Pound for pound, Jeffrey Sussman is the strongest boxing writer alive.
Boxing has taken it on the chin of late. Few interesting fighters, few interesting fights.
And worst of all, from a literary perspective, few interesting books on boxing.
It's hard to imagine in a world of mixed martial arts and fantasy sports, but for the first half of the 20th century, boxing was the sport that captured the imagination of most Americans.
With the exception of the Kentucky Derby and the World Series, only prize fights could capture the entire imagination of the American people.
Boxing began its descent toward major TV spectacles all the way back in the 1950s, when TV promoted Friday night fights.
You might think televising boxing would have increased interest, but paradoxically, the reverse was true. Club fighters no longer had the opportunity to hone their trade in obscurity, slowly rising through the ranks to become great within the "squared circle."
Instead, they were rushed into the bright lights of television, where their mediocre footwork and undeveloped skills were hard to ignore.
It was a pugilistic equivalent of college basketball one-and-done factories littering the NBA with players who don't know how to move their feet or move without the ball.
But back in the day, boxing was everything, and for fighters, it represented one of the few tickets out of poverty, the ghetto, and a life of toil.
And a century ago, some of the very best fighters were Jews.
Jeffrey Sussman, an authority on boxing as well as a highly regarded book marketer, has just come out with Max Baer and Barney Ross: "Jewish Heroes of Boxing" (Roman & Littlefield), a bestselling account of two of the biggest names both in boxing and in American Jewish history. Sussman deftly captures not just the lives of the men but the era in which they lived, when a strong right hand was all it took to lift an individual to the highest levels of fame.
My first thought when I saw the cover of Sussman's book, featuring photos of the two men bare-chested, in boxing trunks, gloves high, was, "I could take them."
It didn't take too many pages for me to realize that no, I could not take them.
Barney Ross, a superlative welterweight and lightweight champion, came up hard in New York's lower east side and then moved to Chicago's Maxwell Street neighborhood, a Jewish ghetto. Ross, born Rosofsky, had intended to become a teacher and Talmudist like his father, but that dream vanished when his father was murdered resisting a robbery in the vegetable shop that he owned. Rosofsky turned into a street fighter who eventually found employment with none other than notorious gangster Al Capone.
Rosofsky changed his name to Ross. In pre-World War II America, this Jew with a chip on his shoulder and an Americanized last name became, through his boxing career, a symbol of Jewish strength.
Ross enlisted in the Marine Corps during World War II, fought in the Battle of Guadalcanal, was wounded in battle, and killed more than 20 Japanese soldiers.
For this, he won the Silver Star; Sussman wonders whether anti-Jewish feeling at the highest levels of government--FDR was president then--kept him from receiving a greater accolade for his remarkable achievement.
Max Baer grew up in Northern California about as far from the ghettos of the East and Midwest as a man could possibly roam.
Baer later said his experience working as a butcher boy on the farm his father leased gave him the strength to compete in the boxing ring.
Baer nearly left boxing after a 1930 fight with Frankie Campbell; an unexpected punch from Baer ended up killing the other fighter. A second opponent, Ernie Schaaf, died five months after fighting Baer; Schaaf met his end after taking a blow from the giant heavyweight Primo Carnera, but Baer got the blame.
Rather than quitting the ring, Baer went on to become heavyweight champion, famous for his battles with Max Schmeling, a favorite of Hitler and a symbol of Aryan might. Baer was famous for wearing a Jewish star on his boxing trunks. It's hard to imagine a Jewish heavyweight today.
Sussman recounts in detail Baer's success with the fairer sex; he scored as many knockouts in Hollywood as he did in the boxing ring. Baer might best be known today for having fathered Max Baer, Jr., best known as Jethro on the classic 1960s sitcom 'The Beverly Hillbillies'.
Sussman deserves enormous credit for bringing to life a long lost era when Jews symbolized physical strength and courage through their success in the ring. The book is a must read not just for sports fans but for anyone who wants to understand a vital piece of American Jewish history. The book is a knockout.