Boxing Day

If it was good enough for Joyce Carol Oates, it was good enough for me. I bought tickets to the Cotto-Foreman fight at Yankee Stadium.

I certainly can’t say I’ve followed boxing very closely over the years. Sure, as a kid, I was fascinated by the past-his-prime Muhammad Ali. I remember being genuinely nervous between rounds of his televised championship bout with Earnie Shavers in 1977, scared that the great Ali might actually lose. Also, I had a mini poster in which Ali promised to “knock out” tooth decay.

Occasionally another fighter would come along, capturing the fancy of us casual fans: Sugar Ray Leonard, Mike Tyson, Clubber Lang (oh, wait a minute….).

But a combination of factors took boxing out of the mainstream. The greedy industry moved championship fights off normal TV and onto pay-per-view. Boxing associations splintered, resulting in few undisputed champs. Perhaps most importantly, no dominant personality emerged in the post-Tyson era.

Still, I was intrigued by the “Stadium Slugfest.” I’d never been to a boxing match, much less an outdoor one. And it was a rare chance to see Foreman in the ring. OK, OK, it wasn’t George Foreman. It was Yuri, the Belarus-born, Israeli-raised aspiring rabbi from Brooklyn who I’d read an article about a couple of years ago.

We nice Jewish boys get a perverse thrill from seeing one of our own kicking serious ass. As evidence, your honor, I submit the $320 million worldwide box-office take for Inglourious Basterds.

I had no idea what to expect on fight night. What do I wear? Do fight fans don the cap and shirt of the guy they’re rooting for? Do you wear a tuxedo and sit next to Dyan Cannon? I searched my closet for my Yo La Tengo “Hannukahpaloozathon 2002” t-shirt.

As it turns out, I wasn’t far off: Vendors around the stadium were hawking Puerto Rican flags (for Miguel Cotto), with the Israeli Star of David proudly waving for my man Yuri.

What would I eat? Was there a boxing equivalent of hot dogs and beer? Yes: hot dogs and beer, also available in glatt kosher variety.

Would there be a program to read? (Yes, for $20, but they threw in for free a double-sided poster, a $5 value, which made no mention whatsoever of dental hygiene.) Do you keep score? (Apparently not.) The forecast called for on-and-off heavy showers; could a boxing match be rained out? (There was a chuppah-esque canopy above the ring and the priciest seats.) Why is it that on all other nights we do not dip our herbs even once, but on this night we dip them twice? (Sorry, wrong set of questions.)

Settling in the not-so-priciest seats, it was immediatelty clear the Miguel Cotto’s supporters were much more prevalent, and much more vocal. After what seemed like 600 fights on the undercard, it was time for the live-on-HBO main event. Salsa superstar Frankie Negron sang “La Borinqueña,” the Puerto Rican anthem. Then a woman who I’m fairly certainly was not Lainie Kazan sang “Hatikva,” the Israeli anthem. And then some kid sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” This may seem like a lot of singing, but if you’ve ever sat through the “God Bless America/Take Me Out to the Ballgame” 7th-inning mega-medley at the Stadium, this was a comparative cakewalk.

Because I think he’s legally obligated to appear at every fight-related event, announcer Michael Buffer—the “Let’s get ready to rumble!” guy—verified that we were indeed prepared for the ensuing fracas. Ringside celebrities were given a shout-out: welterweight champeen Manny Pacquiao, Tommy “Hitman” Hearns, Ray “Boom-Boom” Mancini, Paulie Walnuts, and… did Buffer just say Naomi Watts is here??

Ding-ding-ding! We were underway. It was really like watching a boxing movie, if the director was only allowed to use that one faraway establishing shot of the ring and crowd.

(Thankfully, Yankee Stadium’s giant video screen allowed us a closer look at the action.) In trying to take photos, I realized pop culture had falsely led me to believe I’d snap a perfect freeze-frame end-of-Rocky III LeRoy Neiman moment, or maybe even an iconic Ali-standing-over-Liston type of shot. But no, the guys wouldn’t stop moving!

For six rounds, the fighters seemed evenly matched, generally speaking. But on this night, Yuri Foreman would not prove victorious. Flattened to the canvas? No, sir. In a fashion that hit too close to home for many of us aforementioned nice Jewish boys, he slipped, his trick knee gave out, there may have been a note from his doctor. Yuri’s wife urged his corner men to stop the fight, but it might as well have been his mother shouting from a third-floor window, “Yuri! Stop horsing around with that Puerto Rican boy and come inside this instant. Your brisket is getting cold.” We can only hope for a rematch. Next year in Jerusalem. Or San Juan, or Citi Field.