teacher and thereby transmit her love of literature to others. No matter how tentatively or diplomatically I made such a proposal, however, she would respond each time by saying, “Oh no—that is not meant to be,” after which she would return to her reading, her chores, and her brooding. From the instant Mary Ellen handed the newborn Max Baer Jr. to her, and Joleen held him in her arms, however, she was born again into the woman she had been before the beast of darkness had made her prisoner to his foul authority.
What seems curious, in retrospect, is that even as Max seemed, following upon his marriage to Mary Ellen, a changed man, frequently (and publicly) renouncing his life as a fighter in favor of his life as a husband and father-to-be, yet did he continue to fight, and to fight with greater frequency than ever. In the eighteen months between his defeat by Braddock and the birth of his son Max Jr., Max fought twenty-two fights, losing only twice (once to Louis, and once to British heavyweight champion Tommy Farr), scoring knockouts eleven times, and technical knockouts four times.
Since Max was not in need of money—he earned considerable sums from movies and vaudeville, from refereeing and public relations stunts (while Ancil Hoffman, investing wisely for him, doled out allowances so that Max’s extravagances would not do him in)—I must conclude that, no matter his words about not liking to fight and not wanting to hurt others, yet did he truly love the sport known as the “sweet science.”
And he loved the life that came with the sport: he loved the money; he loved the crowds; he loved the reporters; and he loved the nightlife and the ladies. To the surprise of many, as I have noted, he rarely consumed significant quantities of alcohol (our first meeting with him being an exception) because, he explained, he did not like to dull his senses, and—more important—his ability to remember, the morning after, just how good a time he had had the night before.
I also believe that he loved the fighting itself far more than he admitted or knew. I believe he loved being lost in an elemental passion for hitting and being hit—in the licensed savagery permitted when, before cheering and bloodthirsty fans, he was free to inflict violence upon another man without the least need to temper the violence with mercy—and he also loved the gratification that came with practicing a craft at which he was a master, and which, like the act of love, and the ecstasy of being in love, fed his desire to take as much pleasure from life as possible, so that the extended moments in which he could give free rein to his power and his desires, whether in the ring or in his romances, served to enhance and heighten his love of life itself.
The only fighter I have ever known who rivaled him in the sheer joy he took when in the ring—in the way he taunted and danced around his opponents (sometimes performing soft-shoe tap routines); in the way he “played possum”—pretending to be hurt, then surprising an opponent with a flurry of rapid-fire blows; in the way he let his guard down so as to invite the other fighter to attack; in the way he laughed when an opponent had landed a good blow against him; in the way he delighted in bantering with reporters before, after, and during bouts; and, most of all, in the joy he took from being able to give boxing fans a great, good time—was a fighter I had the privilege of seeing in action but once (four years after Max’s passing), and whom Max, alas, never did see: a man whose physiognomy and coloring were not unlike my own, descended as we both may have been, to judge by appearances, from the legendary Falconhurst slaves—the great and distinguished champion Muhammad Ali.
3 Scenes from Childhood
Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my loves. (7:12)
Horace Littlejohn
What seems curious, in retrospect, is that even as Max seemed, following upon his marriage to Mary Ellen, a changed man, frequently (and publicly) renouncing his life as a fighter in favor of his life as a husband and father-to-be, yet did he continue to fight, and to fight with greater frequency than ever. In the eighteen months between his defeat by Braddock and the birth of his son Max Jr., Max fought twenty-two fights, losing only twice (once to Louis, and once to British heavyweight champion Tommy Farr), scoring knockouts eleven times, and technical knockouts four times.
Since Max was not in need of money—he earned considerable sums from movies and vaudeville, from refereeing and public relations stunts (while Ancil Hoffman, investing wisely for him, doled out allowances so that Max’s extravagances would not do him in)—I must conclude that, no matter his words about not liking to fight and not wanting to hurt others, yet did he truly love the sport known as the “sweet science.”
And he loved the life that came with the sport: he loved the money; he loved the crowds; he loved the reporters; and he loved the nightlife and the ladies. To the surprise of many, as I have noted, he rarely consumed significant quantities of alcohol (our first meeting with him being an exception) because, he explained, he did not like to dull his senses, and—more important—his ability to remember, the morning after, just how good a time he had had the night before.
I also believe that he loved the fighting itself far more than he admitted or knew. I believe he loved being lost in an elemental passion for hitting and being hit—in the licensed savagery permitted when, before cheering and bloodthirsty fans, he was free to inflict violence upon another man without the least need to temper the violence with mercy—and he also loved the gratification that came with practicing a craft at which he was a master, and which, like the act of love, and the ecstasy of being in love, fed his desire to take as much pleasure from life as possible, so that the extended moments in which he could give free rein to his power and his desires, whether in the ring or in his romances, served to enhance and heighten his love of life itself.
The only fighter I have ever known who rivaled him in the sheer joy he took when in the ring—in the way he taunted and danced around his opponents (sometimes performing soft-shoe tap routines); in the way he “played possum”—pretending to be hurt, then surprising an opponent with a flurry of rapid-fire blows; in the way he let his guard down so as to invite the other fighter to attack; in the way he laughed when an opponent had landed a good blow against him; in the way he delighted in bantering with reporters before, after, and during bouts; and, most of all, in the joy he took from being able to give boxing fans a great, good time—was a fighter I had the privilege of seeing in action but once (four years after Max’s passing), and whom Max, alas, never did see: a man whose physiognomy and coloring were not unlike my own, descended as we both may have been, to judge by appearances, from the legendary Falconhurst slaves—the great and distinguished champion Muhammad Ali.
3 Scenes from Childhood
Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give thee my loves. (7:12)
Horace Littlejohn
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