BOOK THREE

13 A STORY OF INTRIGUE

Hundreds of thousands of persons annually visit Madison Square Garden, America’s famous sports center, without ever giving a thought to the story behind the building. It is a story of intrigue in which those who conceived the idea and started the negotiations for the gigantic structure were pushed into the background by the world’s greatest promoter, Tex Rickard.

Once Rickard had all the necessary data placed in his lap, he maneuvered those whose brain child it was right out of the picture and proceeded on his own. Today the new Madison Square Garden is known in every nook and corner of the world where sports are followed as the “House that Tex Built,” but if proper credit were given to those who planned it and negotiated for its erection.... Well, here’s the story.

It was the year 1923. America had developed one of the great skaters in the history of the country. His name was Bobby McLean.

Bobby had come from the Mid-West, where he had cleaned up in racing competition. At the invitation of the Swedish government, he went abroad to take part in international races at Stockholm, and later in other parts of Europe. He gained fame and fortune abroad. His name had headlined the sports pages both in Europe and America.

I was in Stockholm at the time and became acquainted with his manager, Dinty Scanlon, an energetic promoter who, in later years, induced Sonja Henie to come to America, and who for several years was her manager. Scanlon saw the possibilities of exploiting ice skating in America and broached the subject to me. He was the pioneer of the ice skating revues in America and to him goes the credit for inaugurating the ice extravaganzas that have since become part of our country’s winter sports schedule.

I was then sports editor of the New York Telegram, and Scanlon, knowing how close I was to Rickard, showed me plans for the building of a huge ice rink in New York and asked whether I thought he could obtain Rickard’s aid. I was for the project and thought Tex would be interested. There was only one ice rink in New York at the time, the St. Nicholas Rink, and that had outlived its usefulness.

Scanlon, discussing his plans, declared that if funds were available to build the rink, we could make the arena the ice sports center of America by getting contracts from Eastern colleges to use it for their hockey matches, as well as importing the Scandinavian, Swiss, and other famous European ice revues. With that in mind, I decided to lay Scanlon’s plans before Rickard and look for a location.

We were aware that Tex Rickard’s long lease on the old Garden would soon expire and that the New York Life Insurance Company would not grant a further lease of more than one year. Stories had appeared in the Wall Street Journal to the effect that the insurance company was anxious to demolish the old structure and build a home to house its own people. Scanlon and I figured the time was ripe for quick action.

The Manhattan Railway Company, operating the street cars of New York along the main highways, was in bankruptcy proceedings, with Judge Julius Mayer in charge. Through Judge Mayer, I learned that any of the car barns, situated at Thirty-third Street and Fourth Avenue, Eighty-sixth Street and Madison Avenue, and Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue, could be purchased, provided we could obtain the bondholders’ consent.

With that information, I proceeded. I requested Scanlon to obtain two extra blueprints for his proposed structure. A few days later, he came to my office with the plans and the architect’s picture of what the proposed sports arena would look like.

The blueprint of the proposed structure was then published in the New York Telegram with a story on the front page written by me. I pointed out that Rickard’s lease on the old Garden would soon expire and the building would be torn down within a few years; and to make certain that a substitute building to house sports in New York would be given the people, several sportsmen proposed to build a gigantic structure conveniently located near the theatrical district, the feature of which would be a skating rink and motion picture theatre.

The story created a bombshell in New York. Rickard was besieged for confirmation; but all he could confirm was that his lease would be renewed for only one year. He knew nothing about any sportsmen becoming interested in the erection of a structure to take the place of the famous old landmark. The story in the Telegram, he said, was news to him, but he was interested.

That was my ace. I was not only eager to get public reaction but also Rickard’s. I did not have long to wait. Rickard sent for Scanlon and me. Before meeting him, however, we made certain that we could obtain other backing in case Tex should turn a deaf ear to us.

New York City at the time had a man of wealth in the building business. His name was George Backer. He had just completed a large commercial building on Fifth Avenue near Thirtieth Street, then the largest in the city. Scanlon, McLean, and I got in touch with him.

It didn’t take us long to convince Mr. Backer that we had something worth while. He was quick to see the possibilities and promised us that if we could get Tex Rickard to organize a company to put up $2,250,000, he would back the venture with an equal amount. He told us to tell Rickard of his interest in the matter.

Before we left Backer, he told us to see Judge Mayer again and find out at what price the barn opposite the Morning Telegraph on Eighth Avenue, between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Streets, could be purchased. He, like Scanlon and myself, favored that location because of its proximity to Broadway and the theatrical district, which, even then, was moving northward.

Backer gave us permission to work with his architects on the preliminary plans. They estimated that it would require about $4,500,000 to erect the building and buy the land, and that was the amount we set out to get, half from Backer and the remainder from the Rickard syndicate.

We were certain that with Mr. Backer behind it, the plan couldn’t fall through. With great faith in our eventual success, I arranged an appointment for Scanlon and myself to discuss the matter with Tex. The following day we went to his office in the Madison Square Garden tower, where the three of us, with Frank Coultry, Tex’s treasurer and Ike Dorgan, his publicity ace, went into conference.

We unloaded our plan to the group telling Tex that Backer would show good faith by putting up $500,000 to underwrite the undertaking and the remainder when Rickard’s share was posted. We also placed before Rickard the blue prints for the installation of an ice floor in the arena, the new invention of a Philadelphian who had already tried out such a plant successfully in the Philadelphia Arena. We convinced Rickard that with this new system, he could use the rink floor for ice hockey one night and within ten hours, have the floor ready for a fight, basketball, horse shows or for any other purpose.

He was keenly interested. He asked us to leave our plans with him and return in three days, which we did. With Rickard at our next meeting was Colonel John Hammond, a West Pointer, who later became vice-president of the Garden in charge of hockey promotion. Col. Hammond was an ardent ice fan, having been captain of the Cadets’ hockey team and he seemed impressed with the idea. Rickard was even more interested. We had brought the Philadelphia inventor with us and our backer’s legal adviser to give further details.

Going more deeply into the plans, we showed Rickard where he could use the new building for all kinds of sports events and exhibitions, in addition to having a meeting place, bigger and better than the old Garden. Our plans called for a motion picture theatre on the street level, with an arcade leading to the arena. We had a tentative agreement from the Keith’s Theatre to lease that portion if the building was erected. The present Garden has only a few changes from the plan Scanlon and I offered.

Rickard asked where we contemplated building if he decided to go in with us. We told him of our conference with Judge Mayer and his suggestion to call a bondholders’ meeting to get their consent. Judge Mayer also wanted us to show our good faith with a deposit of $25,000, and we had a certified check for that amount ready. We suggested that the best place would be the site of the car barns at Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue. Rickard assured us he would report to our syndicate in a few days, as he wanted more time to think it over and to discuss it with his financial backers. When we next met, however, we learned that he was not in favor of the project.

“It’s too costly, Nat,” he said. “I spoke to John Ringling and others who might become interested, and they say it’s a foolish move. It would be a total loss. The location is no good, and the plan for an ice rink is out of the question. We couldn’t operate both fights and hockey; and, besides, we haven’t the teams here.”

In an effort to induce Rickard to change his mind, Scanlon told Tex that Judge Mayer could probably get the barn site for $2,200,000, and I added that I was confident we could obtain it for less with cold cash.

Rickard indicated it was too risky and Col. Hammond backed him on that. We couldn’t budge Tex, and thus our bubble burst. We thought he was the only sportsman to whom such a proposition could appeal, and when he refused to accept our offer, both on a percentage basis and on a stock partnership, Scanlon and I gave up.

Behold our astonishment when three months later we learned through a news item delivered to the papers by Ike Dorgan, Rickard’s publicist, that Tex, with Colonel Hammond, had organized a Wall Street Company for the purchase of the Fiftieth Street car barns, and that a huge arena, a new Madison Square Garden, would be built there, featuring an ice plant for hockey and ice reviews! When I heard that Colonel Hammond was associated with Rickard and would be in charge of the hockey and ice department, in addition to being the representative of the Wall Street group that would back the project, I was furious.

Scanlon and I went to Rickard and accused him to his face of double-crossing us. Scanlon told Tex that we were the originators of the new Garden arena plans and that he had stolen our idea, based on the blue prints submitted to him. We demanded that we be taken into the project and threatened to bring suit if we were not, but Rickard laughed us off.

Well, within a year, the new Garden was built. Mike Jacobs, who later succeeded Rickard as the country’s foremost promoter and to whom Dinty and I had also broached the subject, was thoroughly conversant with the details and asked us not to bring suit as we had contemplated. Mike had become one of Rickard’s financial advisers. He found that Tex required more money than his backers were willing to put up, and it was through his efforts that additional funds were obtained to assure the completion of the structure.

Despite Mike’s pressures, Scanlon was still bitter about Rickard’s maneuver, and had not George Backer died shortly after Tex’s announcement, Tex would have had a half million dollar suit on his hands. The only change made in the plans Tex finally used was the elimination of the motion picture theatre and the erection of stores, instead.

Thus the new Garden came into being through the foresight of a great lover of ice sports, Dinty Scanlon, whose eagerness to find a place in New York where his champion Bobby McLean could exhibit his skill, was responsible for the design as he and I worked it out.

Although the idea and the original plans were ours, credit for the final erection of the Garden belongs to Mike Jacobs. It was he who persuaded Judge Mayer to get the bondholders to sell the car barns at Fiftieth Street for $2,500,000 and it was he who urged Rickard not to accept the Eighty-sixth Street or Thirty-fourth Street sites, which Judge Mayer was more anxious to dispose of and which Tex was willing to take in order to avoid the Scanlon suit.

I recall being present at a meeting when Rickard told Mike that the Wall Street combine to which he had appealed was favorably impressed with the Thirty-fourth Street and Madison Avenue site because of its nearness to the old Garden.

“That’s where those fellers are wrong,” said Mike, “I agree with Nat and Scanlon that the Eighth Avenue car barns would be the best location. The trend for amusements is to the midtown section. It will soon be the heart of the theatrical district. Everything is moving up towards Fiftieth Street.”

Thus did this man of foresight visualize New York’s future. The job of negotiating for the land was turned over to Jacobs. According to fable, the Garden was financed by a group of 600 millionaires, each of whom contributed the sum of $1,000. The fact is that $5,600,000 was required for the building and the car barns, and Jacobs manipulated the deal whereby Rickard obtained the funds. After giving Rickard his first $25,000 to turn over to Judge Mayer to show good faith in the proposed purchase, Mike negotiated a bank loan for Tex for an additional $100,000 to start the ball rolling. It was not until then that a six-man syndicate headed by banker Richard F. Hoyt, came in, with the rest of the money.

As for the 600 millionaires, they each put up $1,000 at a later date to become life members of the Garden Club. In return for their money, they also were given stock.

Mike Jacobs, as Rickard’s agent, was handsomely rewarded for his loan and his very important part in the negotiations. He told me his prize totalled $117,000. It was only after the property had been bought that it became known that Rickard had been working on a “shoestring” and that had it not been for Jacobs, he would never have been able to put over the deal.

As for Scanlon, the man who originated the idea and who with me, had the first plans for the new Garden drawn up, I don’t know whether he ever got any money from Rickard, but I received from Tex the sum of $2,500 and some stock, in settlement for my claim against him—small amount, to be sure, but being friendly with Tex, I decided not to press the issue.

That’s the story of how the present Garden came to be, a story of intrigue that made Tex Rickard and Mike Jacobs millionaires.

14 DESTINY’S PARTNERSHIP

As surely as there is a tide in the affairs of men, there are men marked out by fate to be carried by that tide to fame and fortune. All the forces of destiny seem to conspire to give them the breaks. Such a man was Tex Rickard.

George L. “Tex” Rickard, boxing’s man of destiny, died on January 6, 1929, at the age of fifty-eight. I knew him intimately for a quarter of a century. I wrote the story of his life and acted in a confidential capacity for him on many occasions. I have no hesitation in saying that he was one man in a hundred million marked out by fate.

President of Madison Square Garden, acknowledged king of the boxing world, Tex Rickard lived long enough to put the fight game on the big financial map and to make himself and many other people millionaires.

The Grim Reaper claimed him just as he was about to retire and, for the first time in his career, enjoy himself by taking things easy.

I said good-by to him the day before he left New York for Miami, where he died following an operation for appendicitis.

For a man of his years he looked youthful. The dark eyes were as keen as ever and the expressive lips just as ready to curl into a smile or to be compressed into a hard, fighting line.

With his hat tilted on the back of his head, he looked at me and said in his usual quick manner and with his Texan cowboy drawl:

“Nat, one big promotion, and I’m through.”

I smiled. “I’ve heard all that before, Tex.”

“This is straight. I’ve taken boxing from a thousand bucks to two million. One more big promotion, then I quit.”

“You couldn’t quit if you tried, Tex,” I replied.

To see Rickard towards the end of his life, king of the gilded age of boxing, one might have thought that he had been just lucky. Well, Tex had plenty of luck, and he needed it. But one must look into his personality and his career to understand the secret of his success.

He was the last of the picturesque men of vision and daring: Western cowboy, gold-hunter, gambler, promoter: a man whose personality had as much color as a rainbow.

“Nat, never lose your guts,” Tex once said to me after I had suffered a heavy financial loss. “If you do, you’re finished. Better shoot yourself and get out of it.”

That stern creed was the rock on which Tex Rickard built his fame and fortune. But fate looked after him. For example, he left Goldfield, Nevada, in 1910 to sell copper properties to a big prospector.

“I’m not interested in your copper,” the prospector said, according to Rickard, “but if you’ll promote a fight between Jack Johnson and Jim Jeffries out here at Reno, I’ll back you.”

Every sports promoter in America was bidding for that fight but nobody had enough faith in the match to offer Jeffries what he wanted to come out of retirement. Tex staggered the fight world by offering $101,000, and he got the fight.

I recall a scene in Naegeli’s Hotel in Hoboken, New Jersey, when Rickard appeared with several of his backers to clinch the fight. Tex walked into the hotel, waited for all hands to be seated, then opened the eyes of both Johnson and Jeffries by placing $20,000 in gold on the table. That gold settled the argument and got him the fight, for while other bidders for the bout were talking big, Rickard showed his good faith with money.

Previous to the meeting in Hoboken, all the bidders and the principals had congregated in the Albany Hotel in New York City to discuss plans for the match. Almost every sports writer in New York, and many from cities as far west as California, were among those present. When the principals arrived to talk business, Police Commissioner Baker announced that he would be forced to arrest everyone if a contract for the fight were signed on the premises, for such a procedure would be against the law. That’s why the scene was shifted to Naegeli’s Hotel in New Jersey.

Rickard made ring history with the match, for not only did he referee, but he drew gate receipts amounting to $270,755, high figures for the period.

The result of the Reno fight convinced Tex that there was more money in the fight game than in mining, and thereafter most of his time was devoted to pugilism. When he decided to devote all his time to boxing promotion, the gilded era got under way.

When Rickard came to New York, boxing was at a low ebb. He had successfully promoted shows in the West and when he took over the Garden, he saw no reason why his success should not continue.

I recall a dinner party he tossed for New York journalists at the Biltmore Hotel. Free loaders crashed the gate in large numbers, but that didn’t disturb Rickard. He sat back as the boys made speeches in which some questioned his ability to make money on weekly boxing shows at the Garden, while paying rent amounting to $52,000 a year. At that time, as I have mentioned previously, the Garden was only occasionally rented out for events other than boxing.

Tex said nothing. He leaned back and smiled as he puffed his Perfecto. He saw things in the future that the scribes were blind to. At that time boxers were wearing bathhouse suits and ordinary street shoes in the ring. Barbers, ham actors, bum politicians and stick-up guys occupied front row seats that should have been used by the press. Holders of ringside seats were pushed about, laughed out of their rightful chairs by rowdies and gangsters. The aisles were filled with loafers and gate crashers, blocking the view of people who had paid good money to see the fights.

That’s how boxing was run in New York before Tex took over—not only in the Garden, but in all the other clubs. But he had seen boxing staged on a different level by Jim Coffroth in California and he decided to do the same thing on the East coast. Law and order prevailed at Coffroth’s promotions and people were seated properly. Coffroth had a fine organization and he ran his affairs in a decent manner, without delays and without mob ruling.

Rickard remembered all those things when he came to New York and he lived to see the Garden take over where Coffroth had left off. He lived to see ushers in bright uniforms give each patron the seat the check called for. He saw women by the thousands at his shows.

At Reno, at the time of the Jeffries-Johnson fight, I recall how Tex fooled the scribes with his “telephone booths.” A few days before the fight, the newspapermen went out to look the grounds over at Tex’s invitation. Over the entrance to the arena and right back of the last raised seat, about twenty-five feet from the ground, they noticed a row of covered boxes that looked like telephone booths. Tad Dorgan, grabbing Tex by the arm, pointed to the boxes and asked what they were for. Tex, a cigar in his mouth, and with his usual poker face, replied:

“I put those in for the convenience of the newspapermen who want to phone after the fight.”

No one thought of investigating. We accepted Tex’s explanation and the next day’s reports from the camp mentioned the item. But on the day of the fight we noticed that the booths were covered with curtains and upon checking further, found that Mrs. Rickard, Mrs. Jeffries, and other women, were seated in those “telephone booths,” all hidden from public view. That was the first effort Tex made to have women enjoy boxing without being molested.

Following the Reno battle, Rickard hit the trail southward. He went to Argentina, where he bought a ranch and raised cattle for export. Just about the time he decided to get back to the States, a young Colorado hobo-miner was making his way East after a few successful fights with unknowns like himself. His name was William Harrison Dempsey, and he was destined to become the perfect partner of the vast Rickard promotion enterprise.

Hanging on the wall in my office today is a wrinkled right-hand boxing glove. On the back of it, stretching almost from the curled finger-tip to the wrist, is a dry, dark-brown stain. This glove is a souvenir of the three most furious rounds of fighting I have ever seen, and the stain was made by the blood of one of the bravest men who ever stepped into a roped square.

Jack Dempsey wore those gloves to win the heavyweight championship of the world. He was, in my opinion, the most colorful fighter of the twentieth century. The blood stains came from Jess Willard on that unforgettable afternoon at Toledo, Ohio, July 4, 1919, under a blazing sun that caused the thermometer to register 101 in the shade.

Fate must have smiled when Tex first clapped eyes on this young genius of the ring, with his dark, indrawn brows and curly black hair, for it was Rickard’s opinion that the gigantic Willard couldn’t be licked.

Even when Dempsey knocked out the huge Fred Fulton in eighteen seconds, Tex couldn’t see that destiny had presented him with a fighter who, perhaps alone of all pugilists, could carry his daring and ambitious schemes to success.

The Dempsey-Willard bout decided matters, although it was not a startling affair financially. I was in Toledo some days before the fight sizing up the chances of the men. Willard I knew to be a good, though not a brilliant champion. He was so contemptuous of his smaller opponent that he hadn’t troubled to get himself into proper condition.

I went around to see him one morning at ten o’clock and found that he was still in bed. I mentioned the matter to Tex.

“I know, Nat,” he replied. “He’s taking Dempsey too lightly. Thinks he’s got a cinch. I wish someone could make him see this fight more seriously.”

Dempsey, the product of barefisted brawls in mining camps and hobo jungles throughout the West, had a string of knockouts to his credit, but he had never stacked up against so huge an opponent as Big Jess. Still, Rickard’s opinion of Willard was shared by all in the challenger’s camp. Jack had worked hard to get himself into condition. I shall never forget the wonderful physical appearance he presented, with his flashing dark eyes and skin tanned to the color of a hazel nut. He looked fit to fight the world the day he entered the Toledo ring for that title bout.

All signs pointed one way, and the black stars of defeat began to cluster over the head of Willard, even before he climbed into the ring. But he didn’t seem to notice them. Ironically, his chief concern was that he might land himself in serious trouble by fatally injuring his youthful opponent.

The night before the fight, I favored Dempsey, figuring that if the battle went any distance, condition must tell. And that is how it was with me when I took my seat by the ringside under a scorching sun which made me sick with heat.

There were nearly twenty thousand people in the arena and the possibility of seeing the world heavyweight title change hands was too much for their nerves. They kept up a steady roar for an hour before the battle, and when the men entered the ring, a cyclone of shouts and yelling was unleashed.

The first thing that struck me was Dempsey’s apparent nervousness. His perfectly trained body, I thought, was capable of standing the severest test, but what about his nerves?

Here was an unknown factor.

He sat in his corner, elbows on his knees and head down, scowling at the canvas. He was unshaven, and his growth of dark facial hair added to his tough appearance.

Friends at the ringside shouted good luck to him, but he took no notice of them. He even seemed to resent the presence of his manager, Jack Kearns, who was talking to him earnestly.

Contrasted with this dark, berry-brown man, Jess Willard looked like a high, blond animal. His face was tanned, but the skin of his body was as white as a woman’s. He looked arrogantly confident as he waved to friends, a superior smile on his lips.

Ollie Pecord, the referee, called the men to the middle of the ring for instructions. Willard moved towards him with a long, sure stride. Dempsey, on the other hand, broke into a nervous run. I watched the scowl on his face deepen as Pecord was talking. Jack’s eyes never left the ground.

Willard stood easily, listening, and occasionally throwing a contemptuous glance towards his young challenger. He towered over Dempsey, yet I could see that he was soft in comparison with the muscular, steel-hard man from Manassa.

Back in their corners, the men got ready for the bell. Dempsey’s nervousness seemed to increase with every passing second. He fidgeted and shuffled his feet, as if unable to restrain the movement of his limbs. Little did I dream that he was about to give the greatest exhibition of fighting fury ever seen in an American ring.

The entire arena and ring were flooded with white-hot light. The heat was terrific and most of the spectators had stripped to their shirts. I was grumbling to the man next to me about the scorching I was getting, when the gong sounded for the opening round. I didn’t notice the heat after that.

Dempsey leaped from his corner like a tiger, facing the champion almost in his own corner. He feinted with his right and shot a left to Willard’s ribs. It connected with the noise of a wooden hammer, bringing a roar from the crowd.

“By heavens, he can hit!” roared Bill McGeehan, famous New York scribe sitting near me.

Seven times in that first round Willard was dropped to the canvas by the smashing blows of his challenger. Dempsey presented a figure of murderous fighting energy as he stood over his fallen opponent after every knock-down. He was quivering and snorting like a wild animal and his scowl was terrifying. Never had I seen human nature stripped so bare of civilized pretense.

When Jess went down for the seventh time, Ollie Pecord started counting. The gong sounded ending the round when he reached seven, but Pecord had not heard it through the din and he lifted the arm of Dempsey in token of victory by a knockout in the first session.

Pandemonium reigned. Dempsey leaped from the ring and was on his way to the dressing room when the error was noted, and he was called back.

Willard seemed unaware of what was going on. He had been dragged to his corner where he sat with broken jaw, his eyes glassy and bloodshot, and the claret flowing from nose and mouth. Yet, to the astonishment of all, the Kansas Giant got to his feet to face additional punishment in the second round.

I have never seen a fighter so badly battered. There were groans from the gathering. This was not a boxing match, but a slaughter, and when the challenger began to pick out Willard’s terribly damaged eyes for further attack, boos greeted him. Once Willard fought back, but it was a futile attempt to stem the tide.

The spectacle of Willard, his face battered beyond recognition, standing defenseless before this human tiger, didn’t accord with ideas of true sport. Yet the fight went on!

The final act of this savage, brutal affair, was yet to be fought. I watched Willard stagger to his corner. He was all in. He lacked the strength to stand up and had to be assisted to the stool. The spectators pleaded for the closure but Ollie Pecord, a referee of the old school, would have none of that. He would not stop a fight so long as the champion was able to come to scratch.

I despair to give an impression of Willard when he came up for the third round—his last. He was almost blind and despite the ministrations of his handlers, who worked furiously to aid him, his face was one mash from forehead to chin. He hadn’t a chance in the world and as I looked at him with a feeling of pity, I blamed his seconds for not tossing in the sponge.

Blind fighting instinct alone dictated Willard’s move forward as Dempsey leaped toward him when the third round got under way. This time Jess shot up his right to protect himself, and it caught Dempsey under the chin and jarred him. It sent his head back with a jerk—the only effective punch the champion had landed in the fight.

There was a roar for the underdog. Everybody jumped up. The excitement made me catch my breath.

But Dempsey recovered quickly, spurred to a fighting fury by the uppercut that almost downed him. The black scowl had been replaced by a terrible tigerish smile. He started pounding away at Jess’s body and jaw and when the round ended, both the challenger and the champion were exhausted.

No words can depict Willard’s pitiful plight. He was half-dragged, half carried to his corner, where he was planted on his stool in a state of collapse. Ike O’Neil, his chief second, tried to revive him, but his beaten body could not respond. Realizing his condition, Jess told referee Pecord he could not continue.

Thus one of the greatest heavyweight championship bouts I have ever seen came to an end, and the bloodstained right-hand glove that hangs on the wall of my office recalls every thrilling detail of it. This was Jack Dempsey’s high spot. I think it was also Jess Willard’s. To him goes an honor hardly less than that of his conqueror, despite the battering he took.

Were Dempsey’s gloves loaded?

That question has been discussed time and again in magazine and newspaper articles by persons incapable of giving a proper answer except through hearsay or from comments made by persons supposedly “in the know.” I watched the crumbling of the Pottowatomie Giant and after the terrific shellacking that Willard took, I heard many remarks that no human could deal out so much punishment with padded mitts unless there was something hidden in his gloves. Even to this day, one reads about “loaded gloves,” and how plaster of Paris on Dempsey’s bandages cut Jess’ face to ribbons.

I was at the fight. I watched Dempsey in training. I saw Jimmy Deforest, his trainer, tape Jack’s hands. I watched every move of the men in Jack’s quarters. I think I can clear the atmosphere once and for all time with an accurate version of what happened.

Jack Dempsey had no loaded gloves, nor did he use plaster of Paris over his bandages. I make this assertion despite the recent statement by Jack Kearns, Dempsey’s manager in that contest, that he had sprinkled plaster of Paris powder over the bandages on Jack’s hands and then poured on alcohol to form a plaster cast. I watched the proceedings and the only person who had anything to do with the taping job was Deforest, who, after he had taped the hands, poured some water over the bandages to keep Jack’s hands cool. Of course, any solution poured over bandages will harden them, but that’s all that took place.

Deforest became riled when the loaded gloves stories began to appear. I recall a press conference he had with several reporters, including myself, at which he angrily remarked:

“I regard the stories that I put plaster of Paris on Jack’s bandages as plain libel. I’m tired of hearing people talk about such nonsense. It’s pure trash. These rumors affect my reputation for honesty and fair dealing. I did apply some water over the bandages when Jack complained about the extreme heat, and that was all. I did not apply any foreign substance to them. I used a hard adhesive tape. This certainly was not irregular. It was not against the rules. It was the same kind of tape I always used when I bandaged Kid McCoy’s hands.”

Deforest’s statement should settle all further arguments. It was not until the recent fall-out between Kearns and Dempsey over the proposed movie of Jack’s life (in which Kearns plays no part) that the latter gave this new version of the bandaging of Dempsey’s hands. Kearns has always denied the plaster of Paris yarn over the years, only to change the story in the past few months.

It was during the training camp period for the Toledo fight that Rickard first expressed to me his thinking for bouts to come. He had invited the Connecticut sportsman, Joe Mulvihill, the Mad Hatter of Danbury, to accompany us on a visit to Dempsey’s camp, and on the way, Mulvihill had remarked, “One of these days, Tex, we’ll have a million dollar gate.”

Tex laughed and kidded him, but after Mulvihill had gone back to the hotel with several newspapermen, Rickard turned to me and said, “That ain’t a dream, Nat.”

I could see that he was visualizing things, though he didn’t do much talking. He was keeping his plans to himself, but he did say to me: “What we need is one big international heavyweight championship and you’ll see the biggest crowd that ever attended a boxing match in this country.”

It wasn’t long after Dempsey won the title that I went overseas as Rickard’s agent to seek the man that Tex wanted so badly for that million dollar gate. He soon signed French war hero Georges Carpentier, for a fight with Dempsey, and from the moment that the contract was made it looked as if Rickard’s dream would come true.

I was Tex’s confidant in several of his boxing deals and I spent many hours with him about this time. Shortly after the Carpentier-Dempsey bout was made, orders started to pour into Tex’s office. Mike Jacobs, later Rickard’s successor as monarch of the fight game, was in control of the ticket sales, and he turned most of the tickets over to the agencies.

The demand for ducats was so big that Tex could take nothing but cash or certified checks. Without putting down a cent of his own money, he constructed the huge arena in Jersey City known as Boyle’s Thirty Acres and still had enough to pay Dempsey and Carpentier their guarantees a week before they entered the ring.

But it was a tremendous gamble, for if anything had happened to the fighters, Tex would have had to beat it out of the United States. He had little money of his own at the time and it would have been impossible for him to make a 100 per cent refund if the fight had been called off.

Tex worried over this huge outlay when he started the promotion and bemoaned the fact that he had planned the arena with 60,000 seats. However, once the money started coming in, he knew he was clear as long as nothing happened to the fighters. I recall meeting with him and Mike Jacobs on an interview for a Sunday yarn. Asked for a rundown on the seating arrangements and the ticket sale, Tex hesitated, then replied:

“I have 60,000 seats. I was worrying how we could get that many folks to come to the show, but Mike and I are now trying to see how many more seats we can put into the arena. We’re being flooded with requests. But I don’t want to say nothin’ about that in the paper, Nat. I’ll give you a good story, but it’s for the speculators who are grabbin’ all the ringside seats.”

With that he told me how he put one over on them. He released a story to the effect that because of the run on his ticket offices, he had received permission from the Jersey City authorities to extend the arena stands and to add 30,000 seats to its capacity. The ringside seats, he informed the press, had been sold out during the first ten days, and to take care of the many requests that were piling up at his headquarters, other ringside sections were being built.

The specs fell for that story and another wild rush was made for the ringside seats, the choicest of which Rickard had already allotted Uncle Mike because of the financial aid Jacobs had given to launch the promotion.

When, at the last moment, the speculators found themselves stuck with many unsold ducats, Tex and Mike laughed.

“Let them worry, it’s their headache now,” was Rickard’s comment.

Rickard’s good angel smiled again and the take amounted to $1,789,238, the first million dollar gate in the history of pugilism!

I met with Tex in his office after the Carpentier-Dempsey fight and got the story of his promotion plans for the future. He was dreaming of more big bouts and kept talking about another million dollar gate.

“Colorful fighters are what I need,” he said. “There’s one coming up from Argentina and my people tell me he’s a big, husky fella from the Pampas who kin fight.”

He was referring, of course, to Luis Angel Firpo. When he reached New York and was brought to the Madison Square Garden tower where Rickard had his quarters, I could see by the gleam in Tex’s eyes that he was exceedingly pleased with the appearance of this man who would come to be known as the Wild Bull of the Pampas and was planning another coup.

During the years that Jack Dempsey laboriously climbed the pugilistic ladder, and even after his feet were firmly set on the top rung, many questioned his claim to greatness. It was generally conceded that he was a dynamic hitter, a fact that could not be disputed in view of his quick victories over so many opponents, but fistic critics doubted his ability to withstand punishment. It remained for Luis Angel Firpo to sweep away all such doubts.

Firpo had only a vague idea of the finer points of pugilism, but because of his Herculean strength, iron nerves, and almost limitless courage, he was able to retire from the ring after three years with a million dollars to show for his effort.

The Dempsey-Firpo fight was one of the biggest sensations of the modern ring. It was an unqualified success from every point of view. Tex took over a million dollars from the public and finally established himself as the greatest promoter boxing had ever seen. It was never generally known, however, that this memorable bout was within an ace of being called off only hours before ring time. I am one of the few people who can tell the whole story of just how close Rickard came to financial ruin that September day in 1923.

Dr. William A. Walker, chief of the medical staff of the New York Medical Commission, was at the weigh-in to examine the rivals. William Muldoon, Chairman of the Commission, objected to the presence of newspapermen in the room, but after considerable persuasion, he permitted Jimmy Dawson of the New York Times, Dan Lyons of the New York Globe, and myself to remain. Dr. Walker, while placing the stethoscope over Firpo’s chest, accidentally bumped into the challenger’s left arm. Instinctively, Luis threw the arm upwards. Not a sound came from his lips.

Thinking this a queer reaction, the doctor ran his fingers over every part of the arm, squeezing it here and there as he tested for a fracture. Firpo was smiling as Doc Walker’s probing fingers reached his elbow, but under the smile there were lines of pain.

Boxing Commissioner Muldoon, one of the greatest physical culture experts I have ever known, was watching the examination closely. “There’s something wrong with that arm,” he remarked. He called Rickard over.

“What’s the trouble?” inquired Tex.

Walker tapped Firpo’s elbow. “This.”

Rickard turned pale. He had staked a fortune on the fight. He stood there, clenching his jaws so that the muscles stood out. Despair was in his eyes. His face grew even grimmer as he heard Doc Walker say to Muldoon: “Firpo seems to have a dislocated fracture of the left arm.”

Firpo, who spoke no English, apparently grasped what was going on, for he burst into a torrent of Spanish. The interpreter explained that the Wild Bull had kept his injury secret because he didn’t think it serious and didn’t want the fight called off. The doctor then asked the interpreter to explain to Luis that to fight in his condition was dangerous and against the law. The challenger laughed and said he was all right. Muldoon thought otherwise. He was seething with rage.

“Why weren’t we told about this?” he demanded. “What the devil do you mean by keeping us in the dark about this?”

Firpo waved his arms violently. He didn’t want to be called a quitter, he said. And then he screeched in Spanish, “I can beat Dempsey. It is nothing.”

Then, as though to prove it, this man of iron courage raised his left arm and brought his fist down upon the table. The doctor was horrified, for he knew, more than the rest of us, how terrible the agony of that gesture must have been. But Firpo, with gritted teeth and a wild look in his eyes, smiled.

Rickard and Muldoon looked on in amazement. Neither could understand the Wild Bull’s confidence in himself. Then Tex’s hard shell of calm left him. The poker face fell off like a mask, showing his features distorted with rage. Tapping his walking stick on the floor—always a sign that he had lost his temper—he swore at Firpo in Spanish, threatening him with God knows what.

Muldoon, who had remained calm while sizing up the situation, laid a restraining hand on Rickard, saying “Tex, you’ve had a bad break, and I feel like taking the hide out of this fellow myself. We can’t get a substitute and if the fight isn’t staged, there’ll be a riot and you’ll lose a fortune. But I’ll see what we can do. From my examination, I think it’s a simple dislocation without a break. I’m sure I can handle it.”

Walker had another probe at the left arm and agreed with the Commissioner. Muldoon asked Firpo to put out his left arm and when he did, suddenly jerked it forward, snapping the bone back into position.

That, to me, was the moment when Luis proved his absolute gameness. Despite the suffering, he didn’t utter a sound, but the beads of perspiration on his forehead showed the torture he was going through.

Firpo, with the arm tightly bandaged, remained in the doctor’s care for the next three hours. The swelling was reduced, but when it came time for Luis to go into the ring, I knew that he was in agony with every movement of his arm. Only his fighting heart carried him through. Nine out of ten men would have quit, but Firpo hurled himself into battle against Dempsey, the most ferocious scrapper of the age.

Dempsey floored this magnificent fighting man seven times in the first round and twice more in the second before he was declared the victor. But believe it or not, the fist of that dislocated arm landed the punch which sent Jack tumbling through the ropes on to the typewriters of the working press.

Firpo’s gameness paid off. The gate was nearly $1,200,000, the fans were satisfied, and Tex Rickard had been saved from ruin. Dr. Walker told me after the bout that this was the greatest example of courage he had ever come across in all his many years of association with fighters.

15 A SCOUT FOR TEX RICKARD

After Dempsey had disposed of Firpo, Rickard suddenly woke up to the panicking fact that there wasn’t a colorful, international fighter anywhere who could be tossed in against Dempsey to keep the million dollar pot boiling. He had gotten accustomed to big crowds and big gates. Now that Dempsey had ploughed through Carpentier and Firpo, and these international bouts had drawn seven figure gates, Tex was through with small fry. With American soil unable to turn up big enough drawing cards, he decided to have Europe scouted.

One day Rickard phoned to the New York Telegram and asked if I could meet him that afternoon in the Garden. I did. My diary shows that it was on October 14, 1923.

“Goin’ to Europe this winter?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “very soon in fact. I have my passage booked for next week. The paper wants me to do some articles on Germany. They’re making amazing strides in athletics, particularly in amateur boxing.”

“How’d you like to scout for me?” Tex asked. “Look over the field, and if you see anyone you think I might be interested in, cable me.”

I agreed. Scouting wouldn’t interfere with my newspaper assignment.

My duties as outlined by Tex were to locate heavyweights of promise, particularly good European prospects who in due course could be pitted against our stars in top contests. He wanted men who could stand up in his million dollar program. Annually I spent from six to eight weeks abroad during my vacation and since only part of this period was paid for by the newspaper, I was on my own so far as the scouting was concerned. It didn’t interfere with my newspaper work.

On October 22, our wedding anniversary, my wife Trudie and I sailed for Germany. I didn’t believe I could find any good boxing material on my first trip for Rickard, but I decided to study the field thoroughly and make contacts. I saw plenty of ring activity throughout Germany, but nothing that impressed me—not a professional worth discussing with Rickard.

Fred Walker, Managing Editor of the New York Telegram asked me to write a series for our special Sunday Section on “Reconstruction in the Fatherland,” and in that series I wrote:

“Of one thing I am convinced—Germany is rapidly developing a nation of athletes, with boxing holding the attention of youth more so than any other sport. Germany is a nation to watch. Boxing is gaining a firm hold in the Fatherland.”

The following year, after I had returned from a two-week trip to Central America, wife and I again left for Central Europe for another series of articles. Our trip called for a tour of Germany, France and Italy. This time I was confident I could locate at least one prospect and I promised Rickard I would have someone for him, but again I failed.

I did, however, make the acquaintance of the best international referee in Europe, Arthur Buelow, and of Prof. Joseph Pilates, a physical culture instructor now the owner of a studio a stone’s throw away from Madison Square Garden. Both were behind the movement to develop boxing talent in Germany and were doing a fine job. Buelow, prior to the war, had taught the sport and had officiated in many international bouts as third man in the ring, and Pilates was an instructor of boxing and physical training in the Berlin Police Department and on the Isle of Wight where he had been a military prisoner during World War I. They steered me on the right path.

Pugilism, they said, was sweeping the country like a jitterbug craze, and I found it to be so. Wherever I went, boys were engaged in club competition. Every village had an amateur club where boxing was on the daily program. From among the victors in the various district organizations, came the national champions, and with conditions as they were at the time, being a title holder meant a lot to the champion. Here boxing was being practiced on the largest scale I have ever seen.

The leading promoter was Walter Rothenberg who operated in Berlin and in Hamburg. He staged the championship matches and occasionally, as an added attraction, had one or two professional bouts on the program in which several of the contestants were boxers who had been in America prior to the war, among them Jack Stanley, Jack Taylor and Paul Sampson, boxers I had seen in action in New York City and in Hoboken, New Jersey.

The energy of the boys, their drive and enthusiasm, made a great impression on me. I was confident that out of this vast army of amateurs there would spring at least one heavyweight who would make ring history. Wherever the American flag flies, there the seeds of our national pastimes—baseball and boxing—are sown and so I found it in Germany in the years following World War I.

Buelow and Pilates had written to me about a young, handsome boy, a powerful hitter and scientific boxer, who, after cleaning up in the amateur field, had now reached top rating among the professionals. They suggested that it would be worth while on my next visit to Germany, to see this boy in action. His name was Max Schmeling. Now on my third journey to Germany, I had decided to make the acquaintance of Max.

One night in mid-August, 1926, accompanied by Buelow, Pilates and several newspapermen, I left Berlin for the town of Bernau, about thirty miles away, to see the finals of an amateur tournament and a couple of pro fights. Tracking over hills and a rocky valley, we reached a country roadhouse. There I was told we would soon see some good boxing matches.

The place was jammed. To get to the meeting house we had to pass through subterranean passageways that had been in use during the war as shelters. Inside the building, situated in the far end of a spacious hall, was a ring about 10 feet long and 8 feet wide. It was set on a platform about 3 feet off the floor. It had no mat covering nor any ring posts. The ropes—three strands—were attached to pulleys fastened to the walls.

The spectators, more than a thousand, kept themselves in good humor guzzling beer from German mugs and eating sausages and sauerkraut. Men, women and children crowded the place. Some women dandled nursing babies, others played with dachshunds. It was the strangest gathering I had ever seen at a fight.

Shouts and applause greeted every knock-down of which there were many. The people had the kind of naive enthusiasm you see in the old engravings and paintings, such as Hogarth’s Southwark Fair. The huge hall where all this took place was used both as a dining room and a meeting place for the townsfolk, but on this occasion it was turned into a boxing arena. My presence was expected due to advance announcements and after an introduction by the Mayor, and a few words of greeting by me, I was escorted to my seat.

In the midst of the sprawling country scene, a voice bellowed in my ear: “Herr Nat. Herr Nat. There’s the boy you want to see. That’s Schmeling. If you haven’t heard about him yet, you will pretty soon.”

The man who introduced us was Walter Rothenberg, the promoter.

Schmeling was a smiling, handsome youngster, six feet of gangling brawn, a perfect specimen of physical fitness despite the poor living conditions in Germany at the time. He was not present to box that night. He had come to see his friend Otto Herse, later the champion’s sparmate and German lightweight champion, engage in a three round contest. All the amateurs received an equivalent in U.S. currency of two dollars for expenses with an additional two for each winner. This was given them in lieu of prizes since the lads were hungry; food was scarce and those in control informed me that the money was distributed to give the boys an opportunity to purchase food. That’s really what brought out so many competitors. It was like handing out a meal ticket to each.

Buelow, standing at my side as I spoke to Schmeling, said that in the decade following the war, he had not come across a finer boxer nor harder hitter. He raved about Max’s boxing talent.

“Schmeling,” he said, “has everything a boxer needs to reach the top.” He had taught Max the rudiments of boxing, watched him clean up the amateur field and had then taken over his management when he turned professional in 1924.

I asked Buelow how long Max had been fighting.

“Two years as an amateur and two as a professional,” he replied. When Max became a pro, his advancement was rapid. In 1926 he fought two draws for the light heavyweight title with the champion, Max Diekmann, won it the following year and a few months later carried off the German heavyweight crown.

“He’s growing fast, Nat,” said Buelow. “I think he will be a heavyweight in another year. If you can bring him to America, you will be delivering to Mr. Rickard the next world heavyweight champion, and I will let you share in his management.”

At this stage, Schmeling scaled 171 pounds. I liked Buelow, who spoke English and I promised to do what I could, but informed him that I had never managed a boxer and had no intentions of accepting such a post now.

I realized that Buelow was one of the best judges of boxers in Europe and my curiosity was aroused after he had spoken in such glowing terms of Max. I was eager to see Schmeling in action against a top pugilist before trying to sell him to Rickard.

Eleven days after my arrival in Germany, August 24, I had my chance. It was the second drawn battle between Schmeling and Diekmann for the light heavyweight crown. I saw a powerful hitter and expert boxer perform. Though he failed to win the title, the evidence of his fine boxing assets were on view that night. I liked his general work.

I sent a message to Rickard that I thought I had found the man for whom he was hunting. I realized as did Buelow that Schmeling would soon outgrow the light heavy ranks and be ready to tackle men in the higher division. I cabled Rickard: “Have discovered an excellent fighter. Suggest cable round trip tickets for him and manager. Willing to come to America if guaranteed three fights minimum purse $10,000.”

Tex answered: “Can guarantee only one fight with option. Will pay full expenses. You advance trip tickets.”

That didn’t appeal to me nor to Buelow. I wasn’t the promoter and didn’t cherish the idea of advancing fares. Rickard’s gambling spirit, I thought, apparently had deserted him. I cabled back: “You’re making mistake. Schmeling is the goods. Can’t miss. Looks like coming heavyweight champion.”

But Rickard was adamant. He turned down the terms with this cable: “Too much involved financially for the risk. Have him pay own fare. I’ll refund after signing contract.”

But Max and Buelow had no money. Both were keenly disappointed. I engaged passage for New York and asked the fighter and manager not to make any arrangements for a trip abroad until they again heard from me. They agreed. In the meantime, in order to keep Schmeling busy, Buelow pitted him against the top fighters of Germany and several from France. After winning the light heavyweight crown from Hein Domgoergen in Leipzig, he won a ten-rounder from Gypsy Daniels of England but met with a severe setback when he was knocked out by Daniels in the opening round of a return bout. Rickard seemed to have lost all interest in the German following that disastrous affair.

But I did not. I still had faith in Schmeling and so told Tex. I pleaded Max’s cause but without success. In the meantime Ishmael Pace, successful Buenos Aires promoter, cabled Buelow to bring Max to South America. Buelow, true to his promise, held off pending final word from me regarding the negotiations with Rickard.

A few weeks passed, when to my surprise, I received a message asking that I meet Max and Arthur at a Hoboken pier. They had scraped enough together to make the trip across the Atlantic without Rickard’s help, so confident were both that the fighter could make good.

But there was still another hurdle to jump. In his fight with Diener, Max had hurt his hand. He was very much in need of financial aid and was undecided whether to endanger his future by accepting one fight or to wait until the break had mended. I urged the latter course and sent him to Dr. Fralick, a bone specialist. Then I took him to the Garden to introduce him to Rickard and his matchmaker. Tex studied the handsome boy carefully. He took a liking to the German lad and agreed to sign him for a fight with Joe Monte, a ten round match.

But now we faced more difficulties. Max had heard reports abroad of poor decisions in America and sought protection. He insisted that he would fight only if I agreed to become his co-manager with Buelow. Of course I refused. He and Buelow came to my office the following day and pleaded with me.

“If you don’t accept,” said Buelow, “Max will go home. He doesn’t want to box here if you don’t help me handle his affairs. He is afraid that the breaks will be against him if he hasn’t an American to see that he is fairly treated.”

I tried to convince Max and Arthur that decisions in America were as fair as anywhere in the world and that he needn’t fear a “raw deal,” but I couldn’t convince Schmeling. Then I hit upon a bright idea.

I called in John (Ike) Dorgan, my partner in The Ring magazine which I started several years before.

“Ike,” I said, “I want you to meet the next world heavyweight champion, Max Schmeling, and his manager, Arthur Buelow. They want me to take a managerial interest in Max, but you know I don’t go in for that. How about you taking over as his American representative. There’s 10 percent in it for you and no cost to yourself.”

Dorgan was an excellent publicist. Previously I had turned over to him Charley White of Chicago when White was one of the nation’s leading lightweights. White had dropped his manager and had asked me to take over. Well, Dorgan had reaped a fortune with White and I figured he could make as much or more by representing Schmeling. But to my amazement, Ike laughed my suggestion off, turning away thousands of dollars as later developments proved.

“Why don’t you go away, Nat,” he said. “Haven’t you given me enough headaches with one German?”

He was referring to Ted Sandwina, son of the strongest woman on earth, who, with her husband, had come to America for a tour with the Barnum and Bailey circus. Sandwina was a pretty good heavyweight but because of several injuries, he flopped as an attraction in New York. I had met the family in Europe and had suggested that they bring Ted to America for a campaign and I had him sign with Dorgan.

When Ike refused to take over, Schmeling was prepared to go back home. I tried once more. I approached Jess McMahon, matchmaker for Rickard, and asked Jess’ advice.

“Turn him loose if he feels that way about our officials,” said McMahon.

But I didn’t. For friendship’s sake, I decided on a ruse. I would agree to sign a contract but would not take a penny of Schmeling’s earnings nor share any of his manager’s portion of Max’s purses.

The following day I called Buelow and Max to my office and there, with brother Harold acting as attorney, an agreement was signed giving me a ten percent interest in all of Schmeling’s earnings for a period of six years. Buelow and Schmeling were elated. I took them to Rickard where a contract for the Monte fight was signed. In that contest, Monte was knocked out in the fifth round and the press raved over the excellent performance of his conqueror. His climb to fame had gotten under way.

Time passed and the wheel of circumstance spun around. Schmeling became a golden boy. He made good with a vengeance. He reaped a fortune.

Then Joe Jacobs, aided by Pete Reilly and Billy McCarney, his partners, a trio of international boxing managers, weaned Max away from Buelow with fabulous tales of what they could do for him.

Schmeling gave Jacobs a ten percent interest in him. But that was insufficient for what Jacobs was eager to get—a firm grip on Max’s future. He and his pals were seeking permanent property and so they approached me. Jacobs offered me $5000 for my share of the contract I held. I refused to consider it.

Jess McMahon came across with an offer of $10,000. Then Jimmy Johnston, who also was seeking to manage Schmeling, walked into my office one day and planted a certified check for $10,000 on my desk. “This is yours if you’ll give me the ten percent interest you have in Schmeling,” he said.

Each realized the value of a contract with the man who was destined to win the world heavyweight championship. I turned all offers down. My sole interest was to protect my friends Buelow and Schmeling. On all sides there were intrigues. Buelow was the target. They wanted to freeze him out. He held 33⅓ percent. I told him not to yield. Legally he was fully protected with his contract on file with the Boxing Commission and no matter what Schmeling would now do to break away and go with Jacobs, I was confident Buelow could collect his share.

The situation became tense. Threats were made against Buelow. But he had my whole-hearted support. Buelow now sued Max for breach of contract. I knew how hard he had worked to bring Max to the front and sympathized with him. After Schmeling defeated Paulino Uzcudun of Spain in fifteen rounds and gained a fortune for his fight with Jack Sharkey which he won on a foul in the Yankee Stadium, June 12, 1930, Schmeling agreed to settle matters with Buelow out of court. The suit was dropped with Arthur receiving $39,000.

In his American campaign Schmeling appeared in bouts with gross receipts amounting to almost four million dollars, yet Rickard saw him only once, in the bout with Monte on November 23, 1928. Two years later Tex died, and one of the greatest ring attractions was left for others to exploit.

As for me, I had a contract I never made use of. Had I exercised my rights, I would have collected close to $220,000 as my share of Max’s U.S. earnings. I never participated in the management of a fighter, though I did collect for services rendered at times as a scout for Rickard and his successor, Mike Jacobs, after I had left the New York Telegram in 1929. Schmeling’s contract rests in my Garden Museum.

It pleases me to realize what a part I played in the development of international boxing and good will in sports.

Before lining up Schmeling for Rickard, I had been instrumental in bringing another foreigner to America who proved a tremendous attraction—Paulino Uzcudun. He had color, could sock, and was a fighter of tremendous strength. He was a man of considerable courage. Here is the story of Paulino—of how I discovered him in Europe and engineered the deal that brought him to America under Jack Curley’s guidance.

It was on December 1, 1925, in Rothenberg’s Kaiserdam Autohallen in Berlin, that my wife and I watched Paulino, the husky Basque, knock out Hans Breitenstraetter of Germany, champion of his country. I cabled to Rickard:

“Saw picturesque, hard-hitting Basque, Paulino, stop German champion. Looks fine prospect. Colorful. Managed by Descamps and Carpentier.”

The next morning I received Tex’s answer by cable: “See Descamps. Offer two round trip tickets terms and fights to be agreed upon.”

Then I witnessed one of the canniest pieces of press agentry in the business. Descamps was a manager of the old school. He knew Tex was on a spot. Descamps had a close friend in Jack Curley, American sports impresario who had promoted many world events, including the Jack Johnson-Jess Willard fight at Havana; and Descamps cabled Curley for advice. They were aware that Rickard would stake everything for a good heavyweight at this time and decided to hold out in order to obtain the best terms possible. In short, they were going to play their hand to the limit.

After receiving his reply from Curley, Descamps fixed his Latin eyes on me, and with the nonchalance of a Machiavelli he said:

“Tell Monsieur Rickard zat Paulino, he ess not ready for America. In a year perhaps. Who knows?”

Then Descamps turned on a publicity campaign that would have shocked old man Barnum. All over the big cities of Europe he plugged a mammoth build-up, telling of my offer on behalf of Rickard. However, in the case of Paulino this was not necessary since he was a colorful boxer with a huge box office appeal. Descamps advertised Paulino as a cross between a Roman gladiator and King Kong. In France, for example, he plastered the barns and billboards and men’s comfort stations with huge four-color posters showing the Basque, axe in hand, toppling over a tree. The legend read:

“Paulino Uzcudun, The Basque Woodchopper, Europe’s Greatest Heavyweight.” Then followed the modest subscript: “He can fell an ox with one blow.”

I have one of the posters in my Garden Museum collection.

There was nothing for me to do but to keep cool and wait for the publicity marathon to run itself out. But all the time I was in close touch with Rickard, keeping him informed of the progress I was making and of the activity of the man whose services he was not so eager to obtain.

I followed Paulino to Barcelona and watched him knock out Constant Barrick in six rounds. I went with Descamps and Carpentier to Paris, where Paulino dropped Horace Jones with three punches—then on to Germany, where he and Franz Diener, the heavyweight champion of the Fatherland, fought a vicious draw.

By now I was convinced that if Tex could get Descamps to change his mind, America would see a hard punching heavyweight who would fit in well with the plans of the Garden promoter. I kept after Descamps and, having received a cable from Rickard granting me permission to add to his previous offer, I felt confident I would land my catch.

But before I could close the deal, Descamps received word from Curley to come to America by way of the Azores and Havana; he would book one or two easy opponents for him in Cuba to add to the publicity. Thus, I engineered a deal with Descamps who left Madrid with his party on December 15, 1926. On New Year’s Day Paulino opened his campaign on the American side of the Big Pond with a knockout in one round of Martin O’Grady in Havana. Two weeks later he scored another one-round knockout, this time over Antonio Fiero.

Then the party sailed for Tampa where I met them and there Homer Smith was disposed of in the seventh round. With these preliminaries over, Descamps, Jack Curley, Paulino, and I left for New York to confer with Tex Rickard.

Paulino was the first of the stream of Europeans to bring new life to American pugilism; and I was responsible for starting the ball rolling. The arrival of Paulino and later others from Europe and Cuba enabled Rickard to reap a bumper crop in his Garden promotions.

Paulino held the spotlight for ten years. He started off in the United States by defeating Knute Hanson of Denmark and Tom Heeney of New Zealand on points and stopping Harry Wills in four rounds. He ended his days in Valencia, Spain, where he had been appointed Chief of Police by Franco, for whom he had been a chauffeur during the Spanish Civil War.

16 UNCLE MIKE JACOBS

When Tex Rickard passed away, his chief aide, Mike Jacobs, took over the reins as top boxing promoter. I knew Uncle Mike as few of the sports writers did. I am familiar with the many facets of his personality and witnessed many of his joys, sorrows, defeats, and triumphs. His defeats were few and far between. His joys were many. His success was phenomenal. His victories were numerous and impressive; I played a big part in them, both before and after he took over the Madison Square Garden promotion.

I saw him transform boxing into a gigantic industry, even greater than that which Rickard built in the Golden Era. During our thirty-five years of close association, I watched this product of the sidewalks of New York City become a captain of sports promotion. His success story is Horatio Alger stuff.

Those who deal with the legends of boxing promotion like to hark back to the days of Rickard. It invariably has been Tex of the Wild West, Tex of the Klondike and the Pampas. He built an empire, it’s true, but had it not been for the aid given him by Jacobs, I doubt that he would have gained the international prestige that made his name a byword in fistic circles.

A hard-headed business man, a cool and calm calculator who always had a sound reason for every move, Jacobs improved on Tex’s methods, though with less flamboyance. However, like Rickard, Jacobs lived in an aura of fistic glamour and romance.

I first met Mike when he had his little ticket office in the Hotel Normandie on Sixth Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street in New York City and I was a cub reporter covering the Red Light District for news and the Longacre A.C. fights. The latter, owned by colorful Billy Newman, was on Twenty-ninth Street and the corner of Sixth Avenue, the scene of many thrilling contests.

Jacobs achieved domination of boxing, which was Rickard’s dream but beyond his mental capabilities. Both Tex and Mike on many occasions conferred with me concerning important matches, and I had a big hand in starting negotiations for both of them in international bouts or championship contests. Often, long before his staff would arrive in his Garden offices to begin the day’s work, Mike completed his plans for major matches in The Ring headquarters, where we met almost daily at seven-thirty in the morning.

Pursuing the Rickard-Jacobs comparison, as I had an opportunity to study the pair at close range, I found that Uncle Mike never made the glaring mistakes which stand out in Tex’s biography. When Jacobs vacated his throne because of illness, boxing lost a master manipulator. A big figure in the boxing game had passed out of the picture! Another big organization, such as Rickard had left behind, died. Another rich chapter in boxing history had been written.

Rickard had his Jack Dempsey; Jacobs had his Joe Louis. When the Manassa Mauler knocked out Jess Willard in three rounds at Toledo, Tex had the champion whose crowd appeal created the first of the million dollar gates and made it possible for the promoter to finance and build Madison Square Garden.

When Louis knocked out James J. Braddock in eight rounds at Chicago, Mike had the champion whose popularity brought back the million dollar gates, and made it possible for Jacobs to move into Madison Square Garden.

The similarity between Rickard’s relationship with Dempsey and Jacobs’ with Louis is striking. Jacobs was a successful promoter for the Hearst Milk Fund shows before he met Joe Louis. I had seen Louis in several of his amateur bouts in the West. I watched him in the National AAU championships in Boston and recognized a future world title holder. Then I saw him three times in professional fights in the Mid-West, and came back to New York raving about the young Negro whose clouting ability was a reminder of the early days of Dempsey. Several of my editorials about Louis attracted the attention of Damon Runyon.

I was working for Jacobs on a radio program and, following a broadcast, Runyon, one of Mike’s partners in the New York Hippodrome, cornered me and asked: “Just how good a fighter is Louis?”

Apparently my reply convinced him, because the following day he, Bill Farnsworth, and Ed Frayne—the Hearst stockholders in Mike’s Twentieth Century Sporting Club—got together with Jacobs and arranged a newspaper party for a trip to Detroit to see Louis in action against Natie Brown. But before embarking on the journey, Jacobs arranged a conference with Louis’ handlers, John Roxborough and Julian Black, at which, as things turned out, Mike signed Louis to an exclusive contract to fight under his control.

Louis was a budding heavyweight then. The night the deal was set, following his victory over Brown in ten rounds on March 28, 1935, a partnership was formed that was to endure to the mutual benefit of both, until Louis chose to dissolve it by announcing his retirement at Miami Beach on March 1, 1949.

On that night in Detroit when he took over, Jacobs made Louis and his managers two promises: his fights would always be on the level and he would make him the world heavyweight champion.

Mike kept both promises. He kept them although there was considerable prejudice rampant at the time, and despite the fact that Jack Johnson, the only other Negro to hold the world title, had been an unpopular champion. Jacobs never asked Louis to do anything other than get in the ring and fight his best. And as the world knows, that best was more than good enough.

Starting from his little ticket office, Jacobs later opened small quarters on West 49th Street in New York City opposite the Forrest Hotel, and eventually moved into spacious offices in Madison Square Garden after he became a millionaire.

The Carnival of Champions, held on September 23, 1937, at the Yankee Stadium lost money but Jacobs demonstrated that he controlled the fistic market by turning out a galaxy of stars to perform for him that night. The Garden directors were convinced and on October 27th of that year Jacobs moved into Madison Square Garden with Henry Armstrong topping his initial card.

Armstrong came out punching to knock out Petey Sarron in six rounds and win the featherweight crown, the first of his three titles. Here’s the story of how Armstrong got his chance and the part I played in arranging the fight.

Petey Sarron was in Johannesburg, South Africa, with Freddie Miller. On July 31, 1937, he had lost in ten rounds to Miller, from whom he previously had won the world championship. Then another bout was arranged for September 4 of that year—this time a twelve-round title bout—and Sarron retained the crown.

Petey and his manager, Jimmy Erwin of Texas, were anxious to get back to the States. They had been gone a long time and were homesick. Furthermore, they couldn’t get any lucrative bouts and cabled me asking if I could obtain a title contest with Armstrong, who at the time had become a national fistic hero because of his whirlwind style of fighting. After an exchange of cables, I was given the power of attorney to sign for Sarron, provided he could get a guarantee of $15,000 for a title defense.

I approached Mike and his Board of Directors. They were keenly interested and regarded this as an opportunity to start the ball rolling in the first Garden venture of the Twentieth Century Sporting Club with a championship mill. We arranged a conference the next day with Armstrong’s manager, Eddie Mead. Eddie and I were friends of long standing, and he was willing to have Armstrong fight for the crown, but he wanted more than the twelve-and-a-half per cent that Jacobs and his board of strategy (headed by his matchmaker, Al Weill) had offered.

After almost a week of haggling, I finally induced Jacobs to raise the ante and Mead accepted a fourteen-and-a-half per cent guarantee, with the announcement:

“I’m doing this only for Nat. He’s worked hard to put the match over and I’m convinced, as he is, that Sarron is ready to be taken. So I’ve accepted.”

Sarron, informed of the arrangements, accepted the deal I put across and started back to the States to defend his title.

Following the fight, Sarron and his manager visited my office and offered me ten per cent of Petey’s guarantee for having arranged the bout, but I turned it down. As on other occasions when I had an opportunity to cash in on deals I had engineered, I told them that I was not an agent in the true sense of the word. What I did for fighters was done in the interest of the sport.

But Petey, like Henry Armstrong on another occasion, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and the next day he returned with a beautiful gold belt containing thirteen panels. It was given to him by the Johannesburg Express after he whipped Miller. He asked me to accept it. I took the trophy, and since then have placed in each panel the name of every featherweight king from Sarron to Saddler. The belt now rests in The Ring Museum.

As for Armstrong, shortly after he stopped Sarron to win the featherweight crown, he beat Barney Ross for the welterweight championship and outscored Lou Ambers to acquire the lightweight title. Thus, I was able to figure importantly in presenting him with the opportunity to become a triple champion, the only man in the history of boxing to hold three world titles simultaneously.

Before moving into the Garden, Jacobs took over the New York Hippodrome for fights, and I joined his publicity staff. One day, Damon Runyon approached me and asked me to a special conference with Farnsworth and Uncle Mike. It was an executive directors’ meeting and Uncle Mike spoke up:

“You know, Nat, we’ve been losing a lot of money in our boxing promotion here. We’ll have to let some of our help out.”

Before he could say any more, I realized what was coming and told him that so far as I was concerned, he could forget the $75 per week I was getting to act as radio contact man. He and Runyon were very pleased and thanked me profusely. Then a thought came to me.

“I’ve got a proposition, Mike,” I said. “How would you like to have a sponsor for your fights? I think I can arrange it.”

Runyon and Mike didn’t believe it could be done.

“Nobody will pay to have our fights put on the radio,” said Jacobs.

“I disagree with you,” I replied. Whereupon Jacobs, after a short conference with his colleagues, made me a proposition.

“We have arranged eighteen fights for the Hippodrome but might run twenty-six. If you can get a sponsor to buy the radio rights for $5,000 you can have ten per cent, and we’ll keep you on our staff and continue to pay your weekly salary of $75 so long as the broadcasts continue.”

“That’s too cheap,” I replied. “I’m sure I can get you twice as much.”

“If you can,” Jacobs quickly answered, “we’ll continue your salary and give you twelve-and-a-half per cent of the gross.”

I accepted and we shook hands on the deal. I left the office, and the next morning returned with a report that I had sold the broadcast rights to Adam Hats at $1,200 per fight for the first eighteen shows, and at $750 for each fight over that number, with the stipulation that my buddy, Sam Taub, be assigned the broadcasting job. Thus I had arranged for the first paid sponsorship of boxing bouts in the world. My report was greeted enthusiastically by Jacobs and the press.

Mike called in his partners and that afternoon Sol Strauss, his lawyer, drew up the contract which was brought to Elias Lustig of Adam Hats, and the deal was completed. Uncle Mike asked if I wanted a contract to bind his deal with me, but I told him I would take his word—no contract was required. However, as in other business deals between us, Mike reneged soon after the broadcasts got under way.

He was that way. He never went back on his word when it came to transactions he had made with fighters and managers, but in private affairs I found that he was far from the honorable gentleman the press so often made him out to be. For several weeks he paid me my salary but not a penny of my commission on the radio deal. And when I pressed the issue, he let out a roar such as only he could make when angered.

“You’re through,” he shouted. “The fights are drawing nothing here with radio. We don’t need you any more for publicity. We are scarcely pulling in enough to meet expenses.”

“O.K., Mike,” I replied. “But what about my Adam Hats commissions? You can’t back away from that.”

But he did. He had no scruples and was out to save what he owed me in an honorable business deal.

“There’s nothing due you on the Adam Hats contract,” he snapped. “I could have gotten that without your help.”

I was flabbergasted. Runyon was present and I asked him if he thought the deal I was getting was fair.

“Certainly not,” he answered. “You are entitled to every penny due on that contract.”

Damon fought my case but without success. So did the other two partners—Bill Farnsworth, sports editor of the New York Journal, and Ed Frayne, sports editor of the New York American—but Mike had his way and I left in a huff.

Mike and I were not on speaking terms for many months, but I wouldn’t sue because I had been his friend for three decades. On one occasion he encountered me in Childs Restaurant near the Hippodrome and sat down at my table.

“Nat, you and I have been friends for many years,” he said. “Why not continue?”

He held out his hand to bind our reconciliation, then took ten one hundred dollar bills and placed them before me on the table.

“Take these and let’s call it quits. There’s no reason for us being enemies,” he remarked.

“I don’t want your money, Mike. You went back on our agreement.” I shoved the bills toward him. “You probably need that money more than I do,” I said quietly as I left the table.

I took our break as one of those things that happen now and then between friends and decided to forget it and start anew. Although there was plenty of good in the make-up of this world-famous promoter, there was much that could be held against him. He wasn’t what I would call a man of honor. On the other hand, in all my business dealings with Rickard, I never once knew him to renege on a promise, though he did cross me on the Garden building proposition.

Despite his shortcomings, I liked Jacobs, I got a thrill out of his promotions and enjoyed his company on the many trips I took with him, strange as that may seem in light of our unhappy business relationship. Between what he owed me on the Adam Hats contract, and what was due me on the agreement we made on the Farr-Louis match, I figured Uncle Mike reneged on close to $30,000.

The story of how Tommy Farr got a chance at the heavyweight championship is the perfect example of the science of manipulation expertly applied. Mike’s shrewd chessboard play enabled him to outguess and outsmart his rivals by such a wide margin that, in the parlance of the sports world, it was “no contest.” What he did was well within the law, although his maneuvering did bring about court action. The results, however, were in Jacobs’ favor.

Farr was sitting pretty. He was the undisputed heavyweight king of the British Empire with victories over Walter Neusel, Max Baer, Bob Olin and Tommy Loughran. He had gained an international reputation and had reached the stage where the big money ordinarily starts flowing in. But this was not the case.

Tommy, a Welshman with a keen commercial sense, was becoming restless. He thought that his manager, Ted Broadribb, was not getting him his proper share of worldly goods and the British papers were harping on a possible break between the pair. Sports editorials commented on the fact that Broadribb was suing Tommy before the British Boxing Board of Control to compel him to live up to their agreement.

Broadribb and I were on friendly terms. He wrote to me about his troubles, asking if there was something I could do.

I wrote an editorial praising Farr as the best British heavyweight in a quarter of a century, and I told how Broadribb had brought him along in easy stages to the high position he now occupied in fistic circles.

The article pleased Farr immensely and he wrote me that his differences with Broadribb were not too great to iron out. He also asked if I would use whatever influence I had to get him a title bout in America.

His letter launched me on a plan that gave me great satisfaction after it had been consummated, for it developed into the greatest event in British pugilism since Charley Mitchell fought John L. Sullivan.

Let’s trace the episode from the start. Max Schmeling had been shunted to the sidelines to make room for Joe Louis to fight Jimmy Braddock for the world heavyweight title. Schmeling, realizing his position, decided not to remain in America for the outcome of the Chicago battle, but to return to Germany and seek the support of European countries in his claim for championship recognition.

He decided to do a little manipulating himself, and I couldn’t blame him. I supported his contention that he, not Louis, was entitled to get the first shot at Braddock’s crown, but Mike Jacobs was a great obstacle in his path. Mike had both Louis and Braddock under contract through a shady deal by which Braddock and his manager, Joe Gould, were to be handsomely rewarded for breaking their contract with Madison Square Garden to fight for Jacobs.

Schmeling was informed through the press that Jacobs was dickering for a fight between Louis and Farr in the event that Louis gained the title, something Jacobs regarded as a foregone conclusion.

Uncle Mike approached General Critchley and Syd Hulls, who were operating Wembley Stadium in London, and a deal was in the making whereby with Jacobs they would promote an international match for the world championship. Jacobs told me that he would take a party of seven New York reporters to cover the fight as his guests, and that I would be in charge. But he failed to consider the man whom he had thrust into the background when he arranged the Louis-Braddock fight.

Schmeling, confident that he could whip both Louis and Farr, got the jump on Jacobs by making a tentative agreement with Broadribb for a Farr-Schmeling bout. Ted said he would give his consent provided the bout was staged in London, and when Max agreed, Broadribb got in touch with General Critchley and Hulls and offered them the contest. Since the British promoters could do nothing without Farr, they decided to ignore Jacobs and deal with Broadribb and Schmeling instead.

I learned of the new deal and commented on it in my broadcast from Chicago over the NBC network, and the report caused considerable unrest in Jacobs’ camp. Mike found himself stymied. He tried to get Schmeling to return to America to fight Louis. He offered Max a title bout but Schmeling ignored the offer.

Max figured that with Farr on his side, he could dictate the terms to Jacobs for a fight with Louis. He regarded himself as the world’s outstanding heavyweight, since through the German government he had obtained the support of the British Board of Control and the French Boxing Federation.

Jacobs was furious but not yet defeated. In desperation he called the New York Commission on the telephone and requested that a cable be sent to Schmeling asking if he was prepared to accept an offer from Mike to fight Joe Louis in New York for the world title. Schmeling ignored this cable as he had the one from Jacobs.

His plans for a championship fight up in the air, Mike called upon me, knowing that I had made many trips to England and was well known there and on the continent.

“How close are you to Tommy Farr and his manager?” Jacobs asked me the day after Louis beat Braddock.

We were in the Morrison Hotel in Chicago, headquarters of the New York sport writers. It was eleven o’clock at night when Jacobs was informed of Schmeling’s deal with Critchley and Hulls, Jacobs’ supposed partners in the British venture, and he was naturally upset.

“I’m very friendly with both,” I told Mike, “especially with Broadribb. What’s wrong?”

“Schmeling hasn’t answered my cable, and I’ve got to act quickly. He’s trying to prevent the Louis-Farr fight which I have planned. Schmeling is determined to fight Farr and get European countries to recognize the bout as a world championship fight. See if you can reach Broadribb on the telephone and get a low-down on the situation. If you can get Farr to fight Louis for me, I’ll give you ten per cent of my profits,” Jacobs said.

I had received such promises from him before, and they really meant little to me. I was willing to help in order to get the bout in America and not because of Mike’s business proposition. I waited until one o’clock in the morning, and then put in a trans-Atlantic telephone call to Broadribb in London.

At four in the morning, while Trevor Wignall, British writer, was sitting in my room with me awaiting the call, so that he could obtain a beat for his paper, the phone rang. It was Broadribb calling.

“Hello, Ted,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m calling to get the low-down on the Farr-Schmeling fight. Have you signed? Mike Jacobs wants to give your man the chance that no British champion has had since Charley Mitchell’s days—an opportunity to fight here for the real world title. Will you accept?”

“Sorry, old man, but I can’t do it. What would they think of me if I should suddenly say that I don’t want the Schmeling fight after I’ve told them to go ahead and get the German for Tommy?”

“Ted,” I replied, “you knew right along that we were coming to London in a few weeks for a Farr-Louis match. Weren’t you told that?”

“I read it here in Wignall’s column, but didn’t know definitely. Had I been sure, you know that nothing would have stood in the way. It would have been different. That’s the one fight we want and we would grab it.”

“Well, Ted,” I answered, “it isn’t too late. You haven’t signed, and Schmeling is simply doing this in order to bolster his stock overseas. If he licks Farr he figures he’ll strengthen his claim to the title he thinks is his. Can’t you see that?”

“I can’t say any more,” concluded Broadribb. “Let the matter rest until tomorrow. Your proposition looks good to me but I must confer with Hulls and Tommy.”

With that he rang off and the first step in the negotiations that made English boxing history had been completed. We had set the stage for a heavyweight championship bout in which a British champion would come to American soil to fight for the title for the first time in thirty years.

I told Jacobs of our conversation. He had been down in the dumps, but was somewhat cheered by the progress I had made.

“I won’t let Schmeling cross me after what I was trying to arrange for him. He’ll either agree to fight Louis for the championship under my control in August or Farr will get the chance no matter what the cost. Call him again tomorrow.”