BY STEVE JANOSKI
Wednesday, Oct. 13, 2010
We all know a guy like him. He’s been a Giants’ fan since you were in first grade together, but all of a sudden, he comes into the bar with a Maurice Jones-Drew jersey on a Sunday afternoon.
His opening comment is likely going to be along the lines of, “Bro, you’ll never guess who I got on my fantasy team— we’re gonna’ be siiiiick this year.” Clearly, he had the first pick in his fantasy football draft…and then he went out and bought the jersey of the guy he drafted.
Shortly after, he begins listing all the players he chose, and you stop listening and tip your pint glass back in the attempt to stop your ears from bleeding because really, who cares who anybody else has on their fantasy team?
Such is what the first weeks of the football season have become.
Long ago, we used to root for the team we actually liked— now, pretending to be the Jerry Jones of our very own football team has us rooting for players we hate on teams we despise.
I was guilty of this last year when I picked Dallas Cowboys running back Marion Barber to be on my team, “The Bayshore Yagabawms.”
I should have known better, because as a lifelong Giants fan, nobody has hated the Cowboys organization with more vigor than I.
Regardless, in a move that rivaled Benedict Arnold’s treason, I still picked Barber.
I realized the trappings of fantasy football during the Giants- Cowboys game last year as I watched Barber rip off run after run, killing my team but earning my fake team points.
On one play, he tore through the line and sprung for a 20 or 30 yard run, causing me to curse vehemently at the TV all the while being quietly semi-happy that I was getting fantasy points for it, only to end the play cursing and swearing again when Barber gimped off the field clutching his hamstring seconds later (an injury that put the Yagabawms in the cellar for the rest of the year.)
Fantasy football had turned me into an indecisive, blithering idiot in a matter of seconds, and I felt guilty, dirty even, for having rooted for Barber against my boys for even a second.
This year, although I refused to draft any Cowboys, I made the mistake of trying to manage four different teams simultaneously. What I didn’t realize is that running multiple teams is like trying to date more than one woman at a time— if you think you’re handling it smoothly and things are going well, you’re probably about one step away from a horrific, Chernobyl-style disaster that will leave bodies in the streets and cities destroyed.
Some guys, I’ve heard, have gone as far as managing 10 or 15 leagues at a time.
I don’t know where they find the time to actually watch the games in between managing their mythical teams, but it’s a safe bet that they don’t have to worry about things like dating.
On the other hand, fantasy football does give me a reason to watch games that the Giants aren’t playing in, and offers me someone to root for because, in a roundabout way, I’ve got money on them.
It’s also been adept at getting the general public more into football—one rookie fan I know was overheard during a draft whispering, “What’s a ‘bye week?’”
Now, this Don Quixote of the football world is welded to the TVs at the local dives every Sunday, alternating between fits of joy and despair as the scores tumble and rise—it’s like sitting at a craps table, except the drinks aren’t free and nobody cares when you win.
The NFL has scored huge with fantasy football, and as the game tightens its narcotic grip on the hearts and minds of the young males of this country, one wonders whether “Draft Day” will eventually become a holiday, like some say the day after the Super Bowl should be.
If it does, I’m taking that whole week off, because I don’t want to hear who everybody picked.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Pequannock resident preparing to take on Golden Gloves tournament
Sunday, January 16, 2011
BY STEVE JANOSKI
Most early mornings start the same for Mike DeLade Jr. since he began boxing: a 5 a.m. rising followed by a 45-minute run that takes him through the streets of Pequannock before most of the people have stirred from slumber.
The Benjamin Place resident then works during the day doing construction and contracting work before driving down to Whippany's Final Round Boxing gym.
There, DeLade finishes off his day by lacing on the gloves and lighting up the bags in somber preparation for February's NJ Golden Gloves tournament, which has pitted the best amateur fighters against each other every year since 1923.
It's been a long road to the boxing gym for the 23-year-old DeLade, who graduated from Pequannock Township High School in 2005 and has worked a variety of blue-collar jobs since, ranging from air conditioning and heating, to masonry and snow plowing.
The grind of the blue-collar world led to boredom and sometimes trouble for DeLade, who's had a few "scuffles" on a few nights that didn't end early enough.
"I had always wanted to fight, but I always seemed to like fighting in bars more," he said with a laugh.
He began playing flag football to break the monotony, but that wasn't enough, and one sport continued to draw him in: boxing.
"My uncles always liked watching boxing, and after watching the fights, I wanted to learn the art of it," he said, noting that a cousin of his had also been a Golden Gloves fighter.
Although he didn't necessarily receive support from his mother ("She said, 'I don't want your face to get busted up.'") or his friends ("They said, 'People train their whole lives for that tournament.'"), he pushed on and eventually found a home at Final Round Boxing.
"I told them that even if I don't (win), at least I can say that I tried," he said. "And my father is psyched about it too. He thinks I could do good in there."
So, for the past two months, DeLade has been training under the watchful eye of Final Round's boxing coach, former heavyweight fighter Lou Esa of Wayne.
"When I joined, Lou asked if I wanted to fight amateur or not, so we did a couple sessions to see if I was good enough," DeLade said.
After those sessions, Esa agreed to train him for the tournament.
"He said I hit hard and that all the other things will come together," he said.
Esa, 59, is a giant of a man with bear paws for hands who once fought on Muhammad Ali's undercards during his pro career. He's not one to mince words, but said that the kid's getting better, and quickly.
"He's used to street fighting and all, so he's not afraid to get hit, but when I get him sparring more I'll be able to better judge (his ability)," Esa said. "But the way things are going now, I think he'll breeze right through the (Golden) Gloves."
Esa joked that DeLade still has the "white man's disease"— a term he coined for having little rhythm and slow feet (similar to "Rocky").
However, one thing the 6-foot-1, 225-pound DeLade has that makes Esa grin is a big right hand that he thinks could devastate opponents.
"That right hand," Esa said, "is going to put somebody on Queer Street if he hits 'em with it."
On top of his natural power, DeLade has exhibited a ceaseless work ethic that Esa admires.
"He goes right into his workout, he doesn't play, and that impresses the hell out of me," he said. "He wants this so bad."
DeLade said that he can't wait to get in the ring for what would be his first amateur fights when the Golden Gloves tournament starts in the first week of February.
"(Boxing) isn't a team thing. I played football my whole life, but this, the whole weight is on you. It's between you and the other fighter," he said. "It's 'Let's see what you got, let's see how much you want it.'"
An hour's worth of running every morning, and later on, after laboring all day, it's another hour or two of training a variety of skill work, from shadowboxing and jumping rope to speed and heavy bag work, all with one goal: to be able to hurt another man so badly that he can't continue fighting.
At the start, it can be discouraging as fighters engage muscles they've never used before and find out that it's not as easy as it looks.
"It's pretty hard, especially in the beginning," DeLade said. "The first time I hit a speed bag, I thought, 'I'm never gonna be able to get this.'
"It takes a while, and you've got to do little things like shadowbox at home in front of a mirror, and when you're getting tired, you have to go right through it," he said.
The practice, however, is paying off in a big way.
"The other day he hit the bag with a 1-2-1-2," said Esa, "And that thing went flying… The whole gym noticed. I told (DeLade) that that's what I want. He's been doing fantastic."
Coincidentally, working the heavy bag happens to be DeLade's favorite hobby.
"I get some frustration out, and if you do the right combo or hit it right, you can tell right away," he said.
The close relationship between trainer and fighter is already beginning to form even though they haven't been working together long, and DeLade trusts Esa's every word.
"He knows everything about boxing and he tells it how it is. He doesn't sugarcoat things," DeLade said. "Whatever Lou says, I do."
With the tournament looming ever closer, the training becomes more and more crucial for what will be the first test of DeLade's skills in the squared circle.
"I think my chances are really good since I'm training hard, and I'm really serious about it… (Winning) it would probably be the biggest accomplishment of my life," he said. "I've got the conditioning and I've got the confidence. I can't wait."
E-mail: janoski@northjersey.com
The Benjamin Place resident then works during the day doing construction and contracting work before driving down to Whippany's Final Round Boxing gym.
There, DeLade finishes off his day by lacing on the gloves and lighting up the bags in somber preparation for February's NJ Golden Gloves tournament, which has pitted the best amateur fighters against each other every year since 1923.
It's been a long road to the boxing gym for the 23-year-old DeLade, who graduated from Pequannock Township High School in 2005 and has worked a variety of blue-collar jobs since, ranging from air conditioning and heating, to masonry and snow plowing.
The grind of the blue-collar world led to boredom and sometimes trouble for DeLade, who's had a few "scuffles" on a few nights that didn't end early enough.
"I had always wanted to fight, but I always seemed to like fighting in bars more," he said with a laugh.
He began playing flag football to break the monotony, but that wasn't enough, and one sport continued to draw him in: boxing.
"My uncles always liked watching boxing, and after watching the fights, I wanted to learn the art of it," he said, noting that a cousin of his had also been a Golden Gloves fighter.
Although he didn't necessarily receive support from his mother ("She said, 'I don't want your face to get busted up.'") or his friends ("They said, 'People train their whole lives for that tournament.'"), he pushed on and eventually found a home at Final Round Boxing.
"I told them that even if I don't (win), at least I can say that I tried," he said. "And my father is psyched about it too. He thinks I could do good in there."
So, for the past two months, DeLade has been training under the watchful eye of Final Round's boxing coach, former heavyweight fighter Lou Esa of Wayne.
"When I joined, Lou asked if I wanted to fight amateur or not, so we did a couple sessions to see if I was good enough," DeLade said.
After those sessions, Esa agreed to train him for the tournament.
"He said I hit hard and that all the other things will come together," he said.
Esa, 59, is a giant of a man with bear paws for hands who once fought on Muhammad Ali's undercards during his pro career. He's not one to mince words, but said that the kid's getting better, and quickly.
"He's used to street fighting and all, so he's not afraid to get hit, but when I get him sparring more I'll be able to better judge (his ability)," Esa said. "But the way things are going now, I think he'll breeze right through the (Golden) Gloves."
Esa joked that DeLade still has the "white man's disease"— a term he coined for having little rhythm and slow feet (similar to "Rocky").
However, one thing the 6-foot-1, 225-pound DeLade has that makes Esa grin is a big right hand that he thinks could devastate opponents.
"That right hand," Esa said, "is going to put somebody on Queer Street if he hits 'em with it."
On top of his natural power, DeLade has exhibited a ceaseless work ethic that Esa admires.
"He goes right into his workout, he doesn't play, and that impresses the hell out of me," he said. "He wants this so bad."
DeLade said that he can't wait to get in the ring for what would be his first amateur fights when the Golden Gloves tournament starts in the first week of February.
"(Boxing) isn't a team thing. I played football my whole life, but this, the whole weight is on you. It's between you and the other fighter," he said. "It's 'Let's see what you got, let's see how much you want it.'"
Grueling workouts… daily
Those who have boxed might attest to the punishing nature of the sport's training.An hour's worth of running every morning, and later on, after laboring all day, it's another hour or two of training a variety of skill work, from shadowboxing and jumping rope to speed and heavy bag work, all with one goal: to be able to hurt another man so badly that he can't continue fighting.
At the start, it can be discouraging as fighters engage muscles they've never used before and find out that it's not as easy as it looks.
"It's pretty hard, especially in the beginning," DeLade said. "The first time I hit a speed bag, I thought, 'I'm never gonna be able to get this.'
"It takes a while, and you've got to do little things like shadowbox at home in front of a mirror, and when you're getting tired, you have to go right through it," he said.
The practice, however, is paying off in a big way.
"The other day he hit the bag with a 1-2-1-2," said Esa, "And that thing went flying… The whole gym noticed. I told (DeLade) that that's what I want. He's been doing fantastic."
Coincidentally, working the heavy bag happens to be DeLade's favorite hobby.
"I get some frustration out, and if you do the right combo or hit it right, you can tell right away," he said.
The close relationship between trainer and fighter is already beginning to form even though they haven't been working together long, and DeLade trusts Esa's every word.
"He knows everything about boxing and he tells it how it is. He doesn't sugarcoat things," DeLade said. "Whatever Lou says, I do."
With the tournament looming ever closer, the training becomes more and more crucial for what will be the first test of DeLade's skills in the squared circle.
"I think my chances are really good since I'm training hard, and I'm really serious about it… (Winning) it would probably be the biggest accomplishment of my life," he said. "I've got the conditioning and I've got the confidence. I can't wait."
E-mail: janoski@northjersey.com
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Whitewashing America's History
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
BY STEVE JANOSKI
Words are perhaps the most powerful of things. They can illuminate, devastate, and forever alter the realities of the world, exposing the fraudulent and eviscerating the powerful within the single sweep of an ivory page.
They can erupt in explosions that dwarf the fiercest bomb, and from the printing of the first Bible to Thomas Paine’s legendary "Common Sense" to Harriet Beecher Stowe’s "Uncle Tom’s Cabin," they have inspired new thoughts, generated new beliefs, and ignited revolutions.
In our shallow society, many remain unaware of the potent power they possess by putting pen to page, but for proof of its impact in the present day, one need look no further than, of all places, Montgomery, Alabama, where the literary world has been set ablaze over the controversial decision of editor Alan Gribben of NewSouth Books Inc.
Gribben has decided that NewSouth will attempt to strip Mark Twain’s classic "Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn" of its racist epithets in an upcoming edition due out in February; in it, the word "nigger" is to be replaced with "slave," and the word "injun" is to be replaced with "Indian."
Gribben’s reasoning? The book is left off of many school reading lists because of its use of the words, and isn’t as widely read as a consequence, he says.
"We may applaud Twain’s ability as a prominent American literary realist to record the speech of a particular region during a specific historical era," writes Gribben in the introduction to the book, "But abusive racial insults that bear distinct connotations of permanent inferiority nonetheless repulse modern-day readers."
Gribben goes on to say that for 40 years he has discussed Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn in public forums such as college classes and libraries, and he has always refrained from using the slurs.
"I invariably substituted the word "slave" for Twain’s ubiquitous n-word whenever I read any passages aloud," he said. "Students and audience members seemed to prefer this expedient, and I could detect a visible sense of relief each time, as though a nagging problem with the text had been addressed."
Well yea Alan, by eliminating the blatant racism that’s built into this piece of nineteenth-century literature, you sure do eliminate a lot of those "nagging problems," don’t you?
Now, instead of the children who receive this book thinking about how horrific the thought process was of the average white American back in the 1840s, they can believe that slaves and masters alike walked hand-in-hand in harmony under the magnolia trees.
They might even wonder why Jim was trying to escape in the first place….if Gribben mixes in a little "Gone With the Wind," I do believe he could construct his very own mythical history of the Old South.
Hell, while he’s at it, why doesn’t he just go take out the parts mentioning slavery altogether?
We’ll call Jim a "runaway servant" instead, because the term "slave" will surely offend the Southerners who still call the Civil War the "War of Northern Aggression." They’d jump at the chance to throw some white paint over their blood-red history.
And, instead of making it along the Mississippi River, let’s have it take place along the St. Lawrence River, so we don’t generalize and make it seem like the South was the only place that owned slaves.
Oh wait, it was? Well, what’s that matter? We’re revising history, so let’s move the Mason-Dixon somewhere up around New York State to make them feel even better.
We should probably edit the letters of Abraham Lincoln too, being as he used now-derogatory racial terms frequently, and even once said that he didn’t believe the black man was equal to the white.
If people knew this, they might be repulsed! Cut it!
What Gribben conveniently forgets is that literature is supposed to make us confront difficult issues— even if it’s the hideously revolting racism that lies in America’s past, as evidenced by our active participation in the subjugation of a race of people.
When it comes down to it, the removal of these words and the butchering and desecration of this American masterpiece by one pompous editor from a book company based in the first capital of the Confederacy is a crime nearly unparalleled in literary history.
It is a historical whitewashing of epic proportions that is equivalent to tearing out the pages of every German history book that covers the years of 1933-1945.
George Orwell once wrote that, "Who controls the past, controls the future; who controls the present, controls the past."
I’ll be damned if I’ll ever let a member of the politically correct Gestapo control the past, and this publisher should be boycotted and driven out of business; its revisionist filth should be burned in glowing piles in the streets.
E-mail: janoski@northjersey.com
They can erupt in explosions that dwarf the fiercest bomb, and from the printing of the first Bible to Thomas Paine’s legendary "Common Sense" to Harriet Beecher Stowe’s "Uncle Tom’s Cabin," they have inspired new thoughts, generated new beliefs, and ignited revolutions.
In our shallow society, many remain unaware of the potent power they possess by putting pen to page, but for proof of its impact in the present day, one need look no further than, of all places, Montgomery, Alabama, where the literary world has been set ablaze over the controversial decision of editor Alan Gribben of NewSouth Books Inc.
Gribben has decided that NewSouth will attempt to strip Mark Twain’s classic "Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn" of its racist epithets in an upcoming edition due out in February; in it, the word "nigger" is to be replaced with "slave," and the word "injun" is to be replaced with "Indian."
Gribben’s reasoning? The book is left off of many school reading lists because of its use of the words, and isn’t as widely read as a consequence, he says.
"We may applaud Twain’s ability as a prominent American literary realist to record the speech of a particular region during a specific historical era," writes Gribben in the introduction to the book, "But abusive racial insults that bear distinct connotations of permanent inferiority nonetheless repulse modern-day readers."
Gribben goes on to say that for 40 years he has discussed Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn in public forums such as college classes and libraries, and he has always refrained from using the slurs.
"I invariably substituted the word "slave" for Twain’s ubiquitous n-word whenever I read any passages aloud," he said. "Students and audience members seemed to prefer this expedient, and I could detect a visible sense of relief each time, as though a nagging problem with the text had been addressed."
Well yea Alan, by eliminating the blatant racism that’s built into this piece of nineteenth-century literature, you sure do eliminate a lot of those "nagging problems," don’t you?
Now, instead of the children who receive this book thinking about how horrific the thought process was of the average white American back in the 1840s, they can believe that slaves and masters alike walked hand-in-hand in harmony under the magnolia trees.
They might even wonder why Jim was trying to escape in the first place….if Gribben mixes in a little "Gone With the Wind," I do believe he could construct his very own mythical history of the Old South.
Hell, while he’s at it, why doesn’t he just go take out the parts mentioning slavery altogether?
We’ll call Jim a "runaway servant" instead, because the term "slave" will surely offend the Southerners who still call the Civil War the "War of Northern Aggression." They’d jump at the chance to throw some white paint over their blood-red history.
And, instead of making it along the Mississippi River, let’s have it take place along the St. Lawrence River, so we don’t generalize and make it seem like the South was the only place that owned slaves.
Oh wait, it was? Well, what’s that matter? We’re revising history, so let’s move the Mason-Dixon somewhere up around New York State to make them feel even better.
We should probably edit the letters of Abraham Lincoln too, being as he used now-derogatory racial terms frequently, and even once said that he didn’t believe the black man was equal to the white.
If people knew this, they might be repulsed! Cut it!
What Gribben conveniently forgets is that literature is supposed to make us confront difficult issues— even if it’s the hideously revolting racism that lies in America’s past, as evidenced by our active participation in the subjugation of a race of people.
When it comes down to it, the removal of these words and the butchering and desecration of this American masterpiece by one pompous editor from a book company based in the first capital of the Confederacy is a crime nearly unparalleled in literary history.
It is a historical whitewashing of epic proportions that is equivalent to tearing out the pages of every German history book that covers the years of 1933-1945.
George Orwell once wrote that, "Who controls the past, controls the future; who controls the present, controls the past."
I’ll be damned if I’ll ever let a member of the politically correct Gestapo control the past, and this publisher should be boycotted and driven out of business; its revisionist filth should be burned in glowing piles in the streets.
E-mail: janoski@northjersey.com
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The noblest parts of the hardest game
BY STEVE JANOSKI
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The first professional fight I ever watched was on Cinco de Mayo, 2007.
That night, a few friends and I had gone to a seedy bar in a rough section of town to watch Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Oscar De La Hoya go to war.
There had been a lot of hard talk before the fight, and I had just begun learning to box myself at the time, so I figured I should watch one or two fights to see what the top dogs did.
It was hardly a memorable fight— a mundane split decision victory for Mayweather that featured a lot of movement and very little brawling.
Regardless, it captivated me, as fighting in any form often captivates young men.
Growing up shorter than the rest of the crowd in my youth, I'd lost my first fight in kindergarten and faired only mildly better in many affairs after, so I knew what it was like early on to get hit.
Why anyone would want to make a profession of such a thing escaped logic to me, but I came to understand it that night.
It was the atmosphere around the ring, which, though filled with movie stars and former fighters and politicians, also has an electrical energy in it, a deadly calm that occurs on the seas right before a hurricane hits.
And then, for its flash and fanfare and fame— then, the brutal, unadulterated violence explodes.
It seems like a simple sport, the base of which comes down to "hit the other guy more, and harder, than he hits you." That's probably why every guy thinks he can do it, or that he knows what he's talking about when watching a fight.
The truth is that they can't, they don't, and that boxing is possibly the most complicated, subtly nuanced sport ever invented.
Even with the advent of Mixed Martial Arts, which seems to be overtaking part of boxing's market, there still is no question which is the "harder" sport.
MMA athletes are warriors just the same, but there are ways in MMA to dodge the brutality that's simply inherent in boxing.
Don't want to get hit in the face? Shoot for his legs. Take him down, make it a grappling match. Try and "tap out" the other guy.
In boxing, you can't tap out. The only way to tap out is to take a knee and let the referee stop the fight, but for real men, literally bowing in the face of an overwhelming opponent can be a soul-shattering experience.
And so we have fighters, guys like Micky Ward or Arturo Gatti or Diego Corrales, who made careers out of being known to never, ever quit, and to go out on their shield in the most literal sense of the term, finishing the fight either standing up or knocked out.
That's a lot to ask for when, after round upon round, you know you're not getting knocked out but the bones and your face feel like they've melded together in one mushy, painful pile, and that one more shot might blow them apart.
Boxing represents all that has left our society, and what lies in the souls of fighters is not found in the souls of those who play basketball or football.
When one of these players spikes the ball in the endzone or dunks on another guy, he's saying, "I've won. I'm harder than you, I'm more of man than you."
Sometimes the dunked on player will take offense, and a shoving match will ensure, maybe even a full blown fight. Because really, that's what all of these games come down to — who's more of a man, and who is the alpha dog.
And when you're looking to settle who is king of the mountain, well, that's settled with fists.
The spectacle of a boxing match is what forms the base for all of these other games that are trying to show who's king without getting beaten to death while doing it — this is why nobody "plays" boxing.
This society as a whole has become overwhelmingly frightened of violence. A cross word can get you sued, dodge ball is banned in schools, and HR departments and "mediators" settle disputes that once might have been settled the old way.
But in truth, a little violence is a good thing.
It's good to know where your limits are, what it feels like to get hit, and the sense of accomplishment you get from being so tired that your lungs are gasoline burnt and you can't hold your arms up and a fighter is trying to kill you…but you still made it through.
That's the kind of thing that boxing slams on the table and shoves towards you. There's no plaudits for those that can't make it, no participation trophies for the "B" level fighters.
Don't want to get hit? Get out of the gym. Not hard enough? You'll get knocked stupid, and no trainer will waste his time on you.
And if you do lose, you've got to admit that there's at least one guy out there who probably could have killed you if he didn't let up or the fight wasn't stopped.
This is one of most sobering thoughts that a human can have.
Email: Janoski@northjersey.com
That night, a few friends and I had gone to a seedy bar in a rough section of town to watch Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Oscar De La Hoya go to war.
There had been a lot of hard talk before the fight, and I had just begun learning to box myself at the time, so I figured I should watch one or two fights to see what the top dogs did.
It was hardly a memorable fight— a mundane split decision victory for Mayweather that featured a lot of movement and very little brawling.
Regardless, it captivated me, as fighting in any form often captivates young men.
Growing up shorter than the rest of the crowd in my youth, I'd lost my first fight in kindergarten and faired only mildly better in many affairs after, so I knew what it was like early on to get hit.
Why anyone would want to make a profession of such a thing escaped logic to me, but I came to understand it that night.
It was the atmosphere around the ring, which, though filled with movie stars and former fighters and politicians, also has an electrical energy in it, a deadly calm that occurs on the seas right before a hurricane hits.
And then, for its flash and fanfare and fame— then, the brutal, unadulterated violence explodes.
It seems like a simple sport, the base of which comes down to "hit the other guy more, and harder, than he hits you." That's probably why every guy thinks he can do it, or that he knows what he's talking about when watching a fight.
The truth is that they can't, they don't, and that boxing is possibly the most complicated, subtly nuanced sport ever invented.
Even with the advent of Mixed Martial Arts, which seems to be overtaking part of boxing's market, there still is no question which is the "harder" sport.
MMA athletes are warriors just the same, but there are ways in MMA to dodge the brutality that's simply inherent in boxing.
Don't want to get hit in the face? Shoot for his legs. Take him down, make it a grappling match. Try and "tap out" the other guy.
In boxing, you can't tap out. The only way to tap out is to take a knee and let the referee stop the fight, but for real men, literally bowing in the face of an overwhelming opponent can be a soul-shattering experience.
And so we have fighters, guys like Micky Ward or Arturo Gatti or Diego Corrales, who made careers out of being known to never, ever quit, and to go out on their shield in the most literal sense of the term, finishing the fight either standing up or knocked out.
That's a lot to ask for when, after round upon round, you know you're not getting knocked out but the bones and your face feel like they've melded together in one mushy, painful pile, and that one more shot might blow them apart.
Boxing represents all that has left our society, and what lies in the souls of fighters is not found in the souls of those who play basketball or football.
When one of these players spikes the ball in the endzone or dunks on another guy, he's saying, "I've won. I'm harder than you, I'm more of man than you."
Sometimes the dunked on player will take offense, and a shoving match will ensure, maybe even a full blown fight. Because really, that's what all of these games come down to — who's more of a man, and who is the alpha dog.
And when you're looking to settle who is king of the mountain, well, that's settled with fists.
The spectacle of a boxing match is what forms the base for all of these other games that are trying to show who's king without getting beaten to death while doing it — this is why nobody "plays" boxing.
This society as a whole has become overwhelmingly frightened of violence. A cross word can get you sued, dodge ball is banned in schools, and HR departments and "mediators" settle disputes that once might have been settled the old way.
But in truth, a little violence is a good thing.
It's good to know where your limits are, what it feels like to get hit, and the sense of accomplishment you get from being so tired that your lungs are gasoline burnt and you can't hold your arms up and a fighter is trying to kill you…but you still made it through.
That's the kind of thing that boxing slams on the table and shoves towards you. There's no plaudits for those that can't make it, no participation trophies for the "B" level fighters.
Don't want to get hit? Get out of the gym. Not hard enough? You'll get knocked stupid, and no trainer will waste his time on you.
And if you do lose, you've got to admit that there's at least one guy out there who probably could have killed you if he didn't let up or the fight wasn't stopped.
This is one of most sobering thoughts that a human can have.
Email: Janoski@northjersey.com
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Better to wear out than rust out
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
BY STEVE JANOSKI
When you go through elementary and middle school, there’s always "next year" to think about. You’re a year closer to high school, a year closer to driving, a year closer to being 18, a year closer to 21. Something exciting always lies around the bend that’s making right now worth it, and you just can’t wait until "the future" is here.
That wide open world is an electrifying one where you could still be president or an astronaut or a pro baseball player because life hasn’t really arrived and showed you the beating you’re going to take. Instead it waits and watches our ignorant youth, smiles at our idealism, and then plots our demise.
But when it stands and delivers, it does so fiercely. Some of us it kills outright before we reach our prime. Others get in trouble, either with the law or other things, and spend the rest of their time fighting for redemption. A few take off, and shoot right to the top of the food chain in whatever they do. These folks are rare.
Most of us end up somewhere in the middle though, and after high school or college, we find a "real job," which sounds the death knell of looking forward to "what’s around the bend."
In some professions there’s something like a promotion or pay increase to work toward, but many times those are vague hopes, moving targets that can seem so far away that working "toward" them can feel like a Sisyphean task.
It becomes all too easy to settle into what some might call a rut, even in a job you love. The days charge by, the calendar years change, and life rolls at a downhill pace that leaves us wondering where the last decade or so went.
Even our hobbies can take on a mundane feeling, and it becomes rare that we step out of our narrow box and feel the intimidation or discomfort that comes inherent with doing a new thing. We’re too old, too fat, too slow, too tired to be bothered.
This has led to what writer Richard Strozzi-Heckler once called a "muted nation of spectators," a country full of people who live and die by what happens in the sporting arena or on reality TV— not realizing that their own reality is slipping away with every minute.
Strozzi-Heckler blamed this on the manner in which we’re educated.
I disagree. I think it’s just a matter of being human.
We fear the things that we don’t know or haven’t experienced, and breaking through the bars that keep us in the cages we’ve created is just too much for some.
We like patterns, stability, and comfort— and our living room couches tend to be quite comfortable. We forget that the only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth of the hole.
In the last year I’ve found that there is only one way to break this, and although it is simple and sounds easy, it’s a violent transition that is more difficult than it seems: get out in the world, and do things.
As we age, we must, must, must try new things in the attempt to constantly improve. Go somewhere different, join a class, learn a trade, just do something that makes you better than you were an hour ago.
Nobody can set the goal for you, and that’s what makes it both easier and more difficult. I knew I wanted to formally learn to box, but stepping into a boxing gym, no matter where it is, is difficult. It is intimidating, and uncomfortable, until you get a sense of the place.
But that in itself is an adventure. Having that feeling, the worried quiver in the pit your stomach, over something that isn’t all that scary is worth it because once it’s conquered, it’s gone. It’s a tiny victory that no matter how seemingly insignificant, makes us just a little bit tougher, a little bit smarter.
I’ve tried to live this creed out in the last year. I quit smoking, joined a gym, shot a gun, went to a live boxing match, read as many books as I could, and learned to hit a speed bag, All of these were skills or things that a year ago at this time, I couldn’t do, or hadn’t done.
And although they’re not going to win me any medals, although nobody else cares whether I did them or not, they’ve made me believe that over the course of this year, I’ve made progress.
I’m a physically stronger, smarter, better person than I was at this time last year. I was not static, I did not rust on the couch, I did not watch others live while my own life leaked away.
A friend of mine who took up running in his mid-50s sent me an e-mail a month ago talking about a 5K he had run on Thanksgiving morning.
"Funny thing about life," he wrote. "Some participate, most just watch. I suppose both have their merits."
I disagree with him as well. There is no merit in just watching.
In 2011, don't watch. Do.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
http://www.northjersey.com/recreation/112644679_Better_to_wear_out_than_rust_out.html?c=y&page=1
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