DALLAS – While the aficionados who peruse this column were dutifully enduring a first collaboration of Mayweather Promotions and Showtime, Saturday, one that worked better as prophesy than entertainment, after they’d already endured a week of contemplating another network switch certain to change the world once more – this time Floyd Mayweather following Manny Pacquiao to Showtime, or have we forgotten? – I was at American Airlines Center to see a hockey game between the Dallas Stars and San Jose Sharks.
The game was not very good, just as Mayweather’s May 4 welterweight fight with 2009 featherweight titlist Robert Guerrero will not be, but it did hold a moment at 8:21 of period 2, an instant of mutual malice satisfactorily resolved, that reminded me how rarely prizefighting brings such catharses anymore. The moment featured a face Mayweather flashes when he throws a punch with which he means to hurt, a contorted countenance that reminds you he is a fighter, a face both Sharks forward Joe Thornton and Stars forward Jamie Benn flashed as their fists and bodies crashed together, and that is what I will treat here.
Saturday’s epiphany: Ferocity of spectacle is what I have missed – a confrontation taken personally, the desire to hurt another man overcoming any fear of being embarrassed before 18,000 strangers. Thornton and Benn’s squaring-off brought a unique drama caused by two quite large professional athletes, neither of whom fights for a living but both of whom know how because one would not otherwise make his living the way they do. It held a tension most every prizefight will lack in 2013: Someone could be badly hurt quite suddenly, and neither man seems to care.
It was a ferocious face Joe Thornton wore as he went after Benn. Thornton, in his prime, now passed, was talented a player as the league had; at 6-foot-4, he moved as a much smaller man, with what balance and grace is expected of a centerman, though with four inches and 20 pounds more than tradition wears at the position. But his desire was questioned in Boston, where he was first pick of the 1997 draft, and then San Jose, where he has been captain for years.
Thornton’s is a finesse game of imaginative passing and awareness of the ice surface, done with what can feel like a complacent smirk; despite 328 career goals, he does not shoot often enough, and despite weighing at least 230 pounds – 235 according to Dropyourgloves.com – he rarely runs his body hard into another’s. In skates and full equipment Saturday, though, Thornton was a 6-foot-7, 240-pound man, nearly a Klitschko brother, under a burst of what sudden rage both Klitschkos avoid with a craftsman’s determination.
I was in row H, seven from the glass, in the zone where hostilities initiated. While any sport is best appreciated by its former practitioners, hockey is more decisively this way than others; because of its speed, and because of how poorly American cameramen, raised on football or baseball or basketball, anticipate plays, ever trailing the action or overcorrecting initial tardinesses, hockey – as separate from the bloodiest elements of its reputation – is rarely appreciated properly by those who’ve not played it. That is seldom a problem above the snow line, and never a problem in Canada, but things can get dicey in Texas.
Skating past, Benn speared Thornton in the groin, the soft fleshy part of the inner thigh where there is no protection, and Thornton reciprocated by chopping the blade of his stick precisely on the inch or so of Benn’s forearm that lay unprotected by the top glove and bottom elbow pad. A wrinkle happened across the ice, a surge in the game’s electrical grid; while most eyes in American Airlines Center followed the puck 20 feet away, those who played the game looked at Thornton and Benn in the instant before Thornton dropped his left glove and Benn shouted, “Let’s go!”
Thornton gently maneuvered one of the Stars defenseman out his way and began checking tape on his right wrist, to ensure his elbow pad did not slide downwards and soften any blow he landed. Benn glided backwards, ungloved hands at his side. The combatants began a large circle, the crowd took its feet with a ghoulish and shouted glee, and the officials backed away to allow space for a resolution. Thornton and Benn negotiated an agreement to remove their helmets, promising neither would break his hand on anything but the other’s bared skull.
Chinstraps undone and hats demurely removed and ceremoniously placed on the ice, the men raised their uncovered knuckles, squared up, circled once, Thornton took a deep breath, and they leaped at each other. The moment was packed to bursting with what chaotic rage the word “fight” should conjure. On a frictionless surface, each moved at the other much faster than two prizefighters would do.
“A fight is a fight” – those were what words happened in my mind. Whatever else these men were – masters in the balletic discipline of balancing on four razor’s edges at 25 miles per hour, careful teammates, loyal friends, fathers, sons – they were savages in the moment, rushing at one another in nearly formless rage, faces honestly contorted by the evil of wanting to hurt another man very badly. These were not, it must be reiterated, goons or enforcers putting on a rally-the-boys spectacle for violence-lusting Texans; these were skill players (Benn had a goal and an assist Saturday) under the spell of a genuine fury, the sort a man feels when he is wronged to requiring satisfaction.
The fight quickly devolved into the exhausting place hockey fights do, with Thornton holding Benn’s jersey with his left fist, yanking him into the jab, and landing a considerable right cross or two to Benn’s left temple – punches that pained both Sunday morning. Benn found Thornton with a right hand as well before both spun to their stockinged kneepads. By prizefighting standards, it was a mere brawl, a donnybrook, a wild-swinging matter of personal grievance with only fractional punching skill employed, which is what brought a catharsis prizefighting will too often lack in 2013.
Bart Barry can be reached at bart.barrys.email (at) gmail.com
