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"The spirit of the mass is broken; the original excitement about losing or winning, through which danger was forgotten, is spent, and to the majority danger now appears no longer an appeal to their courage, but rather the endurance of a cruel punishment." -- On War, Carl von Clausewitz
Sport is not war. Many parallels we draw between the two are inappropriate. But as war calls for the highest manifestation of human courage, and as Clausewitz is the subject's Western master, attempts to define courage in sport could do worse than begin with Clausewitz and proceed to prizefighting.
By choosing to turn his fists to weapons, confront another man doing the same and accept the consequences, a prizefighter proves he is courageous. His profession requires him to overcome doubt. When we consider the courage we find in prizefighting, then, we shouldn't contrast it with cowardice. Prizefighters are not cowards. Instead, courage's prizefighting opposite is resignation.
Clausewitz teaches that courage is what a warrior uses to overcome doubt. But if we invert this, we come to an interesting possibility: Courage requires a doubtful outcome. No one who watches a 300-pound man squash a 120-pound man in a fight turns to his friend and says, "Boy, that giant is brave!"
But neither should we attribute bravery to the smaller man who pursues an inevitable beating.
Clausewitz teaches there are two kinds of courage. There is the physical sort, an obliviousness of danger that never forsakes its bearer, and the mental sort, one that is rooted in abstractions like pride and patriotism. The first kind depends on a man's firmness. The second kind insists on boldness.
These two kinds of courage were tested in different ways two weeks ago. In the main event of a pay-per-view card, David Diaz absorbed a prolonged beating from Manny Pacquiao but did not relent till his consciousness was taken by a left cross. In the co-main event, Francisco Lorenzo absorbed a shorter beating from Humberto Soto and resigned himself to the canvas.
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| David Diaz took a beating, but still felt he could defeat Manny Pacquiao. (AP) |
So what made Diaz come off his stool in the ninth and final round? What made Lorenzo take a knee in the fourth?
Both men began with a doubtful outcome; neither Diaz nor Lorenzo believed a loss was guaranteed. But Diaz's physical courage kept him from relenting. Pacquiao was faster and stronger and, ultimately, better in every way, but Diaz kept trying to land a special punch. Diaz's belief that he could change the fight -- his own doubt about the outcome -- was stronger than his sense of danger, if in fact he sensed danger at all.
Lorenzo, on the other hand, began with a mental sort of courage. Pride, the need for another payday and a belief his deceased wife was with him all caused Lorenzo to try to outmaneuver and outthink a naturally larger, stronger man. But Soto's punches effectively dissolved that. The punishment Soto inflicted on him took away Lorenzo's boldness -- harder to sustain than firmness -- and melted Lorenzo's courage into resignation.
Diaz was still moving forward and punching when Pacquiao dropped him. Lorenzo had given up by the time he kneeled and felt Soto's glove hit the back of his head -- kicking off the antics that led to Lorenzo's disqualification victory.
But here's something more to consider. If courage requires a doubtful outcome, its bearer must be able to perceive doubt. This is where prizefighting is again different from other sports. After six rounds -- 18 minutes, half of a championship match -- a prizefighter will have collected dozens of blows to the head. The effect is more than concussive. It's intoxicating.
Get prizefighters alone in a moment of honesty, and most will confess they often don't remember the second halves of their fights.
Is such a person even capable of perceiving doubt? Is someone like David Diaz still showing courage as the bell rings to begin the ninth round against Pacquiao, or is he simply, drunkenly, following his corner's instructions?
For the answer to this, we look to the greatest manifestation of courage recently seen in a boxing ring. It came in the 10th and final round of the late Diego Corrales' lightweight title fight against Jose Luis Castillo in 2005.
Twice in that round, after almost a half hour of absorbing punches to the head, Corrales was knocked to the blue mat. Both times he spit out his mouthpiece. Each occurrence led referee Tony Weeks to stop the fight, walk to Corrales' corner and get the mouthpiece replaced. Each occurrence bought Corrales desperately needed time to recuperate from Castillo's assault.
Instants after the mouthpiece was replaced a second time, and Corrales was penalized for spitting it out, Corrales caught the onrushing Castillo with a combination of punches that sent Castillo's eyes rolling helplessly to the back of his head and forced Weeks to stop the fight.
Whatever one might think of Corrales' sportsmanship, this much can't be disputed: By spitting out his mouthpiece twice, Corrales showed awareness of the moment. That is, Corrales proved he was capable of perceiving a doubtful outcome. He exhibited firmness and boldness.
That is what we respond to. Long after sadism is satisfied by the violence Corrales and Castillo perpetrated on one another that night, their fight still touches us because of the courage it presents.
Prizefighting in general touches us because it affords a chance to reflect on courage, one of humanity's deepest virtues. By considering this spring of the human spirit, we improve ourselves and become worthier of the courage our heroes show us.
