All is Fair in Love and War
(Photo by Charles Hoff/NY Daily News Archive via Getty Images
Doctrine on the Classics
Why do you watch combat sports?
Your answer might differ from my own, though my journey began with Marvelous Marvin Hagler’s eight-minute shootout with fellow generational great, Thomas Hearns. The battle was an absolute rollercoaster as Hagler became an embodiment of relentless pursuit under the barrage of returning gunfire. The carnage ended with him bloodied and unbowed over his barely-conscious rival. This was my first discovery of the classic bout - sometimes called a “war”. These sports had my attention, though it wasn’t what truly got me on board.
The fight that made me fall in love with combat sports was the five-round phonebooth brawl between Johny Hendricks and Robbie Lawler. In what remains among the most unique standup battles Mixed Martial Arts - let alone any pugilistic sport - has produced, the two southpaws engaged in a seemingly endless handfight with their respective games clashing. The absolute barnburner was decided by Hendricks’ attritional pace and sheer willpower. Hendricks was never my favorite fighter, but his final rally to slowly walk Lawler down through a mask of blood stands among the most awe-inspiring displays of will I’ve seen in a ring or cage.
I’d like to think that’s why we watch these contests. Competition often asks questions of its participants that other niche activities may not ask; competitors, therefore, are asked to demonstrate their mettle in front of a bitter, vindictive crowd of spectators. Combat sports, a niche that introduces spectators who lack that firsthand experience the competitors undergo, is primed to be especially unforgiving in its demand for mental fortitude. After all, what can be higher stakes for a payday or prize than the risk of hospitalization? Fighters differ from a majority of competitors because the risk associated with the demands is at an inherently greater rate.
Of course, anyone who watches combat sports understands that. It’s how they deal with that realization is what ultimately matters; moreover, everyone who steps into a ring deserves respect. For myself, recognizing that these men and women can do what a vast majority of people could never do is motivating and endearing. I have nothing but admiration for these contestants because, when it comes to having to draw a line, these fighters do their damndest to hold that line. To categorize these efforts as heroic is probably a bit too hyperbolic, though it’s, at the very least, a level close to it.
Stipe Miocic was never the most athletically-gifted nor necessarily favored to win many of his battles. He wasn’t thought of as the stereotypical baddest man on the planet. And yet, through nothing but sheer grit and determination, he became the most modest heavyweight great Mixed Martial Arts has ever produced. He didn’t compromise who he was as a person nor as a fighter - he held those lines in and out of the cage, even when beaten.
Three years ago, I saw Max Holloway and Dustin Poirier wage arguably the highest octane fight in the history of their sport. It was so vicious that I thought neither would be the same ever again. But it brought inspiration into my life from an unlikely source at a time where I desperately needed it.
Every year, I watch Joe Frazier push himself to the absolute limit to land his left hook to floor his archrival through a swollen visage; I consistently watch Archie Moore drag himself off the mat multiple times to finish Yvon Durelle several rounds past the point he should have been done; I see Thai greats and rivals Samson Issan and Lahkin Wassandasit build upon their previous battle and drag the other into deeper levels.
All of these are wars. They embody fighters at their strongest in a mutual battle of wills. These fights bring personal introspection and, in my opinion, reveal the values of the spectator who watches their respective sport just as much as it may reveal who the fighter is. There’s something forthright about that. Fighting isn’t and cannot be for everyone; for those who do watch it, it’s essential to remember what happened. What did these fighters - still these everyday figures - sacrifice in that arena? How can you offer that the veneration it deserves?
I know many who emphasize how brutal some battles are and that they would prefer to not watch them. I don’t think I can ever judge anyone for feeling how they do, but I would urge them to never mischaracterize a bout because of how they feel. A war was a war; people took physical damage in that ring. To deny that means you are not taking responsibility as an audience member. I understand that statement is combative, though I stand by it. Fighters are willing to put so much on the line; ergo, we have to respect what they do. And, as far as I’m concerned, being respectful means being objective about what happened. A war was a war, period.
There’s a greater problem whereupon many audience members are liable to objectify fighters as these ephemeral larger-than-life warriors. It’s easy to see why. On one hand, audience members are their own partakers as observers. There’s an associative guilt with watching pugilists mash one another into bruised, blood-soaked caricatures just as much as there is a sense of wonder. For many, it’s probably easier to just go, “This is Awesome,” and continue along. I think this ignores the aforementioned responsibilities. Sure, wars are incredible to watch and leave a surrealist high as a viewer. But they are still wars. Nobody is going to not watch Mike Zambidis and Chahid Oulad El Hadj reincarnate themselves into the embodiment of rock’em sock’em robots and not be yelling like Michael Schiavello was until their voice was a hoarse remnant. What I’ve been trying to argue is that there’s a balance here.
You can still see these fighters as extraordinary without fetishizing them into nonhuman marionettes you would bang together to produce clang noises like a prepubescent child. These fighters aren’t toys and aren’t obligated nor deserve to be treated as such. They are human beings. You can admire them without dehumanizing them.
To acknowledge that there is a degree of guilt just as much as there is a fascination is what I believe every fan needs to do.
And then you run into the challenge whereupon there’s so much guilt that you don’t want to watch a fight ever again.
The Components of a Fight
One of my activities as a combat sports scholar is to find classics and catalogue them. Again, if I’m to appreciate what fighters have done, then remembering and commemorating what did happen seems vital - and, genuinely, it’s just fun to watch different stylistic clashes.
I tend to believe a fight is made of up of three components:
1) The fight itself. Akin to how a book or movie has its narrative, a fight has its own structure. Round-after-round, minute-by-minute, action-by-action - all segmented pieces that combine all the parts of the fight - topped off by the interactions between corners and officials. This can be called “the what”.
2) The outcome. Ultimately, the fireworks stop going off and you’re left with the aftermath. A friend maybe looks over to you and asks, “Well, what did you think?” The end of a fight has something similar to that.
Someone has been knocked out. Maybe they or their corner threw in the towel. Did the doctor stop it all on a cut? What if both ran out of time and both have to stand their, arms at their side, asking themselves if they did just enough to impress a few nearby onlookers. The judges and their decisions, based upon majority rules, lead to a plethora of responses. Satisfactory roars to mass condemnation; all eyes and voices directed at the two persons who just wanted to get their hand-raised.
3) The connective tissue.
Most of us on this site think about fights more than the sheer number we watch. Every fight offers a valuable lesson beyond some fulfillment of spectator catharsis. It isn’t simply an emotional sort of response either; you don’t just have to be inspired. You might have learned something new about the fighter in the same vein as they learned something about themselves.
Charles Oliveira fought Michael Chandler for the UFC’s vacant 155lbs-belt only a month ago. He has to survive a moment of danger and come back to finish Chandler in a shootout. For years, Oliveira had struggled to get to the top and faced doubt from so many sources along the way. It isn’t just that he beat Chandler that was important, it’s how he beat him that mattered.
“Michael said I couldn’t take pressure. And he hit, and hit, and hit. And I’m still here.”
Maybe, just maybe, Oliveira didn’t know if he could gut out a moment in the biggest spotlight. Maybe afterwards, he didn’t know how he did. But what matters is that he fucking did. When Chandler attempted to flurry, Oliveira smothered and defended himself until the bell. He learned his lesson: Don’t let Chandler get a moment again. And he delivered on that self-promise the very next round. In totality, he demonstrated his technical growth and maturation as a fighter.
A fight and its outcome are inherently interconnected. What happens in said fight is a driving process towards an inevitable outcome. At the end of the day, no fighter nor the spectator audience can entirely separate the two. Recognizing the strengths and interplay between them, however, is essential as an audience member, I feel.
I may not agree with the judges giving an unpopular decision to Srisket Sor Rungvisai versus Roman Gonzalez, though I cannot take away either man giving practically every ounce of themselves in the ring. Even if you think the wrong man one, you cannot deny the bout was sensational and not be proud of what the Thai accomplished.
Richard Steele’s choice to wave off Meldrick Taylor from inevitable victory against Julio Cesar Chavez remains controversial to this day. It remains the talking point of a bout that was an extraordinary display by both, from Taylor’s early lead and dazzling grit, to Chavez’s inside brutality and dissection of his opponent’s prime. The outcome either sours or elevates the bout itself. Was it a display of official incompetence and robbery? Or was it a legacy-defining comeback in an epic battle? Either way, your perception can affect how you think of this one: But it was a war for the ages. You can’t ignore that part.
Ergo, just as an audience member’s sense of enjoyment is tied to a fight, an outcome is equally tied to the fight. Discussing the legacy or implications of either is impossible without the other. Though learning to ask what happened, what was learnt, and how much of it is defined by your reaction as a viewer is important to not objectifying these fighters - and being honest about the sport you choose to love and enjoy.
Sometimes though, you do run into one of those. Those fights that really put that third component to the test. The ones that have jaw-dropping brutality and bravery on display, yet they end in the worst possible result. There’s an inherent danger every fighter must risk to make that walk: They are putting a portion - and possibly the entirety - of their livelihood on the line. In the most intensive of fights, you will see fighters give so much and find themselves in a hospital bed. Some may find themselves taken there on a stretcher. Some wake up different. Some don’t wake up at all.
Reality and Responsibility
Wars have consequences in regards to mortality.
Emilie Griffith vs Benny Paret III was the most recent example I found at its most cruel and melancholy. It wasn’t the first I had seen. Furthermore, I certainly am far from numb from death or injury in combat sports. I can at least take a step back and not let myself be overwhelmed by the violence. Yet this one got to me, for more than one reason.
As far as accomplished welterweights go, Emile Griffith stands among the greatest of monsters. He was a physical force, deceptively clever, and an extraordinary challenge for anyone in his division’s history. Benny Paret was an accomplished, championship level action-fighter. His extraordinary grit, unrelenting volume and body attack made him able to wage duels of the highest caliber. Griffith and Paret had split two previous fights between them. Contentions and ill-intentions for their rubber match only increased the day prior when the champion uttered a homophobic slur at Griffith*. There’s a lesson of allowing pre-fight trash talk to go too far - a lesson recently enforced via Khabib Nurmagomedov and Conor McGregor - and that was greatly exemplified here. The barely contained animosity carried over into the bout.
*Accusations of homosexuality were a major issue back in the day and were liable to cause boxers to lose their license. Emile Griffith, who would come out as bisexual later in life, had more than one reason to be furious here.
It’s the twelfth round and Emile Griffith had finally taken command. Every round prior had been ferociously fought in all phases and not a single round saw a quarter given. Benny Paret flurried with an unyielding drive to the midsection of Griffith. Motivated only by fury, the challenger retaliated on the frontfoot with the most accurate, horrific right crosses you could find to snap Paret’s head towards the ropes like he was an action figure. On the inside, both actively fought grips, pushing and punching without relent. Neither made eye contact nor seemed to want to look at each other - they were looking to hit through the other. The referee, Ruby Goldstein, struggled to break or separate them at the bells and the temporary breathers between rounds did nothing to extinguish the inferno in the ring. Griffith was floored to the canvas in the seventh; he wobbled Paret into and against all corners with merciless regularity. And, finally, in the twelfth, Griffith capped off his efforts with a systemic display of violence. A right straight from hell had the champion reeling and out on his feet. With his back to the corner post, Paret endured several dozens of followups delivered from the deepest sources of Griffith’s inner turmoil until the referee could barely drag the latter away. Paret fell to the floor in a depiction that you would see out of a movie. But, this was a horror film that had taken life, in more ways than one.
Days later, Benny ‘The Kid’ Paret would be dead in his hospital bed.
I didn’t go in without the knowledge of the ending. It didn’t change how cold and empty I felt when I saw Paret collapse. Every titanic punch thrown by Grfffith only made me wince as though it were another nail in Paret’s inevitable coffin at a funeral I felt I was complicit in causing. It was discomforting and I never wish to rewatch this fight. For those who ever question that boxing is never a true fight or don’t believe in ramifications of face-punching, then this is one of the many you can show to shut those people up. A spectator sport of pugilism led to the death of one of its contestants. This wasn’t the first nor would it be the last - and it remains a day of infamy in the annals of combat sports history.
And yet, I had the most conflicting of realizations as I watched it. As soon as I saw Griffith dropped in the sixth and stood up, ready to storm back into the trenches, I knew I was watching an all-time great bout. If it isn’t obvious what the problem is yet, I’ll spell it out for you: I believe in commemorating what these athletes sacrifice by loving these fights. It’s human willpower against human grit, clashing to reveal who these people really are. It’s impossible to not be inspired. So, how can you be inspired when a fight - a great one at that - ends this way? Outcomes and fights are inherently connected, and a thrilling clash ended with fatal consequences. Is it even appropriate to realize, maybe around the time Griffith got dropped, that there was a part of you too that enjoyed watching everything leading up to where consequences actually did happen?
How do you possibly qualify or even come to terms with that?
How can you even love a war - even a part of it - when it ends in the worst of circumstances?
How could you even feel that way?
But you probably do, even a little bit. And you feel immeasurable guilt. And we’re not even talking about the guilt that you already have in living as a participant supporter of a sport where this was possible to begin with. It just seems morally wrong on every level. It probably is.
I knew what was going to happen at the end of this one. I had read about it. And yet, that knockdown at the end of the sixth gave me that same familiar tingle I associate whenever I watch a great fight. And I was watching a very, very good fight. The crowd was on its feet consistently; and I was one of them. Everytime Griffith smashed Paret back to turn the tide, even when knowing what was happening, there was still a part of me that shivered in anticipation at the drama. I know better than to fetishize these men, but even the most self-aware spectators can’t do that perfectly. Yeah, I was watching an incredible fight. It made me sick to my stomach, but I also knew, despite every ounce of denial I had, that I was right. I felt like a monster and I still do.
I said before why I want to remember the classics. it’s how I honor what these people do. But where was the honor in any of this?
Emile Griffith, for however he felt prior, never wanted to be known as a killer, even for someone he hated. Boxing is a sport; it is not a license for murder. At the end of the day, responsibility lies on the fighter just as much as their team and officials to keep everyone safe. I cannot ever blame Griffith for what happened. Documentaries or interviews where he’s asked about it indicate nothing less than remorse and trauma. And I’m sure he would take that whole day back if he could; boxing was a passion and I’m positive part of that love died that day. In retrospect, it’s a day nobody wanted or would want.
So, what are you supposed to do as a fan here? Does your love of combat sports die too? Is it unforgivable to keep cheering for violence until said violence goes too far?
I don’t know.
I don’t even think there is a right answer, but I decided to make my own answer.
First, I had to take responsibility. This fight happened. The consequences happened. And there was a part of me that enjoyed the fight itself. None of that is okay, but it did happen. Second, I choose to remember the fight for what it was. Earlier, I had said that fights and their outcomes form a sort of connective issue. You ultimately cannot discuss one without the other, yet you can still point out where your responses to each differ.
I don’t have to honor nor love the fight itself. I have to be objective and assert that it was a tremendous battle that ended in the worst way possible. I was an engaged viewer to this bout and I felt shrouding cold when it concluded. To pretend that the fight wasn’t an epic nor a tragedy would be reductionist and improper. Those two feelings are an internal contradiction, yet they do exist.
Fights with consequences happen and can happen no matter what. I want you to think of your favorite fight ever. Maybe it’s one that ended in someone, like Paret, sent to the hospital. Maybe, unlike Paret, they don’t walk out. Would you remember Micky Ward vs Arturo Gatti I the same way if any of that happened? Would I remember Bobby Chacon vs Rafael Limon IV if any of that happened? Would they still be a classic fight?
Matthew Saad Muhammad vs Marvin Johnson I is one of the most violent shootouts ever captured on footage. It ends with a terrifying, prolonged stoppage. Marvin Johnson is still here today, but he very easily couldn’t have. Would you still remember this fight the same way? Is it still a classic?
Why did I write any of this? Because I think it’s good to think about why we love combat sports and be as honest as possible about the subject. That, and, creating some self-premise of awareness and accountability as a viewer is extremely important for what we watch. I write about the technical sciences behind fighters, though, for every bit of science - there’s even greater human will on display. And I consider that for every fight I watch.
I talk about learning empathy for fighters and I hold myself to that standard wholeheartedly. That means I choose to be honest with myself and the history I’m given. Emile Griffith vs Benny Paret III is one of the one-hundred greatest fights I’ve probably seen on footage, yet I fundamentally refuse to watch it again. It was a classic, but it’s the sort of classic that you should only watch to teach yourself that these sports aren’t without dire repercussions. This fight did happen and the best way I can honor those involved is to thank them for their careers, but I am not giving them my due diligence nor respect if I don’t at least consider this one. Griffith never forgot; we shouldn’t either. So, we honor his memory along with Paret’s tragedy by remembering them as greats, even if it means knowing how one night at Madison Square Garden is something we all wish we could forget.
I don’t know if I did this topic justice, but I want to say that none of the above has been written to make anyone ever reconsider their love of combat sports. I do, however, challenge anyone who cannot understand what these sports involve and that you do need to have some semblance of respect for what it does involve from people who are otherwise just people. Again, I think this fight (and, subsequently, being able to write about it) reinforces how I want to appreciate fighters for what they do. At the very least, I always will go into every fight hoping to see something spectacular, though I will always have the concern that one of them may not wake up in a hospital bed.
Fights like Nigel Benn vs Gerald McClellan, Lupe Pintor vs Johnny Owen, Sugar Ramos vs Davey Moore, or Ray Mancini vs Duk-koo Kim - and so many others -embody the same tragedies and the same principles. The survivors are victims too. And I hope this piece sheds light on exactly why the officiating in the UFC alarms so many of us to demand a better standard.
There is nothing wrong with loving wars. Ultimately, you just have to be honest with yourself about what they are. That isn’t fair, but the sooner you accept that, the better.
At the very least, I wanted to write this because I don’t see enough open dialogues about what combat sports involve and mean. I think everyone has the agency to decide why they do love or aren’t interested in any topical. It’s hard to articulate, though I think memory, again, stands at the root of being empathetic and cognizant of these sports and the bigger picture.
So I ask again: Why do you love combat sports? And does it feel fair to? Personally, I do my best to hold myself to these questions with every fight I do and will ever watch.
Thank you for reading.