I was ranting about Mitch Albom on Facebook — I’m already bored by it, but if you are in my network, you can read it there — when I started thinking about tropes.

Tropes as in, the expected motifs, even clichés, that we find in certain genres of writing. I was comparing Albom’s Sunday column about Mike Tyson (phoned-in, sketchy, error-strewn — the floor of a boxing ring is canvas with one S, not two) to Pete Dexter’s far superior one from 1996. That column, which I can’t link to because I can’t find one, described watching Tyson in training as he demolished a sparring partner. It describes the gym he was training in, in upstate New York, “on the third story of an old building, over the firehouse and the city hall.” It talks about the trainer who discovered him, Cus D’Amato, and the one who took over after D’Amato died, Kevin Rooney.

It reminded me that boxing gyms are rarely if ever luxurious, and are always on the third floor of an old building, or perhaps in a converted garage in a bad part of town. Men who take up this dangerous sport are often from lower-status ethnic groups, which in the 20th century were Irish (Rooney), Italian (D’Amato) or people of color. It reminded me of the studio executive yelling at the title character in “Barton Fink” about why his star writer, a playwright of the common man, can’t get his arms around a script about one:

What do you think this is? HAMLET?
GONE WITH THE WIND? RUGGLES OF RED
GAP? It’s a goddamn B picture! Big
men in tights! You know the drill!

Judy Davis, as Audrey in that same film, explains it deftly:

Well, usually, they’re… simply
morality tales. There’s a good
wrestler, and a bad wrestler whom he
confronts at the end. In between,
the good wrestler has a love interest
or a child he has to protect. Bill
would usually make the good wrestler
a backwoods type, or a convict. And
sometimes, instead of a waif, he’d
have the wrestler protecting an idiot
manchild. The studio always hated
that. Oh, some of the scripts were
so… spirited!

And yet? It’s all in how you put it together. Dexter’s Tyson column is trope-filled, but still manages to break your heart a little:

The first time I ever saw (Holyfield) was in Atlantic City, where he was standing otherwise unnoticed in a crowded hallway outside one of the casino auditoriums, wearing a suit. He wasn’t on the card that night, he was just there to watch.

It’s hard for me to understand how that person came to beat the fighter I first saw 11 years ago.

I did see it, though, in what most people thought was a beautiful fight.

There was a moment, though, near the end, as Holyfield went hunting and a tired, half-conscious Tyson stumbled and nearly turned his back, that was not beautiful at all. A right hand exploded, sweat flew up into the lights, a halo, and Tyson pitched dangerously sideways, and then staggered away, toward the far rope, and before he gathered himself and turned back into the onslaught to meet what was waiting for him there, in that moment, I think, confusion and exhaustion took him home, to the place he comes from, where there is no protection, and there is no one who cares.

A story I’d like to see written? How boxing, a sport that’s pretty much dead now, is being kept alive by Arab kids in metro Detroit. I don’t think there’s a boxing culture back home, but in any Detroit gym, there are always a few Mohammeds and Husseins. Most of them are Yemeni, which is the lowest echelon of Arab-Americans in Detroit. Come to think of it, when we saw Claressa Shields fight in Detroit, the undercard featured a couple of bouts with Russian fighters from Chechnya, the Yemen of Russian republics. So the trope holds. How desperate do you have to be to risk your life in a boxing ring? When you see it as a chance to improve your lot in life.

Albom’s Sunday column was typically dumb — his grand conclusion was that the crowd backed Tyson because he was old, and we wanted Gen X to triumph over Gen Z. He barely talked about Jake Paul, who won the fight, beyond describing him as “a 27-year-old YouTube sensation turned professional boxer.” YouTube sensation? Hmm, OK. Paul and his brother Logan got famous the way young people with no particular talent get famous these days: By acting like assholes on YouTube. That seems to be the quickest way to fame and fortune online — be an asshole. The Paul brothers explored a Japanese forest where people go to kill themselves, found a hanging corpse, and made fun of the dead man. They also traveled to Italy and treated the canals of Venice like a water park, jumping from bridges while onlookers gaped. If you want to read about the perfect example of this type, google Johnny Somali. That’s why I was rooting for Tyson. I wanted him to murder this shithead. Full Duk-koo Kim. I wanted Paul to be a grease spot on the canvas. It had zero to do with age.

I didn’t watch the fight. I figured Tyson would lose, and didn’t want another disappointment.

One more interesting angle Detroit’s most famous best-selling author could have explored: Tyson distinguished himself for terrible behavior in the early part of his life, and has been rehabilitated into something cuddlier in his late middle age. He has a one-man show that he tours with. He’s a cannabis entrepreneur. Like Snoop Dogg, he’s one of those black men who used to be scary, and is now someone you wouldn’t mind sitting next to at dinner. That’s an idea it would have been interesting to pick apart. A task for a much better writer.

OK, it’s Sunday, my cold has relented somewhat, and this coming week has to be pedal to the metal. First, a birthday dinner for the birthday twins. (In a fancy restaurant. I have lost some cooking mojo in recent days.)