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If any of the sporting public remained sanguine about the terrible neurological effects a boxing career can have on a person, surely that’s come to an end now that Anthony Mundine has announced his intention to make a comeback to rugby league.
That Mundine could think that returning to the NRL at the age of 42, seventeen years after his last game, was a good idea, is a sign of one of two things:
1. Far too many blows to the head in the intervening time period, or
2. Being a bit of a dickhead in general
Who knows where the truth lies? We probably won’t know until decades in the future when scientists have Mundine’s brain in a Tupperware container. But what we can say for sure is: for god’s sake, man, stop.
It’s bad enough that he still wants to box at his age. There’s something deeply wrong, something grotesque and unwholesome, about an industry that is willing to continue investing financially in the prospect of Anthony Mundine and Danny Green hitting each other again.
The first time they fought each other it already seemed like an idea whose time had passed. The second time they fought each other it felt like rebooting The Addams Family with the original cast.
If they throw in for another bout, boxing may slip below bear-baiting on the ladder of cruel and unusual blood sports.
(AAP Image/David Mariuz)
But then, boxing is boxing. Where normal sports outlaw the deliberate attacking of the head, boxing stands up and says, “Yes, inflicting brain injury is the entire aim and purpose of our sport, and we could not be prouder of ourselves for it.”
When neurological damage is your raison d’etre, nobody can be too shocked that you’re not all that fussy about pushing the limits of what might be considered a nauseating public spectacle.
But outside the perverse world of boxing, let us hope a little bit of sanity still reigns. Let us hope that Mundine’s dream of becoming once more an elite leaguie will never reach fruition.
It’s not that I have no respect for Mundine’s previous achievements in the league realm. In his day, Mundine was a tremendously exciting player; if he wasn’t the most skilful five-eighth in the competition, he was at least the most annoying, and that has to count for something.
And he was responsible for one of the most uplifting moments in rugby league history; when he blew an easy try-scoring opportunity in the 1999 grand final that ended up costing St George Illawarra the premiership, millions of hearts were warmed.
But he’s done. He had his turn.
It might be acceptable for a sporting star to switch sports for a bit and then come back. Jarryd Hayne can spend a year chasing his NFL dream before deciding that league is really his bag after all.
But crucially, Jarryd Hayne did not spend seventeen years in the NFL, and Jarryd Hayne is not in his forties.
Even Lote Tuqiri and Wendell Sailor, when they went from league to union and back again, didn’t leave their first sport so far in the rearview mirror.
What I fear most is the example being set. I myself am a man of what, in sporting terms, might be called advanced years. And I myself am mulling the thought of returning to the rugby field before I give up on physical activity for life. So maybe you’re thinking, hey, Mundine must be a real inspiration to you, hey?
No. That’s not how it works. A Mundine comeback, to me, would be nothing but a reminder that my physical condition, as compared to Mundine’s, is as a tubercular weasel is compared to a silverback gorilla in the prime of life. It would be a discouragement to my own meagre efforts to get back in the game.
Because Mundine is seeking to return to the world of professional football, rather than doing the only decent thing for a decrepit fortysomething: joining a suburban league and trotting amiably about muddy paddocks for one’s remaining years of functioning joints.
For Mundine to mix it with the best week in and week out would be an act of betrayal of all of us who believe we still have something to offer the sporting world as long as we keep our expectations low.
And besides all other considerations: do we really want to see a 42-year-old man being bashed from pillar to post, and risking serious long-term injury, every week? In theory, no.
But if Mundine is the 42-year-old man, then I very much fear we’re going to end up enjoying the aforementioned bashing very much indeed, and it’s just not fair to make us experience such shameful joy.
For all our sakes, Anthony, please give up this mad scheme, and stick to what you’re best at: talking nonsense.