Boxing has always been a dirty sport.
That fact was highlighted in the 1954 film, “On the Waterfront,” starring Marlon Brando as up-and-coming fighter Terry Malloy, who’s scheduled to face off against a well-known and respectable fella by the name of Tommy Collins. However, local mob boss Johnny Friendly, who controls the Hoboken boxing racket, has a better idea.
Instead, Terry is matched up against a fighter who is referred to only as "Wilson" and is instructed to take a dive in the first round. The result of the fight takes him out of contention for a future title shot and essentially ends his career, leading him to sob to his older brother Charley, "You don’t understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am."
My father introduced me to that movie when I was like 10. However, even though I learned about the shady nature of the sport early on, that realization wouldn't prevent boxing from becoming an all-consuming passion of mine for a good chunk of my life, leading to my being a nationally-ranked amateur from the time I was 17.
I started competing when I turned 12 which, at the time, was the minimum age set by USA Boxing, the monolith that governs all amateur competition in the United States. In 1984, the age would be lowered to 8 and, in 1993, the amateur boxing world welcomed American women and girls into the ring, applying the same age minimum. So now you had 8-year-old girls punching each other in the head in competitions sanctioned by adults.
Before turning 16, I fought in lots of individual bouts, the Junior Olympics, and other tournaments, including the "Kid Gloves," a summertime competition sponsored by Madison Square Garden
The Kid Gloves was for boxers aged 15 and younger, and the fights took place outdoors, on Saturday afternoons, at notable locations throughout the five boroughs of New York City. Each Saturday, the lineup or, "card," consisted of 12 to 14 bouts, each lasting three 2-minute rounds. One Saturday in July, the show was at Bath Beach Park, just off the Belt Parkway in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.
That day, I got matched up against a dude named George Soto, whom I'd not only never faced before. I’d never even heard of him.
Anyway, he was totally ripped and much more muscular than I was. At the time, I thought it must just be an ethno-genetic thing. I also remember that his punches were stronger than what I was used to taking and I wasn't sure exactly why.
Soto beat me on a decision that day, and I remember being furious because I felt I'd clearly won the bout and that the judges had stolen it from me. (Yeah, sorry, but it was easy to feel discriminated against as the white kid from Long Island.)
In any case, fast forward a few years and we find out that, on the day he faced me in the ring, Mr. Soto was, in fact, 19 years old. Remember, this was an under-16 tournament.
I boxed three rounds against an adult. This dude could vote. At the time, in New York, he could legally drink. For all I know, he drove himself to and from the fights that day.
If you think age fraud in Little League Baseball is bad, think about the consequences in boxing. Potentially catastrophic.
For years, I harbored what I believed was a justifiable grudge over that fight. I thought he and his coaches should've been charged with a crime.
However, now that I've been baptized in the waters of woke, I am born again. I now realize that George Soto had every right to identify as a 15-year-old that day. Who was I to dictate what opponents he could compete against?
I'm expecting that you easily saw through the sarcasm of that last paragraph.
Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you that I had originally intended this piece to be a clear indictment of two male boxers who beat up a bunch of women during the Paris Olympics.
I expected it to be quite cut-and-dried. However, the story is more complicated than you likely know.
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