There's something about the mano-a-mano primacy of boxing, something about men fighting men, and the seediness and corruption that so much of the sport wallows in that forces chroniclers of the sweet science to adopt the film noir persona of a Sam Spade. Rendall provides the antidote. His marvelously titled memoir recounts his transition from a starry-eyed young British boxing writer to a disenchanted manager of a promising fighter named Colin McMillan, who rises from nobody status to the featherweight champion of the world. This is a knockout performance by a graceful writer who knows his subject, knows how to spin a yarn, and knows how to make an eclectic stable of characters come alive on the page. As a stylist, Rendall comes out swinging; when he finds an opening, he can score, whether he's in a smoky British boxing club or beneath the neon skies of Las Vegas. He is not afraid to run counter to so much of the good boxing writing that has come before what others have praised as colorful, he sees from his insider's perspective as somewhat sinister and grotesque. There is a sadness, a melancholy really, to much of Rendall's personal journey as he begins to distinguish between boxing's realities and its myths. And yet he's capable of relating this with an almost surreal sense of humor, well timed and well placed, like good jabs should be. A lesser writer might have been flattened by the ordeal; it's Rendall's grace under pressure that, in the end, leaves him standing. --Jeff Silverman