The Sweet Science - A. J. Liebling [93]
Gannon, the fellow chosen for Patterson’s debut on the Garden’s Friday-night television program, which paid four thousand dollars an appearance, figured no better than most of the twenty-nine-hundred-dollar opponents Patterson had been meeting on Monday nights, although he was, of course, considerably superior to a Rumanian amateur. The simplest reason for the match that I could think of was that the I.B.C. feared Patterson might suffer from stage fright in his first Eighth Avenue appearance. Gannon was a fighter calculated to get him over any initial nervousness. Another reason, I supposed, was that Gannon was managed by Al Weill, who also manages Rocky Marciano. Weill is a man of weight and profundity; when he makes a match for one of his fighters, it often turns out that he has had in view some chink in the armor of the adversary party. Gannon is an old-looking young man with a serious, puggy face and a heavy beard, which shows through his white skin like Senator Joe McCarthy’s. According to the program notes, Gannon was twenty-seven, which indicated that he must have been something of a prodigy himself in his time. He was national amateur welterweight champion in 1944, when, if the program was right, he was seventeen. Subsequently, however, he renounced his art to become a policeman in Washington, and during his resumed career under Mr. Weill’s guidance he had retained a coppish gloom. Sitting in his corner, he frequently looks as though he were counting the number of places he lost on the sergeant’s list through his truancy. He is a pretty good conventional boxer, but I couldn’t imagine his staying ahead of Patterson. After Maxim, Gannon would be a refresher course in the rudiments.
The purpose of going to a fight isn’t always to see a close contest. A great many close fights are hardly worth looking at, while the development of an interesting performer is always an attraction; Native Dancer and Man o’ War were drawing cards when they were 1—100 to win. Since I anticipated no strong emotions from the main bout, I went to the Garden early, hoping to see a good preliminary. The small-club atmosphere that has prevailed since television was evident. Perhaps fifteen hundred fans huddled around the ring; the galleries and the mezzanine were empty. By lowering the price of admission to that of a movie theater, the I.B.C. might attract a few more customers, but it is possible that the television sponsor would object. A fight seen on television has the appeal of being something for nothing, and this appeal is increased by the notion that it is something expensive for nothing. It might even help sell beer or razor blades if the I.B.C. made the price for ringside seats fifty dollars instead of eight dollars. Only the elfin Orientals from Philadelphia were animated as a couple of better-than-average colored welterweights, Ernie Roberts and Larry Baker, fought a hard, skillful eight-rounder. “Stop that bloody fight!” one yelled roguishly as the boys slugged away. This insensitivity to what is going on before their eyes is one of the weirdest characteristics of fight crowds. One oaf having suggested that the welterweights were not fighting hard, his companions tried to outdo him in cynicism. They stamped, clapped, and whistled while the welters worked out their tense little problem. Baker, a light-tan boy, worked in from his opponent’s flanks, throwing wide hooks and uppercuts, moving around his man. Roberts, bitter-chocolate and grim, worked the inside lines, moving forward, punching shorter and straighter. He took the first round, and then