As Real As It Gets
In the 2005 documentary "Ring of Fire," the boxer Emile Griffith
recounts a day in 1962 when -- allegedly enraged by a slur against
his suspected homosexuality -- he beat opponent Benny Paret far
beyond an inch of his life.
Griffith's attack was so relentless that the semiconscious, concussed Paret was virtually propped up by his punches. When he finally slumped to the canvas, the 26-year-old "Kid" had no time to regret either the referee's lackadaisical intervention or his own misguided taunts. He died nine days later.
Paret was not the first combatant to be slain in the ring, nor would he be the last, but he was certainly the most visible. NBC broadcast the event live, and when news of Paret's demise began making headlines, the network immediately shied away from boxing. It would be more than a decade, and only at the insistence of the public's fascination with Muhammad Ali, that network television resumed their coverage of the fights.
But that came later. First there was New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller leading a commission to investigate the sanctioned violence, and scores of columnists using their newspaper space to deliver a remedial lesson in common sense: When the goal is to punch your rival in the head, eventually someone is going to get really, really hurt.
So here we are, 45 years later, and you can substitute the names Vince Libardi for Griffith and Sam Vasquez for Paret, but the story remains very much the same. All four men toiled in a sport that was alternately adored and reviled, with the bloodiest and most savage brawls among the most respected and referenced. Vasquez, like Paret, was aware of the risk he was taking when he stepped in the ring.
That danger is part of the allure of "extreme" sports, both for the participant and the viewer. We know the stakes are high, and we revel in the defiance.
Some of the most indelible images in this sport have come when we believed -- if only for a moment -- that the laws of probability had finally caught up with the athletes. When Steve Nelmark crumpled to the ground, neck twisted, at the hands of "Tank" Abbott, we thought he might not get up. When Kevin Randleman (Pictures) drove Fedor Emelianenko (Pictures) directly onto his head, we flashed to the image of countless paralytics whose disabilities began with that kind of trauma.
Athletes with nearly inhuman constitutions are a given. We enjoy the idea that men exist with the mettle and physical ability to withstand the kind of punishment a professional martial artist can deliver.
"Right leg, hospital; left leg, cemetery," Mirko Filipovic (Pictures) would chuckle. And we'd laugh, too, because, for God's sake, it's amazing how these men can get up from that, shake it off and fight another day.
But not all of them can.
The Vasquez tragedy will undoubtedly leave a series of repercussions that this industry will have to deal with. Those with an agenda against the sport will have more ammunition, more fuel for umbrage against an easy target; there will be reactionary measures taken by commissions, more tests and less leniency given to athletes with strange blotches on MRIs and a tendency to forget their car keys.
Perhaps the mainstream media will obsess over it (the Houston Chronicle has already deemed it worth a mention), perhaps not. Perhaps, like boxing, a death is considered the inevitable price of high-risk activity.
I cannot mourn someone I do not know, so offering sentiment to those survived by Vasquez seems disingenuous. But it's equally troubling to take nothing from the death of a man who clearly had the love and respect of family and friends.
To that end, Vasquez should serve as a reminder that what these athletes do has a savage undercurrent, one that can swallow even the kindest hearts and most durable bodies. Fighters are slammed to the mat, kicked in the face and have ample opportunity to suffer brain trauma on top of existing health issues or injuries sustained earlier in the fight.
The MMA apologists -- of which I am a card-carrying member -- dismissed the Douglas Dedge tragedy of 1998. Dedge's medical history was murky, we said. He had blacked out in training. A valid examination would have revealed irregularities. He fought in Ukraine, we argued, and don't they wait in line for bread and water there? It was tragic, but not relevant to the sport's safety record.
Even now, there will be people who will attempt -- with spectacularly poor timing -- to downplay Vasquez's death. One fatality in 15 years and tens of thousands of matches, they'll argue. It's not so bad.
And in the grand scheme of things, perhaps it's not. But try telling that to the family he left behind.
At the climax of "Ring of Fire," Griffith, now an old man, meets Paret's son for the first time. The boxer is beside himself with emotion; he can't tell the man how sorry he is for taking his father away from him.
But Benny Junior forgives Griffith, and understands the game his father played. Sometimes I wonder if we do.
For comments, e-mail jrossen@sherdog.com
Griffith's attack was so relentless that the semiconscious, concussed Paret was virtually propped up by his punches. When he finally slumped to the canvas, the 26-year-old "Kid" had no time to regret either the referee's lackadaisical intervention or his own misguided taunts. He died nine days later.
Paret was not the first combatant to be slain in the ring, nor would he be the last, but he was certainly the most visible. NBC broadcast the event live, and when news of Paret's demise began making headlines, the network immediately shied away from boxing. It would be more than a decade, and only at the insistence of the public's fascination with Muhammad Ali, that network television resumed their coverage of the fights.
But that came later. First there was New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller leading a commission to investigate the sanctioned violence, and scores of columnists using their newspaper space to deliver a remedial lesson in common sense: When the goal is to punch your rival in the head, eventually someone is going to get really, really hurt.
So here we are, 45 years later, and you can substitute the names Vince Libardi for Griffith and Sam Vasquez for Paret, but the story remains very much the same. All four men toiled in a sport that was alternately adored and reviled, with the bloodiest and most savage brawls among the most respected and referenced. Vasquez, like Paret, was aware of the risk he was taking when he stepped in the ring.
That danger is part of the allure of "extreme" sports, both for the participant and the viewer. We know the stakes are high, and we revel in the defiance.
Some of the most indelible images in this sport have come when we believed -- if only for a moment -- that the laws of probability had finally caught up with the athletes. When Steve Nelmark crumpled to the ground, neck twisted, at the hands of "Tank" Abbott, we thought he might not get up. When Kevin Randleman (Pictures) drove Fedor Emelianenko (Pictures) directly onto his head, we flashed to the image of countless paralytics whose disabilities began with that kind of trauma.
Athletes with nearly inhuman constitutions are a given. We enjoy the idea that men exist with the mettle and physical ability to withstand the kind of punishment a professional martial artist can deliver.
"Right leg, hospital; left leg, cemetery," Mirko Filipovic (Pictures) would chuckle. And we'd laugh, too, because, for God's sake, it's amazing how these men can get up from that, shake it off and fight another day.
But not all of them can.
The Vasquez tragedy will undoubtedly leave a series of repercussions that this industry will have to deal with. Those with an agenda against the sport will have more ammunition, more fuel for umbrage against an easy target; there will be reactionary measures taken by commissions, more tests and less leniency given to athletes with strange blotches on MRIs and a tendency to forget their car keys.
Perhaps the mainstream media will obsess over it (the Houston Chronicle has already deemed it worth a mention), perhaps not. Perhaps, like boxing, a death is considered the inevitable price of high-risk activity.
I cannot mourn someone I do not know, so offering sentiment to those survived by Vasquez seems disingenuous. But it's equally troubling to take nothing from the death of a man who clearly had the love and respect of family and friends.
To that end, Vasquez should serve as a reminder that what these athletes do has a savage undercurrent, one that can swallow even the kindest hearts and most durable bodies. Fighters are slammed to the mat, kicked in the face and have ample opportunity to suffer brain trauma on top of existing health issues or injuries sustained earlier in the fight.
The MMA apologists -- of which I am a card-carrying member -- dismissed the Douglas Dedge tragedy of 1998. Dedge's medical history was murky, we said. He had blacked out in training. A valid examination would have revealed irregularities. He fought in Ukraine, we argued, and don't they wait in line for bread and water there? It was tragic, but not relevant to the sport's safety record.
Even now, there will be people who will attempt -- with spectacularly poor timing -- to downplay Vasquez's death. One fatality in 15 years and tens of thousands of matches, they'll argue. It's not so bad.
And in the grand scheme of things, perhaps it's not. But try telling that to the family he left behind.
At the climax of "Ring of Fire," Griffith, now an old man, meets Paret's son for the first time. The boxer is beside himself with emotion; he can't tell the man how sorry he is for taking his father away from him.
But Benny Junior forgives Griffith, and understands the game his father played. Sometimes I wonder if we do.
For comments, e-mail jrossen@sherdog.com
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