WHEN HAUSER MET HUGH MCILVANNEY
From 2001. When Thomas Hauser was transitioning from writing books about boxing to being a boxing journalist, he had lunch with Mcilvanney at the Garrick Club in London
ONE can make a strong argument that the best sports writer in the world lives in London. There are two major awards for sports journalism bestowed annually in Great Britain. The first is the British Press Award for “Sports Journalist of the Year.” Hugh Mcilvanney has been accorded that honour eight times. The second is “Sports Journalist of the Year” as chosen by the British Sports Council. Mcilvanney won that award in each of the first three years of its existence. Then he was asked to become a judge in the selection process, which removed him from further consideration. More significantly, he is the only sports writer to ever win the British Press Award for “Journalist of the Year.” And he’s the first foreign-born writer designated by the Boxing Writers Association of America as recipient of the Nat Fleischer Award for Career Excellence in Boxing Journalism. In sum, Mcilvanney is a giant.
Mcilvanney was born in Scotland on February 2, 1934. “There’s no point darting around that one” he acknowledges. Four decades ago, he was working as a general news and features writer for The Scotsman when the editor requested that he turn to sport. Mcilvanney was reluctant, fearing that he would end up as “nothing but a football writer.” To allay those fears, the editor gave him a copy of A. J. Liebling’s classic work on boxing, The Sweet Science.
“Liebling confirmed for me that writing about sport could be worthwhile,” says Mcilvanney. “Of course, the high standard of his writing also frightened the life out of me.”
In 1962, having decided that writing about sport was in fact “a proper job,” Mcilvanney sent a letter of application and some clippings to The Observer in London. He was offered a position, and the rest is history. For three decades, Mcilvanney and The Observer were synonymous with one another. Then in 1993, The Observer was taken over by The Guardian.
“At that point,” Mcilvanney recounts, “The Observer ceased to be the paper I had worked for for so many years. The Guardian
was behaving like an occupying army and I had no desire to be taken prisoner, so I moved to The Sunday Times.”
As chief sports journalist for The Times, Mcilvanney covers football, boxing, horse racing, and golf. He writes occasionally for magazines. And he was the literary craftsman who pieced together the autobiography of Alex Ferguson [manager of Manchester United, the world’s most fabled football franchise]. To date, the Ferguson book has sold 600,000 copies in hardcover, making it the best selling sports book in the history of British publishing.
Mcilvanney is also something of a pugilist himself. He is rumoured to have knocked out Norman Mailer with a single punch when Mailer challenged him to a fight. And Henry Cooper, who reigned as British and Commonwealth heavyweight champion for 10 years, recalls, “Once, when Hughie had a bit too much to drink, he wanted to fight me. It didn’t come to anything. I said, ‘Calm down, son,’ and, I’m pleased to say, he did just that.”
Mcilvanney, for his part, doesn’t remember the Cooper incident. But he doesn’t deny it either and says simply, “It would have been a short fight and a long recuperation. If it happened, I’m thankful that Henry has a kind nature.”
As for boxing as a sport, Mcilvanny freely admits, “My ambivalence runs very deep. I’m aware of all the statistical evidence that boxing is less dangerous than mountaineering, and boxing is less dangerous than automobile racing. But that’s not the issue. The issue is motive and a core of frightening violence. No matter how you dress it up, boxing is two men trying to batter each other senseless. And we, the public, get the charge without suffering the damage. Also, the whole circus approach to boxing that we see so much of these days appalls and depresses me. The ugly babble that comes out of Mike Tyson. Laila Ali and Jacqui Frazier shamelessly plundering their fathers’ good names. Professional wrestling can say, ‘We’re just playing; no one is getting hurt.’ But in boxing, people are getting hurt. And the more I see of that show business rubbish, the more I feel I could turn my back on the sport.”
“Now, having said that,” Mcilvanney continues, “I’ll add that one should examine the motives of all abolitionists. I’m tired of doctors who attack the sport and say of each knockout, ‘So-and-so won that fight on brain damage.’ People who drink get brain damage too. And some wonderful human
‘THAT SHOW BUSINESS RUBBISH COULD MAKE ME TURN MY BACK ON THE SPORT ’
activity has come out of boxing; moments of glory and fighters traveling to places inside themselves that few of us will ever reach. Still, the arguments against boxing are valid. And improved medical care, better pay for fighters; none of that will change the essence of it. Either you take boxing whole or not at all. If boxing were banned tomorrow, I couldn’t raise a passionate outcry against the decision. Still, the truth is, as long as boxing exists, I suspect that I’ll find it utterly irresistible.”
As a writer, Mcilvanney professes to be “happiest when celebrating greatness.” Thus, it’s no surprise that perhaps his favorite personage to write about has been Muhammad Ali. “Ali in his prime was the greatest figure in the history of sport,” says Mcilvanney. “He had the capacity to dream himself anew each morning and then inhabit that dream. He didn’t just thrill you. He was a magical spirit of joy.” Lennox Lewis is another favorite. “Lennox,” Mcilvanney opines, “would have been competitive with any heavyweight in history because of his size and ability. He’s a big man; he can punch; he knows how to look after himself. He’s only lost one fight [note: Mcilvanney was speaking in January 2001]. And if they’d had the same referee that night that they had when Larry Holmes fought Earnie Shavers or Renaldo Snipes, Lennox might well be undefeated as a professional. I think Ali would have beaten Lennox,” Mcilvanney continues. “Muhammad would have dazzled him and found a way to win. And George Foreman in his prime, before Ali broke his heart, had the size and punch to beat Lennox. But other than those two, I’d bet Lennox Lewis in a fight against any heavyweight ever. That’s not a pound-for-pound assessment. I’d rate Joe Louis and a number of other heavyweights ahead of him pound-forpound. But if you could match them up by way of a time machine, Lennox would be fifty pounds heavier than Joe Louis in his prime. Rocky Marciano fought at 186 pounds. There’s no way that Rocky Marciano could give Lennox Lewis 65 pounds and beat him. Lennox lacks fire. Lennox lacks passion in the ring. He’s a percentage player. But I’m prepared to accept Lennox for what he is, which is considerable, and I have no question about his heart. I just hope Lennox retires while he’s still champion,” Mcilvanney says in closing. “He’d feel so good about it for the rest of his life.”
As for his philosophy of writing, Mcilvanney says simply, “It’s important to maintain a sensible perspective on the relationship between sport and the world at large. For that reason, I’ve always been thankful for the years I spent writing about general news. And there should be a sound knowledge of the sport being covered. A good sports writer must be equipped to judge performances without waiting for experts to explain what he’s been watching. That’s not to say that one has to know all the answers, but a good writer knows the questions.”
And then Mcilvanney adds modestly, “My approach to writing is not an expectation of triumph, but a determination to avoid screwing up. When I write, I imagine people I respect scrutinising my work. I have an almost neurotic concern to avoid making a mess of it.”
One of those who Mcilvanney might imagine evaluating his work is A. J. Liebling. “If you couldn’t go to a fight, the best commentary you could have on it was Liebling,” he says reflectively. “Of course, Liebling had a great advantage in that he was writing about boxing. It’s a writer’s sport. You have courage, romance, skullduggery, excitement, and moments of unspeakable horror. Liebling couldn’t have written the way he wrote if he’d been writing about croquet.”
A wistful look crosses Mcilvanney’s face. “You know, I greatly regret never having met Liebling. I wish I’d had the presence of mind near the end . . .” His voice trails off and then picks up again. “It’s one of those regrets we all have.”
No doubt, there will be writers who feel the same way about Hugh Mcilvanney in the future. But those of us in the writing fraternity expect to have him active and with us for a long time.
‘I HAVE NO EXPECTATION OF TRIUMPH, BUT A DETERMINATION TO AVOID SCREWING UP’