"The Boxer" of Den Haag

[janestarz]

There is a man who lives in Den Haag. I am unsure whether he lives in one of the shabby houses surrounding my current workplace, or if he is a homeless person, a drug-addict of perhaps even someone with a psychiatric history. He does not act like all the other people of Den Haag do, hurrying to their homes or their workplaces in cars, in trams or on foot. He stands out.

It's not so much the fact that his skin is dark or the mustache from the 1980s. He looks like a slimmer, leaner version of Officer Hightower with a small afro. He always wears sweatpants and a t-shirt, sometimes complemented with a headband. If he wears a sweater, the t-shirt is worn over the sweater.

I've seen him a couple of times when we went out for a lunchwalk. He was standing on one of the corners of the many streets converging on the Spaarneplein, practicing his moves. Or he was standing under the overhang of a residential building, seeking shelter from the rain. The boys (my colleagues) jested that he's a professional wrestler, down on his luck.

I call him The Boxer, after the song of Simon and Garfunkel. I wished him a good morning when he was standing on the corner of Spaarneplein before. This morning, he was stretching his arms over his head and flexing his muscles, crossing the street at a leisurely pace. When I entered the building, I looked around and saw he had crossed the street back again, and was swinging his arms.

I don't know what his history is, or what kind of a person he is. I don't know his name, but I respect him more than to call him a loony to my colleagues behind his back. He breaks the atmosphere of commuters and business that hangs over Den Haag. He actually brightens my day when I see him there. Perhaps he is crazy to those commuters, but the commuters might be crazy to him. He shows me there is a human side to Den Haag too.


I am just a poor boy and my story's seldom told
I've squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises
All lies and jest, still the man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest, hmmmm

When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station, runnin scared
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go
Looking for the places only they would know

Li la li...

Asking only workmans wages, I come looking for a job, but I get no offers
Just a come-on from the whores on 7th avenue
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there

Now the years are rolling by me, they are rockin even me
I am older than I once was, and younger than I'll be, thats not unusual
No it isn't strange, after changes upon changes, we are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same

Li la li...

And I'm laying out my winter clothes, wishing I was gone, going home
Where the New York city winters aren't bleeding me, leadin me to go home

In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down or cut him
'till he cried out in his anger and his shame
I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains
Yes he still remains

Li la li...