider’s knife in his heart. But despite initial, ambiguous appearances, Tim does not hurt, does not kill women, or kill anyone for that matter. But Patty Lareine, his wife, does kill Jessica Pond. In fact, two women are murderers: Madeleine Falco also shoots her husband, the corrupt Chief of Police Alvin Regency. Significantly, Tim Madden refuses the tempting suggestion of Patty Lareine that he kill her then husband, Meeks Wardley Hilby III, and by the novel’s end is capable of compassionate tenderness toward the suicidal, homosexual Wardley. Further, Tim establishes an almost friendly relationship with Patty’s hostile, dangerous black lover, Bolo Green ~a.k.a. “Mr. Black”!. Most important, like Rojack at the conclusion of An American Dream, Tim is shown to fight his true battle with himself and his own fears and weaknesses.

* {{cite book |last= Mailer |first= Norman |date= 1959 |title=Advertisements for Myself |url= |location= New York |publisher= Putnam |pages= |isbn= |author-link= |ref=harv }}

* {{cite book |last=Mailer |first=Norman |author-mask=1 |date=1968 |title=The Armies of the Night|url= |location= New York |publisher=NAL |pages= |isbn= |author-link= |ref=harv }}

* {{cite book |last=Mailer |first=Norman |author-mask=1 |date= 1966 |title=Cannibals and Christians |url= |location= New York |publisher= Dial |pages= |isbn= |author-link= |ref=harv }}

* {{cite book |last=Mailer |first= orman |author-mask=1 |date= 1963 |chapter=Death |title=The Presidential Papers |url= |location= New York |publisher= Putnam |pages=213-267 |isbn= |author-link= |ref=harv }}