Iron mike

Mortality. It's an awful word, with a devastating ring to it. It's one of those words that we never want to think about, yet it's meanings drive far and wide through our subconscious. People tend to forget the various meanings that we can infer from it. It doesn't just refer to death, it also recognizes a certain degree of humanity. This past weekend, I was reminded of several of these degrees.

I grew up with a strange obsession with boxing. I call it strange not because I find boxing perverse or gruesome, but because every fight I saw growing up was basically boring. These days I can look back on the glory days of Sugar Ray Leonard, Marvelous Marvin Hagler, Leon and Michael Spinks, and I can think back on some of the most masterful boxing matches of recent years. I got to watch masters of their craft tough it out for what seemed like endless rounds of boxing.

Unfortunately, when I was younger, these bouts were exactly that, endless. At the time, I couldn't appreciate the beauty of watching two boxing strategists out-point each other for twelve rounds. I could only think of a picture I saw once of a victorious and fierce Mohammed Ali standing proud over the seemingly unconscious body of Sonny Liston. That was what I wanted out of boxing. The severity. The lone champion. The pure sense of beating a man one on one in a ring. The closest I came to understanding that was the cry of "No Mas" to Hector "Macho" Camacho.

Then came Mike Tyson. Iron Mike. He had an uppercut like a scythe. he would scare you with his hook and then floor with with a punch to the chin that should have killed you. He was a monster. A punching machine. it didn't matter to me that he couldn't actually box, he struck fear in everyone, boxer or common man. Mike Tyson became that monster at the end of a dark alley, that man at the end of the bar who could end every argument, that barbarian who would take care of things the only way he knew how. I was too young to realize how out-classed most of his opponents were against him (Larry Holmes? Spinks?), I only knew that he was an indestructible creature, and he was only a few years older than me. It was magnificent to watch grown men tremble in fear when stuck in the confines of the ring with this young man let loose.

Then came the trials, the jail time. Somehow, it could all be overlooked. Sure, he was a monster, it's obvious, so what? was the common thought amongst fans. it didn't matter somehow, because he was unbeatable. Of course he was a rapist, he was a monster. But deep down he was just an unbeatable boxing machine who needed guidance.

Then, something mind-boggling happened. A nobody named James "Buster" Douglas beat the man. Knocked him down. Sent him to the mat. In Japan.

Even still, there was the idea that it didn't really happen since nobody saw it.

More jail time. More recovery time, more men falling lifeless to the mat.

Evander Holyfield. The first fight was shocking. It shouldn't have happened. Holyfield head-butted every chance he got and drove Tyson crazy and stupid. Holyfield won. Something was wrong. It couldn't be true.

Time for a rematch.

Tyson-Holyfield II. Sure, Mike bit his ears off, but Holyfield was head-butting him again. he's a dirty fighter, that Holyfield. Tyson's nuts. Of course he bit his ears off.

Then came Lewis-Tyson. Let's pause for some justification here. As in awe of Mike Tyson as I was when he started, I banished him from my own personal boxing hall of fame as soon as he went to jail for rape. But at the same time, the whole time I watched Lennox Lewis break him down piece by piece, I kept thinking, "Tyson can't be beat like that. He can't just be
destroyed. If he connects…"

Tyson connected. In the second round he hit Lewis hard enough on the side of the head to send both his eyes shooting out of his ear. Lewis shook it off and went back to systematically breaking Mike Tyson down from a terrifying monster into the monster who forgot how to scare the children.

What shocked me most about all of this was the amount of people who were disappointed. I was ecstatic to see a monster felled by an ingenious fighter, but there were many in the crowd who saw only a fallen hero, and suddenly I was reminded of the awe with which I watched Tyson before the trials and the jail time. I realized then that I had witnessed the death of a legend.

Legends. The champions that evoke stories, whether true or false, from everyone around when their names are mentioned. When it comes to horse racing, as many people saw Secretariat win the Triple Crown as saw Wilt Chamberlain score 100 points in one game. Maybe they're telling the truth, maybe they're not. It doesn't matter. They feel it. They remember it.

Affirmed did it in 1978, but not with the same panache. Charismatic was destined, they said, and they might have been right had the horse not broken its leg in the last turn of teh Belmont Stakes. Yet somehow, that damned horse kept running until the very end of the race, and somehow managed to come in third.

The Belmont Stakes is 1 1/2 miles of grueling track. It is the most painful and devastating track in racing history. It goes on and on like a nightmare. It is two minutes of pure physical horror and non-stop excitement. It is the perfect measure of extreme physicality.

War Emblem was destined. Nobody thought the horse could lose. It was about to accomplish what might intrinsically be the most difficult feat in sports. To win the three most challenging, yet completely different tracks in relatively quick succession. But there was something about this horse.

Even more so than Charismatic, this horse hated to have anyone in front of it. It couldn't fathom the idea of losing. Charismatic broke a leg and still ran to show. War Emblem could have broken two legs and it wouldn't have stopped until it fell to the ground.

No one would have thought that it would have fallen to the ground at the very beginning of the race.

The sight of War Emblem falling almost to its knees as the gate opened was almost as painful as watching the horse desperately try to win, coming into second, ready to run itself to death before the jockey maddeningly, mercifully, called him to a trot coming down the endless home stretch. Save the horse, the jockey must have thought. He'll kill himself otherwise.

And he would have.

Mortality. In it's most hateful of meanings, it reminds us that we are all born to die. On Friday evening, at 6:15, Sara Weaver died after a two-year struggle with acute leukemia. Sara was a force. Whether you saw her on stage with Swisher, working at McGlinchey's, or just walking down the street, she reminded you of the joy of being alive. Sara was a fighter, a better one than anyone I knew. If you doubt it, check out www.goswisher.com. There's an ongoing diary of her battle with cancer.

It's something everyone should read. More people should be that determined to live life.

Sara made people feel good about themselves, whether they were close friends or not. I, myself, was never anything more than an acquaintance, but every time I saw her she made me feel at home, and she made me laugh. Every afternoon that I stopped into the bar, she plopped herself down at my booth, stole one of my cigarettes, and made me feel great about myself and the world around me. Even reading through her diary (God bless her friends and boyfriend for keeping it up no matter how difficult things became), she still made me laugh. She recognized the intrinsic joy of just being alive, which I like to think is why she fought so hard to stay alive no matter what. When she passed, Philadelphia lost a huge piece of itself. I hope that doesn't go unrecognized.

Mortality. It doesn't have to be such a dreadful word. It can just remind us that although we are mortal, the simple fact that we are so can inspire us to do amazing things. And it doesn't have to be recognized around the world to be amazing. We can be amazing from the other side of a booth in a dive bar.

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