The Boxer tells the story of Yu, a silent, emotionless boxer whose intense mental trauma coming from a childhood of abuse has given him a savant-like ability to perceive time as if in a slow motion. Yu is trying to find the light that once spurred him to engage with the sport. Failing to find it, he is slowly consumed by the darkness as his coach is trying to shape him into an even more effective tool of destruction, devoid of weaknesses inherent to regular people. Who do you reckon will prevail in this bout?
I've encountered some dark sports-themed comics in my life, and this one sure pulls no punches in terms of the sheer depth and variety of upsetting aspects. People die and get hurt here in more ways than one, and easily triggered readers will find some of the scenes very disturbing. Besides, this is not really a story about boxing per se any more than, say, Taiyo Matsumoto's Ping Pong is a story about table tennis; the sport setting is merely a canvas to explore social concepts and character psychology. It is certainly not a realistic take on boxing, nor is it intended to be one. Much like in his previous works The Horizon and Mosquito Wars, JH has a lot to say on the topics of abuse, trauma, war, ambition, love, human condition, power balance, parenting, growing up, and the meaning of life—and many of his takes are as biting as ever, if not outright depressive at times. Furthermore, much of this is told visually, leading to all sorts of powerful imagery. It's a great read but not an easy one. Thankfully, those who didn't get to fully enjoy his other stories because of the rather heavy-handed didacticism will, perhaps, find this one a lot more palatable thanks to the more grounded setting, developed plot structure, and a surprisingly lovable cast of characters which help put the social commentary and exercises in ethics into a far more relatable context. And just like in his previous works, the takeaway is, ultimately, reassuring—though you may only be able to reach it after having suffered a heartbreak or two along the way.
Yu, the protagonist of the story, is by no means its hero. He is an empty husk, a vessel for his coach's ambition. A lost child who hasn't simply given up on the world—he doesn't even *know* the world to begin with, his mind all too haunted by his traumatic past. All the positive emotions and experiences we regular people have and take for granted in our daily lives are as good as alien concepts to him. In contrast, all the other boxers he encounters have unique, vibrant personalities that make Yu look even more like the unperson he is. But everything changes inside the ring. There, all these bright personalities with rich and interesting lives get to taste the same fear, despair, and helplessness as they realize their opponent might actually not be another human like them. Pity and compassion, pride and arrogance quickly give way to a single emotion: all-consuming terror. As he mechanically dismantles his opponents with surgical, lightning-fast strikes, and as he strips away their desires and dreams by crushing their will to fight back, Yu—and by extension, the audience—can't help pondering why people box in the first place. Unburdened by worldly affairs, he approaches boxing from a place of deep existential enquiry. Is hitting other people fun? Can problems actually be solved with violence? What drives people to persevere in the face of defeat... furthermore, in the face of imminent death? They will eventually die anyway, so what's THEIR reason to stand up to it? What is Yu, himself, trying to accomplish in the ring? Can anyone say something? This seemingly one-sided attempt at a genuine communication, a desperate plight for meaning, produces no satisfying response. But the author doesn't need to throw around vacuous statements and vain attempts at profundity when he can simply put the audience square in the characters' head-space and give personal context to their actions—which is exactly what he does, to a wonderful effect.
Yu's journey is one of redemption: not of his sins but of his own tucked-away humanity. It is a search for vulnerability required to reach and heal a deep-seated trauma. It is a quest of discovering unconditional love that is the key to the joy of life. It's a beautiful, touching character arc, but certainly not the only one you'll grow to love when reading The Boxer. The other boxers' bouts with Yu drive their own personal development, and even smaller characters get a surprising amount of depth in relatively little screen time in a testament to JH's efficiency in narrative delivery. After the main arc ends, the story loops around to the beginning to take a look at some of the other key characters introduced early on and recontextualize some of the themes and questions it raised, integrating a side-plot every bit as worthy as the main one into the complete package. The quirky, off-beat humor from Mosquito Wars also makes a return, and this time JH actually managed to avoid unwanted tonal whiplash. It serves as a welcome reprieve from the otherwise oppressively heavy atmosphere; a reprieve The Horizon sorely needed among all the doom and gloom, in my opinion.
I think it's fair to say that The Boxer shows a delightful evolution of Ji-Hoon Jeong's writing, and it will rightfully take its place as one of the best "non-sports" sports drama around. It's a wild emotional ride with not one but TWO immensely satisfying, cathartic endings—that's two more than what you get on average! Absolutely do yourself a favor and read it; it is available in English on Naver Webtoons' website and app, and some of the pivotal chapters even have a very nice built-in soundtrack. I, for one, already cannot wait for the author's next work.
