Against heavy odds, sports journalist Jack Cavanaugh has written a boxing biography that I like. You see, although an athlete (baseball and tennis) myself, I despise boxing, a so-called “sport” where two individuals try vigorously to hurt each other in front of an audience eager to see one of the participants knocked unconscious. I usually silently question the humanity of those who consider themselves boxing fans, as well as the boxers themselves.
As a biographer, I value the skills of the craft – even when the subject is a boxer. In this case, actually, two boxers. During 1926 and 1927, William Harrison (Jack) Dempsey and James Joseph (Gene) Tunney fought each other twice for the heavyweight championship. Dempsey, born during 1895 in Colorado – Manassa, to be precise – was a poorly educated brawler who used the alliterative nickname “Manassa Mauler.” Tunney, born during 1897 in New York City, was a well-educated fellow who boxed out of economic necessity because he saw the wisdom of capitalizing on a skill.
Although a better human being than Dempsey by almost any civilized standard, Tunney failed to capture the public imagination as vigorously as the Manassa Mauler. One of the primary elements to the greatness of this biography is Cavanaugh’s ability to plumb the confusing depths of celebrity in America. Why so many boxing fans preferred the stereotypical bad guy to the stereotypical good guy is a puzzle of mass psychology worth exploring, and explore it Cavanaugh does.
At least goodness prevailed in the boxing ring – Tunney won both fights in 10 rounds. The descriptions of the boxing matches, including the preparations and the immediate aftermaths, are rendered skillfully. But, given my biases, those descriptions held the least fascination for me, just as the battle strategies in books about World Wars I and II hold the least fascination for me.
Instead, the fascination lies in why Dempsey and Tunney decided to box professionally; how they overcame physical, social and economic barriers to reach the top of their calling; how those around the two men profited and lost; and how their long lives played out after their boxing careers ended. (Dempsey lived until 1983, Tunney until 1978.)
Dempsey used his boxing fame to join the Hollywood crowd, starring in movies and dating starlets. He went through marriages and divorces quickly, apparently never locating the true love of his life. But he found a sort of satisfaction in the past – those who rank boxers on the basis of ability in the ring decided on Dempsey as the greatest of all time, even though he had lost to Tunney twice.
When asked about such rankings, Tunney demonstrated not an iota of resentment. Been there, done that, seemed to summarize his admirable philosophy of life. Tunney eschewed his boxing fame, marrying a sophisticated heiress and settling down to a life of success in the business world. All three of the Tunney children became well- educated successes, with one gaining a measure of national fame as a U.S. senator.
Tunney liked living in their shadows. His tombstone says nothing about his boxing championship. Instead, using his birth name without a mention of “Gene,” the grave marker documents his military service during World War I and World War II.
After grappling with the enigma of Tunney for hundreds of pages composed over many years, Cavanaugh ends the book like this: “In death as in life, Gene Tunney, the most enigmatic and intellectual of heavyweight champions, asked no favors of the sport that had made him famous.”
Steve Weinberg is a biographer who serves as a director of the National Book Critics Circle.
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Tunney
Boxing’s Brainiest Champ and His Upset of the Great Jack Dempsey
By Jack Cavanaugh
Random House, 471 pages, $27.95
