A confession

A few years ago a good buddy of mine, whose politics and spirit I admired, confessed to me that he was a Nascar fan, watched the races on TV, even drove east to watch a few of them in person. Nascar? When he asked me whether I thought less of him on account of his penchant for the sport I told him, as softly as I could, that indeed I did. Still do, actually.

But here's something I'm not crazy about admitting: I like to watch boxing on TV. Not every bout, but occasionally, and certainly the classics. That's why I'm confessing now. I just watched, on ESPN Classics, the 1952 heavyweight championship bout between Jersey Joe Walcott, the champion, and an undefeated contender, Rocky Marciano. I recall listening to it on radio when I was eleven years old, as a matter of fact.

Those two powerful boxers, toe to toe, fought for three-minutes times twelve (imagine!), until 50 seconds into the thirteenth round when Marciano hit Walcott with a devastating right hand to the chest or chin (no replays in those days), and Walcott hit the deck for the count.

The fight was so fierce that you wanted neither of the boxers to come out for the next round, you felt every heavy blow, and there were hundreds of them, back and forth. I cannot imagine the courage it took for those two men--in fabulous condition, of incredible strength--to come out for round after round.

Anyway--there you have it. My confession. So am I a hypocrite for calling myself a peacenik? Probably.