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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
Unit 9
TEXT I
Who Killed Benny Paret?
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Sometime about 1935 or 1936 I had an interview with Mike Jacobs, the prizefight promoter. I was a fledgling newspaper reporter at that time; my beat was education, but during the vacation season I found myself on varied2 assignments, all the way from ship news to sports reporting. In this way I found myself sitting opposite the most powerful figure in the boxing world.
There was nothing spectacular in Mr. Jacobs' manner or appearance; but when he spoke3 about prizefights, he was no longer a bland4 little man but a colossus who sounded the way Napoleon must have sounded when he reviewed a battle. You knew you were listening to Number One. His saying something made it true.
We discussed what to him was the only important element in successful promoting — how to please the crowd. So far as he was concerned, there was no mystery to it. You put killers6 in the ring and the people filled your arena7. You hire boxing artists — men who are adroit8 at feinting, parrying, weaving, jabbing, and dancing, but who don't pack dynamite9 in their fists — and you wind up counting your empty seats. So you searched for the killers and sluggers and maulers — fellows who could hit with the force of a baseball bat.
I asked Mr. Jacobs if he was speaking literally10 when he said people came out to see the killer5.
"They don't come out to see a tea party," he said evenly. "They come out to see the knockout. They come out to see a man hurt. If they think anything else, they're kidding themselves."
Recently a young man by the name of Benny Paret was killed in the ring. The killing11 was seen by millions; it was on television. In the twelfth round he was hit hard in the head several times, went down, was counted out, and never came out of the coma12.
The Paret fight produced a flurry of investigations13. Governor Rockefeller was shocked by what happened and appointed a committee to assess the responsibility. The New York State Boxing Commission decided14 to find out what was wrong. The District Attorney's office expressed its concern. One question that was solemnly studied in all three probes concerned the action of the referee15. Did he act in time to stop the fight? Another question had to do with the role of the examining doctors who certified16 the physical fitness of the fighters before the bout1. Still another question involved Mr. Paret's manager; did he rush his boy into the fight without adequate time to recuperate17 from the previous one?
In short, the investigators18 looked into every possible cause except the real one. Benny Paret was killed because the human fist delivers enough impact, when directed against the head, to produce a massive hemorrhage in the brain. The human brain is the most delicate and complex mechanism19 in all creation. It has a lacework of millions of highly fragile nerve connections. Nature attempts to protect this exquisitely20 intricate machinery21 by encasing it in a hard shell. Fortunately, the shell is thick enough to withstand a great deal of pounding. Nature, however, can protect man against everything except man himself. Not every blow to the head will kill a man — but there is always the risk of concussion22 and damage to the brain. A prizefighter may be able to survive even repeated brain concussions23 and go on fighting, but the damage to his brain may be permanent.
In any event, it is futile24 to investigate the referee's role and seek to determine whether he should have intervened to stop the fight earlier. This is not where the primary responsibility lies. The primary responsibility lies with the people who pay to see a man hurt. The referee who stops a fight too soon from the crowd's viewpoint can expect to be booed. The crowd wants the knockout; it wants to see a man stretched out on the canvas. This is the supreme25 moment in boxing. It is nonsense to talk about prizefighting as a test of boxing skills. No crowd was ever brought to its feet screaming and cheering at the sight of two men beautifully dodging26 and weaving out of each other's jabs. The time the crowd comes alive is when a man is hit hard over the heart or the head, when his mouthpiece flies out, when blood squirts out of his nose or eyes, when he wobbles under the attack and his pursuer continues to smash at him with poleax impact.
Don't blame it on the referee. Don't even blame it on the fight managers. Put the blame where it belongs — on the prevailing27 mores28 that regard prize-fighting as a perfectly29 proper enterprise and vehicle of entertainment. No one doubts that many people enjoy prizefighting and will miss it if it should be thrown out. And that is precisely30 the point.
By Norman Cousins
TEXT II
A Piece of Steak
With the last morsel31 of bread Tom King wiped his plate clean of the last bit of flour gravy32 and chewed the resulting mouthful in a slow and thoughtful way. When he arose from the table, he was oppressed by the feeling that he was distinctly hungry. Yet he alone had eaten. The two children in the other room had been sent early to bed in order that in sleep they might forget they had gone supperless. His wife had touched nothing, and had sat silently and watched him with troubled eyes. She was a thin, worn woman of the working class, though signs of an earlier prettiness were still there in her face. The flour for the gravy she had borrowed from the neighbor across the hall. The last two ha 'pennies had gone to buy the bread.
He sat down by the window on a rickety chair that protested under his weight, and quite mechanically he put his pipe in his mouth and dipped into the side pocket of his coat. The absence of any tobacco made him aware of his action, and with a frown for his forgetfulness he put the pipe away. His movements were slow, almost clumsy, as though he were burdened by the heavy weight of his muscles. He was a solid-bodied, stolid33-looking man, and his appearance did not suffer from being overprepossessing. His rough clothes were old and shapeless. The uppers of his shoes were too weak to carry the heavy resoling that was itself of no recent date. And his cotton shirt, a cheap, two-shilling affair, showed a frayed34 collar and ineradicable paint stains.
But it was Tom King's face that advertised him unmistakably for what he was. It was the face of a typical prizefighter; of one who had put in long years of service in the squared ring and by that means, developed and emphasized all the marks of the fighting beast. It was distinctly a threatening appearance, and that no feature of it might escape notice, it was clean-shaven. The lips were shapeless and made his mouth harsh like a deep cut in his face. The jaw35 was aggressive, brutal36, heavy. The eyes, slow of movement and heavy-lidded, were almost expressionless under the shaggy brows. Sheer animal that he was, the eyes were the most animal-like feature about him. They were sleepy, lionlike — the eyes of a fighting animal. The forehead slanted37 quickly back to the hair, which, clipped close, showed every swelling38 of an evil-looking head. A nose, twice broken and molded variously by countless39 blows, and a cauliflower ear, permanently40 swollen41 and distorted to twice its size, completed his adornment42, while the beard, fresh-shaven as it was, sprouted43 in the skin and gave the face a blue-black stain.
Altogether, it was the face of a man to be afraid of in a dark alley44 or lonely place. And yet Tom King was not a criminal, nor had he ever done anything criminal. Except for brawls45, common to the boxing world, he had harmed no one. Nor had he ever been known to start a quarrel. He was a professional, and all the fighting brutishness of him was reserved for his professional appearances. Outside the ring he was slow-going, easy-natured, and, in his younger days, when money was plentiful46, too generous for his own good. He bore no grudges47 and had few enemies. Fighting was a business with him. In the ring he struck to hurt, struck to maim48, struck to destroy; but there was no hatred49 in it. It was a plain business proposition. Audiences assembled and paid for the spectacle of men knocking each other out. The winner took the big end of the purse. When Tom King faced the Woolloomoolloo Gouger50, twenty years before, he knew that the Gouger's jaw was only four months healed after having been broken in a Newcastle bout. And he had played for that jaw and broken it again in the ninth round, not because he bore the Gouger any ill will but because that was the surest way to put the Gouger out and win the big end of the purse. Nor had the Gouger borne him any ill will for it. It was the game, and both knew the game and played it.
The impression of his hunger came back on him.
"Blimey, but couldn't I go a piece of steak!" he muttered aloud, clenching51 his huge fists.
"I tried both Burke's an' Sawley's", his wife said half apologetically.
"An' they wouldn't?" he demanded.
"Not a ha'penny. Burke said —" She faltered52.
"G'wan! Wot'd he say?"
"As how 'e was thinkin' Sandel 'ud do ye tonight, an' as how yer score was comfortable big as it was."
Tom King grunted53 but did not reply. He was busy thinking of the bull terrier he had kept in his younger days to which he had fed steaks without end. Burke would have given him credit for a thousand steaks — then. But times had changed. Tom King was getting old; and old men, fighting before second-rate clubs, couldn't expect to run bills of any size with the tradesmen.
He had got up in the morning with a longing54 for a piece of steak, and the longing had not died down. He had not had a fair training for this fight. It was a drought year in Australia, times were hard, and even the most irregular work was difficult to find. He had had no sparring partner, and his food had not been of the best nor always sufficient. He had done a few day's navvy work when he could get it and he had run around the Domain55 in the early mornings to get his legs in shape. But it was hard, training without a partner and with a wife and two kiddies that must be fed. Credit with the tradesmen had undergone very slight expansion when he was matched with Sandel. The secretary of the Gayety Club had advanced him three pounds — the loser's end of the purse — and beyond that had refused to go. Now and again he had managed to borrow a few shillings from old pals56, who would have lent more only that it was a drought year and they were hard put themselves. No — and there was no use in disguising the fact — his training had not been satisfactory. He should have had better food and no worries. Besides, when a man is forty, it is harder to get into condition than when he is twenty.
"What time is it, Lizzie?" he asked.
His wife went across the hall to inquire, and came back.
"Quarter before eight."
"They'll be startin' the first bout in a few minutes," he said. "Only a tryout. Then there's a four-round spar 'tween Dealer57 Wells an' Gridley, an' a ten-round go 'tween Starlight an' some sailor bloke. I don't come on for over an hour."
At the end of another silent ten minutes he rose to his feet.
"Truth is, Lizzie, I ain't had proper trainin'."
He reached for his hat and started for the door. He did not offer to kiss her — he never did on going out — but on this night she dared to kiss him, throwing her arms around him and compelling him to bend down to her face. She looked quite small against the massive bulk of the man.
"Good luck, Tom," she said. "You gotter do 'im.
"Ay, I gotter do 'im," he repeated. "That's all there is to it. I jus' gotter do' im."
He laughed with an attempt at heartiness58, while she pressed more closely against him. Across her shoulders he looked around the bare room. It was all he had in the world, with the rent overdue59, and her and the kiddies. And he was leaving it to go out into the night to get meat for his mate and cubs60 — not like a modern workingman going to his machine grind, but in the old, primitive61, royal, animal way, by fighting for it.
"I gotter do 'im," he repeated, this time a hint of desperation in his voice. "If it's a win, it's thirty quid — an' I can pay all that's owin', with a lump o' money left over. If it's a lose, I get naught62 — not even a penny for me to ride home on the tram. The secretary's give all that's comin' from a loser's end. Good-by, old woman. I'll come straight home if it's a win."
"An' I'll be waitin' up," she called to him along the hall.
It was full two miles to the Gayety, and as he walked along he remembered how in his palmy days — he had once been the heavyweight champion of New South Wales — he would have ridden in a cab to the fight, and how, most likely, some heavy backer would have paid for the cab and ridden with him. There were Tommy Burns and that Yankee, Jack63 Johnson — they rode about in motorcars. And he walked! And, as any man knew, a hard two miles was not the best preliminary to a fight. He was an old un and the world did not wag well with old uns. He was good for nothing now except navvy work, and his broken nose and swollen ear were against him even in that. He found himself wishing that he had learned a trade. It would have been better in the long run. But no one had told him, and he knew, deep down in his heart, that he would not have listened if they had. It had been so easy. Big money — sharp, glorious fights — periods of rest and loafing in between — a following of eager flatterers, the slaps on the back, the shakes of the hand, the toffs glad to buy him a drink for the privilege of five minutes' talk — and the glory of it, the yelling houses, the whirlwind finish, the referee's "King wins!" and his name in the sporting columns next day.
Those had been times! But he realized now, in his slow, ruminating64 way, that it was the old uns he had been putting away. He was Youth, rising; and they were Age, sinking. No wonder it had been easy — they with their swollen veins65 and battered66 knuckles67 and weary in the bones of them from the long battles they had already fought. He remembered the time he put out old Stowsher Bill, at Rush-Cutters Bay, in the eighteenth round, and how old Bill had cried afterward68 in the dressing69 room like a baby. Perhaps old Bill's rent had been overdue. Perhaps he'd had at home a missus an' a couple of kiddies. And perhaps Bill, that very day of the fight, had had a hungering for a piece of steak. Bill had fought the game and taken incredible punishment. He could see now, after he had gone through the mill himself, that Stowsher Bill had fought for a bigger stake, that night twenty years ago, than had young Tom King, who had fought for glory and easy money. No wonder Stowsher Bill had cried afterward in the dressing room.
They had tried him out against the old uns, and one after another he had put them away — laughing when, like old Stowsher Bill, they cried in the dressing room. And now he was an old un, and they tried out the youngsters on him. There was that bloke Sandel. He had come over from New Zealand with a record behind him. But nobody in Australia knew anything about him, so they put him up against old Tom King. If Sandel made a showing, he would be given better men to fight with bigger purses to win; so it was to be depended upon that he would put up a fierce battle. He had everything to win by it — money and glory and career; and Tom King was the grizzled old chopping block that guarded the highway to fame and fortune. And he had nothing to win except thirty quid, to pay to the landlord and the tradesmen. And as Tom King thus ruminated70, there came to his stolid vision the form of youth, glorious youth, rising exultant71 and invincible72, supple73 of muscle and silken of skin, with heart and lungs that had never been tired and torn and that laughed at limitation of effort. Yes, youth was the nemesis74. It destroyed the old uns and minded not that in so doing, it destroyed itself. It enlarged its arteries75 and smashed its knuckles, and was in turn destroyed by youth. For youth was ever youthful. It was only age that grew old.
[Tom King had a bout with young Sandel and lost the game.]
He had not a copper76 in his pocket, and the two-mile walk home seemed very long. He was certainly getting old. Crossing the Domain he sat down suddenly on a bench, pained by the thought of the missus sitting up for him, waiting to learn the outcome of the fight. That was harder than any knockout, and it seemed almost impossible to face.
He felt weak and sore, and the pain of his smashed knuckles warned him that, even if he could find a job at navvy work, it would be a week before he could grip a pick handle or a shovel77. The hunger palpitation at the pit of the stomach was sickening. His wrechedness overwhelmed him, and into his eyes came an unusual moisture. He covered his face with his hands, and, as he cried, he remembered Stowsher Bill and how he had served him that night in the long ago. Poor old Stowsher Bill! He could understand now why Bill had cried in the dressing room.
By Jack London (abridged and adapted)
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1
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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killers
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| 凶手( killer的名词复数 )； 消灭…者； 致命物； 极难的事 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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referee
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| n.裁判员．仲裁人，代表人，鉴定人 | |
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certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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recuperate
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| v.恢复 | |
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investigators
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| n.调查者，审查者( investigator的名词复数 ) | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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concussions
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| n.震荡( concussion的名词复数 )；脑震荡；冲击；震动 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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mores
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| n.风俗，习惯，民德，道德观念 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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brawls
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| 吵架，打架( brawl的名词复数 ) | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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grudges
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| 不满，怨恨，妒忌( grudge的名词复数 ) | |
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maim
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| v.使残废，使不能工作，使伤残 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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gouger
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| n.小流氓；掠夺式采矿者 | |
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clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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52
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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65
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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66
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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67
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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68
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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69
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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70
ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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71
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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72
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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73
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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74
nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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75
arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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76
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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77
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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