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Rudyard Kipling

The Sweet Science Revisited

November 7, 2024 by Peg Leave a Comment

Ray Stallings. Picture taken by Peg Redwine.

For those few of you who might miss reading my weekly column, Gavel Gamut, I will point out to you that this past week I fractured my shoulder while working around JPeg Osage Ranch. I feel I must rely on past columns for a while, such as, those that have dealt with my interest in amateur boxing. The following column appeared the week of September 4, 2006 and involved Peg’s and my friend Ray Stallings from Burnt Prairie, Illinois. I will rerun it as it appeared almost 20 years ago. I hope you enjoy reading, or perhaps rereading it.

 “Amateur boxing has fewer fatalities and far fewer serious injuries per participant than high school baseball or football.  It is a sport like wrestling where the participants are matched according to size and where bouts are won based on the number of legal blows landed on the front, top-half of the participants.  The force of the blows is not a factor.  For example, a punch that knocks a boxer down counts no more than a punch that simply lands in the scoring area.

Boxing is called the sweet science because a student of the game who can apply the lessons of boxing when actually in the ring can defeat a superior athlete who relies on brawn. As the old adage goes, “The race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong.”  Of course, the related adage is also true: “But that’s the way to bet.”

In other words, the science of boxing is only a factor in the equation.  Such elements as experience and physical abilities are often more determinative than theory. And whereas it is often true that it is not the size of the boxer in the fight but the size of the fight in the boxer that matters, it is also true that heart alone may not be enough.

Such was the case with our young protagonist, Ray Stallings, from Burnt Prairie, Illinois, in his match against Calvin Brock in 1996.  Should you have read this column last week, you may recall that we left Ray all alone in the ring with one of the best amateur heavyweight boxers in America.

In round one, the left-handed Brock came out confident that the gawky, red headed Ray was just there to validate Brock’s status as champion.  From my position in Ray’s corner I thought Brock was almost indolent as he kept Ray off balance with his powerful right jab, then occasionally came back with a straight left to Ray’s head.  This display went on for about the first two minutes of the round until Ray’s nose was bloodied and his back was bleeding from being forced into the ropes.

 But with about a minute to go, Ray, who is also left-handed, came up from his position doubled over in a corner with an awkward looping left hand that caught Brock square on the chin.  Even with the protective headgear, I could see Brock’s eyes roll up for a brief second as his knees slightly buckled.  From that point on, Ray’s character and Brock’s experience were at war.

When Ray returned to our corner after the first round, Peg, who was working the corner for the first time, could not bear to look at Ray’s bloody nose or his back and arms that matched his red hair.  She handed me the spit bucket and water bottle with her eyes locked on the canvas of the ring.  Peg later told me she was wondering what we were going to tell his parents, who were also our good friends, if Ray got seriously hurt.

Ray was gasping for breath and pleading for me to pour water on his head.  It took the first half of the one-minute break just to stop the bleeding.  When Ray could finally talk, he said, “Jim, he is really good.”  I almost said the truth that was on my tongue, “You’re darn right he’s really good!”  Instead I said, “You got his attention with that straight left.  From now on just keep throwing it as much as you can.”

Round two was a coming of age for Ray and an awakening for Brock.  I could see the puzzlement in Brock’s eyes and the hesitancy in his punches.  I could almost hear him thinking, “Who is this kid?”  Ray pounded his straight left for the whole three minutes and the spectators who had gathered to watch Brock’s coronation begin to yell for Ray.

When Ray struggled back to our corner after round two, I sneaked a peak at Brock’s corner and saw his trainer giving him a tongue-lashing.  Peg and I could only pour more water on Ray as I told him to double up on his right jab and keep throwing that overhand left.  Ray could barely breathe and he could not talk.  As the bell for round three rang, it was anybody’s guess as to who would win.

Brock came out firing and Ray was too tired to block the blows.  At first it looked like Brock’s superior skills were just too much for the skinny red head from Burnt Prairie. But about halfway through the final round, Ray figured out how to move to his left, which was away from the left-handed Brock’s power.  Then Ray figured out how to throw his left straight into the taller Brock’s solar plexus.  Brock began to wilt and Ray’s new found fans began to chant: “Red, red, red.”

When the final bell sounded, Ray had nothing left, but that was more than Brock who had to be helped to his corner by his worried trainer who caught my eye and put his thumbs up: “Great fight!”

Well, you remember that amateur boxing is scored by the number of proper blows, not the stuff that dreams are made of, and the judges gave the razor thin decision to Brock.  But the seeds of Ray’s current quest to be an Olympic champion were sown that night in 1996.

Next week if you are available, I’ll bring you up to date on where that odyssey stands. For as you may recall, Ray had that little inconvenience of thyroid cancer to deal with between 1996 and October, 2006. That is when he climbs back into the ring in Oxnard, California, once again against the best amateur heavyweights in America to win the right to compete for the honor of representing his country in the Olympics.

After Ray got sick, but before he knew why he tired so easily after the first round, he kept trying to box but kept losing.  Many of Ray’s friends and some of his family were more afraid he would get hurt than get to the Olympics.  But as Rudyard Kipling wrote in his poem, “If”: “If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you…you’ll be a man, my son!”  Ray did, and Ray is.”

 

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Filed Under: Friends, Gavel Gamut, Personal Fun, Sports Tagged With: amateur boxing, Burnt Prairie, Calvin Brock, If, James M. Redwine, Jim Redwine, Ray Stallings, Rudyard Kipling, the sweet science

Baseball vs. Football

May 6, 2021 by Peg Leave a Comment

“If a woman’s just a woman but a good cigar’s a smoke” (Rudyard Kipling), football’s just a game but baseball’s who we are. Or, as my friend and favorite song writer, Randy Pease, sang about baseball (and life), “Maybe I should quit but that’s a hard thing to admit, God, I love this game.” Randy honed his musical skills when he took a break from his studies at Oklahoma State University where I also found pursuits other than the prescribed curricula. Another Cowboy that Randy occasionally played guitars and sang with in Stillwater, Oklahoma was a songwriter named Garth Brooks who also loved baseball. I wonder if he ever made the big leagues? For as Garth, Randy and the rest of us frustrated would-be major leaguers eventually accept and as the protagonist in Randy’s song knows, “our playing days are numbered and our fastball’s lost some speed” but we aren’t quite ready to “hang up the cleats and mitt.” On the other hand most of us, not Tom Brady of course, have no angst about leaving the sweaty football pads hanging in the dank locker room while we are still a ways from our porch swings.

Baseball is not just America’s Past Time it is America. It is a grimy catcher’s mask and miraculous or stumbling catches in left-center field. It is come from behind in the bottom of the ninth and lessons learned from games that should have been won. It is sweat and spit and grief and grit and all that makes us glad to endure heat and aches. Boys and girls and men and women of all ages can and do play baseball and softball; not so much football once high school fades.

Baseball affords fathers and mothers a parent’s greatest satisfaction, being asked by their adult children for advice. No kid over fourteen seeks football insights from their folks but even aging children who may question a parent’s sanity on matters of politics, music or religion still occasionally rely on mom and dad on how to hit a softball or play old folk’s league shortstop. As a parent slowly rocks and questions decisions she or he once made, when their grown offspring return to ask the best way to use a pinch hitter the cobwebs seem less opaque. On the other hand, no post-teenager cares what a parent thinks about a statue-of-liberty or a flea-flicker trick football play.

So, we can continue to pretend we understand football’s pass defense coverage two and can continue to yearn for our adult children to ask us to explain it and other football errata or we can thank baseball for keeping us in the real game. But I’ll let Randy finish the column because he is a fine writer of both prose and song lyrics:

“Although the song is on the surface about baseball, it’s really about life and how we should love our lives even when it beats the crap out of us nearly every day. In baseball, even the best hitters get on base only three times out of ten. Such is life. It’s full of disappointments and heartbreaks. But there’s always that hope the next at bat you’ll knock the ball out of the park. And baseball is a sign of spring – new grass, new life, renewal, redemption. It represents the hope that comes with a new season. And it poses a tough question: Can I still play or is it time to hang up the cleats and mitt?”

 

Lyrics to “I Love This Game”

♫ My name is Eddie Roberts, and I’m a starting pitcher

For the Winston-Salem Warthogs in the Carolina League.

I’m thirty-four years old.  My playing days are numbered.

I can’t control my curveball, and my fastball’s lost some speed.

 

I’ve been knockin’ ‘round the minors since I got out of high school,

signed my first pro contract on my seventeenth birthday.

From Burlington to Birmingham to Charlotte I have traveled,

But the White Sox never called, and I stalled in Triple-A.

 

Chorus

I love this game.  I love this game.

Maybe I should quit, but that’s a hard thing to admit.

God, I love this game.

 

I won fourteen games one year, led the league in shutouts.

Several of the pro scouts told me I was on my way.

But I hurt my arm in Lynchburg.  Doc said it was a pinched nerve.

And I swear that ever since, sir, it’s never been the same.

 

Chorus

 

I love this game, I love this game.

Maybe I should quit, but that’s a hard thing to admit.

God, I love this game

 

Coda

Maybe I should quit.  Hang up the cleats and mitt.

God I love this game.

 

My name is Eddie Roberts, and I’m a starting pitcher

For the Winston-Salem Warthogs in the Carolina League. ♫

 

© I Love This Game

Randy Pease Decaf Music 1998 (BMI)

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Filed Under: America, Baseball, Football, Gavel Gamut, Oklahoma State University Tagged With: America's Past Time, baseball, football, Garth Brooks, I Love This Game, James M. Redwine, Jim Redwine, Oklahoma State University, Randy Pease, Rudyard Kipling, songwriter

To Those Who Dare And Care

November 9, 2018 by Peg Leave a Comment

As with much of our philosophy we can thank the ancient Greeks for the concept of the Phoenix, something (or someone) who rises from the ashes of defeat to be even better than before. Or as we all remember our parents attempting to convince us, we learn more from defeat than victory. This provides scant solace at the time of a loss or an embarrassment but most of us eventually see the validity of wisdom born of hardship and the shallowness of temporary acclaim.

It is likely you are already aware that Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) and Teddy Roosevelt (1858-1919) among many others have already written about these concepts and certainly more presciently than I. Kipling in his poem If advised his son and the rest of us:

“If you can dream and not make dreams your master,
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster and
Treat those two imposters just the same, ….
Then you will be a man my son.”

Teddy Roosevelt in his thesis, The Man in the Arena, wrote of greatness born of failure:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Naturally, winners of elections are justly elated and losers are hurt and depressed. I have lost an election and have won some. What I discovered was my loss and my victories had less to do with me than with the vicissitudes of a fickle electorate. Most voters had no idea who I was and both the victories and the loss were mostly happenstance.

On the other hand, for our democracy to endure someone has to be willing to suffer the slings, arrows, and expense of running for office. So, to all those who cared enough and dared enough to seek to serve the rest of us, both winners and others, I say, Thank You!

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Filed Under: America, Democracy, Elections, Gavel Gamut, Patriotism Tagged With: ancient Greeks, defeat, election, greatness born of failure, If, James M. Redwine, Jim Redwine, Phoenix, Rudyard Kipling, Teddy Roosevelt, The Man in the Arena, to those who dare and care, victory

Don’t Tread On Her

March 4, 2017 by Peg Leave a Comment

Should you be among the vast legions of loyal Gamut readers who read and preserved last week’s column you will no doubt have committed to memory the conversation between our contemporary Adam and Eve, ergo Jim and Peg, concerning the glories of spring.

Unfortunately, another of those readers was Peg. Usually she just types up my burnt offerings as rapidly as she can without deigning to take the slightest note. However, since her name was mentioned she actually read and was not amused by last week’s “Fair and Balanced” exposition of hers and my differing approaches to the Earth’s yearly awakening. Peg has demanded a retraction in lieu of filing a lawsuit or worse.

I spent at least five seconds resisting her unreasonable and incessant demands then remembered what Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) wrote:

The Female of the Species

WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
‘Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other’s tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

(Thanks to my friend Sam Blankenship for directing me to this warning.)

Anyway, Gentle Readers (at least of the male persuasion), I am confident you will agree with me on two points: (1) Peg was dead wrong; and, (2) I would be foolish to say so!

 

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Filed Under: Females/Pick on Peg, Gavel Gamut, Personal Fun, Weather Tagged With: Adam and Eve, don't tread on her, Earth's yearly awakening, fair and balanced exposition, Gavel Gamut, Gentle Readers, glories of spring, James M. Redwine, Jim and Peg, Jim Redwine, Rudyard Kipling, Sam Blankenship, The female of the species is more deadly than the male

© 2026 James M. Redwine

 

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