from A.J. Liebling’s “Ahab and Nemesis”:
It was in the fourth, though, that I think Sisyphus began to get the idea he couldn’t roll back the Rock. Marciano pushed [challenger Archie Moore] against the ropes and swung at him for what seemed a full minute without ever landing a punch that a boxer with Moore’s background would consider a credit to his workmanship. He kept them coming so fast, though, that Moore tired just getting out of their way … After the bell rang for the end of the round, the champion hit him a right for good measure — he usually manges to have something on the way all the time — and then pulled back to disclaim any uncouth intention. Moore, no man to be conned, hit him a corker of a punch in return, when he wasn’t expecting it. It was a gesture of moral reprobation and also a punch that would give any normal man something to think about between rounds. It was a good thing Moore couldn’t see Marciano’s face as he came back to his corner, though, because the champion was laughing.
I read Liebling’s account of the Marciano-Moore fight with both amusement and horror at the idea of Marciano that formed in my mind. Liebling uses many metaphors for Marciano, the most persistent being the Whale to Moore’s Ahab or the Rock to Moore’s Sisyphus… These are great, but they define Marciano as primarily a relation to Moore’s aims and hubris (thus, the titular “Nemesis”). Taking in the rest of Liebling’s description of the fight, particularly those of Marciano when he would return to his corner, and watching footage of it gave me a more complex idea of the champion than just the object of Moore’s aspirational attention.
In the ring (and certainly on that day) Marciano was a maelstrom with the added effect of something inescapable, like quicksand. Not a malevolent force, but a force of nature. But the picture isn’t finished there as nature does not have a mind of its own. Add to this powerful image something discerning, the fact that Marciano was a force that was a fully aware one (frighteningly) at that. I am reminded of my friend Dolan’s humorous yet accurate description of Fedor Emelianenko’s power:
As long as there is Fedor, we must have universal healthcare. And, in fact, as long as there is the memory of Fedor. I think thinking about Fedor can hurt you, too. That is, he’ll have so much hurt-power left after he’s dead that it will just float around looking for a place to land. Like your face.
It’s an understandable feeling for someone unfamiliar with seeing such well-harnessed violence, but it doesn’t give a sense of the will harnessing it (not only in the fight itself, but in all the training leading up to it). We have this half-true picture of these fighters as ultimate destructive forces, essentially insurmountable and obliterating all that is set before them. Yet, outside the ring these two champions have been known as relatively passive and humble figures. Emelianenko is the smiling and quiet sort in interviews and seems to devote a lot of free time (outside of training) to his family and his religion. Marciano is described by Liebling as:
a humble, kindly fellow, who even now will approach an acquaintance on the street and say bashfully, “Remember me? I’m Rocky Marciano.”
It’s not that our ideas of these men as monsters in the ring is wrong from where we’re standing, it’s a natural first reaction to something that is simultaneously violent, artistic, and beyond our comprehension of human capabilities. The problem is that the idea is incomplete and we stop there.
What fascinates me most about Emelianeko and Marciano (and those like them) is not they are juggernauts in the ring (to the point that we feel pressed to equate them larger than life forces), but rather how they forge themselves into being so powerful (psychically even more so than physically). It may take an added moment of reflection, but it is better to not dehumanize these fighters when we can help it. If these fighters have reached a point where they seem super-human, it is because they are frequently confronting their human potential head on.
