the national played on sunday and it was an absolutely incandescent and sublimely gorgeous performance. berninger was astrident across seats, in a circle with strangers, walking up aisles, whispering that the very best of us string ourselves up for love in an acoustic, unartificially amplified way which resonated across the hall, building up in a crescendo with everyone joining him.
there is certain honesty in that, and honesty seems to be my favourite word of the year this year, a time of symmetrical repeated digits.
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two days before, waikit and i caught Warrior, and it was a brilliant story of anger, hate, fear, family, attempted redemption, loneliness, and love.
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yesterday, walt frazier died, and i have never really liked boxing, because it was too cruel, too visceral, too mean, but there’s a certain resonance in the resilience of it all.
“Joe,” said his manager, Eddie Futch, “I’m going to stop it.”
“No, no, Eddie, ya can’t do that to me,” Frazier pleaded, his thick tongue barely getting the words out. He started to rise.
“You couldn’t see in the last two rounds,” said Futch. “What makes ya think ya gonna see in the 15th?”
“I want him, boss,” said Frazier.
“Sit down, son,” said Futch, pressing his hand on Frazier’s shoulder. “It’s all over. No one will ever forget what you did here today.”
and there is a final sense of maudlinity here, because there is not once, ever, that a fighter with such a massive heart would ever want to throw in the towel and to be coerced to do so, and then be reminded of it for 36 years, may seem like eternal agony.
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the best way to end this post wouldn’t be a quote from ali, but rather george foreman, because Smokin Joe deserves to move on. And so, “Good night Joe Frazier. I love you dear friend.”
