A Man's World: The Double Life of Emile Griffith

One of the podcasts I listen to a lot is the brilliant Irishman Abroad presented by comedian Jarlath Regan. Each week he interviews a guest that has some personal connection with Ireland (originally it was people who were born in Ireland and moved abroad, thence the title, but because of the popularity of the show the parameters have relaxed and he now pretty much speaks to anyone. Last week for example he had Jerry Butting and Dean Strang, the Defence Attorney’s in Making a Murderer). The episode I want to touch on this week is the one he had with Guardian sports journalist, Donald McRae.

In listening to the conversation I was in my element. I’ve always loved sport, admittedly channeling most of my passion into football, but I have a working knowledge of different ones too. The South African McRae is a three-time Interviewer of the Year winner, feted for his interviews with the likes of Chris Gayle, Usain Bolt and Andy Murray. You may remember that Gayle was in trouble a few months back for propositioning a female interviewer after a game, McRae did not let him off the hook, calling ‘bullshit’ on the cricketer’s assertion that he wouldn’t mind his daughter being treated this way. He’s an interviewer that admires his subjects but not to the detriment of asking the vital questions. His skill is turning the interview into a conversation, whereby he as an interviewer shares some of his life to get the subject to share theirs. The mistake that many interviewers make, he says, is that they go in with an agenda: the talk feels like an interrogation, leading the defendant to call ‘no comment’ in the form of platitudes and evasion. McRae doesn’t forget to bait his rod with a compliment before casting it into the water – the result? he often lands his catch.

The bulk of the interview with Regan involved them discussing McRae’s book, A Man’s World: The Double Life of Emile Griffith. Regan was obviously enthused by the biography, which made me want to read it too. The pair spoke of its genesis with McRae talking about how as a child he’d sneak into boxing matches. This was a dangerous venture for a young white boy, given how most of the contests were held in black townships. Although McRae was on the right side of apartheid, he hated the injustice of it, vowing to get out of South Africa as soon as possible. Until he could make his getaway to a foreign land, he would drink up as much black music and sport as he could, remembering of course to hide the ensuing bottles under the bed. So a love of boxing was born in South Africa, a love that has seen him go on to write two pugilist texts.

A Man’s World is a story for our time. Today in sport homosexuality is still a thing that people don't do. The Welsh rugby player, Gareth Thomas, came out after national retirement, so too German footballer, Thomas Hitzlsperger. It is admirable the stand these men have taken, but how devastating that they’ve only felt able to after they’ve left the spotlight. In life, in entertainment, in politics we appear to welcome all sexuality, yet in sport homosexuality isn’t allowed past the turnstiles. Simply in macho sports the risk is too great for players: how will their manager react? Will their teammates cope? What might the fans say? These men are imprisoned by their gender and can see no way out.

Eight years later Justin Fashanu committed suicide.

Imagine then how difficult life would be if you were a black gay boxer in the 1960’s? Life for gay sport stars today is difficult, but homosexuality is now legal with gay rights enshrined in law. It wasn’t always this way. Up until 1962 homosexuality was illegal in America: loving another man could land you in jail. Not only that but it was regarded as a mental illness. If you were gay, you were an abomination, a sick fiend that needed exorcising. In the Land of the Free so many were contained by others prejudice. If it wasn’t hard enough that Emile Griffith was gay, he was black too. His was a life of segregation within segregation. In being born into such prejudice Emile Griffith had been dealt a very bad hand; his life is a testament to how hard he played it.

Griffith was born in the Virgin Island to an unstable home. There were many children and an absent mother trying to make bread in America. As a young boy he was sexually abused by his uncle, a crime that led him to flee home. Eventually Griffith received the draft notice from his mother that he was expected in America. On arriving he worked at a hat factory where his bulging torso caught the eye of his boss. It wasn’t long before Griffith was sent down the local gym to be trained for the Golden Gloves Championship, an amateur tournament that he fared well in. Enjoying the factory work, Griffith was nonplussed by the boxing game but as his stock grew so too did his interest. It didn’t take long for him to rise through the ranks and become a contender for the major championships.

Emile Griffith.

His most famous fights were against Benny Paret. Paret was from Cuba which only intensified the rivalry between these two superpowers. In fact Castro by this point had banned professional boxing, meaning Paret had to relocate to Miami. Despite this, Paret was Cuban and therefore the enemy. If Griffith won he would become an American hero. The first fight was fought with good grace with Griffith coming out on top. The second was a nastier affair that Paret took on a dubious points decision. The final episode would be remembered as one of the darkest days in boxing history. 

The lead up to the bout was mired in hurtful name calling: Paret shocked the establishment by branding Griffith a ‘marcion’ – Spanish for ‘faggot.’ It was an open secret by this point that Griffith frequented different bars to other boxers. In Greenwich Village there was always a stool for the champ. The gay community adored Griffith because he showed you could be strong and gay. Although he could never be out as a homosexual, he had a home in Greenwich. Nearly everyone in the boxing business knew he was gay, but they knew exposing would open up a Pandora’s box of shit they simply couldn’t deal with. America was not ready to hear anyone was gay, let alone a boxer.

The famous feud.

Going into the 24^th March 1962 bout with these taunts fresh in his mind, Griffith battled hard. Unfortunately, he battled too hard. Just as a round was threatening to peter out, he launched a spring offensive so vicious that people cried at their television screens. Uppercut after uppercut besieged Paret’s defences rendering him all but obsolete. When Paret could lift his hands no more, Griffith raised his murder weapons one last time, unleashing a torrent of jabs that brought an end to the fight - and the life of Benny Paret. 

Paret was dead. Griffith had killed him. For years his ghost stalked him.

Acknowledging that death was on his hands but knowing that he had mouths to fill, Griffith continued to wade in blood like a Scottish king. Those initial fights were hard: every time he had a boxer against the ropes he saw Paret’s face staring back at him. To second-guess your instincts in any job can prove stifling; in boxing it can be suicidal. Fortunately, Griffith’s street smarts took him through this mourning period, allowing him and his opponents to come through unscathed. Over time he learnt to live with the death of Paret: he reasoned that the insults had angered him but not enough to want to kill him. It was just terrible luck. The hardest fight remained his sexuality, something that he had to keep under his gloves until late in life.

Paret Jr. later forgave Griffith for his father's death. 

The Emile story is being made into a film by the brilliant Lenny Abrahamson (Room) and will hopefully depict a brave man that fought the times he lived in and survived. In some worlds - and certainly in Griffith's- sometimes survival is the greatest victory of all.

A Man’s World: The Double Life of Emile Griffith is available now.

After the Beginning, Before the End

“Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.”

(Marcel Prost)

Memory can be a bugger. It can’t be escaped. During the good times you forget it's there, you’re only in the here and now, the past a foreign country you can’t get a visa to. However in the hangover mornings, the isolated evenings it strikes again - Banquo hauntings at every turn. Happy memories don’t get a look in: their evil twin brother has kicked them into muteness. But at least you can hide the bad ones, lock them in a safe, one you only know the combination to. What happens though if someone’s memory of you is wrongly unpleasant? What then? What happens if they then tell someone else, and so on? Before you know it you’ve got a shit snowball with your reputation in the middle. The problem is you can’t control what other people think of you. (Well, you can but you need political office, a big budget and control over the means of communication, and I don’t know about you but I haven’t got those things in my kitchen.)

This idea of memory is the thematic concern of Daniel Kitson's brilliant download, After the Beginning, Before the End. The show is not a new one; it was recorded in 2013. In fact I went to see it with my old flatmates Dec and Beth in the Oxford Playhouse. This week an e-mail came through from Kitson announcing its release on Bandcamp. Now an e-mail from Daniel Kitson is as good as a telegram from The Queen as far as I’m concerned – it has more jokes in it for a start; although it is similar in that you have to ask for it (sign up to the mailing list). 

Note: until recently I didn’t know you had to notify The Queen to receive a telegram. What happens if you haven't got good friends and family to do it for you? It seems a bit needy requesting your own birthday message- like ringing Simon Mayo on ‘All Request Friday’ and dedicating a song to yourself. I just think the palace should think of the Eleanor Rigby’s of this world when thinking about telegram delivery.

It's a bit vain that The Queen puts a picture of herself in the card, isn't it? It's not her bloody day. It's all 'me, me, me' with her.

Anyhow, I bloody love Kitson and always look forward to reading his missives. Like I said, this week’s one was about him releasing a stand-up show. Now fans of Kitson will tell you that this is exciting news indeed. The man doesn’t release DVD’s, as a result there is barely any output available. To see what he does you have to go. Then after you’ve gone it’s gone- never to be relived, never to be revisited. For a man that creates two or three shows a year there are such few recordings available; this one is his newest one since 2007 show The Ballad of Roger and Grace. Awaking early this morning, The Girl next to me but faraway in Sleepytown, I decided to put on my earphones and slide into Kitson’s world.

The show begins with an ambient coil of electronica that will form the backdrop for his words. The effect is at first disorientating, given time absorbing, allowing you to recede into the language like a patient going under. Only in this piece it’s Kitson putting himself under the knife. He is uncomfortable with his friend Issy’s memory of him, causing him to question the essence of identity. After each chapter in the show, Kitson returns to this so we find out a little more about the story that incorrectly paint him in the worst light. In the intervening episodes Kitson walks a Modernist line, allowing theories of thought, knowledge and identity to seep into one another, ignoring the conventions of a narrative thread.

This is what Daniel Kitson looks like.

Despite sounding pretentious, this isn’t a cod-philosophy lecture. Amongst all the ruminations on life, the universe and everything else, Kitson has brilliant jokes about coffee and parsnips. He is a man that wraps up profundity in silly sticky tape. Take his meditation on loneliness where he talks about the difficult decision of wanting to stay up when you're tired.

“I could have a fucking coffee. I live on my own. I do want I want. I’ve got no one looking at me whilst I’m grinding the beans, saying "are you sure you should be doing that? You’re not going to sleep well." Really, I never sleep well. I’m too lonely and sad to sleep well. If I want a night java, I’ll have a fucking night java. I don’t fear the bean after dark."

Here Kitson exposes his false argument for autonomy. Yes when you’re single you’re able to make your own choices but that’s no replacement for the happiness you feel when you’re with someone. His skill as a linguist is evident with ‘java’ and ‘bean’ acting as the punch lines. For this comedian the thesaurus is a weapon of choice, resistance in the face of such language futile.

Cover art.

Ultimately this is a show where Kitson digs into his psyche to question how he thinks and other people think of him. In a telling episode he recounts a time when he took his video projector apart because it wouldn’t work; being a phrase maker with a craftsman eye for detail doesn’t equip you with the practical skills needed for reassembling, therefore he packs all the tiny pieces into a box where in the loft they now lie. He says this is a metaphor for how he sees his brain, “I got a bit curious, opened it up, and now I haven’t got any clue on how it functions.” This analogy is only half-true: unlike the projector, Kitson’s brain doesn't gather dust. His cerebrum is shinier than a spring clean in spring. Kitson might be oblivious as to how the whole thing comes together, but I hope he pontificates over the pieces for many years to come.

The download is available for £5 here: https://danielkitson.bandcamp.com/album/after-the-beginning-before-the-end

FriendsFest

Friends was the first sitcom that I ever got into. Up until the age of 12 I just watched what my parents watched: Dad’s Army, Only Fools and Horses and One Foot in The Grave. Classic comedies, but comedies that belonged to another time, another generation. Then, I got talking to my friend JP in an RE lesson and he recommended I give Friends a go. At this point it was on Channel 4 on a Sunday afternoon; I still remember the first episode I watched, The One After The Superbowl. Instantly I knew it was the comedy for me. 

Since I was teetering on adolescence the maturity of the material really appealed to me: the jokes about love and sex weren’t the stuff of Mrs Slocombe innuendo, laughing at rude words like a ten-year-old with a dictionary; instead they were sharp and whip-smart, the person I wanted to be. For a lad who attended a Catholic High School, the show was truly educational. I learnt more about sex through watching Friends than I ever did from my sex ed. class. (Sex education in a Catholic School is as follows: a husband and a wife want a baby, they therefore reluctantly engage in intercourse to beget said miracle. Enjoyment is off the menu. If you have a problem with that go to another restaurant, ask for the Devil, he'll happily cook you up some sin.)

The first episode I watched.

 From that first episode guest-starring Julia Roberts and Jean-Claude Van Damme, a love affair was born. Soon after I went down to my local MVC and bought the first seasons of Friends. This being the time of VHS the first season came in six separate video boxes. Ah, do you remember when the past used to be different and technology wasn’t the same? Here ends my Peter Kay stand up routine. Anyway, on getting the cassettes home with the help of Arnold Schwarzenegger and a wheelbarrow I went all 21^st century on their ass, binge watching the whole lot. Mumma said, “Don’t watch all of those at once, Ryan – you’ll be sick.” I didn’t heed her advice and proceeded to gorge myself silly, requesting seconds, thirds, twenty-fourths until the restauranteur closed the kitchen and told me to go home. (A lot of food analogies in this blog: I did go on a run this morning, so maybe that’s why I’m feeling famished, thinking food).

I now keep these cassettes under my pillow to protect me from burglars.

After I caught up with the seasons of Friends, I watched the new episodes when they came out on Channel 4 just like everybody else. I remember sitting with my family watching The One with Ross’s Wedding Part 2 and being left open mouthed by the denouement. At that time it was perfect programming, straddling the divide between comedy and drama quite beautifully. You really cared about all the characters, desperately wanting them to succeed and find happiness. In school the next day everyone was talking about Ross’s Freudian Slip (unaware of the pre-eminent psychiatrist, we didn’t call it this at the time. We probably called it a ‘fuck up.”) Are these bracketed digressions getting annoying yet? As Holden Caufield says in The Catcher in the Rye, 

The trouble with me is, I like it when somebody digresses. It's more interesting and all. … Oh, sure! I like somebody to stick to the point and all. But I don't like them to stick too much to the point. I don't know. I guess I don't like it when somebody sticks to the point all the time. 

I guess what I’m saying is Friends was my generation's programme; it seemed like everyone watched it and everyone had a character they could relate to. I was Chandler, a man who only listened to conversations just so he could have the sarcastic last word. People often put my quietness down to attentiveness, really I’m just lying in wait ready to snipe you down.

Which one were you?

On the way home today The Girl warned me against all this. I said to her that I wanted to write the blog quite quickly as I had things to do tonight. She said, “Just talk about FriendsFest from the start. Don’t do your usual thing of waffling for a few pages before you get on to the actual thing you want to talk about, then realise you haven’t got anytime to talk about it.” Well, honey you know me to well. But at 31 it appears this man ain’t for turning.

Today, The Girl and I went to FriendsFest as part of her anniversary present. She is a Friends superfan who knows a lot more than me about the show. Before we moved in together she had a TV in her room, which was permanently set to E4. Many a night did she fall asleep to the show – the sparkling dialogue a lullaby mobile by her bed. It was therefore my pleasure to buy her a ticket to see her favourite show re-imagined in our own backyard.

Arriving at Knebworth House we were stunned to see the scale of the operation. We thought the organisers were dealing in hyperbole when they appended ‘Fest’  to the name, but it really was a mini-festival. On going on to the site we were presented with the taxicab that Phoebe drove in the series. To the right of us was a huge stage that was a highlight reel of great Friends moments. To the left of us stood Central Perk replete with fixtures and fittings. All around us were food outlets that paid homage to Joey Tribbiani’s insatiability. The whole thing looked great.

The main stage.

First, The Girl and I went to Central Perk for some picture opportunities. Unfortunately, the café wasn’t a fully functioning one, which meant our stay was limited to smash and grab IPhone snaps – the staff are on hand to do this for you, meaning there is no need for the dystopian selfie-stick or the unBritish task of asking a stranger for help. Playing in Central Perk was a Phoebe Buffay tribute act, Crystal Clear, who entertained us whilst we waited.

Open mic night was in session too.

Then, we moved on to The Diner. Friends fans will remember a hard-up Monica waitressing in the themed 50’s restaurant in series 2. Just as we were tucking into our food the opening bars to YMCA blared out, precipitating the waiting staff to burst into song and dance a la Monica in The One with all the Bullies. It wasn’t long before the staff were tearing through the crowd and getting people to join in with the camp classic. By the end a conga line even formed snaking the site, much to everyone’s amusement.

The diner staff.

Next, we had a look in at a silent disco. Both of us assumed this would just be a place to shake off the rain by throwing some shapes; we didn’t think it would be Friends related. After collecting our headphones we were instructed through the choreographed dance routine that Monica and Ross do in The One with the Routine. It wasn’t long before our dance coaches saw my “10 from Len” dancing and recruited me to judge the other dancers. Free from the restraints of the working week I was in a good mood, which meant I celebrated all performances regardless of ability. When you’re as a good dancer as I am, it’s unfair to have unreasonable expectations of other people. Not everyone was born with Sri Lankan rhythm so it isn't fair to criticise.

I went out as a two left feet dancer and came out as a professional judge.

Following this, the pair of us went to Chandler and Joey’s apartment for some La-Z-Boy chair action. Also, a gargantuan game of foosball ensued, eventually concluding in a 10-6 victory to me. Having twirled our fingers to breaking point, we were in need of liquid refreshment. The Girl bought me a ‘Pivot’ cocktail, which appeared to have enough rum to sink a pirate ship. She opted for a ‘Bing-a-ling’ that induced in her a Bill Murray back catalogue of sarcasm. Over the years I’ve grown less sarcastic, The Girl on the other hand has taken over Chandler’s mantle.

At 2.50 we were booked into see Monica and Rachel’s apartment. This is the only thing that involved queuing, and even then it was only 15 minutes. All the time you’re waiting there are quizzes and games going on on the main stage, meaning you’re never bored. We then reenacted the title sequence with accompanying umbrellas before being moved through the apartment where we were photoed in the living room, kitchen and front door.

The apartment.

Overall, it was a lovely experience befitting of a programme that touched millions. Most of the people that attended were our age, the generation that the show meant so much to. However, there were also younger fans; in fact one of the winners of the main stage quiz was a 15-year-old girl. It appears that with Comedy Central recycling the shows a new generation of fans is enjoying the sitcom that spawned a haircut. I haven’t seen an episode of Friends for years, but you know what? I’m going to go back and watch some old ones again. I bet you they withstand the test of time.

* The bet is based on Season 1-8. I’m not even sure Season 9-10 withstood the test of their own time.

FriendsFest is now sold out. Capitalism being as it is, it will probably be back.

Last Chance U

In England football is an obsession; in America it is life itself. 111.9 million people watched this year’s Superbowl 50. Coldplay, the world’s biggest band, performed its half-time show. 30-second advertisements cost companies $4.5 million. With games regularly played at Wembley the reach of the sport is expanding. No longer can people deride the game as particular to America. America may own the rights, but they are leasing out the franchise to viewers all round the world.

When I lived in a flat with my brother and his mates Sunday was often given over to football: the British kind during the day and the American variety at night. Ever the studious teacher I would excuse myself from the evening session to devote time to planning and marking. On the frequent occasion I did take a break though, I would enter the living room and watch parts of the game. Despite never becoming hooked, I could appreciate the interest. For a start, the thing is a spectacle. No one does razzmatazz like ol’ Uncle Sam. The fireworks, marching bands and cheerleaders make an event out of the sport, ensuring a carnival whatever the score. Further, it has an exuberance that is utterly infectious. Tackles are cheered like ceasefires, touchdowns like armistices and victories like homecoming parades. Raised on Hip Hop culture, these players don’t hide their successes; they flaunt them like bling bling chains. In the oxymoron world of soccer personality, the American game has character and characters in abundance. If only there weren’t quite so many stoppages, I could easily fall for it.

The U in USA doesn't stand for understatement.

Just as football is predominately played by working-class men, American football is too. America’s wealth gap is so great that football is seen as one of few legitimate routes out of poverty. With that in mind high school and college football are big deals in America. The campus, alumni and community turn out in force to cheer their team, aware that they may be seeing the stars of tomorrow. Given America’s geography, it isn’t always possible or affordable to see state teams; therefore local school and college teams are seen as the next best thing. Just as the big league has bands, cheerleaders, mascots, and chilli dog vendors so too do the minor ones. If anything the atmosphere is more fervent because the players are attached to the people in attendance. As a result, they don’t carry the weight of the nation on their shoulders; they carry something much worse: the weight of their own world. If they lose there is no hiding place: they’ll see their supporters in class tomorrow. A victory though will ensure a canteen queue jump, ensuring celebrity for another week.

This is the context for Netflix’s Last Chance U, a documentary that follows East Mississippi Community College over a season. Situated in Scooba, local population 782, the football team is something of a phenomenon. In spite of their small town status, the team has won the national championship three out of the last five seasons. The key to their success? They recruit talented cast-offs from the upper echelons of the game; players that would have had a foot in the NFL (National Football League) if it wasn’t for having a punch in a rival. These are young men of unquestionable talent but questionable discipline. Coming to EMCC then is a step down, a chance to reform their character and re-find their game, and in coach Buddy Stephens they have a tough love enthusiast AKA 'their best way back.'

Scooba: a dive. (Sorry the pun was there for the taking.)

In many ways this isn’t a documentary about football, rather a meditation on teaching and whether young men will accept the lessons they’re taught. Born into violent homes the boys’ only experience of conflict-resolution is seeing someone reach for a gun. For example, Ronald Ollie, a defender, witnessed his mother being killed following a domestic argument with his father. The ensuing police chase ended when his father used the murder weapon to commit suicide. Another volatile player DJ Law spent much of his childhood without a positive role model due to his father’s incarceration. Their boasts of fighting and debauchery give the impression of manliness, but fundamentally these are lost boys. They need to grow up quick, otherwise they risk the Peter Pan fate of arrested development.

The people tasked with helping them grow up are Ms Wagner and Buddy Stephens. Ms Wagner as academic advisor has the job of getting the boys through their education programmes. In America all students are expected to graduate with qualifications. Failure to obtain the grades jeopardises the players’ chance of advancing in their sport. The trouble is these kids were built for sporting endurance, not academic rigour. Their high school education was not their number one priority, meaning they probably spent more time with headmasters than teachers. It falls on her to inspire these men to fill their heads, that is before they have it knocked out of them on game day. Wagner is warm, passionate and dedicated – if anything too dedicated. Every time one of her charges skips class, she feels responsible. Acutely aware that these boys will fall through the cracks if she’s not careful, she runs quasi-revision, counselling and social services from her office.

Ms Wagner.

Buddy Stephens is an altogether different proposition. A bad cop to Ms Wagner’s good one. He is a swearing machine powered by perfectionism. A man of advancing gut, he is a visceral agent of spleen and aggression. His after-dinner talks at the rotary club merely a refined front to hide his maniacal impulses. Stephens, a family man, is capable of being a loving father, yet he has it within him to be a vengeful one too, raining fire and brimstone curses on his footballing creations. By the end of the documentary you’ll wonder whether the indiscipline of the players is down to nurture or Stephens’ “I’ll kick you in the fucking ass’ nature.

Coach Stephens.

Last Chance U is a very special documentary, Netflix’s best since Making A Murderer. It makes the case for second chances, making you aware of where the cycle of indiscipline comes from. This knowledge will mean you will root for the boys whilst feeling pissed with them. As a teacher the show really resonated with me. It is so frustrating to see people absolve themselves from responsibility by withdrawing from education, believing wrongly that this is a lesser evil than trying and failing. Seeing the boys’ pride trip them up at every turn is heartbreakingly depressing and shows how masculinity has a lot to answer for.

Dreams, masculinity, nature/nurture. It might say sports documentary on the synopsis, but it is so much more than that. In giving this recommendation I’ve thrown you the ball, it's now down to you to catch it.

Last Chance U is on Netflix