BOOK TWO

8 AN AMAZING AMATEUR

When United States Senator W. Warren Barbour of New Jersey died at his Washington home a few years ago at the age of fifty-five, an outstanding figure in the Senate and the political life of his State passed away. He was a unique personality among Congressmen because here was a man who, had he belonged in a humble social station, might possibly have fought for, and won, the blue ribbon of the professional prize ring—the heavyweight crown.

The Horatio Alger fiction tradition always had its hero starting from the ranks of the Submerged Tenth, overcoming all obstacles, winning golden spurs in commerce by dint of courage, pious living, and determination. Never, of course, by the boxing route.

When Alger was writing his all-American-brave-youth-yarns, prize fighting was an illegal game, and its principals were entirely beyond the pale of politeness. Later we had the Frank Merriwell stories, also with an “up-from-the-depths” motif, but permitting heroes to win fame and dollars as stars of baseball, football, and other athletic pastimes. That meant that the literary bars were being let down a trifle; and in the due course of time, magazine editors began featuring the exploits of two-fisted lads successfully wooing Dame Fortune with the aid of padded gloves.

Today it’s a far different sport atmosphere from the time when W. Warren Barbour, one of the cleverest, hardest-hitting amateurs that ever answered the sound of a gong, was being importuned by fight promoters to turn professional and meet the great Negro boxer, Jack Johnson, for the world heavyweight championship. Barbour might have done so had he not been born the son of Colonel William Barbour, wealthy New York thread merchant.

In 1910 I saw Barbour win the amateur heavyweight crown in Boston. Boxing, while it had attained semi-legal status, was still not a career likely to be followed by the son of a multimillionaire of high social standing. Had Warren been poor in this world’s goods, he would have been a sure-fire pickup for some astute manager hoping to steer him to the professional championship goal. And that was exactly what the young athlete would have liked. It was also what several of America’s leading promoters were eager to see, because of Barbour’s popularity and knowledge of ring science.

However, the Alger-Merriwell build-up didn’t apply in his case. There was no social climbing needed, no struggle necessary to score success in a quest for the almighty dollar; he was already sitting on top of the world.

Yet he told me in an interview at a Princeton football game that, if he had been left to himself, nothing would have pleased him more than to have entered the professional ring. I heard Warren Barbour repeat that during a fistic gabfest with Phocian Howard, publisher of racing sheets, while en route to the Dempsey-Willard battle at Toledo on July 4, 1919. Tex Rickard had selected the ex-amateur heavyweight champ to act as official timekeeper for that historic event.

That was the only time he associated himself with the professional game. Parental opposition was the real cause for his refusal to listen to the siren songs of the fight promoters who wanted to capitalize on his scientific skill and punching power. Perhaps it was just as well, for Jack Johnson was then in his prime, and no matter how good an amateur may be, it is always a considerable risk to pit him against an experienced pro, even one of second rate standing. And Johnson was not only a first-rater, but stood head-and-shoulders over all his pugilistic contemporaries.

Only twice in boxing history was an amateur champ given a shot at a title in his first professional engagement. That was in 1892 when Jack Skelly, of Brooklyn, head of the amateur featherweight class, took on George Dixon, acknowledged the world’s king of professional feathers; and when Peter Rademacher, U.S. Olympic champion, in his first pro bout, tackled Floyd Patterson in a battle for the heavyweight crown. In each case the amateur was knocked out.

The handicap was far too much for Skelly, good clever kid though he was, and Dixon kayoed him in the eighth round. Rademacher was stopped in the sixth.

However, it will always remain a pleasing possibility that Warren Barbour might have fared better than Jack Skelly or Peter in an invasion of the pro ring, for he possessed every asset of an excellent professional. When he won the amateur heavyweight title in Boston on April 12, 1910, by a clean knockout, Barbour was a trim athlete, over six feet and one-half inches tall; he scaled 204 pounds in fighting togs and could jab, block, counter, and duck blows far better than most of our top professionals today. He was far superior to Rademacher as an all-round pugilist.

Such men as referee Charley White and Jim Corbett, former world heavyweight champion, believed him good enough to fight Johnson, and were not alone among experts in thinking so. In my book, he was the greatest amateur boxer I had ever seen, even better than Floyd Patterson or Billy Rodenbach of New York, whose rating was extremely high in A.A.U. boxing circles.

While Barbour was training in Jack Cooper’s New York gymnasium, he asked to have some big men about his own heft brought along to spar with him. Cooper complied by sending for his friend Jim Corbett. I was sitting with Cooper watching some workouts, when Barbour made the request. Corbett was admiring Warren’s style when our talk was interrupted by Cooper. Jim stripped for a turn with the gloves and was happy to get such a sparmate. But having heard that the aspiring youngster was somewhat of a walloper, Corbett was cautious at the start. Then he let himself out, and after a couple of rounds Corbett said frankly that Barbour was a wonderful heavyweight prospect both as a puncher and a scientist.

“Your future as a professional is bright if you’ll go for it,” Corbett told Barbour. Then turning to me, Jim added, “I’d like to manage him.”

Young Barbour’s reputation spread far beyond the walls of Cooper’s gym, where he continued to take daily workouts with pros and amateurs. A few weeks after the Corbett session, another former world’s heavyweight champion, Jim Jeffries, who was at the time training in the gym, tried him out there. Cooper, who often sparred with President Theodore Roosevelt in Washington, knew Barbour’s father well. He broached the subject of professionalism to him several times, but Warren’s dad wouldn’t think of such a move. He was purely an amateur at heart, a big financial supporter of amateur athletics.

Jeffries, just back from a European trip, was soon to meet Johnson at Reno in the fateful battle which resulted so disastrously for the white man’s comeback stunt. Jeffries put in a week at Cooper’s place in New York City, loosening up a bit before starting a theatrical tour prior to going into regular training for Johnson.

The Californian sparred several times with Barbour and was so impressed by the latter’s skill that Jeffries asked him to join his training camp on the Pacific Coast. The youth did not accept the invitation, but Jeff’s candid endorsement of Warren’s prowess naturally boomed his pugilistic stock higher than ever, and resulted in Charley White, “Old Eagle Eye,” dropping into the gym to look him over.

Nationally famous as a referee and second, White was recognized universally as a keen, unerring judge of fistic material. When Charley first watched Barbour spar, he found it difficult to believe that the young fellow was not boxing for a living. His finished style, footwork, and ability to take a hard punch and deliver one, struck the veteran as being professional.

It was on Cooper’s advice that Barbour decided to enter the amateur tournament in Boston. Jack got Charley White to handle the big chap as chief second. The newspapers there already had printed several stories about the New York lad. My friend “Doc” Almy of The Boston Post dubbed him the “Millionaire Kid” and the moniker stuck. I represented my newspaper and spent four days with Barbour in the Hub.

Mechanics Building was packed to capacity on the opening night of the tournament, with some seven thousand ardent fans anxious to see the much publicized New Yorker in action. On that occasion Barbour and Emory Payne drew byes. Kendall Salisbury of Massachusetts whipped the Canadian champion, and Joe Burke, of the same state, stopped Mullins of New York.

On the second night, Burke and Payne came together. This was a fast slugging match which terminated in the second frame, when Burke, a bull-rushing Celt, hung a terrific right on his opponent’s jaw. Then Barbour ducked under the ropes to face New England’s champ, Kendall Salisbury.

Somehow a sobriquet such as “Millionaire Kid” doesn’t make for popularity with a fight mob. Barbour hadn’t desired any ring alias of the kind, and wasn’t feeling any too grateful to Almy, who had conferred it on him. The crowd expected Salisbury to score an easy victory, and indulged in many rough jests and catcalls touching on the Manhattan boy’s possible ancestry and financial status. However, Warren kept his temper and only grinned. He wasn’t the type that’s easily flustered, anyway.

“Keep this chap at long range and box him, don’t slug,” White told him.

Barbour did just what he was told. His long left was perpetually in Salisbury’s face, which was badly cut up before the second round was over. Barbour jabbed his opponent to a near-standstill without sustaining any damage himself and was awarded the decision.

But the big test for Barbour was yet to come. After fifteen minutes rest, he stepped into the ring with Burke, the wild Irishman of established kayo fame in the A.A.U.

“Box this bird just like you did Salisbury till I tell you to cut loose,” said White. “When he tears in, sidestep and make him miss.”

Again Barbour followed instructions to the letter. He stepped nimbly to the left as Burke rushed, swinging a futile right. His left counters kept Burke’s head bobbing back incessantly, and try as he might, the Celt could not get to close quarters with his elusive antagonist.

But in the second round, Barbour failed to evade a buzzing right that nailed him flush on the chin and dropped him. In falling he caught Burke around the waist and pulled him down with him. Burke was up first, and Warren’s father and brother, watching from front row seats, must have felt more than a trifle anxious.

Their misgivings were short-lived. Barbour, in response to a signal from White, had merely rested on one knee for a few seconds until his head cleared. It is at a time like this that a boxer shows if he has the real fighting instinct—the ability to keep cool under fire. That is every bit as essential to ring success as the ability to give and take it. There was nothing lacking in Barbour’s fighting make-up.

When he regained his feet, Burke tore in madly. He was met by a jab that set him back to the ropes. Then the bell rang, just as a stinging left hook to the jaw made the Irishman’s knees buckle. Back in the corner White gave Barbour this advice in exultant tones:

“You’ve got him loaded on your little red wagon now, boy. Go in an’ take him with both mitts!”

The gong sent Barbour leaping forward like a springing leopard. Burke, always game, met him half-way, and they went into a furious mixup. Right and left the gloves whizzed, but the Celt was continually being beaten to the punch. Barbour’s left crashed on his chin and down went Burke.

Up he staggered and ran into a short right that dropped him again. He arose weak and groggy. Barbour stabbed him off with a straight left, measured his man, and tagged a terrific right uppercut flush on the chin. Burke keeled over and fell face downward on the canvas. He was through for the night, nor did he regain consciousness for nearly ten minutes.

The “Millionaire Kid” made good. The jeers that marked his first entry into the ring had changed to a storm of frantic applause which shook the building.

The echoes of those wild cheers had not died away before Colonel William Barbour leaped through the ropes to congratulate his son. Later that night the proud father threw a party for the visiting New Yorkers at the Hotel Touraine, where there was much feasting and merriment, with Charley White, sage old fox of the squared circle, as master of ceremonies.

The “Old Fox” tried hard enough to get Pa Barbour to let his son turn pro, but no amount of persuasion could turn the trick.

9 THE MICHIGAN ASSASSIN

One of the greatest fighters of my time was the middleweight Stanley Ketchel.

Talk to the veterans who followed the career of this fighting man during the height of his glory and they’ll tell you that Stanley Ketchel was the finest in his division. Unfortunately, I didn’t see him when he fought his memorable battles with Billy Papke and Joe Thomas, but I did cover most of his thrilling Eastern contests, and from what I saw in the two years in which he made the East his headquarters, I rate Ketchel the greatest middleweight of all time.

Stanley was an unusual individual, wild and untamed one second, lovable the next; treacherous at times, and most amiable on other occasions. His frank, open eyes were soft, yet the moment he climbed through the ropes in pursuit of his prey, those eyes became the eyes of a killer. He always breathed through his nostrils and fought with his mouth tightly shut, a slight grin of contempt on his lips.

Ketchel scorned the word retreat. Yet once his mission was over, and he either flattened his opponent or won the verdict, he was just one of the mob—a man full of fun and mischief. The memory of this spectacular ring gladiator has never faded. Those who saw him flash across the pugilistic firmament spoke of him with unwavering loyalty and admiration. The greatest praise that can be lavished upon a promising middleweight contender today by a sports critic is to rate him as another Stanley Ketchel.

Few among the thousands of fistic heroes I’ve seen were more colorful than Ketchel. A demon of the roped square, he made his opponents think that all the furies in Hades had been turned loose on them. He got his punches away from all angles. If he missed an opponent with one hand, he would nail him with the other. He was as game as a bulldog and as tough as a bronco.

His most prominent traits, I would say, were his generosity outside the ring and his utter relentlessness inside of it, his egotism and eternal confidence and faith in himself, his fearlessness and superb courage. Outside the ring he was the soul of generosity. He was a mark for the panhandlers, much like Jack Dempsey in that respect. However, he was also a jokester whose greatest joy was playing pranks on unsuspecting camp visitors who came to idolize him.

When he was in New York, he would do his training in Woodlawn, not far from the entrance to the Woodlawn Cemetery. The adjoining territory at that time was wild, with tall grass, huge trees, and few houses within a radius of several miles. It was one of the undeveloped portions of the city, an ideal location for training.

It was there that Ketchel took delight in luring sparring mates and other camp hangers-on for his well known snipe hunts. Usually, he would first make certain that he had the confidence of those he intended to lure into the woods by joking, story-telling, and card playing. Then, when he spotted his man, invariably the most talkative of the lot, he would nod and wink to the boys and politely ask them to accompany him to the training table where arrangements for the hunt were made.

“How would you like to join me in a snipe hunt, tomorrow?” the champ would ask. “Snipe are game birds, exciting to catch.”

What a silly query! The honor of supping with the great Michigan Assassin was glory in itself, but to stalk the woods in Ketchel’s company at night for the elusive snipe, that was an experience to be cherished.

The next day, dinner over, the great hunt was on. We of the fourth estate would gather at the Inn to see the fun. A lone miner’s lantern was the only means of finding the trail through the woods. The victim was provided with a potato sack. Into this sack Ketchel and the scouts proposed to drive the wary snipes.

A snipe potpie was to be the culmination of the hunt, and the victim was told that he must not permit the snipe to pass him on the trail once Ketchel and his aides started off for the birds. “A snipe,” said Stanley, “would never change his course after starting down the trail.”

The snipe trail was found after a long skin-scratching jaunt through the briars, with a number of newspapermen trailing the leaders to add more realism to the affair.

“Now you remain here and keep the mouth of the bag open right in the middle of the path,” said Ketchel to the poor victim. “The snipe will see the hole and run right into it. You just can’t miss them. From the chirping that is now going on in the brush, there should be several dozen of them on the loose tonight. Mind you now, stay on guard, keep the bag wide open and keep your eyes open. Be on the alert!”

Ketchel would then pick up the lantern and accompanied by the scribes, hit the trail back to camp, leaving the snipe-snarer holding the bag.

We’d return to Woodlawn Inn by a roundabout way and there Ketchel would start a card game lasting until midnight. Then, in a sympathetic tone, he’d remark that it was about time that the poor dupe in the woods was relieved of his burden. But instead of going back to him, his training staff would laugh it off and retire for the night, letting the chap in the wilds find his own way out of his predicament.

The sniper would come to the inn during the wee small hours of the morning and find it closed for the night. Those gloomy darkened windows seemed to laugh down at him to tell him that he had been kidded. Usually Ketchel and his companions would never hear from the hunter again; that was one sure way of eliminating the pest from the camp. Occasionally, however, there would be some persistent fellow who would come back the next day and seek out the great middleweight.

In the latter case, the victim would lament his ill-fortune, only to get a bawling out from Stanley for apparently “disobeying” his orders; Ketchel would tell him that because of his negligence in not doing what he was told, the hunters lost all the snipe. And that evening, immediately following dinner, out on the trail again would go the fighter and his pals to give the pest another little “ride.”

I first came to know Ketchel when he was introduced to me by Hype Igoe, then his manager as well as a famed cartoonist and boxing scribe for the New York World. I cherished the friendship that developed from that introduction and requested assignments to cover Ketchel’s fights in New York, Philadelphia, and Boston, including one of the most thrilling contests I’ve ever seen.

In my years of covering the fight beat I’ve witnessed many exciting bouts, but not many offered such a variety of bitter, tornadic milling, rapid footwork and cleverness, as the fight between Ketchel and the celebrated light-heavyweight, Philadelphia Jack O’Brien.

This classic battle was fought in an era when referees didn’t interfere as they do today, and when officials were more hard-hearted because they didn’t have to depend on boxing commissions for an assignment. It took place in the ring at Fiss, Doerr, and Carroll’s Horse Mart on East Twenty-fourth Street, near Lexington Avenue, in New York City. I went to report the fight, expecting O’Brien to be defeated rather easily, since he had fourteen years of ring activity behind him and had reached the age of thirty-one. Gloriously handsome and courageous, his opponent was a virile, young, bone-crushing puncher whose hitting power and relentlessly savage attack had earned him the nom-de-guerre of “Michigan Assassin.” Nevertheless, I came away singing the praises of O’Brien, for his display of bulldog courage, consummate ringcraft, iron nerve, and Arctic coolness in time of crisis made him the hero of the evening.

The fight was so thrilling, it sputtered and sparked with moments so tense that I could feel my heart beating in my throat from start to finish. O’Brien, with his old fighting head and heart, withstood the wolflike rushes of a slashing, ripping, tearing young opponent. Cunningly hiding his hurts, he bluffed Ketchel time and again into doing things he should have avoided.

During the first seven rounds, O’Brien stood off most of Ketchel’s machine gun volleys by clever boxing. Many of the blows landed, but most of the damage was done by O’Brien. Ketchel believed he could whip anybody, regardless of weight, but he had never faced such astounding adroitness as was displayed by O’Brien that night. Philadelphia Jack chopped his opponent’s face up with powerful jabs for seven rounds until it was a blanket of blood.

In the middle of the seventh round, Ketchel slowly dropped his powerful arms at his sides and, to our astonishment, took a deep breath as if preparing for a new life. Then came the unexpected. He went after his man and drove him from corner to corner. O’Brien, who was obviously slowing down, called upon all his skill, and yet he could not prevent Ketchel from reaching his body with cruel drives to the chest and heart. Just before the bell sounded, a right opened a deep gash over O’Brien’s eye. He took his punishment like a stoic, but every time he struck home an effective blow, Stanley would snort and snarl like a wounded animal and redouble his efforts.

Throughout the eighth round, Jack tried every strategy of the ring game to postpone what seemed the inevitable end. At times he clinched and stalled, only to pull himself together and fight back viciously. But nothing could stop Ketchel. He kept coming on, bloody as a slaughterhouse killer.

As the ninth round opened up, he drove a terrific belt to the pit of O’Brien’s stomach. Gasping for breath, Jack collapsed against the ropes. Few expected him to get to his feet, but he did. He immediately went into a clinch to save himself from a knockout. We all expected the worst, and we were not disappointed.

Like a shark on the blood scent, Ketchel went after his opponent as the final round started. O’Brien, spent, exhausted, his body wracked with the pain of the last two sessions, gamely tried to put his usual spring in his steps as he faced the final assault. But the Michigan Assassin would give him no rest. Swinging left and right to the jaw, he dropped Jack for a short count. It was obvious from the look of pain on his face that O’Brien was being hurt dreadfully every time Ketchel landed a punch. Each blow seemed to rattle every bone in his body.

It was apparent that Ketchel had been told he would have to score a knockout to win and he went after it. Every time he lashed out, O’Brien’s blood was spattered around the ringside. Again he put Jack down with a powerful stomach punch, and again the aging battler struggled to his feet before the referee could count him out.

There were only twelve seconds to go and unless Ketchel could score with a kayo wallop, he’d lose the newspaper decision so far as the majority of the writers were concerned.

He leaped forward. The seconds were waning. We all figured it was too late now for Stanley to make it. The bell would surely save Philadelphia Jack, despite those knock-downs.

Eight seconds were left and then—the roof was blown off the arena as Ketchel drove both hands to the body and quickly followed with a swing to the jaw. The blow was so powerful it lifted Jack off-balance and sent him toppling back and down. His head bumped into the resin box in his own corner, which his handlers had forgotten to remove during the excitement of the previous round. As Jack’s head went into the resin box, the impact was sufficient to send him into unconsciousness. He was as inert as a stone. The bell clanged when referee Tim Hurst had reached the count of four and a brave battler was dragged to his chair.

Did he win? Did he lose by a knockout?

Confusion? Loads of it. The clock showed that O’Brien had been saved, since only four seconds had been counted when the fight ended. But the writers and spectators didn’t depend on that timepiece to settle such an all-important matter when thousands of dollars had been wagered on a kayo. As decisions were against the law in those days, additional interest was added to the arguments, pro and con, regarding the final status of the fight.

The arguments continued well into the night and the sports desks of the various papers were flooded with calls. When the consensus in the morning and evening newspapers showed that the reporters present had declared O’Brien the winner by a shade, there was hell to pay from those who figured they had been unjustly deprived of their winnings. They simply couldn’t understand how the decision could be given to a man who had finished a fight stretched out on the canvas with his head resting in a pan.

Never have I seen the duplicate of that classic ring battle—a no-decision affair in which it seemed that everybody wanted a verdict rendered.

A few months before Ketchel was shot to death, I journeyed to Boston with Tad Dorgan, Wilson Mizner, Hype Igoe, Judge Kelly and George B. Underwood to see him fight Porky Flynn. The bout took place on May 17, 1910. Flynn wasn’t much of an opponent, although he outweighed the champion, but Stanley was offered a sizeable purse and accepted the match.

Flynn didn’t last any longer than expected, going down before Ketchel’s terrible fists in the third round. But before the men had entered the ring, Stanley had become involved in a discussion with a wealthy Boston sport who was backing Flynn. The Bostonian sneered at Ketchel’s ego after hearing the champion boast of what he intended to do to the local entry. Stanley got mad.

“Now look here, you pretend to be a sport, don’t you?” he snapped. “Well, I’ll just bet you a thousand dollars, even money, or any odds you want, that I’ll knock Flynn out inside of four rounds. There’s a chance for you to back your opinion.”

It looked like easy money to the sport and he accepted the bet. After Ketchel had knocked Flynn out in the third round, he went over to the loser’s corner, grabbed up the bucket of water and dashed the entire contents over the prostrate fighter. Then, turning to Porky’s backer sitting at the ringside, Ketchel shouted derisively:

“There’s your man! Fork over that thousand.”

Ten days later Ketchel defeated the Gas House pride, Willie Lewis, at the National Sporting Club in New York City. Both men conformed to championship weight requirements, Stanley tipping the beam at 156 and Lewis at 154. Despite his defeat at the hands of Papke, Lewis had an opinion—almost an obsession—that he could whip Ketchel. He freely predicted that one of his wallops to the jaw would transfer the middleweight title, though the bout was scheduled as a no-decision affair.

The sporting public didn’t share Willie’s confidence in himself. The night of the fight there was a huge gathering in the Club, but the crowd came more to see Stanley in action than with the thought that they would see the championship change hands.

Ketchel appeared drawn and tired as he entered the ring, while Lewis seemed to be in the pink of condition. The bout was scheduled for ten rounds and Tom O’Rourke was the referee.

The first round was very tame, each man trying to feel the other out. Willie was plainly scared of Ketchel’s smashing right and the crowd yelled for action.

In the second, after Lewis had put three punches to the head, the champion decided it was time to open up. The men mixed it for a few seconds and then suddenly Stanley’s famous sleep prescription—that terrible right swing—was applied to Willie’s jaw at the point where it would do most good. Lewis went down as if he had been shot and was unable to move a muscle for more than two minutes. When he finally revived sufficiently to be helped from the ring, he cried like a baby.

After the fight, Ketchel went to his dressing room and hurriedly slipped his trousers and sweater on over his fighting togs. Then, along with Toby, the hunchback who always accompanied him, “Pete the Goat,” his chief handler, and several newspapermen, he jumped into his big red auto and whirled down to Luchow’s Restaurant on East Fourteenth Street, a popular eating place of the period. There he bought a keg of imported beer and several cases of champagne, and then the whole party, including Igoe, Underwood and myself, started for the champion’s training quarters at Woodlawn.

We drove up through Central Park and continued on up Seventh Avenue. There was a fire in the neighborhood that night and the fire lines were extended across the thoroughfare. That didn’t stop Ketchel. He slammed through the lines. A motorcycle policeman speedily went into action, but Ketchel’s car had covered seven blocks before the bluecoat caught up with us. A rough session followed.

When Stanley tried to get the car in motion again, the cop threatened him. We were expecting a free-for-all when Underwood and I flashed our police cards and explained to the officer that Ketchel had just stopped Willie Lewis and was eager to get back to his training quarters at Woodlawn.

“I know Ketchel,” the cop said rather gruffly. “What are you trying to put over on me?”

It required considerable proof before the officer would be convinced, but when he was, instead of arresting us for violating the fire laws, he paved the way for Ketchel’s party for about a mile, and then, with a hearty handshake, bid Stanley good night.

Arriving at the Inn some time after midnight, the champion aroused the occupants and set up the drinks and a fine supper. He even sent “Pete the Goat” and Toby clear up to Yonkers to drag the bartender out of bed and down to the Inn to help the celebration by playing the violin. Unfortunately, the bartender could play only two tunes—“The Wearing O’ The Green” and “Where The River Shannon Flows”—and these he repeated over and over again.

Ketchel was superstitious and believed in signs. If someone threw a hat on his bed or opened an umbrella in the camp quarters, he’d throw a fit. He invariably made it a point to shake hands with all his seconds before the bell sounded to start a fight, and “Pete the Goat” was always the last one whose hand he’d grasp. Old timers will remember little Toby. Stanley wouldn’t go into the ring unless Toby was in the building and somewhere near his corner.

Although a man of whims, Ketchel made friends easily. He was bashful to an extraordinary degree—almost, at times, to the point of timidity. In conversation with newly arrived writers or visitors to his camp, he would speak in monosyllables, but once he became thoroughly acquainted, he was one of the gang. The transformation was almost electric.

He never wasted time on press agents, nor did he make any reservations as to the color, weight or reputation of his opponents. He was ever ready to meet all comers, yet his lazy, easy-going way of pulling away from a punch, and the fact that his handsome features were unmarred to the end of his days, was proof that his opponents didn’t hit him as often as they appeared to.

Stories have been written about Ketchel’s lack of nerve. I wish that the fellow who started that canard could have been in his camp on the day or night before a fight, for this ordinarily good-natured and frolicsome man would become as sour and crabbed as a wounded grizzly bear. All of us took great pains to keep out of his way, for he would have a fit of temper at the least provocation.

All stone and ice and concentration when he entered the ring, Ketchel was as cross as a sick old woman in the few hours leading up to fight time. Nevertheless, I always enjoyed his company. He was a great fighter—the greatest middleweight I have ever seen in ring action—and his untimely death by gunfire at the hands of Walter Dipley at the age of twenty-four was a heavy loss to boxing.

10 JACK JOHNSON

The year was 1910.

Jack Johnson had defeated James J. Jeffries to retain the world heavyweight championship. The cry for a “white hope” to dethrone the Negro king was now greater than ever.

Jack Johnson remained for a short time in Reno, where I saw him stop Jeffries, and then went on to Chicago, where he was the center of a wild reception. I was told to stay with Johnson until his arrival in New York, where the police feared a race riot would make things very uncomfortable for all concerned.

I shall never forget the sight that greeted us in New York: Thousands of Negroes crowded the streets, parading, shouting, shooting off fireworks, and carrying on in hilarious fashion. They were celebrating a Roman holiday. It seemed to the police that the Negroes were hell bent for trouble and they took every precaution to prevent it. There were some fist fights, but the anticipated disorder on a large scale was missing in contrast to the street riots which Johnson’s triumph over Jeffries caused in other cities.

When I arrived in Buffalo on the Jack Johnson Special, a throng surrounded the car where Johnson was standing on the platform. A backfire from an automobile brought speedy action by the police who had mistaken the backfire for gunfire. We all made a dive into the club car, and when we learned what had actually taken place, Johnson, with his broad grin, returned to the platform to greet the cheering gathering. It was so unlike what we had expected!

From Birmingham down to the Grand Central Station, it was one grand ovation after another at each station stop. When we reached New York, the crowd was so dense the police had difficulty clearing a path for the homecoming party to get to the cars.

The reception that Johnson received at the station was nothing compared to the gigantic ovation that awaited him in Herald Square when he reached Baron Wilkes’ Hotel, a rendezvous for the colored sports folk of the big city. Thousands blocked the square. It was with the greatest effort that the conquering hero of the Negro race was finally able to make an entrance into his hotel headquarters where his wife, Ruth Cameron, was living.

Many white folk crowded the banquet room and no one was molested. It was a good natured gathering for the most part.

Johnson and I were good friends. He had promised me an exclusive interview, and he asked me to accompany him to his suite. There, when asked to comment on the stories that his victory had stimulated race riots throughout the country, he remarked:

“Nat, why should they bring in the black race against the white race in athletics? I licked Tommy Burns fairly. I did the same in my fight with Jeffries. My battle with Jeffries was not a contest between a black man and a white man, but between two boxers who were out to establish their right to the heavyweight championship of the world, a right I claimed and Jeffries disputed. I beat him and now the matter is settled.”

The interview was suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Johnson’s emergence from the bathroom. She had been preparing for the evening’s celebration and, having no idea that Jack was entertaining a guest in the living room, was completely nude.

Thinking that her husband, who was rumored to be having difficulties with his white wife, had purposely brought a white man into the room to embarrass her, she let loose with a violent tirade. Jack tried to explain, but was cut short when his wife, her eyes blazing menacingly, raised a chair. Discretion being the better part of valor, this seemed to both of us the propitious moment to leave.

The chair caught Jack in the center of the back as we raced down the stairs with her curses flooding after us. I never did finish that interview, though I was fortunate to have gathered sufficient data during our long trip home from Chicago to write the story.

Johnson was one of the brainiest fighters I have ever known. He knew boxing and was always able to give reasons for his opinions. I remember sitting with him in his Reno hotel after the Jeffries fight and asking him the reason for Jeff’s downfall.

“Well, it’s like this, Nat,” he said, standing up and throwing himself into fighting pose to demonstrate. “I think it was the blow that closed Jeff’s left eye that started him on his downfall.

“You see, I led and drew him out like this. He thought I would come back with my right hand, but I crossed over and shot a strong uppercut to his chin with my left—like this. I think that’s good ring strategy, although I say it myself, and it certainly won the fight for me and lost it for Jeff.”

When Jack was fighting his way to the top, he had to struggle against a field that contained some of the greatest names in the history of the heavyweight division. The period between 1905 and 1910 produced four great colored fighters: Jack Johnson, Sam Langford, Joe Jeannette and Sam McVey. There really wasn’t a white man who could be classed with this dusky quartet, and that was the real reason why Jim Jeffries retired.

The toughest opponents Jack faced in his rise to the championship were men of his own color. Among those whom he had to conquer were Hank Griffin, Denver Ed Martin, McVey, Langford, and Jeannette—each as tough as ebony, clever, and crushing punchers.

Some of the most thrilling contests I witnessed during the past half century were between Negroes. There was a lot of jealousy among the Negro heavyweights, for each believed himself to be the best in the world.

Johnson defeated Sam McVey three times, each contest being over the twenty-round route. He clashed with Joe Jeannette six times, boxing four no-decision bouts, losing once on a foul, and beating Joe over fifteen rounds.

Johnson and Sam Langford met but once in the ring, and that famous mill, like the Tunney-Dempsey fight in Chicago, and the Firpo-Dempsey clash, has come up for discussion time and again.

They fought at Chelsea, Massachusetts, and Jack was declared the winner after fifteen rounds. Langford’s supporters claimed that Sam almost had Jack out, but Jack’s adherents said that Langford took the worst beating of his career.

Joe Woodman, Sambo’s manager, stated after the fight that Langford floored Johnson with a right uppercut, but if you wanted to get Jack’s goat, you had only to repeat that statement in his presence.

Jack Johnson often came to see me, and I sometimes pulled his leg about the Langford fight until he was ready to tear the roof down. Once after I had kidded him, he turned on me almost in tears.

“Listen, Nat, please don’t say that,” he pleaded. “Say anything you want about me. Call me a quitter. Call me the worst fighter you’ve ever seen, but please don’t say that Langford dropped me or even gave me a tough fight.”

Dad Phillips, my father-in-law, an octogenarian whose knowledge of boxing I’d pit against that of any man, was in my office and he listened attentively to Johnson’s plea. When Jack had finished, Dad, who had seen the fight, agreed with Johnson. His version of the battle as he related it to me made Johnson quite happy. Here’s what Dad said:

“Jack Johnson decisively defeated Sam Langford. He was complete master of the situation. Jack so far outclassed Langford that for a time, until he purposely eased up on his onslaughts, the fight was one-sided.

“Langford was dropped twice for counts of nine, and he would have been out the first time if referee Martin Flaherty had not slowed up the count. At the end of the fight Sam had to be taken to a hospital.

“As for Langford dropping Johnson, that’s absurd. Why, he couldn’t land on Jack.”

A few days later I cornered Joe Woodman, who handled Sam in that fight.

“Look here, Joe,” I said, “whatever you did years ago when Langford was in need of publicity is okay with me. But now that Sam is out of the picture, I’d appreciate the low-down on that knock-down which you said that Sam scored over Jack.”

“It’s true, all right, Nat,” was all Joe would say.

Several weeks passed and Woodman again came into my office to introduce to me a new heavyweight, who shuffled uneasily as he listened to the following conversation.

“Nat,” said Joe Woodman, “I’d very much appreciate it if you would run a story and picture of this lad. He’s a good boy, but needs some publicity.”

“Gladly,” I replied, “but on one condition, Joe—that you tell me here and now the true story of that alleged knock-down in the Johnson-Langford fight. I’ve been flooded with letters about it, and Dad Phillips, who saw the fight, tells me you’re all wrong about it. Now you’ve got to tell me the truth if you want any help from me.”

Joe chuckled.

“You’ve got me, Nat,” he replied, “Langford never dropped Johnson. But I was anxious to fix up another fight between the two and knowing Jack’s pride, I invented the story of that knock-down to goad him into the ring against Sam again.”

“Although it never happened, all the newspapermen believed it. They just never took the trouble to investigate. That knock-down was just a publicity gimmick.”

So, here was the truth at last! Shrewd Joe Woodman not only disposed of Langford’s alleged knock-down, but ended the canard that had upset Jack Johnson whenever the topic was discussed.

Had I followed the advice of Johnson when I was making my choice in the first fight between Max Schmeling and Joe Louis, I would have picked the winner. Johnson, during the trips he made with me to Louis’s camp, repeatedly called my attention and that of other scribes to the fighting flaws that could easily cause the downfall of the rising young heavyweight sensation when he faced such a sharp, powerful hitter as Schmeling. On several occasions he stripped for action in my office, and before friendly newspapermen, he went through maneuvers to prove his contention.

Johnson pointed out that Joe had his body slightly twisted when he faced an opponent so that if he missed his left, he was wide open for a counter punch. “He’s always off balance,” said Jack. “I’ve seen him hit frequently this way by sucker blows. A clever boxer who hits like the German can knock Louis down and might even knock him out. To avoid this, Louis has got to change his stance.”

I published a story in The Ring giving Johnson’s views, and so did Hype Igoe in the New York Journal. And to add spice to my daily radio program on boxing, I took Johnson to station WNEW the following evening and there he repeated his opinion about Louis’s faults and gave his opinion of the way a clever, hard-hitting right-hand sharpshooter could stop the Brown Bomber.

What happened in the Louis-Schmeling first fight is ring history. Jack Johnson was vindicated. His preview of that contest was so accurate as to be almost uncanny, for every mistake Louis made was called in advance by Johnson on my sports program and in my office before newspapermen.

11 A BLACK OMEN

Jack Johnson was in trouble with the United States Government. He had been indicted for violation of the Mann Act and had fled to Europe to avoid incarceration.

The search was on for a “white hope” to relieve Johnson of his heavyweight crown. From every part of the world big, husky, burly men were brought to America in the hope that they would meet the requirements and bring back the championship to the Caucasian race. Some of these had a knowledge of boxing, while others, drawn mostly from farms, lumber camps, and crowded cities, were at least willing to give it a try.

The best of a select gathering was Luther McCarty, but he died tragically while boxing Arthur Pelkey in Calgary, Canada. The one outstanding remaining heavyweight was Big Jess Willard, who was known as the Pottowatomie Giant. Brawny and powerful, this six-foot five-inch cowboy had defeated Gunboat Smith and Boer Rodel, had knocked out Bull Young, who had died shortly after from his punishment, and had fought no-decision bouts with Pelkey, Carl Morris and McCarty.

Jack Curley, a famous promoter and manager, backed by Harry Frazee, a theatrical producer, conceived the idea to pit Willard against Johnson. He was confident that Big Jess could wrest the title from the Negro and after considerable difficulties with the laws of Mexico, our country and Cuba, he finally succeeded in overcoming all obstacles, and the contest was booked for the Marianao Race Track near Havana, Cuba.

I was about to take my annual vacation. From 1909 through 1914, I had visited the Pearl of the Antilles nine times. I loved to visit the Island, had many friends there, and invariably paid my expenses by writing baseball and boxing articles for El Mundo. Naturally, I was delighted to learn that the heavyweight championship would be decided there. I had no trouble convincing Jim Price, sports editor of my paper, that the assignment to cover the battle belonged to me.

I left New York a fortnight before Willard and his trainer, Tex O’Rourke arrived, and set myself up at the Palace Hotel which Johnson made his Havana headquarters. Jack and I had been friends for many years. He was an arrogant man, but I liked him despite the many bad marks he had against him. However, I felt that the easy life he had led, his carousing in France and Argentina, had softened him and that Willard, if in condition, should emerge a winner.

“You’ll have to work like a beaver to get into physical condition, Jack, Willard is no slouch,” I told him.

He laughed this off. He hadn’t done any training for a long time, and he figured he didn’t have to do much for Willard.

What happened later proved the fallacy of his contention. He lost the title, but there is more to the story of that defeat than Johnson s overconfidence or lack of training. There was the Black Omen.

They called Johnson the Black Colossus. He stood astride the boxing world and sliced the opposition to ribbons. With the exception of Jack Dempsey, he gave me more thrills than any fighter I saw in half a century at the ringside. In fact, I rank the burly Negro as the best heavyweight of all time. Just look at the procession of top heavyweights he whipped—Jack O’Brien, Tony Ross, Al Kaufman, Jim Flynn, Frank Moran, and James Jeffries, among others.

But when the leading “white hope,” Willard, was booked as his opponent, I felt confident that here was the man who would upset the applecart. Not that he was a great fighter by any means; but because wine and women had taken their toll and had left the Galveston Giant at the mercy of the first Caucasian heavyweight who could condition himself to last more than fifteen rounds. No matter how poorly primed Jack was to face top opposition at the time, he still was good enough to make a “monkey” out of any of the “white hopes” for at least fifteen frames. His mastery of ring science, his ability to block, counter, and feint, are still unexcelled.

The initial odds were four to one on Johnson. But when the Cubans watched him at his training camp, the odds took a tumble.

So when Tex O’Rourke, Willard and his retinue reached Cuba, I decided to spend most of my time with Jess. He was the big story. The public in America was more interested in him. They wanted to know how he shaped up for the big test, what his mental attitude was, his general demeanor, and the progress he was making. It was my job to see that our readers received the information, and it was while out with Jess and O’Rourke that I got a scoop that hit the headlines.

Willard was a mountain of a man, 6 feet 5 inches tall and 260 pounds in weight. Yet he had two failings—his right fist lacked snap, and his legs, though well proportioned for his massive body, tired too quickly.

For weeks his trainer had made the challenger run miles every day over the roughest going he could find. By the time Willard reached Havana his legs had been greatly strengthened and his wind was perfect. He was bronzed as an Indian and supremely confident. In terms of endurance, he was a match for any man alive.

Yet two days before the fight, I saw a dramatic, sickening change in him. He became morose and restless. O’Rourke put down Jess’s ugly mood to prefight nerves—a condition that frequently is found in pugilists when the time for their combat approaches.

Then fate stepped in in the form of a black duck, and the brave, gale-tossed bird won the world title for Jess!

On the morning of the fight, Willard, O’Rourke, and I were strolling along the Malecon, the Havana thoroughfare bordering on the ocean. We stopped by the sea wall and Jess looked gloomily across the waves.

O’Rourke’s face was lined with despair. I knew what was bothering the trainer. Only a few hours to the battle for the world crown, and here was the challenger behaving like a sulky child!

Suddenly a spot appeared in the distant sky. It proved to be a black duck, flying from the direction of the Florida coast, many miles away. It had lost its way and was seeking a place to rest.

Bravely it flew against a half gale with huge seas pounding below. Twice, with wearily flapping wings, it sank to the waves. Each time it made a frantic effort to rise again.

Spent and almost exhausted, the bird cleared the breakwater, grazed the huge sea wall, flew about 50 feet upward, then like a stone, fell almost at Jess’s feet.

Gently the giant picked up the gallant, feathered fighter. Tenderly, like a mother nursing her ailing child, he held the duck to his breast. But in a few seconds the bird’s heart stopped beating. It had made its landfall, and had perished in the attempt.

Jess stood there, silent and motionless, stroking the sea-drenched feathers, as though his caresses would restore the bird to life.

He looked at O’Rourke and said softly, “See how black and glossy his feathers are, Tex? Too bad he had to hand in his check just as he reached the end of the trail. What a game bird!”

Sunk in moody thought, Willard went on stroking the dead bird. As we watched in amazement, we saw him change. His eyes brightened, his broad back straightened. He turned to O’Rourke, slapped him on the back and grinned.

And with the old brightness back, he cried, “I’ll knock Johnson cuckoo. Tonight I’ll be the world heavyweight champion. This bird has shown me something.”

He wrapped up the duck in a newspaper to take it back to his hotel.

“Sure you’re going to win, Jess,” agreed the trainer. “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along. What made you think otherwise?”

“Sure I’m going to win,” Willard repeated.

“Could there be a better omen for me than this poor bird? That duck flew a long way—right from Florida. He flopped at my feet. And this is how I now see it. The fight’s going to be a long one and a hard one for Johnson. But at the end the champion is going to drop at my feet just like this black duck did.”

And so, with head held high, with springy confident steps, and carrying the bird under his arm, Jess walked back to the hotel, where he had the gallant battler buried in the garden.

The sun came down with blistering, blinding heat as Johnson and Willard stepped into the Havana Racetrack Arena that day.

Jess had his instructions. O’Rourke’s plan of campaign had been drawn up weeks before. He knew that Johnson was banking on an early knockout, so he told Willard to play safe for the first eight rounds and let the Negro carry the fight to him. After that it was up to Jess to try to wear Johnson down.

Tex figured that by the fifteenth round Johnson would have shot his bolt. Then Jess could open up and carry the battle to the tiring champion.

The gong went. Johnson slid lithely from his seat and attacked with the ferocity of a hungry tiger. Bobbing and weaving before the huge Willard, the whites of Jack’s eyes showed as he looked for an opening.

Twice he threw shuddering left hooks, but Jess was fighting according to instructions and caught the blows on his arms, slowly backing away all the time.

Jack feinted with a left and crossed with a right, and the punch smashed home on his rival’s jaw. Jess quivered for a moment, then backed up. He stabbed long lefts, but Johnson brushed these aside and continued his attack. The bell rang, and Jess had weathered the opening round.

From the second round onward, Johnson cut loose with cold, savage fury that punished Jess despite his strategy. Willard’s defense was good, but he didn’t do too much on the attack until well past half the fight. He was following O’Rourke’s instructions to let Johnson wear himself out.

Several times it appeared that Johnson would score a knockout as the giant Negro kept tossing his punches accurately and to vital points. Near the end of the seventh round, a shattering blow to the jaw sent Jess to his corner in a noticeably unsteady condition.

He quickly recovered, but Johnson, still sensing an early kill, went after his man with added fury in the eighth round. Savagely mauled, Jess fought on, though his face was gory and his body red. Yet his heart, like that of the black duck that had flown from the Florida coast upheld him. Like that black duck, he aimed toward his goal.

Johnson tried hard for the knockout through the next few rounds, but without success. After the sixteenth, the pattern of the fight began to change. Jack started to slow down, while Jess kept climbing—again, like the duck reaching for heights after striking the heavy sea waves.

From the eighteenth round on, I felt certain that Johnson knew his title had gone. It was then that Willard went on the offensive.

In the twentieth round, O’Rourke told Jess to go in for the kill.

“You’ve got him licked,” the trainer urged. “He’s tiring. Keep at him. Don’t give him any rest.”

The tables were now completely turned. Willard bore down on the champion, battering him with both hands. But Johnson’s defense was superb. Even when he was at the end of his tether, and Jess couldn’t miss, he continued to make a fight of it.

In the twenty-sixth round, Johnson dropped his guard momentarily, and Jess shot a right-hander under the heart. Johnson winced. His mouth opened, his arms twitched upwards convulsively, and he started sinking to the canvas when a left to the jaw hurried him on his losing fall.

There was no need for the second blow. The right-hander to the heart had done the job. Jess was the new heavyweight champion of the world—the first white man to hold the title for nearly seven years.

And it was at that moment, as Johnson took the count, that one of the greatest controversies in the fight game began.

Months afterwards, Johnson said that he had faked the fight because he had been promised that if he lost the title to Willard the charge against him of transporting a woman across the state lines for immoral purposes would be dropped. The photo of him lying on the canvas with his arms over his face seemed to support this explanation, and many persons jumped to the conclusion that he was shielding his eyes from the sun! But the truth is that Johnson made the statement to alibi himself.

I have six photographs of that knockout and in each Johnson’s eyes are exposed to the full glare of the sun.

When a fight is “arranged,” the man who is taking the dive doesn’t fight for twenty-six rounds and break his rival’s ribs and jaw in the bargain, as Johnson had done to Willard!

I saw O’Rourke back in the dressing room. The trainer was all smiles. “Nat,” he said, “that black duck turned the trick. It won the title for Jess.”

12 BOXING’S HARLEQUIN

Before he paid us the doubtful compliment of becoming our guest in the middle 1920’s, Louis Phal—to give Battling Siki his real name—made France too hot to hold him.

They put the singular Senegalese in a set-up against Georges Carpentier in a Paris ring, and he ruined all the schemes of the wise guys by knocking the Orchid Kid cold, after treating the horrified spectators to an exhibition of jungle frenzy.

Then, with the light-heavyweight crown on his fuzzy head, he became the pugilistic King Kong of the Paris boulevards, fighting and brawling on the sidewalks of that city until the gendarmes warned him that if he didn’t mend his ways he’d be lynched.

He had been brought from his native Senegal as a servant by a Caucasian woman of high degree, who probably thought him amusing, for he was a quaint black fellow with an extreme sense of humor.

The trouble was that neither the gendarmes nor the citizens of Paris, especially women, could appreciate his jokes. And there was a sigh of relief when Mike McTigue took the light-heavyweight title from him after a fight in Dublin on St. Patrick’s Day.

The decision was a questionable one, but nobody bothered about that; Mike put up a marvellous defensive fight against the black barbarian, who, at one point in the proceedings, turned away from McTigue and threatened to jump out of the ring and murder Georges Carpentier, who was sitting at the ringside taunting the Senegalese.

Siki entered the United States quietly. Most fight fans didn’t know much about him, except that he could hit hard and take a lot of punishment. He was a fighter of the dock variety, and when he rolled his eyes he looked terrifying.

He was as black as coal and had a thick ruffle of kinky black hair on his head. The American “sports” forgot all about his European reputation and gave him a good hand. They enjoyed his style and his antics, and he in turn enjoyed the attention he received in the States.

I had heard many strange stories about the Singular Senegalese, as he was nicknamed. I learned that he drank like a fish and was an ugly customer when in his cups. I was told, before he reached America, that he wore evening dress all through the day and paraded the streets with a monkey on his shoulder. When he arrived in New York, I decided to meet him personally and find out all I could for myself.

All the rumors were confirmed to my satisfaction the afternoon I came upon this extraordinary man directing traffic with his cane in the middle of 42nd Street and Broadway.

He was dressed in formal evening clothes, with a flowing French cape lined with purple satin. He wore bright red gloves and gray suede shoes.

A laughing crowd surrounded him. Soon the police officer, none other than big Pat McDonald, the Olympic hammer thrower, came along to inquire the cause of the traffic hold-up and the reason for the gathering. As he approached the fantastic Negro, Siki took off his high silk topper, bowed in ceremonial French style, and extended his big hand in greeting.

Pat McDonald had a sense of humor. He lifted his cap, bowed in return, and took Siki’s outstretched hand. At that moment a monkey leaped from under the Senegalese’s cape to the head of the officer.

There was a shriek from the crowd as McDonald almost collapsed. But he quickly recovered himself and caught Siki by the collar, bustling him away. After that, I no longer doubted the stories of his pranks.

Siki was matched to fight Paul Berlenbach. I went to the weigh-in and decided that Paul would win—if he could keep his nerve. Paul was a great fighter and was not likely to be intimidated by this imitation King Kong.

Just after the weigh-in, I ran into Siki outside his apartment. He was giving the monkey an airing and was in a playful mood. He sauntered up and down the avenue, followed by a large crowd, strutting like a peacock.

Suddenly he turned and said something to the monkey in French. It leaped instantly on the back of a woman in the crowd. With a shriek, the woman fainted. Siki stood grinning like an ape, but the crowd began to murmur angrily. A man out of the gathering ran towards him. The Senegalese backed away, but just at that moment a policeman came along. When he saw the cause of the trouble he whipped out his blackjack.

“What are you doing with that scarecrow around here?” he demanded of Siki. “You come along with me. You’re taking too many liberties.”

The officer asked the woman, who had now recovered, if she would press a charge of disorderly conduct against the Negro. Before she could decide, Siki shouted excitedly, “Eet is not my fault, gendarme, eef my monkee, he likes charming ladees!”

Everybody laughed, including the policeman, and the incident was closed without further trouble.

But that night I sat at the ringside and saw the primitive Siki take a terrible beating from Paul Berlenbach. For nine rounds he was a punching-bag for the skillful, hard-hitting German-American.

Heavens, how Siki took it! From the first round he rolled his eyes and snorted as if trying to terrify “Punching Paul”; but before the seventh session the Senegalese had taken so much punishment that his eyes rolled in agony. It was really a horrible exhibition of boxing, for Siki had only the crudest idea of defense, and was helpless against the crushing avalanche of blows which Berlenbach rained upon him.

In the eighth round Paul worked the Negro against the ropes just in front of me, and bombarded him with paralyzing rights and lefts to the head. As blow after blow smashed home, rocking Siki on his heels, I began to wonder what had happened to the human fury that had battered Carpentier into insensibility. Now the roles were reversed.

I have seldom seen more tigerish energy than Paul packed into his work that night. Perhaps Siki was only half-human. At any rate, he took it until the middle of the tenth round, when Berlenbach, punching with lightning speed, shot home a bone-crushing right to the jaw.

Siki fell forward on his face, as if a bullet had struck him, and was counted out. That was his last fight in the ring. Siki nearly succeeded in driving his manager, the genial Papa Levy, insane, with his antics. There’s an extraordinary story connected with the Senegalese’s fight with Battling Norfolk, in Memphis, Tennessee, a bout which I witnessed.

Siki and Levy arrived in the southern city four days before the contest. There was nobody to meet them at the station, and no announcement of their arrival was made in the newspapers.

“Why my name no in zee papers?” asked Siki after scanning the local sheets.

Levy explained that in Memphis there was no publicity for colored performers, owing to the Southern prejudice against Negroes.

Siki became unruly. He was like a wild man. At that time, the song, “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” was all the rage, and it gave Siki an idea.

He bought an enormous bunch of bananas, walked through the streets singing the song, and tossing the fruit to the passersby. He could sing quite well and attracted considerable attention. Within a few minutes a crowd was following him. Two mounted policemen approached him. One yanked Siki by the collar and hauled him to the police station. Siki made the front pages, which he apparently set out to do—and filled the fight arena the next day.

Back in New York he was soon up to his old tricks, squirting water from a handgun at people on the streets, throwing handfuls of money to crowds, and scattering bags of peanuts among the masses on Broadway.

The police warned him, but he answered, “Nobody hurt Siki. All lika Siki. Siki him have good heart. Siki help everybody.”

One night he was picked up almost at the point of death in one of the toughest districts in New York. He had been stabbed. He was taken to the French Hospital, and a young reporter called the next morning to get a story. Siki leaped out of bed and, clad only in his pajamas, slung the reporter over his shoulder and ran out into the street.

Hailing a taxi, he dropped the reporter into the gutter and drove home.

Soon he was up to his usual tricks again, but his enemies were closing in. One night he walked into a night club drunk, and began to smash it up. The next morning he was found in the street with an ice-pick driven into his chest. The police arrested his assailant, but Siki refused to press the charge.

His time was short now; the curtain was about to ring down. On a winter’s night, when gales of icy wind whipped the narrow canyons of Hell’s Kitchen, two men lurked in the shadows. It was just past midnight, and the street was deserted by all who valued their lives.

Siki entered the street muffled in a heavy overcoat. He was unsteady on his feet and sang snatches of songs. Suddenly two automatics barked, and the Senegalese pitched forward—dead. They found him the next morning where he had fallen, and within an hour he made the front pages of the newspapers for the last time.