Читать книгу Jacobs Beach. The Mob, the Garden and the Golden Age of Boxing онлайн

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The fight was worthy of the surroundings. The ghosts of the Garden would not be disappointed, by either the class of the winner or the bloody-minded courage of the loser. This dirty, glorious space had always celebrated heroics and, when required, drowned perceived tankers and bums in a hail of derision. Now, as worn out and used and useless as a washed-up fighter, the ring was being laid to rest for good.

To fighters, the ring was a place of work; to admirers of architecture and engineering, it was a work of art. It was a minor marvel from a time when detail and artisanship mattered. The brass was polished so assiduously, it is claimed, that, when TV cameras fell on it in the fifties, executives complained there was too much glare for the cameras—much as they had pointed out to the advisers of Dwight D. Eisenhower that his shiny dome was a distraction to both the cameraman and the electorate when he ran for the presidency in 1952.

The ring wasn't always on TV, though, and it wasn't always fixed in place in the Garden. It was moved about like a shrine, from the Garden to Yankee Stadium, the Polo Grounds, even a gym in Little Italy. But its home was on Broadway.