The Cult of the Pretty Boy
By Eoin Redahan
Keats said it was truth; someone else said it was in the eye of the beholder. Either way, beauty plays a curiously prominent role in boxing.
The cosmetic surgeons would laugh in your face; the gawky, pimple-strewn teenager would scoff with scorn; and the women from the calendar leaves would just smile and shrug if you lectured them on the superficiality of beauty. If it is only skin deep, they might say, then it measures a very profound 1.5 millimeters.
Strangely, facial aesthetics play a bigger part in boxing than in almost any other sport. A boxer’s successes and failings are written on the curves of his nose and on the tissue of his cheekbones. Arguably, attractiveness has a more distinct bearing on the popularity of a boxer than purists would admit.
For example, what if creation had been unkind to the faces of Oscar De La Hoya and Muhammad Ali? And what if Mike Tyson’s face betrayed none of his menace? Would their careers have been warped like the limbs of a bonsai, or would they have grown up just the same? Of course we’ll never know.
Or will we?
Oscar’s house
“Wake up. Oscar, wake up.”
Oscar rubs the slumber from his eyes. Today is a big day. He has a television interview, and he must look the part. He scans the room for his lucky fish net stockings and suitable brassiere. “Sports or regular?” he asks.
He puts on his heels and totters to the bathroom. He is greeted by the grim reflection of a mirror. He sees tiny, squinting eyes, a large nose mashed about his face, and the conspicuous absence of a front tooth. It is a bad face day. He applies “the clear” moisturizer Sugar Shane was so kind to lend him before caking his skin in a painted disguise.
“You look so handsome today, honey,” his wife says with restrained mirth. “But I wish you wouldn’t wear so much makeup.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he replies irritably. “There is another hairline crack in the mirror by the way,” he adds. “You said you had replaced it.”
“I did. That’s the third mirror this month,” she gasps.
The clip of heels can be heard around the house. Eventually, Oscar sits as his wife briefs (he prefers them to boxers) him on the morning’s developments:
“Floyd wants to sever ties with Sterling Boy Promotions. He says you haven’t given him enough exposure.”
“Exposure?” Oscar cries. “Were those photographs not enough?”
“He’s not talking about those photographs, Oscar. He just feels that you don’t have the facial recognition to make him an obscene amount of money. He says he has lawyers to feed and medallions to buy. Oh, and the Hispanic-oriented bank is dropping you from its advertising campaign. They say your face is, well, intimidating customers.”
Oscar slumps in his seat.
“First I get duped out of a gold medal and now this. I swear if I looked like Ali, I would’ve gotten that decision. Instead, I’m with Roy Jones JR. and “Pretty Boy” as the Olympic bridesmaids (this gives him an idea). Can you imagine how much better Golden Boy Promotions would sound than Sterling Boy?
“If only I were pretty,” he grumbles to himself. “I would never have lost so many close decisions.”
Later that day, Oscar appears on television. He discusses the “eagerly-anticipated” match-up between Roy Jones, JR., and Bernard Hopkins. This time the female presenter is not touching her face, making lingering eye contact, or laughing bashfully at his jokes. Moreover, she cuts short his meandering monologue about “the fight we’ve all been waiting for.”
She asks him if he will release his blood test records in the interest of transparency, and if he will stop speaking in baby. Oscar tugs at his garter uncomfortably. “Well,” he says trying to summon a winning smile. “I did give my answer in a non-committal Sterling Boy Promotions press release.”
“I’m sorry Oscar,” the presenter says with the hint of a smile. “But answers like that are reserved for pretty people.”
Taking the Mick (in 1989)
An agent shakes Iron Mike’s young hand. The young Mike is different to how we remember. He has soft features, a brow without furrows, and a dashing smile. With his billowing woolen jumper, he could have been a Cosby. The agent looks upon the young bull as a cash cow, and sets about milking his client for all he’s worth:
Agent: Who are your heroes, Mike?
Mike: Jack Dempsey. Sonny Liston. Pigeons.
Agent: Okay, not any more they’re not. These guys just won’t work for your sponsors. To be frank, we liked neither Mr. Dempsey’s haircut, nor his pre-fight glare. As for Mr. Liston: Suffice to say, he is not a savory enough role model for a young gentleman such as yourself.
The toothpaste company wants to see that smile, and the washing powder people desperately want to see some sock action. Disney was also hoping for a bit of color in those trunks and a suggestion of light-heartedness. May I suggest a hokey anthem to enter the ring by, a smattering of celebrity friends, and a foppish haircut?
Mike: But that’s the point. I need to intimidate my…
Agent: No, Mike. Floyd Patterson is the point. Joe Louis is the point. We need wholesome heroes. You’re the face of boxing now, and with the right tutelage, I think you can become a media darling. Now, you mentioned pigeons. We like pigeons.
Mike: I also like pigeons.
Agent: My job is to make you more money than you can ever spend, but we need to make sure that you’re as marketable as possible; so, there will be ground rules: Firstly, no gold teeth. Apparently, women don’t find them attractive any more. The same goes for tattoos of Chinese Communists and Cuban revolutionaries. If you must get a tattoo, at least make sure it’s of a capitalist. But if you got one, I know you’d make it subtle anyway. You’re going to be the Jack Nicklaus of boxing. How does that sound?
Mike: That sounds tremendous
Agent: Okay, just a few more items: The cereal company wants you to come in and bite a few ears for them.
Mike: Ears?
Agent: You’ll need to gnaw on an ear of corn for the advertisement. Don’t worry; it’ll just be one ear.
Mike: But, but.
Agent: No butts, Mike. You take care of your ears; let other boxers take care of the buts. Oh, and one last thing: Don’t threaten to eat any one’s children. It doesn’t mix well with your image as teenage heartthrob and ideal son in law. But, I wouldn’t worry about any of this; this is just the beginning of the Mike Tyson glory years.