Jayne: Tonya Harding, scandal, boxing rings and Butterbean

There’s no need to rehash the story; it’s part of American lore. But with the movie garnering attention, Harding — who now goes by her married name of Tonya Price — has been making the rounds of national interviews. As she told The New York Times: “I moved from Oregon to Washington because Oregon was buttheads. I disappointed them. It’s like, how can I disappoint a whole state? Wait a second, how can I disappoint a whole country?”

That question will be studied by anthropologists examining late 20th century America for generations to come. But before this turns into a dissertation, allow us to get back to boxing.

Harding entered the ring to “Gangster’s Paradise,” reveled in her bad girl reputation, and then pummeled a novice fighter for four rounds. As an insightful columnist wrote: “There hasn’t been a fight like this since they stopped clubbing baby seals. And Harding was the one wielding the club. … Such a far, far cry from figure skating. Harding has traded sequins for boxing gloves, Tchaikovsky for Coolio, snippy backstabbing for post-fight hugs.”

An aircraft carrier of a man

None of that, however, could compete with the brilliant quote her vanquished but enriched opponent gave to Columbian reporter Paul Danzer: “Now I can get me a divorce!” And none of it could compete with the fact that the media room doubled as the dressing quarters for Butterbean, a 340-pound fighter who was the evening’s headliner.

So, while reporters are trying to write their stories about Harding, we have an aircraft carrier of a man shadow-boxing and preparing his fight. Butterbean eventually leaves the room and we hear the cheers of the crowd through the door. We hear the announcer introduce the fighters and hear the roar for the cult hero that is Butterbean. And we hear the bell starting the fight, followed in short order by a loud and collective, “Ohhhhhhurrrrahhhh!” Butterbean comes back into the room, following a knockout at 54 seconds of the first round. He resumes his banter with reporters, obliges some fans who edge their way into the “dressing room” and sits down to autograph a stack of photographs.

Nice guy, that Butterbean.

None of that has anything to do with Harding. But my daughter, who was 5 at the time, would ask to hear that story for months afterward. So I thought I would share.

Anyway, it is remarkable to think that 23 years after Harding achieved infamy, there is a major motion picture about her. There is an endless string of interviews and articles. There is a reminder of the awkward place she holds in the history of American sport and the American media — for better and for worse.

It all seems surreal. Which is kind of what we would expect.