Brazil

Let’s end the suspense and get this out of the way right up front: Hagler vs. Hearns on April 15, 1985 is the best sporting event I’ve ever witnessed.

First, some history: I’m not sure I thought so at the time; I had not seen enough yet. I’ve lived 27 years since then and seen lots of other great sports moments and the time has only confirmed my verdict. Obviously I would never want to be put in the position of declaring what is the best sporting event (it’s not unlike “the best” anything: does that mean most enjoyable, most important, most influential, most popular, etc.?), but if I want to stand up and be counted, for my money and based on what I’ve witnessed, nothing can possibly top The Fight.

(To be a bit more clear: I did not have any money riding, I did not necessarily prefer either fighter –though I did/do greatly respect both– and in many senses this was not close to the most personally satisfying sports moment. It was not Larry Bird in Game 6 of the ’86 finals, or Dennis Johnson shutting down Magic in ’84, or any number of moments from the Red Sox World Series of ’04 and ’07, or what the Redskins did to the Broncos during the 2nd quarter of the ’88 Super Bowl, or Riggo’s 4th and 1 run in ’83 vs. the Dolphins, or Dale Hunter’s 7th game series winning goal vs. the Flyers, or the glorious shock of Mike Tyson fumbling around for his mouthpiece after Buster Douglas beat his ass, or any number of sublime moments from the various NHL playoff series in the last two decades, particularly the beyond-epic series between the Stars and Avs and then Stars and Devils during the 2000 finals or…you get the picture.)

Secondly, some perspective: in other sports, championship moments are often (or at least all-too-often) lackluster affairs. Consider how many mediocre Super Bowls, World Series and NHL (even NBA) finals we’ve hyped up and been disappointed by. And that is just referring to the ones that are either blow-outs or the function of one team demonstrating their dominance on a day when everything falls perfectly into place. Those are understandable, even inevitable. But how many other times have we been let down by a World Cup final or a boxing match, because one or both parties tried to avoid the loss rather than secure (and/or earn) the win? I think of Brazil in the ’80s: those were the best teams and they probably should have won one or two World Cups (led by the incomparable playmaker named Socrates), but they could not restrain themselves and play it safe. Overwhelmed by their love of their game and their affinity for joga bonito, or allergic to the conservative style employed by the European powerhouses (like West Germany and Italy), they played with flair, audacity and because they could not help it, allowed a combination of hubris and zeal to expose their collective chins. My passion for the World Cup is hardly diminished, but I regret seeing teams play too-safe and sit on small leads, resulting in lackluster games on the biggest possible stage. It has only gotten worse in recent years, but it’s an undeniable recipe for success. As soon as Brazil reined in their aggressive and unbridled impulses they finally broke through, albeit it in joyless, aesthetically muted fashion. Their victories were, in many seneses, objective fans’ loss: to finally win they had to play mostly sterile and boring soccer. As such I retain a fondness and appreciation for the ’82 and ’86 squads and care –and remember– very little about the ’02 team that won the prize.

The preceding paragraph might underscore why, in addition to loving the sheer entertainment spectacle The Fight provided, I appreciate and am humbled by the way Hearns and Hagler approached the biggest bout of their lives.

Am I supposed to do The Fight justice?

I will say, without too much irony, that in some ways I still feel slightly unworthy of what these two men gave us. I’m serious.

There is nothing in sports (is there anything in life?) that can match the three minutes of that first round. Not a second wasted, too many punches thrown to count, and a simple reality that transcends cliché: Hagler took Hearns’ best shot and stayed on his feet. There is much more involved, but it can really be boiled down to that simple fact. Hearns threw the same right hand that had devastated pretty much everyone to whom it had ever landed flush; he threw that punch at least a few times and not only did Hagler absorb it, Hearns broke his hand on Hagler’s dome. At the same time, Hagler was inflicting unbelievable damage himself, and once Hearns’ fist, then feet, were shot, it was just a matter of time. As was covered in the previous post(s), it’s fair to say that Hearns made it through the next round and a half on instinct and courage alone. Hagler, for his part, used anger, resolve and willpower to, as he memorably put it, keep moving forward like Pac Man.

The second round allowed everyone, especially the viewers, to catch their breath. The gash that Hearns had opened up on Hagler’s forehead fortuitously ran down his nose, and not into his eyes (that could have changed the course of the fight), and when the ref sent Hagler to his corner (even though at this point Hagler had all the momentum) in the third round, it’s possible that this was what inspired –or scared– Hagler into going for broke. There was simply no way he was going to let the fight get stopped, not after he had already taken the best Hearns could give him. In that classic finish, an almost-out-on-his-feet Hearns jogs away from Hagler, turning to grin (as if to say “that didn’t hurt”) but Hagler is already upon him, literally leaping into the air to throw his right-handed coup de grace. Down went Hearns, up went Hagler, and both men became immortal in that forever moment.

It was hard to begrudge Hagler, who had never been a media darling and had been done wrong by several judges and promoters over the years. This fight was his vindication, and it was sweet (the sour taste in his mouth, that he still carries to this day, courtesy of the controversial ’87 fight with Leonard, is an unfortunate footnote) while it lasted. I love Hagler for the guts, tenacity and resolve he displayed: he deserved to win. I admire Hearns for the respect he showed (to himself, the fans and the sport), willing to lose everything in an all-or-nothing strategy that would be unheard of, today. It was practically unheard of, then. More, he accepted the loss with grace and humor, and it remains moving to see the way he and Hagler embraced after it was over. The mutual respect the two men still have for one another is, understandably, unshaken.

What do we make of Hearns, who finished second in two of the best fights of the decade, both of which could easily be in the Top 10 (if not Top 5) of all time? In both instances, had he chosen to box instead of brawl he very likely could have won. He may still second-guess his strategy in the Leonard fight –if he’d been wise (or craven) enough to just dance away, he would have easily won on the scorecards. But he couldn’t; he just didn’t have it in him. I see this as neither hubris nor recklessness; Hearns had a pride that was bigger than winning. I guarantee, despite his understandable regrets about being one of our most celebrated runners-up in sports history, he sleeps like a baby each night and is proud to look at himself in the mirror. He should be. In losing, especially the way he lost, Hearns is more inspiring than any number of athletes who own the hardware, claim the victory, and have done little if anything to make anyone emulate them. I’m not suggesting that a go-for-broke approach is advisable, in sports or life, and as The Gambler reminds us, you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em. On the other hand, when the light is shining brightest, or perhaps more importantly when no one else is looking, you have to be willing to put it on the line and achieve something you’ll be proud to remember.

I read with sadness about the recent passing of Brazilian soccer legend Socrates Brasileiro Sampaio Vieira de Oliveira. Or, Socrates for short.

He has been adequately eulogized already (a decent one can be found here) and I’ve had difficulty for the last couple of weeks gathering my thoughts to celebrate his life.

For one thing, I’m quite certain I’ve already written at some length about him (either on this blog or in an e-mail thread, likely the latter) but I can’t find it. Very annoying.

So: I’ll simply say that it was a combination of this player’s exquisite and alluring play and simple random chance that turned a young soccer fanatic on to the glory of joga bonito.

Back in the great old days of the late ’70s there was a weekly TV show called “Soccer Made in Germany” (check out some vintage footage including commentary by the suave Toby Charles and the epic theme song here).

I seem to recall you could get a free trial subscription to a neat little magazine called “The Globe Kicker” (check it), and all you had to do was sign up over and over to get it free, forever. The little magazine would feature certain players each issue, and I suspect I’m not the only American who developed an otherwise inexplicable affinity for German and South American soccer players, especially the ones that played in the Bundesliga (the league covered by Soccer Made in Germany…get it?).

Anyway, in one of these I saw a two-page overview of one of the game’s rock stars: Socrates. As a ten year old, I naturally had no idea who the philosopher was and yes, I did think it was pronounced So-crates. This, since I already had grown up idolozing his countryman Edson Arantes do Nascimento (also known as Pele), made me a default fan of both the German and Brazilian national teams. I only regret I was not able to tape action from the ’82 World Cup (pound for pound the best action to my memory) and that I was stupid enough to discard my taped coverage of the ’86 action (but then, I had a Betamax). Fortunately, that is what YouTube is for:

By ’86 I was certain Brazil was going to win the Cup (and I know I was not alone). Aside from Socrates the team had the mighty Zico and the team was an offensive powerhouse. They just overwhelmed teams. Of course, just like in all sports, especially college basketball come March Madness, it’s not always the quickest and prettiest teams that succeed; in fact, those teams usually have a crucial weakness that gets exposed. In any event, when it came to penalty kicks –which it never should have and is always a bad sign in World Cup matches– I happened to be on my shift as a bus-boy (having just turned 16 and upgrading myself from cashier at Church’s Fried Chicken to waitress-ogling, tips-making flunky –far and away one of the best and most enjoyable jobs I’ve ever had), and I conveniently pretended to attend to important business in the bar as the action unfolded on the projection screen TV.

When Socrates, who was always cool to the point of nonchalance and graceful as a figure skater on the pitch, strolled up to take the first kick for Brazil it was a statement: this is an automatic. When he missed, it was not only shocking, it could be argued that Brazil’s ploy backfired and instead of psyching out France, they inadvertantly spooked themselves. (’86 turned out to be a festival of disillusionment for me as a sports fan: less than a month earlier Len Bias died and less than four months later the Red Sox would do the unthinkable.) This was a soccer equivalent of finding out there was no Santa Claus, or worse, that God was French.

Many years later when much a much less exciting (and necessarily conservative; they learnt their lesson) Brazil team won it all, it was decidedly bittersweet. The team(s) that should have won didn’t. Worse, we had to see Italy and then Argentina win. And if you think I remain salty, just mention Maradonna and the “Hand of God” goal to an England fan…

So what did I like so much about him? Well, you have to be a soccer (i.e., football) fan to understand in the first place. You also probably had to be young and in love with the game. As a soccer freak, I was consistently at awe with how he managed the field. As I got older and understood he got his nickname because of his inconceivable temerity to actually read books, he became a hero on an entirely other level. He also was a chainsmoker. Suffice it to say, those were different days, my friends. More, he was a big drinker. Not celebrating this (indeed, the smoking and drinking undoubtedly led indirectly, if not directly, to his awfully premature death), but just putting it out there: the man knew how to live on and off the field. Oh, did I mention that he actually became a doctor after his playing days? Or that he was very progressive politically? Finally, and perhaps most importantly, this motherfucker rocked the beard.

That shirt above is indeed mine and I wear it sparingly with pride and humility. Now I will wear it with an added touch of honor and sadness. Another one of the great ones has left our playing field.

The Bittersweet Science, Part Three: The Fight

Socrates, R.I.P.