What if everyone just kept quiet instead of getting into fights? Would that make our digestion uncomplicated and our sleep uninterrupted?
It used to be that people argued about sports, inaccurate timetables and whether Folger’s or Chase & Sanborn ruled.
It’s different now.
When I was a little girl I remember my dad’s best friend, Andy, a Black baseball umpire, coming to our house to listen to the Floyd Patterson – Ingemar Johansson Heavyweight Championship on the radio. Andy asked me who I wanted to win.
I hesitated. I wanted Andy to think I was for Patterson, also Black, but to me, Ingemar Johansson was from Europe and had a name that was more fun to say once you got it right, silent J and all. It sounded like a boxer’s name, a bold accent on every single syllable.
Johansson had knocked out Patterson the year before to win the title, so my dad and Andy were drinking boilermakers and listening to sportscasters and oddsmakers make predictions, then agreeing or calling foul on what they heard.
“Mary Pat! Who are you for?”
“She’s for the American,” my dad answered.
I was a kid, and that’s the first time I remember someone speaking for me. I would’ve emphasized “ING-EM-AR YOH-HANS–SON because he lives in Sweden Europe.” Fun to say, and it never occurred to me that this was about America. I thought it was about my preference for the guy with the different name, and who cares who wins anyway?
The boxers bounced on their toes, the ref separated them, the bell rang, the match started. It went on for another shot and a beer, and many handsful of Planter’s Peanuts. I liked hearing these two men in the kitchen more than listening to the boxing match.
Dad and Andy focused fervently on every vivid blow, every echoing gong. They talked about how Johansson had knocked Patterson out in Yankee Stadium the year before and that this was the greatest fight of ever. Both men knew details down to the shoelaces about each boxer. My mom walked in and said, “Oh, there you are,” knowing I was in good company.
Then the fight was over. The announcer said Johansson looked like he was senseless before he thudded. After the referee called the knockout, Patterson went over and knelt over Johansson, cradled him, whispered and pleaded with him to get up. The flamboyant Johansson was unconscious and his left foot was twitching.
Patterson stayed until Johansson got up and then helped him out of the ring. They became lifelong friends.
Now, Floyd Patterson loved to box. His fists were actually weapons licensed by the boxing commission. He was quiet, shy, and certifiably depressed. And he taught two rugged old boots in our South Denver kitchen that compassion is beyond startling, it’s an urgent need to support another person.
This only came to memory because so many good people, now, today, are so spitfire angry at those who are wisely and carefully taking care of themselves despite social pressure.
It isn’t the government or church or pharmaceutical companies that will see us through this pandemic. It’s each other and our compassion, which I suppose is a first cousin of love. Whether you’ve taken a jab or not, there are people who respect your decision and love you totally.