FORT WORTH, Texas – The hardest part about this thing we do is not, as novelist Philip Roth once put it, that everything must be written about, but that everything can be. Such a thought visited, Saturday, while sitting near a stage on which Natalie Merchant performed. I forwent a trip to New York City and a boxing-writers dinner and a prizefight, Guillermo Rigondeaux versus Nonito Donaire, that interested me, to see Merchant, tickets to whose concert I purchased months before Donaire fought Jorge Arce in Houston.
Nothing about the previous week’s trip to Ireland haunted me much as this concert did, because I pledged before boarding an Aer Lingus flight nothing about Ireland would find its way in this column. With the year’s largest consequential fight thus far, Mexican Saul “Canelo” Alvarez versus New Mexican Austin “No Doubt” Trout, happening Saturday at Alamodome in San Antonio, though, connections had to be made because that is how columns work, and the connection between Merchant and Alvarez was, and is, grace.
Grace is not a word one freely associates with Mexican prizefighters, or prizefighters of any ethnicity, but in the swirl of impressions that happened Saturday in the Bass Performance Hall of this underestimated city’s Symphony Orchestra, “grace” was the very word that came to mind because of what happened at the press conference announcing Canelo vs. Trout one month ago at Alamodome, San Antonio’s signature edifice that will hold more than 30,000 people Saturday because Alvarez is that popular and Texas, frankly, is the one American state so interested in our sport.
After the usual things were said in the usual way by the usual people – one of the wonders of streaming video: today, no editor expects deadline coverage of such banality – there were side interviews ready to commence for television and television and television, and a local reporter or two, adjusting in no way the hands of what clock tells us what media matters. Before those loopy questions might be asked loopingly, to be televised in loops, though, Alvarez, dressed in a shiny battleship-gray suit and matching tie on synthetic black background, was brought to the stagefront’s extended tongue, to greet admirers for a moment or two of that spirited miming known as Connection with the Fans. But Alvarez began to sign anything handed him with any implement handed him, and while promoter Oscar De La Hoya shyly flapped a wing fans-ward, from a studiously selected perch 15 feet back of the scavengers, Alvarez signed and signed.
Thrice that I counted, Alvarez was asked to stop signing things and attend to the promotionally essential matter of television cameras. And thrice that I counted, he dismissed the request with hardly an acknowledgement – “You want me to be a ticket-seller in los estados unidos, ¿no?” – inconveniencing himself with not two syllables of explanation. Before he finished signing gloves and shirts and posters and programs and hats, numerous items for numerous folks, to tell television cameras he feels strong and is excited to be in, let’s see, San Antonio?, yes, San Antonio, he smilingly saluted the hoi polloi, hundreds strong, smaller and browner and towing a child or two, kept from him by a flat aluminum barricade, promising to sign their items, too, before he left.
What special effects Alvarez brings are natural, meaning authentic, and he appears to realize it: To date, his red hair and freckled complexion have distinguished him most from the large ranks of his countrymen’s prizefighters; Juan Manuel Marquez, for example, still could not sell 30,000 tickets in San Antonio three weeks before opening bell – and no, meritocracy has nothing to do with this, and yes, every ticket is sold: The Alamodome box office had nary an offering Friday morning. And meritocracy returns us to Saturday’s concert.
Natalie Merchant was the lead vocalist for 10,000 Maniacs before her 18th birthday, and possessed two platinum and four gold records before she turned 30, and has grown increasingly obscure since. She will turn 50 this year; her hair is timberwolf grey, not silver, her flat, once-almost-pretty features are overripe, and despite her confessed efforts she has acquired a pound of girth for every year since the 1992 MTV Unplugged performance that likely marked the last time anyone reading this saw or thought of her, if then. She was more effortful, Saturday, than her writing and singing imply; there were more clenched fists, more appeals for audience patience, and more autobiographical exposition than even her best song, “Tell Yourself” – one at whose singing she failed thrice, turning her back to the audience and sobbing, finally – anticipates.
Thirty minutes before, she found a very young boy in the audience, there with his mother and dressed in a dark suit not unlike Canelo’s, and gave him a signed copy of her book of collected children’s poetry, asking if this were his first concert, and when he said it was, Merchant offered:
“You will be proud to be able to say this was your first concert. In 25 years, a whole lot of people are going to be pretending Justin Bieber was not their first concert, and you won’t have to.”
It said much about how Merchant views her place in the canon of popular music, and it has some application to Canelo Alvarez for this obvious reason: He is the nearest thing prizefighting now has to Justin Bieber. His popularity dwarfs his achievement. His popularity dwarfs his potential for achievement, too; if we’re being honest, there is exactly no chance Alvarez will retire more accomplished than Juan Manuel Marquez, but he may outgross him many times over.
Today Saturday’s fight is not about Austin Trout at all, which is why this column has not been either. It says here, though, by the reading of the judges’ last scorecard this weekend, most accounts will treat Trout in the bitter way boxing’s habitués increasingly do everything: “Another robbery!” “Texas-sized Larceny!” “Someone Been Fishin’ in Trout’s Pond!”
I’ll take Alvarez, then, SD-12, in a fight honest hands score for Trout, 8-3-1.
Bart Barry can be reached at bart.barrys.email (at) gmail.com
