Maggie's Farm

Professional boxing used to be a sport. I guess it's become an exhibition of sorts now, like The Harlem Globetrotters or wrestling. But it used to matter. It doesn't anymore.

We like violence just fine, that's not the problem. Children playing Grand Theft Auto by the forty hour weekload wouldn't wince at gloved hands and open cuts. It's simply collapsed under its own weight. The spectacle itself became subordinate to the machinations of the promoters.

The urge to look at your fellow man and declare: "I can lick you," or to choose a champion in your stead smolders unabated. It is an elemental male imperative. And such urges do not long go unsated. If boxers won't do it anymore, we'll do it ourselves, many young males say. Anyone that has listened to their children in a garage band knows we'll do it ourselves is a two edged sword. But it points to something missing, something essential; a need unmet.

Here's the last time professional boxing really mattered; please, do not tell me about Mike Tyson: A Tribute to Muhammad Ali.  (video and music)

And don't misunderstand; it was Joe Frazier that had the heart.