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

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Nevertheless, Jake LaMotta is the nearest thing to an animal that boxing has ever seen. Stumpy, strong, bobbing up and down as if moving through the jungle in search of food, Jake stalked his prey, splayed-legged, as his short, hairy arms carved a wide, venomous arc, and with only cursory regard for his own health. It was fighting without artifice. It lacked any self-consciousness and it was driven by a mix of bravery and foolishness. But to disregard the defensive tenets of the sport was to court disaster. No man could go in six times with Sugar Ray Robinson and think he would emerge unscathed. No man except Jake LaMotta. But, as he was to learn in five of those encounters, he was as human as the rest of us. He was not a beast, after all. And, of course, LaMotta did go down. They all did. One way or another, literally or metaphorically, everybody takes a count.

It is central to boxing's myth that the fighter is king, that the great ones rule through the power of their fists, the strength of their chins, and the fortitude housed in abnormally large hearts. But they are all blood and bone. LaMotta was the essence of the powerless fighting man. He was proud but corruptible, not only because he had to bend to the will of the people who controlled his life, but because, as hard as he was, even he had to admit to his physical and spiritual vulnerability in the end. Sugar Ray couldn't put him down, but boxing did.