Thinking Inside the Box - by Philip

I rarely feel guilty about anything. Guilt is one of those emotions that is best acknowledged and then suppressed, like that impending fear that you’ve wasted your life or maybe like a craving for chocolate glazed doughnuts. Whichever. The point is that guilt has no inherent value other than to remind us to avoid certain behaviors that we don’t wish to repeat. Once we’ve learned that lesson and have adjusted our behavior, there’s no need to carry around that guilt any more, is there? So why, knowing that, do I continue to feel guilty about my love… of boxing?

That’s right, my name is Philip Dyer and I love boxing. Well, maybe “love” is too strong of a word. I’m never going to spend that crazy pay-per-view money to watch Oscar De La Hoya get his ass handed to him by “Sugar” Shane Mosley (again), but I certainly don’t change the channel when Wladimir Klitschko is pounding the crap out of a woefully unprepared Hasim Rahman. You know, for example.

But as I was watching the Mosley-Margarito fight last week, I had the same internal conversation that I have every time I sit down to a boxing match: Why do I like this? What is the appeal of watching two grown men try to pummel the crap out of each other? And BTW, I’m not suggesting that it’s better to watch two children try to pummel the crap out of each other, just that it seems odd that contemporary adults are participating in what appears to be such primitive behavior. Of course, they’re highly skilled athletes who work incredibly hard to hone their skills, but why do they apply those skills toward the sole objective of hurting another human being, rather than twirling a ribbon while dancing on a soft mat or sliding a large weight across an ice rink? Wouldn’t that be a better use of their skills? Anyone?

Still, the fact remains that I both enjoy boxing and feel guilty about enjoying it. It clearly satisfies some basic human instinct, but I can’t help feeling bad that I’m no better than those bloodthirsty ancient Romans who fed their lions a steady diet of Jehovah’s Witnesses. The scientific explanation is that we watch sports in order to vicariously experience some emotion that we are unable to experience in everyday life. It just so happens that this particular emotion is the adrenaline rush associated with pounding another human being into a sniveling puddle of goo, but the explanation is still valid. While the ability to kick someone’s ass is rarely useful on a corporate team-building retreat, we are just a few generations removed from that being the most essential skill required for our daily survival. Note that I said "rarely," Greg Applebaum. Consider yourself warned.

So here we are, caught between a deeply ingrained human instinct to inflict pain on others and our HR department’s policy explicitly stating that this is not acceptable breakroom behavior. They clearly don’t understand what it’s like to be surrounded by a bunch of engineers with spindly biceps who still live with their parents and drink tea while discussing their WOW guild’s eradication of a hostile faction of Night Elves. Wait, did I just perpetuate a hateful stereotype? It's a good thing I don't feel guilt. The point is that maybe it's helpful to society that we channel our instinct to beat up nerds into a less felonius hobby, such as watching boxing, UFC and rasslin'. I just can't help but think that it doesn't speak highly of us as an evolved species if we have those instincts in the first place.

Two things in particular happened during last weekend's boxing match that gave me a bit more pause than usual. The first jarring moment was when Mosley came back to his corner between rounds and his manager said, "Knock the grease off this dude then swim without getting wet." Huh? I don't think that I want to follow a sport in which people put those words in that order. The second big realization was that Sylvester Stallone was sitting in the front row watching the same fight that I was. I have always made it a goal in life never to belong to any of the same clubs as Sylvester Stallone. Well, I suppose that belonging to the "Academy Award Nominees Club" and the "Multimillionaires Club" wouldn't be so bad, but the "Formerly Married to Brigite Nielsen Club" is out of the question.

Knowing that boxing vernacular is becoming more and more inane and that I'm not exactly thrilled about the kind of company that I'm keeping as a member of boxing's viewing audience, is that enough to stop me from watching? Nope. I also know that there's no valid reason for me to continue popping these Reese's Pieces in my mouth, but there is apparently a large chasm between the things that I know consciously and the primal instincts that are really steering the ship. There's no way that I'm ever going to try to beat up someone to satisfy my caveman intuitions, so why not let another guy do it for me? Once I learn how to knock grease off of other people and to swim through gases and solids, I'll start doing it for myself.