THERE is a moment in the 1994 film Pulp Fiction where Jules Winnfield, played by Samuel L. Jackson, attempts to explain his reluctance to eat pork – or “dig on swine” – by describing pigs as “filthy animals” in conversation with John Travolta’s Vincent Vega. This then leads to Vincent Vega asking if his fellow hit man also considered dogs to be filthy animals, to which Jules Winnfield says, “I wouldn’t go so far as to call a dog filthy, but they’re definitely dirty.
But a dog’s got personality. Personality goes a long way.” Never is this truer, I have often thought, than in boxing.
Show some semblance of a personality and you have a good chance of getting a job, particularly if you are able to self-promote and show off. Moreover, and more importantly, if you are capable of showing personality as a boxer, you are already halfway to cracking it; that is, making the kind of money most boxers will never see in their professional career. Personality, after all, is what ensures a boxer stands out from the crowd.
Good or bad, it gives them an identity and it gives fans a reason to watch them. Some will watch and follow a boxer because their personality is endearing, whereas other fans will hate-watch a boxer because their personality rubs them the wrong way. Whatever the impetus, though, so long as a boxer is being watched, they are equipped to make a living from this sport which has a habit of taking from boxers as much as it gives.
In the case of Johnny Fis.
