My last fight card for a while.
I'm calling it quits for the summer before I head to MacDowell for five weeks.
Please read my open letter to Gennady Golovkin over at Stiff Jab; he might be my new favorite fighter.
Saturday I headed to Atlantic City with these Russians to see light heavyweight champion Sergey Kovalev knock out Blake Caparello in two. My report is here. Lovely to see Sparkle Lee making the right calls. It was the only time I've seen a woman ref such a high profile bout.
This is the new Wonder Woman costume. Pretty sure I hate it, although I'd also like to own it. For Wonder Woman's roots as a symbol of "feminist bondage utopia" check out Philip Sandifer's fascinating critical history.
Here's one of Debi Cornwall's shots of Atlas Cops and Kids cleaning up at the New York tournament. We took home the Best Team Trophy and a well-deserved Best Coach Award for Aureliano Sosa.
My dear friend Debi Cornwall shows off her chops in this magnificent set of photos of our boxers at Atlas Cops and Kids.
I've got a new essay up at the Morning News about sex, shame, and why I write erotica. And my latest posts at Stiff Jab cover the Boxcino finals at Verona and a local club show appearance by Alicia Ashley. Next up: Cotto-Martinez and Provodnikov-Algieri.
Uncle David picked me up from the Houston airport and took me to Granny's service at St. Philip's. When we walked in, there was a beautiful hymn playing. I went up to the loft to see the organ and accidentally startled the organist.
Two ministers presided, one happy and one sad. The happy one talked about death. The sad one said that my grandmother had stormed into his office during his first week on the job and demanded, "What are you going to do about social justice in our presbytery?"
"I am going to do what God requires," he had replied.
She said, "You'd better."
The sad minister concluded, "Margie Deming was social justice."
It was odd to hear her summed up in that way, to read the extensive list of her accomplishments in the program: raising three sons on her own while working full-time and putting herself through grad school, helping AIDS patients, mission work in Mexico, hosting exchange students from Taiwan, serving on a million church committees.
When I was little I used to be scared of the old lady with the weird accent who demanded, "Sit on my lap and give me some sugar!" I was an outsider in her family, taken up North and raised by Jews. As I got older, I stopped being afraid of Granny, but I never felt truly at home.
I think I underestimated her because she was so different from me: anti-sentiment, tough as nails, little patience for art, no love life save the Harlequin romances she blew through by the box. When I read her obituary, I realized how much of her energy was spent in action, how little in analysis or emotion. Her way of loving was to work. I wondered at the strength of her, a strength that kept her alive 94 years.
David took me back to the place he was housesitting, where we fed the feral cat and the cardinals and the squirrel. We watched Beasts of the Southern Wild, Mad Max 2, and the beginning of Hang Em High. We ate many kolaches, a delicious Czech pastry that comes with various fillings and forms the core of my uncle's diet.
According to Sophia Rosoff, my husband's piano teacher and the wisest person I know, the dead look after us from above. They are especially handy with transportation; Sophia's late husband Noah has been known to procure taxis in a pinch. I do believe Granny flexed her new angelic muscles during my return trip. I look forward to her continued patronage.
My fellow Pappadeaux's patrons and I discovered that we had all just celebrated milestone birthdays. I was forty; the two gentlemen were fifty; and the lady at the end was, astonishingly, sixty. All of us, we concurred, looked at least ten years less than our purported age. We celebrated with tequila shots.
When I looked for a place to sit at the gate, I paused, mesmerized, before the man with the little dog. He said something about how she liked to sit on people's laps.
"Can she sit on mine?" I asked.
Her name was Sugar. She was a therapy dog for PTSD.
His name was David Smith, which was Granny's maiden name. He was a Vietnam vet, going to Dallas for Mother's Day, and he wore a bracelet that read ONE LOVE.
I showed him a picture of Granny, and he showed me a picture of his mom, and we agreed that they looked a lot alike. It reminded me of the time Granny came up for my brother's wedding and paid a visit to my mother's mother, Bernice. The two old ladies sat side by side on the sofa: Margie the Texan farmwoman, self-made and tall and strong, her mind already going; Bernice the Cleveland Jew, small and plump and clever, her thoughts still clear. Time dissolves distinctions. At 20 these women would have had nothing to say to each other. At 90 they were sisters.
"There are three things in life you control," said David Smith. "The thoughts in your head. The choices you make. Your actions. After that, you're not in control of anything. We think we are, but there's higher forces in control at that end."
Nodding at the wheel
Her head out the car window:
“Keeps my eyes open.”
Black hair to her hips
Like everybody’s favorite
Solid Gold dancer
Once, in the Nissan,
Groped my mother’s boob
Mirrored glass boxes,
Flowers, raku, spinach dip:
Everything is art.
When I woke up raw
And sliced open, she was there,
Don’t worry, Donna,
Everything you planted bloomed.
Black sheep don’t go gray.
Photo: Will Hart, HBO
It's boxing season! I've been doing a lot of fight coverage lately for Stiff Jab. Last week I checked out the press coference for Sergio Martinez-Miguel Cotto, which is set for the Garden this summer.
Photo: Rich Kane, Golden Boy
In a dark Times Square bar, I listened to Bernard Hopkins, newly dubbed "The Alien," hype his upcoming title bout with Beibut Shumenov. Long may you reign, Alien!
And over the weekend I tagged along with some Russian buddies to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania to watch young Slava "Czar" Glazkov take down the aging Tomas Adamek in a great night of fights that also featured beautiful boxing displays by South African-Malawian Isaac Chilemba and a still-sharp Kermit Cintron.
Now it's back to work at Atlas Cops and Kids, where we have nine boxers still in the running for the Golden Gloves finals at the Barclays Center, including Earl "Flash" Newman, the defending heavyweight open champ, who makes his tournament debut tonight at Bishop Ford.
All photos courtesy of Raquel Ruiz, except where noted
Congratulations to all the 2014 champions, and thank you to the boxers, trainers, fathers, refs, judges, bartenders, pit bulls, labrador retrievers, ice-covered pine trees, and friendly people of Spokane. At the bottom of this post, I acknowledge some people who have been especially kind and inspirational.
This was a light year, perhaps because of the lack of headgear for the men, the decline of regional programs, or just because everyone is too broke to schlep to Spokane.
Here's a recap of my tournament coverage for Stiff Jab:
DAY ONE: The Headgear Issue
It might be a while before I get out to another tournament. There's a way in which the story I was following - the Olympic debut of women's amateur boxing - is over. Now we go back to the perennial tale of women athletes trying to make it work in an often indifferent world. Mark Ortega's nice piece on Mikaela Mayer highlights this struggle. Kind of gives you the blues.
Pro boxing gives you the blues, too, but it's more of an aesthetic, impersonal depression. At pro fights, you aren't helping trainers with the spit bucket, dancing with the refs in the disco, and giving the boxers lifts to the airport. The experience of covering amateur tournaments is at times confusingly intimate. Sometimes I feel like I need headgear, too.
I am there as a witness, not a judge.
Amateur boxing has now moved to a pro-style, 10-point must system, which is a good move. Although I prefer boxers to sluggers, I do think the weight of blows needs to be considered, as does willingness to engage. The 10-point must system won't stop superior boxers from triumphing, any more than it kept Sweet Pea or Willie Pep down.
If a boxer is moving laterally, she should be scoring much more often than her opponent. As Naazim Richardson once said to me, "If you have to stop to throw a punch, you're not a boxer." The onus is on the stick-and-move boxer to prove that she has control of the rhythm of the bout and to display excellent defense in the exchanges.
Defense is still sadly lacking in the women’s game. Defense is what makes boxing beautiful and gives fighters long careers.
One thing to note about the new rules is that, of five judges at ringside, two cards are randomly thrown out. Thus it is quite possible to lose a fight by a 2-1 split decision but win it 3-2 had all the cards had been considered. (This system was put in place to make it harder to bribe judges, although it just means you would have to pay off four judges instead of three. Azerbaijan should find the cash somewhere.)
Using the figures from the USA Boxing press releases, I count 144 bouts that went to the judges. A third of these, 49 bouts, were split decisions. This percentage was lower in the preliminaries, when there were many mismatches, but it climbed to as high as 50% in the semis and quarters!
No one likes being judged. Although I agreed with the wins for Queen Underwood and Malik Jackson, does Mikaela Mayer deserve a simple “L” for her disciplined boxing, or Shawn Simpson for his slick counterpunching? The more hoops AIBA jumps through to produce a fool-proof judging system, the more we reveal judging's essential emptiness.
This reminds me of what W.G. Sebald wrote in Austerlitz about castles. I'm going to type out this long passage, because typing out the work of masters is good for a writer in the same way that watching tapes of the greats is good for a fighter:
Yet, he said, it is often our mightiest projects that most obviously betray the degree of our insecurity. The construction of fortifications, for instance - and Antwerp was an outstanding example of that craft - clearly showed how we feel obliged to keep surrounding ourselves with defenses, built in successive phases as a precaution against any incursion by enemy powers, until the idea of concentric rings making their way steadily outward comes up against its natural limits. If we study the development of fortifications from Floriani, da Capri, and Sanmicheli, by way of Rusenstein, Burgsdorff, Coehoorn, and Klengel, and so to Vauban and Montalembert, it is amazing, said Austerlitz, the persistence with which generations of masters of the art of military architecture, for all their undoubtedly outstanding gifts, clung to what we can easily see today was a fundamentally wrong-headed idea: the notion that by designing an ideal trace' with blunt bastions and ravelins projecting well beyond it, allowing the cannon of the fortress to cover the entire operational area outside the walls, you could make a city as secure as anything in the world can ever be. No one today, said Austerlitz, has the faintest idea of the boundless amount of theoretical writings on the building of fortifications, of the fantastic nature of the geometric, trigonometric, and logistical calculations they record, of the inflated excesses of the professional vocabulary of fortification and seigecraft, no one now understands its simplest terms, escarpe and courtine, faussebraie, reduit, and glacis, yet even from our present standpoint we can see that towards the end of the seventeenth century the star-shaped dodecagon behind trenches had finally crystallized, out of the various available systems, as the preferred ground plan:
a kind of ideal typical pattern derived from the Golden Section, which indeed, as study of the intricately sketched plans of such fortified complexes as those of Coevorden, Neuf-Brisach, and Saarlouis will show, immediately stikes the layman as an emblem of both absolute power and of the ingenuity the engineers put to the service of that power. In the practice of warfare, however, the star-shaped fortresses which were being built and improved everywhere during the eighteenth century did not answer their purpose, for intent as everyone was on that pattern, it had been forgotten that the largest fortifications will naturally attract the largest enemy forces, and that the more you entrench yourself the more you must remain on the defensive, so that in the end you might find yourself in a place fortified in every possible way, watching helplessly while enemy troops, moving on to their own choice of terrain elsewhere, simply ignored their adversaries' fortresses, which had become positive arsenals of weaponry, bristling with cannon and overcrowded with men. The frequent result, said Austerlitz, of resorting to measures of fortification marked in general by a tendency towards paranoid elaboration was that you drew attention to your weakest point, practically inviting the enemy to attack it, not to mention the fact that as architectural plans for fortifications became increasingly complex, the time it took to build them increased as well, and with it the probability that as soon as they were finished, if not before, they would have been overtaken by further developments, both in artillery and in strategic planning, which took account of the growing realization that everything was decided in movement, not in a state of rest.
(translation by Anthea Bell)
Covering all these tournaments has been more educational than grad school and slightly less expensive. I would like to thank some of my professors...
Photo by Sue Jaye Johnson
THE BOXERS: Thank you for risking your bodies for our enjoyment, and thank you for showing us what strength looks like in a woman. Christina Cruz was the first boxer I interviewed, and it is thanks to her that I got into coaching again at Atlas Cops and Kids. Champions Marlen Esparza and Queen Underwood are great ambassadors of the sport who have not stopped pushing themselves to improve.
Thanks to Pat Manuel for the ride to Oxnard and all the laughs. I wish him luck on his quest to make the men's team for Rio, not only because it takes great courage to be a trans athlete but because he is a very good boxer, pure and simple. What happens outside the ring is only interesting if what happens inside the ring is beautiful.
On that note, I am grateful for the inspiration of Tiara Brown, Claressa Shields, and Mikaela Mayer, the three US women whose boxing I most admire.
Christy Halbert knows more than anyone else about women's boxing, and she has been a great mentor to me. I have learned so much from watching Al Mitchell and Jason Crutchfield corner: in addition to their technical knowledge of the sport, these men love their fighters like sons and daughters. I wish I spoke Spanish so I could chill more with Coach Pedro; I think he is good for our program and I hope he stays and helps us rebuild it. And I am blessed to be in the gym every day with Aureliano Sosa, who is steadily churning out champions at Atlas Cops and Kids.
I took this picture of little Reuben at one of our club shows
THE BOXING FAMILY:
It takes a village to throw a tournament. I first met Rowdy Welch when he was working the glove table at the Trials, and he has steadily fed me hysterical pull quotes and old school boxing wisdom. Delilah Rico is a warm, motherly presence who tells it like it is. Vivi and the crew at the Spokane Quality Inn Valley Suites were incredibly kind and made this trip financially feasible. And the love David Esparza, Mark Mayer, and Hazzauna Underwood show for their fighting girls is a beautiful thing to witness.
I never imagined I would meet so many great writers on this road. What a pleasure to watch Ariel Levy work. Like most boxers, she is far more dangerous than she appears. Sue Jaye Johnson is a profound storyteller who works equally well with images and words and noticed Claressa before anyone else. I am grateful every day to work with Gautham Nagesh and Anna John of Stiff Jab, a blog whose high literary standards I admired long before I was invited to contribute. And what can I say about Raquel Ruiz, except that she is a miracle. Save up for bail money when I come to Sacramento.