I’ve been reading one of the most revered boxing writers, New Yorker contributor AJ Liebling.  He was a writer that would have felt just as home behind the mic providing color commentary like Max Kellerman or Paulie Malignaggi, but he instead provided meditative essays most unexpected for such a brutal sport, especially in his time. He was still the perennial professional, but weaved inside the report of the biggest fights in New York was this extra human dimension; 24/7 but in writing if you will. But more than just sharing deep realism, Liebling cared about the fighter’s dreams and motivations. In a time when boxing media required physical attendance, and were gatherings that were probably as dangerous as the risks the fighters took inside the ring, Liebling was there in the front row and in the locker rooms and in the gym. He penned the name “The Sweet Science” but only to punctuate the depths of boxing story Liebling brings forward. He decomposes a picture of the entire boxing experience, from the hard work in the gym for novices, to the champion weigh-ins and the seething anticipation of the crowd in the seconds between rounds.

The primary collection of Liebling’s stories was self-titled The Sweet Science, and his other collection named The Neutral Corner. I’ve been picking up one story at a time from each book, and am noticing the supreme passion AJ Liebling has for boxing and how startly different the sport was in his time. AJ Liebling was a gym rat that absorbed boxing as an observer. He would keep his mind in the moment and pursue the story in the boxers, and be concise on actual events but lean on his paragraphs explaining how much compassion and emotion he would recall of the boxers, the team, the gym, the difficult weeks of work in between the NY lights.

AJ Liebling wrote alot about the fighters in and around Stillman‘s Gym, a legendary gym that housed the likes of Jack Dempsey, Joe Louis, and Rocky Marciano, but Liebling actually wrote a lot about the challengers, the no-names and what their lives were like outside the gym. He wrote about transient fighters looking to make more money in the big city. He wrote about the drunks in the nosebleed seats bullying richer people in the expensive seats. What was interesting was him writing about what I would’ve called today as gatekeepers, like Tommy “Hurricane” Jackson.

What interested Liebling to Jackson was not only his Tommy Hearns-like physical gifts (his reach was always longer) and his unlimited endurance as a heavyweight (something nonexistent today) but how Tommy was squarely between boxing art and boxing capability. Looking up Jackson on boxrec was like a looking at Brandon Rios’ record. If your name wasn’t Floyd Patterson, you simply cannot beat Hurricane Jackson. [Jackson even beat Ezzard Charles, twice!] He was an illiterate fighter that could run for days and fought on instinct, but was slow to start and just too simple, too uncoordinated, ill-managed, or just simply unlucky. While brighter lights rewarded Floyd Patterson, Liebling instead sheds his light to Tommy Jackson. “On the night of the [Nino Valdez] fight, I was more excited than I had been before any match for years, and for purely subjective reasons. If the animal [Tommy Jackson] won, it meant that the Sweet Science was mere guess-work…” He went on to understand the difference between the boxer that can paint with his tools, and the boxer that well, simply has tools. It’s wafer thin, and makes a mystery again of what was supposed to be the Sweet Science. But thankfully the simple art of Tommy Jackson was remembered and shared by Liebling, and I came away elevating Floyd Patterson to greater heights but also respecting the immense legacy of the top men he beat, most especially the Hurricane.

AJ Lieblings stories are pregnant of these spaces in between headlines; full of riches from boxing events in the past, and I will continue to recall them here in short specials. Liebling reminds me of what we started Blood Money Boxing about, critical commentary with depth. We don’t talk only about the star fighter, but also the strong fighters that those fighters overcome. If boxing is a representation of a truly democratic sport that I love, we’d do well  by following the lead of AJ Liebling and cover the Hurricane’s and the Bam Bams.

Credit of the photos of Stillman’s gym goes to the venerable Magnum Photos.

I’m coming to the realization on exactly why boxing is truly one of the greatest human achievements, but also one of the most wicked in sports history. Boxing is one of the most revered individual sport and is a competition so purely distilled in skill and ambition; however, even racehorses are treated with more dignity in retirement. Legends of the past are kept alive orally but legends of the present are stifled by money, their own management, or even the media. That’s why its even more of a responsibility to stay critical of the sport as fans, because sometimes the impact of a single boxing match has world-changing implications, and would unfairly sway conversations on who was the best and who wasn’t the best. I guess what I’m trying to say is that we fans should honor all fighters who step in the ring, and give due to legends of the past, but recognize that the history of the sport largely stands undocumented, unless we all accept that boxing is as diverse and multifaceted as society itself, where for every rock, there’s paper, and for every scissor, there’s rock.

Conversations of TBE in the today’s world is as disconcerting to the present state of boxing. Sure, Floyd Mayweather Jr. calls himself TBE. Why not? He retired at the top of boxing world on his terms. We might still be coming into grips of that in the next 10 years, but why all incessant debate, and why muddle the economics of matchups with legacy. Just a quick trip to frequent tropes of TBE debates grinds to a halt with Sugar Ray Robinson, where I went even further and hunted down information beyond that. I found that the art and science of boxing shouldn’t be judged only on performances on the big stage but also what was forged in the backrooms of gyms at dusk, where the thudding of heavy bags would stop, the rattle of speedbags pause for all to check out who was sparring in the middle of the ring. Where the science was debated and the state of the art was pushed even further. This is where legends are made, but also where the sport bloomed into the sweet science fans today are still being deprived from. This type of understanding of the sport is direly needed, and the only way to achieve it is through the spirit of competition.

Between 1936-1950, Charley Burley was the uncrowned king of The Black Murderer’s Row, the most avoided fraternity of black boxers who fought each other 61 times in search of quiet in their own frustrated ambition. No one of fame, including Sugar Ray Robinson, would fight them because of their fearsome durability and sublime skill. Sugar Ray was already avoided in the height of his reign, but these guys had to settle for the “Colored” middleweight title or other similar lower titles. In the height of the Golden Age of boxing, there were 9 extremely talented and feared boxers (Holman Williams, Lloyd Marshall, Cocoa Kid, Eddie Booker, Elmer Ray, Jack Chase, Aaron Wade, & Bert Lytell) that fought each other and became even better. Compared to the 2008 achievement of Manny Pacquiao disposing of 3 hall of famers in one year, The Black Murderers’ Row would fight that many times in a month. 

Reading deep into Charley Burley is exciting, but also deeply depressing because of the possibility of forgetting some of the legends of today that thrived in competition, cared about improving their game, and stood toe-to-toe on wars every second of every round of the fights they were able to arrange on their professional record. Sure, it’s nice to have debates on who’s the best and have thought experiments on who they would have beaten but why? Why can’t we have tournaments that mandated the spirit of competition inspired by the Black Murderers’ Row?

I find I may have to just do my part in preserving and honoring current fighters who hold up that spirit of competition. Here’s to the unofficial rounds of Robert Guerrero in Gilroy, Brandon Rios in Oxnard, Manny Pacquiao in Manila, Roman Gonzales in Panama, and many many others currently carving their legacies. Here’s to the unofficial rounds going on in gyms everywhere, may they never be forgotten and may that add to the future of boxing.