The Fight for Perfection is an old story of heart and soul told to a new generation with a strip-mined soul and a heart that pumps something other than blood. From page 32-43 there is barely a word written about fighting. There are a few cursory nods to preparations and some old time boxing generalities. This is an article about celebrity, fame and extravagant wealth, not about the dying art upon the back of which it was earned, or anything to do with the soul of a warrior.

In this expertly written and beautifully photographed article the reader gets the artifice of an old time boxer’s training camp, but none of the feeling. The writer spends more time on describing body guards than training technique, more words on money than punches, more time on acquired cars than past opponents. Rarely has the graveyard of the masculine soul been more grotesquely and adequately populated by the pallid statues of the deceased, than in this top flight piece of journalism.

Never have I imagined such a poignantly unknowing ode to a man that represents the end of masculinity; the utter domestication of mankind’s most brutal remaining ritual into a fairy tale of luxurious acquisition. Where once top sports writers would ask the reigning champion, “What is your opinion of the quality of your opponent?” now he asks the champion about his spending habits and investments, trying to factor the level of luxury that will be his in retirement.

Boxing people might look at this article and say that Mister Keown was grossly off point. This reader is of the opinion that the author served history well, when he interviewed the fighter named “Money” about the only thing that matters to him, or matters to the rancid society whose festering womb spit him out: our ability to live like milk sucking Ugandan Queens; to be able wallow in the pool of dissipation that is the moon water sewer of a world without a need for warriors—or even their ritual imitators.