The Sweet Science - A. J. Liebling [85]
Mr. Ehsan served up the bacon and eggs, which were excellent. When we had finished, we strolled up the hill toward the gymnasium, one of the frame buildings at the end of the path. As we entered, we were joined by Harry Mendel, an I.B.C. press agent who used to publicize six-day bike races. The day before, the I.B.C. had brought a number of newspaper writers to Summit, and today it was taking the press to the camp of Moore’s opponent, near Atlantic City. The wire services and papers were therefore dependent on Mendel for a brief bulletin on Moore’s workout and on whether he looked unhappy about his weight. His weight was about the only angle left, Mendel said. Nobody outside Philadelphia expected an exciting fight unless Moore had to cut off an arm. Johnson, although competent and strong, was cautious beyond his years—twenty-six—and the bout was likely to be a bore. This, I reflected, would be one more touch of moderate adversity for Moore, because if he won a dull fight there would be small demand for his reappearance.
The gym at Ehsan’s has a standard-size ring and ample room for the boxers, but limited accommodations for spectators. This is the reverse of how things are at the big summer-resort hotels where boxers have latterly taken to training. Moore appeared, a light mulatto with a tinge of red in his bushy hair. He was sporting a black mustache and an imperial, which, Johnston told me, he always wears into battle. They gave him a serene and scholarly aspect, and his long woolen sweat clothes, gathered at wrist and ankle, made him look like an old fellow trying to lose weight in a health club. He wore a cashmere sweater over the sweat suit; the total effect was almost prim. Like Caesar, Moore enjoys having fat men about him. He was attended by two mountainous chaps, Cheerful Norman and Tiny Payne, his habitual handlers, who weigh two hundred and twenty and two hundred and eighty-five pounds, respectively.
Our traveling companion, Daniels, was his first opponent, but it never looked like competition. There was nothing flashy about Moore’s style—no superfluous bounce or glide, none of the whacking combinations of socks in the ribs to which some headline fighters treat their sparring partners. He wasn’t elusive in the phantom manner, he was a prestidigitator. He picked off punches with his hands, forearms, and elbows, usually as they started, and hit as he willed, moving his man around without shoving him, simply by feinting and keeping him off balance. He himself moved within half-arm length as freely as if he were ten feet off. There was nothing vindictive or even mock-menacing about his expression; as a beginner he may have composed a “fighting face,” but if so, he had discarded it years ago. He didn’t invite or resent Daniels’ sporadic aggressiveness; he simply played an exercise. After two rounds Daniels’ stint was over, and Moore worked a round with a blond young Argentine heavyweight who had a Yugoslav face and name. He was a very tall lad, and he attacked as if he were determined to show he cared nothing for reputations. It must have been a curious experience for the boy; he threw a hundred punches and touched Moore’s face—just grazed his mustache—twice. Three rounds aren’t a severe test of stamina, and at the end Moore wasn’t breathing hard. The boy was blown in one. “Muy astuto,” he said when he had pulled in enough breath. (I could figure that one out—“A regular cutie.”) And then, when he had gulped again, “Sabe mucho.” (“He knows a lot.”) He sat down on the ring apron, a handler pulled off his gloves, and he began to undo the tapes on his hands. “Inteligente,” he said when he had finished. (“Cerebral type.”)
Moore’s condition didn’t astonish me unduly. Unlike old fighters who quit and then try a comeback, he had never been away.