“My writing is nothing. My boxing is everything.” So said the one and only Ernest Hemingway, one of the most captivating and revered writers of the 20th century.
Best-selling literary titan. Celebrity. Heavy drinker. Womanizer. Great hunter. Bullfighting fan. Hemingway was a man who wore many hats besides being a writer. And, without a doubt, the boxer was one of the roles he perfected with genuine zeal. While he was by no means a professional wrestler (more on that later), Hemingway was certainly a die-hard fan who liked to put on the gloves and get in the ring.
How into boxing was Hemingway? Well, as a child, he posed for a photograph as John L Sullivan, reflecting his early passion for the sweet science. In fact, several of Hemingway’s most revered short stories focus on boxing and boxers: “The Killers,” “Fifty Grand,” and “The Battler” quickly come to mind. Each of these works, to different degrees, is impregnated with the game of fighting. Additionally, Hemingway’s classic novel, The Sun Also Rises, literally begins with a description of the boxing background of Robert Cohn, one of the book’s central characters. Make no mistake, Dad, as he came to affectionately call Hemingway, was obsessed with boxing. However, obsession does not necessarily imply skill.
While Hemingway was nothing if not brave (documented acts of bravery on the battlefield attest to this), he wasn’t exactly Gene Tunney once he escaped the ropes. Hemingway’s skills as a fighter may have been adequate for bar fights, but street fights are a far cry from scientific boxing. Although strong and aggressive, he tended to be clumsy and constantly left an open target in the ring. However, to give credit where credit is due, he persisted in boxing despite his limitations. However, as with fiction writing, heart and determination only go so far. Ultimately, you either have the assets or you don’t.
Enter one F. Scott Fitzgerald. Yes, that F. Scott Fitzgerald, famous for The Great Gatsby. Scott, as he was known to his close associates, was living in Paris at the same time as Hemingway, and the two would develop one of the most peculiar friendships in literary history. Consider that Fitzgerald was already a best-selling author when he met Hemingway, while Ernest, four years Fitzgerald’s junior, was struggling. Still, it was Fitzgerald who revered Hemingway. Hemingway, you see, was a far cry from most of the degenerate expatriates populating Paris at the time.
Overtly masculine, boastful and gregarious, the young World War I veteran (Hemingway had been seriously wounded in combat while serving as an ambulance driver in Italy) dominated every room he entered.
Not only could Hemingway outdrink the wilder members of the so-called “Lost Generation” bohemian cohort, but he also participated in activities, such as hunting and boxing, that intimidated his peers and made them appear weak in comparison. Like many others, Fitzgerald developed a case of hero worship. However, unlike most people eager to join Hemingway’s burgeoning cult of followers, Fitzgerald was at least his equal as a writer.
While Hemingway was indeed on the verge of emerging as a literary heavyweight, Fitzgerald had already found enviable success and recognition in the establishment. And since Hemingway’s hypermasculinity was always based on fragility, a threat to his supremacy, in any aspect, could be problematic. As such, the young author attempted to assert himself by disrespecting and challenging Fitzgerald. Despite this, Scott, like so many others, largely accepted it. But such “chemistry” can lead to combustion, and feelings reportedly flared one particularly hot afternoon in 1929.
At this time, Hemingway was beginning to surpass Fitzgerald as an artist. His first published novel, The Sun Also Rises, not only revolutionized the world of letters, but his next book, A Farewell To Arms, was (and still is) considered a masterpiece of war fiction. . However, a reminder: Hemingway was not a great boxer. But limitations aside, he had some legitimate ring experience due to him training with the likes of Canadian writer Morley Callaghan, who was a genuinely skilled wrestler, on several occasions.
However, on that 1929 day in question, Fitzgerald supposedly acted as timekeeper and apparently let the second round with Callaghan go an extra minute. It’s bad enough, of course, but in those extra sixty seconds, Callaghan put Ernest on the mat. For a man as competitive as Hemingway, the perceived duration of the assault was enough to justify outrage and suspicion. By loudly blaming Fitzgerald for wanting to see him get beaten by Callaghan, Hemingway, as he was known to do, escalated the situation.
That is, of course, if one can trust this apocryphal tale of literary violence. Hemingway is said to have later claimed that Fitzgerald had let the round go on for an obscene ten minutes, a completely ridiculous accusation. Callaghan’s testimony about the incident in his autobiography, written after Fitzgerald’s death, would elevate the story to the realm of literary legend. Curiously, Fitzgerald is said to have never published a word about the fight. He may have been embarrassed, but most likely the incident was soon forgotten, only to be revived after memories and details had faded, and alternative stories had taken root in the minds of each participant. And although volatile by nature, Hemingway’s correspondence with Fitzgerald after that infamous day remained warm and supportive.
However, if there is a moral to this story, it is that boxing can never escape controversy, even among its most unlikely participants. —Sean Crose
