Insanity at The Garden
Posted: 12 Jun 2003, 12:38
Insanity at The Garden
By John Garfield
I went to the old Madison Square Garden on 50th St. in New York to see a main-go between two Latin fighters. One a Cuban and one a Puerto Rican.
So, the Garden is a tinder box; any spark will ignite it.
The main event is very hotly contested, and could go either way. When the decision was announced, the losing side--already spoiling for a fight--started attacking the winner's fans. Then everybody started to rain beer bottles into the ring. The fighters, the seconds, and the TV people raced out of the ring and dove under it.
Then the crowd started heaving broken furniture, and everything else they could get hold of. The whole main floor of the arena was being showered with debris. It was a war zone.
Lunatics up in the cheap seats ripped the eight-foot fire spears off the walls and hurled them down. Anybody struck would have been killed.
I hugged the ground, and could just barely see from the space under my seat.
Then, from one end of the arena, came a stocky, curly-haired figure in a suit, walking purposefully--not rushing-- through this deadly barrage of missiles and shrapnel. No other life form dared move.
As he got closer, I recognized the pugnacious set of his shoulders-- the sort of John Wayne bucking-the-wind walk: it was the world-famous novelist Norman Mailer. He never ducked, flinched, blinked or avoided anything walking to the other side of the arena. And metal, and shards, and jagged furniture criss-crossed every inch of him. A hair closer would have been fatal.
What would possess him to do it? A man with his intellect. Drink? Drugs? Both? A macho head trip? A search for enlightenment? Or was it like the guy that jumped off a bridge, and when he was asked why, said: "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
These many years later, I may have stumbled onto some insight into his behavior from a quote in his newest book THE SPOOKY ART: "...he has had the courage to be bold where others might cry insanity."
By John Garfield
I went to the old Madison Square Garden on 50th St. in New York to see a main-go between two Latin fighters. One a Cuban and one a Puerto Rican.
So, the Garden is a tinder box; any spark will ignite it.
The main event is very hotly contested, and could go either way. When the decision was announced, the losing side--already spoiling for a fight--started attacking the winner's fans. Then everybody started to rain beer bottles into the ring. The fighters, the seconds, and the TV people raced out of the ring and dove under it.
Then the crowd started heaving broken furniture, and everything else they could get hold of. The whole main floor of the arena was being showered with debris. It was a war zone.
Lunatics up in the cheap seats ripped the eight-foot fire spears off the walls and hurled them down. Anybody struck would have been killed.
I hugged the ground, and could just barely see from the space under my seat.
Then, from one end of the arena, came a stocky, curly-haired figure in a suit, walking purposefully--not rushing-- through this deadly barrage of missiles and shrapnel. No other life form dared move.
As he got closer, I recognized the pugnacious set of his shoulders-- the sort of John Wayne bucking-the-wind walk: it was the world-famous novelist Norman Mailer. He never ducked, flinched, blinked or avoided anything walking to the other side of the arena. And metal, and shards, and jagged furniture criss-crossed every inch of him. A hair closer would have been fatal.
What would possess him to do it? A man with his intellect. Drink? Drugs? Both? A macho head trip? A search for enlightenment? Or was it like the guy that jumped off a bridge, and when he was asked why, said: "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
These many years later, I may have stumbled onto some insight into his behavior from a quote in his newest book THE SPOOKY ART: "...he has had the courage to be bold where others might cry insanity."