The Contender

(Even though it seems like this post is about boxing, it really isn’t, I promise, although it’s not really about politics, either.)

So, last night, my favorite Contender won the $1 million at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas after seven rounds of some serious boxing action.


Sergio “The Latin Snake” Mora
I honestly couldn’t believe the guy I supported right from the start actually won the whole thing, especially because I picked him as my favorite even before I saw him box; I knew nothing about the technical aspects of boxing, really, on which to base my opinions of the contenders, so I didn’t expect to support anyone in particular. But then, all of a sudden here was this tall, wiry guy, sitting on his bed and talking about his love of books, of language, of art. The Oscar Wilde novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, which contains a single line that was the impetus behind Mr. Shakes and my meeting, was his favorite book, and the entirety of his living space was cluttered with books and notebooks, filled with his own notes, highlighted passages, drawings and doodles.

I was always fascinated by learning more, and school was something I actually enjoyed. After graduating high school, I began taking college courses. I really enjoyed reading, writing and drawing so much I didn’t consider them classes, but hobbies. Hobbies I still enjoy doing until this day. (Link.)

I was, of course, hooked. And more than that, I could relate to him in the intimate way that lovers of books can. Readers, I’ve found—the real voracious, book-devouring, insatiable kind of readers—nearly always have an instant affinity for one another, and a shared approach to the world. Sergio saw and loved the art and strategy of boxing more than the brawn of it (he has, in fact, no discernible weakness aside from the lack of a reliable knock-out punch), and, because he was a reader, a man who loves language, he could eloquently describe the intellectual components of boxing I never understood (or tried to) before Mr. Shakes cajoled me into watching the show with him. And so it was that week after week, a middle class suburban white girl, the daughter of two teachers, tuned in to watch the poor Latin boxer from East LA, the son of a single mother who works in a factory; I cheered him on and in return he gave me an appreciation for a sport I had not had before.

"We love fighting because we see beauty in the art of the science of fighting. We don't see the brutality about it. This is what we love to do.”

“Boxing was a commitment I endured because I loved the beauty of the sport. The essence of fighting, not only with ones fists, but the actual battle of attrition is what addicted me to the ‘sweet science.’ It truly is a beautiful sport and it's what I love to do...”

The truth is, I really, really liked most of the guys on the show. I adored Alfonso, who was fighting his way out of poverty, much like Sergio, and had picked up boxing as a defense against bullying. I wanted to have a beer and a laugh with Jesse, who loved to fight just to knock people out. I felt for Peter, who fought for his father’s love and his family’s honor. But I best understood Sergio—he had the same look in his eyes that I know is in my own, and that I see in the eyes of other readers, who have tumbling piles of books on their nightstands and wonder how life can be so short when there’s so much to be learned.

I don’t know that I’ve been turned into a boxing fan for life, so I can’t say with certainty that I’ll keep tabs on the Latin Snake as his star inevitably rises. Regardless, at a time when I often bemoan the willful ignorance that plagues so much of America, it was nice to find a reminder that the readers, the pursuers of knowledge and truth, are out there, everywhere, in expected places and not. It was nice to find another Wilde fan. It always is.