When Sharks Eat Sushi
The following is something that I wrote for THEKOSPOT.com. I deviated a bit from what I normally write. I like it.
When Sharks Eat Sushi
by Zee Johnson
You let these miserable bastards devour your art. You let these spineless number crunchers invade your past time. You let these philistines ram a shotgun up your nostril.
Click.
You let the soul extractors dine on the remaining bits of your malnourished souls. The sharks circle your lifeboat. They are deciding which limb to suck the meat off [of] first.
What you just read was the last 10 to 15 years of your sport.....or the synopsis of a B-grade horror movie.
Boxing is a brutal sport.
Like Hockey.
Like Football.
Like Rugby.
Like Swordplay.
Boxing is a brutality redefined as a skilled and graceful art. The problem is that the brutality of the sport exists not only in the ring, but in the admin of the sport itself. The glamour and the biz of the sport is so drained that it has become just as ugly and mangled as the sport itself. It has become a sacrificed beast; bleeding and whining its way to a slow and cold death. If the people that run your sport are more animalistic than the events of the sport itself, its demise becomes a spectacle without grace or respect. The beasts in the 3 piece suits cash out...........
These are the sharks, Ladies and Gentlemen. They have come to the table to eat your finely prepared sushi.....the bastards.
They haven't always been bastards or have they? Matter of fact, they have always been bastards---you just didn't see it.....as much.
When they had Ali, they did everything in their power to preserve sport and show.
When they had Sugar Ray (Leonard), they had an articulate, intelligent and technical fighter. They loved it (notice I didn't say "they loved him"; the sharks don't love anyone). They loved his packaging. He was good for business.
When they had Tyson, they had a ruthless, take no prisoners gladiator. He was strong and concussive. He could hit you 25 times in 5 seconds. He could knock you down in less than 2 minutes. That was bankable sport for them. Their enthusiasm to "get behind" that was inexplicable. Tyson was ancient Rome set to Hip Hop music.
After DeLa Hoya, they let it go. "Golden Boy". He was strong, cut, young and beautiful. He was the equivalent of a boxing Adonis. From there, they signed off. They just left it----and so did I. I left. There was no spirit. It was a loose, incredible mess. When I referenced people, who were deep in the trenches of the sport, it seemed they knew just as much as I did. Their knowledge was just as confounded and convoluted as mine; a boxing exile. This thing became hodgepodge. It was a pile. You have a sport with 3 or 4 ruling sanctions, but one of them isn't really "official" or some such? Lines and sport history seemed blurred. Tyson lost one belt, then he had no belts. Then what the hell happened to Holyfield and Foreman? And that's just the heavyweight division. Roy Jones was a star one minute, the next minute he doesn't box and he's producing rap albums. It's like if you miss one bout you come back to a vastly different sport.
Coverage of the sport is damn near non-existent. Unless something truly magnificent happens, TV news of the sport is scarce. It hardly requires front page status in the sports page. There is no 5 Star publication on the stands that details the sport in its glory. The last boxing magazine I read looked like a second rate fanzine cobbled together by junior high school kids.
See, you just don't get it. There is no red carpet roll out of your sport. There is no glossy rag with posters of your favorite pugilists. There are no front page spread of last nights knockout punch. There are no dramatic replays on ESPN....well.....maybe a little.
The sharks left. They ate the fucking sushi and they hauled ass. Now your sport is a lifeless carcass. No one is a bona fide "star". There is no parade. There is no King trumpeting this sport. Who is the squared ring superhero knocking out bums with force/pleasure?
Gottdammit, sharks!!! We need you....sort of.
We need the news coverage. We need the magazine pull-out poster. We need to lock down the sports page of USA Today! We need boxing movies, other than Clint making movies about trailer park wenches who can't take a left hook. C'mon you sharks (disguised as agents)! Do your god forsaken job! We need you sharks (disguised as promoters) to gather a bastion of new fighters whose skin is titanium and whose diction is good enough to be on Charlie Rose. We need you sharks (disguised as organization exec's) to wrangle your varying leagues together as one cohesive entity.
But heed my warning sharks:
Nurture the butter you churn. It keeps you in business. It keeps fighters eager. It keeps venue holders happy. It keeps fans intrigued and faithful. Nurture your damned sport. This shit pile is a significant mess. There is plenty for everyone. You don't have to devour your meal like a fucking heathen. And clean up your mess.
Fucking sharks.
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