By Bart Barry-
Editor’s note: For part 1, please click here.
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What a younger Roman “Chocolatito” Gonzalez might’ve done with a smaller version of Wisaksil “Srisaket Sor Rungvisai” Wangek, would’ve done, one writes with near certainty, is whack him low, block his early shots then begin spinning him dizzy, making him miss then pivotwalking him into whatever Chocolatito wished throw his way from whatever angle Chocolatito wished throw it, and after Sor Rungvisai collapsed from concussion and exhaustion Chocolatito’d’ve helped him off the canvas onto his stool.
A lesson Santa Monica teaches on a Sunday morning, festive and bright, and a Sunday evening, dark and unfriendlier and a touch despairing, is the atmosphere of a place – its energy or mood or spirit or vibrations or aura or nature or God or light or luck, synonyms likely all – colors reflexively its every inhabitant, no matter how decisively he draws his state of mind and emotion from within: The palpable sense of forward-regret I’ve felt every Sunday evening since grammar school, I realized on Santa Monica Pier, is not mine but a reflection of everyone else’s.
Sor Rungvisai showed no regard whatever for Chocolatito in round 1 and instead trusted the physics of championship prizefighting.
Doug Fischer happened over to say hello sometime during the undercard, and his headwear and demeanor reminded me of Digital Underground’s Shock G, and I told him so (and he replied immediately with a quip about StubHub Center’s generous tailgaters turning him into Humpty Hump) because I knew he’d get the reference and moreso because I was so happy to see him because Doug is one of the most genuine and decent men I’ve met anywhere, and seeing him ringside immediately returns me everytime to 2004 and my Max Boxing subscription and watching Doug and Steve Kim’s weekly show, wondering what it might be like to cover boxing.
For reasons of character (orgullo y ambición) and culture and luck Chocolatito hadn’t a choice but to fight often and ascend weightclasses steadily, and such an ascent, when done honestly, sans handicapping and cherrypicking, brings an inevitable reckoning with physics (their fists be larger than your chin) or time (you haven’t the proper reflexes anymore for hair’s breadth escapes) or both (damn it! this hurts and there’s nothing I can do about it), and while there’s a good chance such a reckoning was exactly what Chocolatito sought there’s also a chance Chocolatito did not quite believe such a reckoning possible.
My September, weighted by legal woes, caused me to keep a halfhourly tally of my thoughts and emotions (thoughts caused, as ever, by emotions), a tally that made me acutely aware of the Santa Monica Pier’s benevolent effect on what vigilance I applied the task of equanimity towards a situation that anyway resolved itself amicably by October.
There’s no such thing as a wholly objective scorecard unless its scorekeeper keeps his eyes ever fixed on the middle plane between the fighters, diverting his gaze to one fighter or the other only when following a punch that pierces that plane, which no scorekeeper does, but years of thinking about such a feat at least led me to an improved awareness of what fighter I favor by watching, and that fighter has been Chocolatito in every minute of his every fight (right up until Sor Rungvisai’s absurd victory somersault after Chocolatito was razed).
Sitting one row in front of me and kind enough to turn and introduce himself was the young and talented writer Sean Nam, and when our fun and winding conversation wound its way to his friend and mentor, Carlos Acevedo, I was pleased to hear myself saying something like this: In the hierarchy of this boxing-writing thing, there is Carlos and everyone else, and the distance between Carlos and everyone else is not small, which is another way of saying: While there are plenty of boxing writers whose work I admire, Carlos’ is the only writing I consistently read and think “I don’t believe I could do this”.
Once he regained his consciousness then his feet Chocolatito wanted to leave the StubHub Center’s ring rapidly as possible but the WBC, whose superflyweight title Sor Rungvisai took from Chocolatito in March and emphatically did not return in September, had to bestow on Chocolatito a finisher medal of some sort, a runner-up trophy for a twoman contest, and Chocolatito wanted no part of it, hanging the souvenir round his knuckles not his neck as he snapped through the ropes and the hell out of the ring.
As early Saturday afternoon included a trip to architect Frank Gehry’s Walt Disney Concert Hall (a familiar to his historic Guggenheim design in Bilbao, Spain, though in stainless steel skin, not titanium) and brunch at the fabulous Redbird, and Sunday afternoon included a trip to The Getty, whose grounds were far greater than their collection, it was not lost on me how much more time I spent on Santa Monica’s gaudy pier than among works of artistic or architectural grandeur, which marks either an inversion of maturity or its transcendence.
The atmosphere at ringside was subdued unto funereal after the main event, as nearly no one traveled from Thailand to see Sor Rungvisai, and the partisan-Nicaraguan crowd that filled the StubHub bowl was already mourning its experience collectively, which made it easy to miss the scale of Sor Rungvisai’s achievement, which later made end-of-year recollections like Jimmy Tobin’s so insightful and satisfying to read.
There was a time I thought often about experience and legacy and decorated a small office with ringside credentials and submitted my work to annual writing contests, but changing life conditions did away with all that three or four years ago, and a halfdozen annual boxing trips, too, and now I realize I was wrong to do away with the boxing trips.
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
