Читать книгу Sporting Blood. Tales from the Dark Side of Boxing онлайн

13 страница из 67

This is powerful writing. Enjoy it.

Thomas Hauser New York City January 2020

We were between TV sets for a while back then, touch and go during the “Running on Empty” era, living just off Bathgate Avenue in the midst of an asphalt hell. When was that? Was it ’76 or ’78? Who can tell? The Mets were awful; Gerald Ford told us all to drop dead, seething Travis Bickle had already painted the East Village red and Howard Cosell, using his best nasal twang, intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Bronx is burning.” By then, they had even torn down the El, leaving us marooned among the arson ruins, the Latin Crowns and the Golden Guineas, “Son of Sam” in gaudy newsprint, the blackout of ’77 and the anarchy steaming in its wake. We had little in those days—less than that, maybe. But my dour old man bought me an Ali-Superman DC Special from a corner newsstand on Fordham Road. Then: long nights by the windowsill, streetlamp and moonlight igniting the stillness. There he is, again, back to haunt: A real-life superhero—a black man, no less! Goddamn!—in the middle of what looked like Zero Hour. Call that a revolution, if you want.