I recently read the piece for the first time, and I was struck by Kram’s vivid eloquence. Read this brief passage:
“At ringside, even though the arena was air-conditioned, the heat wrapped around the body like a heavy wet rope. By now, President Ferdinand Marcos, a small brown derringer of a man, and Imelda, beautiful and cool as if she were relaxed on a palace balcony taking tea, had been seated.”
And this one:
“Came the sixth, and here it was, that one special moment that you always look for when Joe Frazier is in a fight. Most of his fights have shown this: you can go so far into that desolate and dark place where the heart of Frazier pounds, you can waste his perimeters, you can see his head hanging in the public square, may even believe that you have him, but then suddenly you learn that you have not. Once more the pattern emerged as Frazier loosed all of the fury, all that has made him a brilliant heavyweight. He was in close now, fighting off Ali’s chest, the place where he has to be. His old calling card — that sudden evil, his left hook — was working the head of Ali. Two hooks ripped with slaughterhouse finality at Ali’s jaw, causing Imelda Marcos to look down at her feet, and the President to wince as if a knife had been stuck in his back. Ali’s legs seemed to search for the floor. He was in serious trouble, and he knew that he was in no-man’s-land.”
And finally this one:
“He began to catch Frazier with long right hands, and blood trickled from Frazier’s mouth. Now, Frazier’s face began to lose definition; like lost islands reemerging from the sea, massive bumps rose suddenly around each eye…”
Who writes like this anymore? If you can find brief examples in contemporary journalism (or even in fiction, for that matter), please post them. Or have most of us been convinced that “pretty writing” has no place in the craft?
Subquestion: Do you disagree with Ford? What’s your favorite piece in the history of Sports Illustrated?