Punch-Drunk and Forgotten: Boxing's Dark Side

Many years ago I picked up a hitchhiker in need of a lift over the bridge from Superior into Duluth. (Fwiw, it was not the Lift. Bridge that cross over to Park Point but rather the High Bridge, officially named as the Blatnik.) We struck up a conversation and I quickly learned he was a pro boxer and he looked the part. He had a compact build and a distinctive, somewhat cloudy way of talking that indicated he had taken quite a few blows to the head in his career. I asked for a few more details and learned that his record at that point was 8 wins, 11 losses, or something along those lines. 

It seemed to me that he had some hard decisions to make. It's always hard to know when to quit something you have been passionate about. Still, there's no point in ignoring the obvious. He was never going to be a Cinderella Man, and to continue this route would only leave his brain more addled than it already was.

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On 6 June 2021 the Wall Street Journal published a review about Tris Dixon's powerful assessment of the sport of boxing titled Damage. The title of the piece succinctly sums it up: Damage Review: Boxing's Moral Quandary. Its subhead reads, "To remain a fan of the sport--to cheer on the punishment and ignore its consequences--constitutes a cruel form of enabling."

The book's subtitle is "The Untold Story of Brain Trauma in Boxing." 

I grew up watching the career of Muhammed Ali from his first knockout of Sonny Liston as Cassius Clay. Audacious, fast and slippery he could indeed fly like a bird and sting like a bee. But time took its toll. They said it was Parkinsons Disease that made him so feeble later, but we were never told that Parkinsons is just one of the side effects of chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE).

For decades the NFL prided itself on its hard hits and "action" on the field, turning a blind eye on the data that revealed how detrimental the sport was to the health of its players. Broken bones and torn ligaments are one thing, but CTE is a wholly different animal. 

Dixon's book goes back to early medical studies (e.g., Dr. Harrison Martland's 1928 paper on "punch drunk" fighters). It compiles neurological research linking repeated head trauma in boxing to CTE, cognitive decline, Parkinson's-like symptoms, and other irreversible damage. Every boxer sustains some level of brain injury, with effects that can appear years or decades later.

Dixon includes firsthand accounts from affected fighters and their families, such as the well-documented deterioration of Muhammad Ali and interviews with others like Micky Ward. It portrays former champions and journeymen alike as "scrapyard" figures—once-vibrant athletes reduced by cumulative trauma.

One notable element is how the introduction of padded gloves (intended to reduce cuts and acute injuries) paradoxically enabled longer fights, more head punches, and greater rotational force on the brain, potentially worsening long-term damage compared to bare-knuckle eras, which must have been brutal in their own way.

What's tragic is the sport's unwillingness or inability to seriously confront these issues—through better medical oversight, rule changes, or honest education for fighters. This is the book's most damning critique. It notes a culture of denial among some insiders who fear it harms the sport's image. 

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Here are some additional links pertaining to boxing and ethics.

Dylan's "Who Killed Davey Moore?" Triggers Thoughts About Football Violence

Who Killed Davey Browne? Widow Amy Lavelle's Story Brings to Mind Early Dylan Song

‘Damage’ Review: Boxing’s Moral Quandary (Paywall) 

Throwback Thursday: Everythng Is Broken

"It's nice to be known as a legend, and people will pay to see one, but for most people, once is enough. You have to deliver the goods." ~ Bob Dylan, Chronicles

Maybe one reason some people like Dylan is simply because of the durability of his career. Like the Energizer Bunny he just keeps going. Like the Cinderella Man he keeps coming back.

Yesterday I noted that John Hinchey called John Wesley Harding "the comeback of comeback albums." Others have hailed Blood on the Tracks as Dylan's great comeback, and it certainly was an exceptional album after the early Seventies period that produced the critically dissed Self-Portrait, Dylan and Planet Waves. When Dylan released Time Out of Mind in 1997 it was yet another comeback level achievement, winning a Grammy and receiving flurries of critical acclaim. His Never Ending Tour had been on the road nearly ten years, but now people were beginning to notice.

I don't recall many people calling his Gospel Period a comeback, though Slow Train Coming is a superfine album for its production values, cohesiveness and earnestness. Songs like "Serve Somebody" and "Precious Angel" are written in the old Dylanesque style but with a new born-again sensibility. You don't fake the emotion he conveys in "I Believe In You."

The comeback I wanted to talk about this morning, though, occurred in 1989 with the release of Oh Mercy. Rolling Stone gave the album high marks and I remember wondering if that was only because they're so predisposed to liking Dylan. Still, I bought the vinyl and continue to listen to it to this day.

Oh Mercy was hailed as a comeback, not just because it had songs noticeably more meaningful than anything Bob Dylan had recently released, but because Daniel Lanois' production gave it cohesion. There was cohesion on Empire Burlesque, of course, but that cohesion was a little too slick, a little too commercial, whereas this record was filled with atmospheric, hazy production -- a sound as arty as most assumed the songs to be. And Dylan followed suit, giving Lanois significant songs -- palpably social works, love songs, and poems -- that seemed to connect with his past. And, at the time, this production made it seem like the equivalent of his '60s records, meaning that its artiness was cutting edge, not portentous. ~Stephen Thomas Erlewine

In Dylan's Chronicle: Volume One, he devotes an entire chapter to this period of new fertility when Oh Mercy was birthed. Keep in mind that the book is only five chapters, so that's 20% of the book. The events of this time were important enough to dive into at length. 1987 was a difficult year because he's injured his hand in a freak accident that winter, and was scheduled to do 100 concerts beginning in the spring. It was also a difficult time because Dylan himself was not sure who he was. "There was a missing person inside of myself and I needed to find him."

Dylan states that he had not been writing songs for a while, but then the muse returned. He'd be sitting at a table and twenty-some verses for "Political World" flowed out from his pen. He placed these in a drawer, and they were soon joined by verses for a song called "What Good Am I?" More songs followed and he would see what their relationship would be to one another.

The reason I found Oh Mercy to be such a meaningful album is that it became clear that his "Gospel Phase" had not just been a phase. The heart of his spiritual experiences now seemed integrated naturally into a world view that was less about preaching, but true to a vision of how things are.

Another feature of Oh Mercy is that it is primarily slow songs, reflective and thoughtful songs. It's a nice album to put on at the end of the day when you want to unwind. The only two fast-paced pieces here are the kickoff opener, "Political World" and "Everything Is Broken". "Political World" just lays it out there, an indictment of how things work in our modern age. "Everything Is Broken" gets more specific. It's a "list song" on a theme. It's a broken world, "you'd better get that in your head." Perhaps formulaic stylistically, it makes a point.

This is not a new theme. It hearkens back to Hard Rain. It hearkens back to the Fall and humanity's exile from Paradise. And it implores us to be realistic about what we expect next.

Several songs give direction on this point. Don't catch the disease of conceit. Don't neglect the needy, forgotten and disenfranchised among us. And keep ringing them bells.

Everything Is Broken

Broken lines, broken strings
Broken threads, broken springs
Broken idols, broken heads
People sleeping in broken beds
Ain’t no use jiving
Ain’t no use joking
Everything is broken

Broken bottles, broken plates
Broken switches, broken gates
Broken dishes, broken parts
Streets are filled with broken hearts
Broken words never meant to be spoken
Everything is broken

Seem like every time you stop and turn around
Something else just hit the ground

Broken cutters, broken saws
Broken buckles, broken laws
Broken bodies, broken bones
Broken voices on broken phones
Take a deep breath, feel like you’re chokin'
Everything is broken

Every time you leave and go off someplace
Things fall to pieces in my face

Broken hands on broken ploughs
Broken treaties, broken vows
Broken pipes, broken tools
People bending broken rules
Hound dog howling, bullfrog croaking
Everything is broken

Copyright © 1989 by Special Rider Music

Cinderella Man

Last week I came across an audio version of Cinderella Man: James J. Braddock, Max Baer, and the Greatest Upset in Boxing History. I'd seen the film starring Russell Crowe last year, and though well done (and I like Russell Crowe in nearly everything he does) it was not a film that made me feel wowed. An interesting story about a down-and-out boxer who makes a comeback and ends up world champeen.

The book is far and away a superior telling of the story, because it is not about a boxer. It is about two boxers who have two totally different life trajectories.

James Braddock was a New Jersey working class guy. A wife, kids, a man who was motivated to fight by only one thing: to put food on the table for his family during the dark days of the Depression. Max Baer, on the other hand, was a jovial, charming fellow whose successes as a boxer (his punch carried a powerful wallop that resulted in two deaths) led to a career in Hollywood, liaisons with famous actresses, and the perks of privilege.

Max Baer, incidentally, was the father of Max Baer, Jr of the Beverly Hillbillies, who you may recall as Jethro. Now you know where that Jethro's natural good-naturedness comes from.

Baer's life story is as compelling as Braddock's but in the film you only get hints of it. In the book you get all the details. He was young, strong, cocky, but also carried a measure of anxiety after one of his blows knocked a man cold, permanently.

One of the things I learned was how in the 20's and 30's the sportswriters and promoters played up the ethnic rivalries. The Italian vs. The Irishman. The German vs. The Jew. Baer, though one quarter Jewish, wore the Star of David on his trunks during his later fights.

A feature of the audio book, which I found in the local library here, is a lengthy interview with Braddock himself who lived to be 69 and died in 1974. Braddock is asked about every facet of his life, and every fight. In his thick Jersey accent he makes comments that reveal much about the man, his opponents, and the life of a boxer. It's a tough life.

The book is also about the entire culture of boxing during what some have called its Golden Era. Gene Tunney, Jack Dempsey, Max Schmelling, Joe Louis... they're all there, as well as the promoters, trainers, refs and sportswriters who sought to keep readers' passions stirred even when there was nothing to write about.

As for the film, Ron Howard did a professional job, but it comes across as a cliche of what a Hollywood film should be. Pretty standard fare. Maybe his heart wasn't into it? The soundtrack was manipulative and pointless. Yet, you can still catch a glimpse of what made the Cinderella Man a compelling story when the real James J. Braddock was on the scene. A Comeback Kid. A Seabiscuit. An ordinary many who did an extraordinary thing.

When I finished the book I went and picked up the film again. While watching it on one monitor, I watched the actual Baer-Braddock fight on YouTube. What a contrast. If able, you might want to try it.