BOOK FOUR

17 DONNYBROOKS

The drama of American sport is superlative. Each branch has a thrilling story of its own, but for pulse-stirring interest, boxing is matchless. It is a game of contest and contact, of skill and stamina, of perseverance and grit—a battle between men. It has its romance, glamour, spectacular endings, and feats of unusual courage that make it an ever brilliant picture. They can all be listed under one title, “Fights I Cannot Forget,” and of these I shall select a few.

One of my favorite fighters, most of whose bouts I reported, was Leach Cross. Few fighters in my experience have had a more brilliant career or fought as many tough battles. He was one of the standard bearers of boxing in New York in both the club membership and Frawley Law days. Leach, more than any other exponent of fisticuffs, popularized the sport among the Jews in his city and created sectional rivalry that often resulted in neighborhood fights. Through Leachie, thousands of New Yorkers who might never have followed boxing, became ardent fans who were largely responsible for the success of club membership shows before the sport was legalized in New York. His success blazed the trail for Benny Leonard, Ruby Goldstein and Sid Terris, among others. Cross and I were neighborhood buddies. I admired him for his fighting qualities.

Of all of Leach’s fights, I pick that with Joe Bedell on March 16, 1911 at the old Clermont Avenue Rink in Brooklyn, as his best. I saw Cross in most of his fights, but never in one so fast and furious as the Bedell affair. Leach had Bedell down twice, but after the second knock-down he pulled a boner. Thinking he had his opponent ready for the kill, he tore in wide open and Bedell met his rush with a blow that came up from the floor and landed Cross on the canvas with a thud. The bell saved him.

After being carried to his corner, restoratives put Leach in condition to resume when the next round got under way. His fighting instinct alone enabled him to carry on through the eighth round, but in the ninth he went down again.

Hopelessly beaten as he came out for the final session, Cross feigned grogginess—his favorite stunt—and, though weak, he maneuvered his tormentor into position for the shot that brought victory. It was a powerful smash to the jaw. Bedell went down, face forward, and was counted out.

Another contest in which Cross participated thrilled me. It was St. Patrick’s Day, 1908, when Leach was scheduled to meet Frankie Madden at the Old Dry Dock Athletic Club at Tenth Street and Avenue D, one of the toughest sectors on the lower East Side of New York City. A huge stable and a very large lumber yard were located across the street.

Madden was a product of the same district as his manager, Bowery gangster Jack Sirocco.

That night, the house was packed with Irish and Italians, who overflowed into the aisles and jammed the exits. Hundreds were turned away—most of them Jewish supporters of Leach, who couldn’t buy an admission ticket that night or if they had one, couldn’t get into the club. Madden’s friends saw to that. I pushed my way into the club with the aid of Detective Martin Sheridan and my Police Reporter’s card.

Madden came into the ring with a huge shamrock sewed on his tights. The crowd went wild with cheers for their favorite son. Cross was booed heartily when he was introduced by Charley Harvey. It was obvious that—except for his seconds and a few of us who had arrived early—Leach had no friends present that night.

The fight got under way and for five rounds it was one of the most vicious, brutal battles I’d ever seen. In the fifth, Leach, coming out of a clinch, pressed the issue. He forced Madden towards the ropes and suddenly let go a right that came up almost from the floor. It struck Madden on the jaw and hurled him on top of the upper rope, where he was counted out.

Now here’s the climax. Someone had telephoned the police that there was a riot at the club between the Jews and the Irish. Three patrol wagons loaded with bluecoats drew up to the club. But instead of finding a riot, Inspector Russell arrived to see Leach raised on the shoulders of two husky Sons of Erin. They were surrounded by a wild shouting group of Irish and Italian fans paying their respects to Cross for the manner in which he had gained his victory.

It was a scene I’ll never forget! There was nothing for the cops to do except to order the club cleared.

Incidentally, it was the first time that any Jewish newspaper had published the fight results. The morning after the fight, the Jewish Forward carried Leach Cross’s picture on the front page.

Another fight I vividly recall was that between Cross and Young Sammy Smith of Philadelphia, whose true name was Isaac Rozetsky. It took place on February 3, 1911, at the Manhattan Casino. This was a low, rambling dance hall a stone’s throw from the Polo Grounds in New York—the same dusty arena where Benny Leonard later won the world lightweight title from Freddy Welsh. Young Sammy was a brother of the Sammy who had fought such top men as Terry McGovern, Young Corbett, and Joe Gans and had campaigned mostly in the Quaker City.

Cross had never seen Young Sammy in action until they had climbed into the ring, and you can imagine Leach’s surprise when he noticed that his opponent wore glasses. I never knew another boxer to appear in the ring with such heavy lenses. They were a quarter of an inch thick. Smith had a habit of placing his head close to that of his opponent when he was called to the center for instructions, squinting through his glasses as though trying to study his man. He did this to Cross as Referee Dan Tone reviewed the rules. Leach laughed out loud as he pointed to Sammy and his cheaters, and, turning to brother Sam, his manager, he remarked as he went back to his corner:

“Can you imagine giving me a blind opponent! If he can’t see me with those headlights on, how does he hope to see me when he takes ’em off?”

The gong sounded. Off came Sammy’s glasses and a rushing tearing-in, two-fisted fighter tossed punches from all sides effectively. Cross in later years met better men than Smith, but I doubt that he took more punishment than Young Sammy meted out that night. When the final gong ended the fray, Leach told brother Sam:

“I hate to think what he might have done if he had perfect eyesight!”

The reason for Cross’s popularity was that he always gave the fans a run for their money. Though he never won a title, he was of championship caliber throughout his career. Most people flocked to the New York clubs hoping to see him knocked out, but they would invariably go home disappointed. Until Benny Leonard came along, Cross was New York’s most sensational battler. He was the cause of many Donnybrooks in New York clubs.

It was something of a coincidence that Leach Cross began to slip the very night that Benny Leonard started his climb to fistic fame. That was on December 17, 1915, when Leach and Benny fought on the same card—Leonard against Joe Mandot and Cross against Ad Wolgast. Because of a law stipulating that the windup fight had to start no later than ten o’clock, Leach’s fight with Wolgast went on first. Wolgast was pretty well shot at the time and Cross stopped him in the second round. Ad’s legs were leaden, and it was obvious that he had passed his peak.

Immediately after the fight Leach raced to his dressing room, and within ten minutes he came to the press box and sat with me to watch the Leonard-Mandot bout. Benny stopped Mandot that night in the seventh round and Leach raved about the boxing and hitting qualities of his successor. He watched him with more admiration than envy, but I could read his feelings in his expression, knowing as he did then that a young East Sider had come along to crowd him out of the picture.

Cross was a great club fighter, and in his heyday that meant a lot. One who could sell tickets to his friends could be sure of considerable work, and there wasn’t a better salesman than Leach himself. He was the forerunner of a wave of Ghetto gladiators whose followers were legion, and who packed the Sharkey Club, Brown’s Gymnasium, the Fairmont A.C., the Manhattan Casino, Empire A.C., the Dry Dock and Roman Athletic Clubs, Atlantic Gardens, and the Longacre Club. Each fighter had a distinct local following, and often the rivalry between East Siders and West Siders gave the minions of the law severe headaches. The fans often engaged in fist fights after the club battle.

Many of the bouts I reported in New York had such endings. Another that I cannot forget, was that between Benny Leonard and Frankie Conifrey, who were billed for a ten-rounder at the Star A.C. in Harlem in 1916. At the time, Benny had not yet won the title, but he was a promising boy who had gained considerable publicity. He was the pride of the Ghetto and Conifrey was the pride of the Harlem Irish. The rivalry between the Jews and Irish was terrific in New York fight circles, and there was no let-up in neighborhood brawls. Frankie was a hard hitter and a clever boxer, but he met his master in Leonard.

In the sixth round, Benny had Conifrey reeling, and Frankie’s brother leaped into the ring to halt the fight. Then the fun began. Conifrey’s enraged followers, who had big bets on the outcome, tossed chairs, bottles, and newspapers over the rail towards the ring. Some of these papers, in which beer bottles were wrapped, came hurtling towards the press box, and we newspapermen ducked for safety wherever we could find protection.

The Conifrey mob then surged down to the ringside looking for Leonard rooters, and the riot was on in full force. Spectators scrambled for safety, but no matter which way they turned, there were Conifrey’s followers holding the fort.

It wasn’t until the cops came racing into the arena that the fighting ceased. Bloody noses and split lips were the fashion of the evening, and many a broken head had to be stitched at the Harlem Hospital following that melee.

Johnny Kewpie Ertle of St. Paul, claimant of the world bantam crown, and Mike Gibbons were spectators, and as they ducked out of the arena, I heard Ertle remark:

“Hell, Mike, if this is the way things are done in New York, let’s get back to St. Paul. I don’t want to fight here.”

It was at the Howard Athletic Club in New York City in 1912 that I saw a reminder of the old bare-knuckle days. It was the greatest all-out Donnybrook ever staged outside Ireland. The three McGoverns—the famous Terry, and his brothers Hughie and Phil—engaged the three Leons—Casper, Jack, and Benny—in a family affair.

In this sensational bout, Phil McGovern was fighting Benny Leon. Terry and Hugh McGovern were handling Phil in his corner, while Casper and Jack were looking after Benny.

It was a marvelous scrap, and eventually Benny knocked Phil flat with a right cross. Terry McGovern, tricky as ever, reached for the arm of the timekeeper to prevent him from counting Phil out. Casper Leon took in the situation in a flash and rushed toward Terry.

The audience stood on its feet yelling as these two ex-monarchs of the ring tore into each other. Before anybody knew what was happening, Hughie McGovern had dashed over to Terry’s aid and encountered Jack Leon en route.

In an instant the crowd forgot all about the fight between Phil and Benny. The timekeeper made no attempt to count; it was hopeless. The spectators were in for an unexpected scrap of a kind that hadn’t been seen for years.

To deafening cheers, the battling brothers went at it like infuriated terriers. The fighting blood of the Jews and the Irish was at the boiling point—and it was streaming down the faces of the contestants. Some of the spectators, unable to contain themselves, dashed into the fray, and then a full-dress riot began.

It raged for the best part of half an hour and was quelled when Captain Reynolds and his police reserves rushed to the scene. These reserves knew their job. They were accustomed to being called out to subdue the riotous McGoverns, who spent the greater part of their time beating up the New York bluecoats!

18 FIGHTING COURAGE

I’ve traveled the world—by road, rail, sea, and air—in pursuit of stories of boxers and boxing. The five continents have been my hunting ground. I don’t know how many thousands of miles I have traveled nor how many thousands of fights I have seen, but I do know that I wouldn’t exchange the memories of that wonderful half-century in the fight game for all the gold and diamonds in the world.

The great names flash through my mind like a dazzling star-studded parade: Jack Johnson, Tunney, Dempsey, Corbett, Willard, Attell, Driscoll, Leonard, Langford—down through the years to Louis, Marciano, and Floyd Patterson.

I’ve known them all—in triumph and adversity, in poverty and luxury, in victory and defeat. Champions have wept on my shoulder and confessed their troubles to me. World-famous promoters have sought my advice. Managers of great, and not so great, fighters have burdened me with their worries. That’s all been in the game, the greatest game in the world—the fight game.

For fifty years it has been the love of my life. I have criticized it, praised it, and lashed out at its shortcomings, but I have always been faithful to it. It is humanity personified, for it brings out all the qualities and failings which are in the make-up of man. The greatest of these qualities is courage.

I have seen and wondered at all sorts of courage: raw and refined, blind and calculating, true and false. When I think of it, my mind is filled with the memories of great fights, with the full-throated roars of vast crowds. The incredible case of Luis Firpo, mentioned in an earlier chapter, is the best example of my belief that a fighter can lack almost everything and yet get somewhere in the boxing game if he isn’t a coward.

But there are different kinds of courage. My mind goes back to my early days as a sports reporter, to the amazing Joe Grim. He had neither boxing skill nor punching power, yet he set himself up as a target for the most terrific heavyweight hitters of his time. And he was never knocked out.

I remember when he was pitted against the mighty Bob Fitzsimmons, one of the most murderous punchers of all time. Before the gong sounded for the fight to start, Grim walked to the ropes and shouted to the crowd in a loud voice, “I’m Joe Grim. I fear no man on earth.”

And he proved it. Throughout the six-round bout, Grim stood his ground in the middle of the ring, taking all the punishment Fitz could give him.

Seldom in my ringside career have I seen a man take such a battering and stay on his feet. Fitz unleashed every punch he knew. He grew tired of using Grim as a punching bag; of seeing that swaying figure still standing up under the hurricane of blows.

At the end of the fight—the referee gave “No Decision”—Grim was still defiant. He staggered to the ropes and mumbled, “I’m Joe Grim. I fear no man on earth!”

And the crowd rose to its feet and roared its approval of the man who refused to bend the knee to the mighty Fitzsimmons.

But was it real courage that enabled Grim to take such punishment? Sometimes I think not. I think perhaps madness or conceit might better describe the driving force behind such a display.

Of similar stuff was the courage of world middleweight champion Mickey Walker, the Toy Bulldog. The memory of the way he stood up to heavyweight Max Schmeling will stay with me as long as I live.

They met in the Long Island Bowl, September 26, 1932. Mickey, six inches shorter than the German, was giving away nearly twenty-five pounds in weight. He boasted that he would take on any fighter at any weight, and he faced up bravely but in vain to the giant Max, then one of the hardest hitters in the world.

The Schmeling onslaught began with the first round. Punch after punch connected with Walker’s face and body until he was almost battered to a pulp. Yet he stood up gamely enough, taking terrible punishment and risking permanent injury.

The sight of that reeling Mickey being smashed to senselessness was too much for his manager, Jack Kearns. The towel was thrown into the ring in the eighth round and Mickey was almost carried to his dressing room.

Here again was a case of unreasoning courage, of gameness carried to the point of stupidity.

There’s the other side of the picture. Some of the cleverest fighters of the last half-century confessed to me that rather than take further punishment in a losing battle, they preferred taking the count. And who shall blame them when they have seen the products of this misplaced courage—the punch-drunk derelicts who hang around the gymnasiums, their eyes as vacant as their minds? But the fact remains that courage, whether blind or logical, is a must in the make-up of the successful boxer. Sometimes courage ebbs and has to be revived.

I can never forget the raw courage of Babe Risko in his fight with Jock McAvoy, December 20, 1935, in Madison Square Garden. This courage forced him to take terrible punishment, although he knew he hadn’t a chance to turn the tide. Six times the American had gone down from the trip-hammer blows of the British middleweight before Babe was counted out with still half a minute to go of the opening round. All I can say is that the boxer with a fighting heart can never be persuaded that he has had enough.

But let’s take an example of refined courage—the kind displayed by Gene Tunney when he met Jack Dempsey in their first bout in the Sesquicentennial Stadium of Philadelphia. The pale-faced ex-marine showed remarkable coolness as he walked into the lair of the tiger-man to face blows that had battered the strongest into insensibility.

Blind courage would have induced him to swap blows with the enraged, scowling Dempsey after the famous “fourteen” count in their second contest in Chicago, but he chose the way of refined courage, which changes blind instinct to thought and calculation—and so he saved the day.

In Max Schmeling’s fight with Young Stribling, July 3, 1931, in Cleveland, and his first with Joe Louis, June 19, 1936, I saw examples of the calculating courage of a great fighter. In both, as indeed in all of Schmeling’s important battles, he plodded along until the opportune moment arrived. Then calculating courage transformed him into a fighting fury, when he had to take as well as give punishment.

Packey McFarland, a boxer of consummate skill, was hurt on several occasions but never to the extent that he was forced to display courage to stick it out. He would never let anyone beat him up.

On the day after his fight with Matt Wells on April 26, 1912, in New York City, I went to his dressing room. Both men had put up a wonderful show, but Packey had received far more punishment than he normally took, and I was surprised. I asked McFarland how he felt.

“Nat,” he said, “I’m a clever boxer. I feel I can hold my own against anybody my weight, or ten pounds above my weight, but when the day comes that my cleverness will no longer protect me, I’ll quit. I don’t believe in what you writers term courage.”

“But Packey,” I countered, “you mean to tell me that if you were badly hurt you’d toss in the sponge?”

“That’s exactly what I would do.”

“They would call you a coward,” I retorted. “If you showed a yellow streak, you’d be through.”

Anger blazed in Packey’s eyes, but he controlled himself and spoke in his ordinary quiet and cultivated tones.

“Yellow, eh?” he replied. “I know as well as you that no man in the boxing game has a right to be there if he has a faint heart. It takes a fellow with a lot of nerve to stand up and absorb punishment, but it requires even more courage for a man to know when he has had enough and to call a halt.

“That’s not a yellow streak in a fighter. I say that’s ordinary common sense. When the going is good, keep firing. That’s my motto. But when you find the odds are against you, then quit.”

This was the philosophy of one of America’s greatest boxers in a period which surpassed all other eras in lightweights and welterweights. Nobody ever doubted Packey’s courage, but that is how he had worked things out for himself.

It was the logic of brain against the unreasoning instincts of brawn. I admired Packey for the stand he took, and in later years, when he became sponsor of the Catholic Youth Movement in the United States, he carried the same philosophy into his classes.

19 RINGSIDE THRILLS

The walls of my office are covered with photographs of my heroes—sturdy Jim Jeffries, lanky Bob Fitzsimmons, debonair Jim Corbett, happy-go-lucky Jack Johnson, ponderous Jess Willard, the tiger of the roped square, Jack Dempsey, cultured Gene Tunney, fiery Jack Sharkey, smiling Max Schmeling, poker-faced Joe Louis and hard-hitting Rocky Marciano—a great array of heavyweight champions. I find pleasure in discussing their careers. The thrills I got watching these ringmen perform, come back to me as I sit at my desk and study the faces on my walls. I have seen seconds lead men into the morning glory of fame and fortune, and plunge others into the midnight of a defeat from which they never came back. Those pictures tell a story.

Among the thrilling contests listed in my diary, three in which the great Benny Leonard was a contestant, stand out. Out of Chicago came a left-hook artist, Charley White, whose high, intellectual brow hid a slow-thinking brain. He was within four seconds of winning the lightweight championship from Leonard on a hot afternoon, July 5, 1920, at Benton Harbor, Michigan, but couldn’t make it. For four rounds Leonard had out-punched and out-generalled Charley, the Chicago left-hook phenom, skillfully posing him for the knockout. Then Benny got careless.

In the fifth, the left hook landed on Benny’s jaw with lightning rapidity and the champion went flying through the ropes. The spectators howled like Indians. White had shaken off the fog that usually enveloped his brain, and from all appearances the title was within his grasp. But Leonard got back into the ring at the count of six, and so flabbergasted was his opponent that his brain seemed to go numb. It ceased to function and Charley became just another fighter.

Leonard was quick to sense the situation and through the eighth round, he jabbed, hooked and uppercut White at will. In the ninth, Charley was downed on hands and knees but took only a short count. Once more he went down and then Benny knocked him over the ropes. Back into the ring he found Leonard waiting, poised for the “kill.” Though he again put Charley down, it took a fifth knock-down to end the thriller.

Split seconds stood between the hard-hitting Chicago challenger and the crown, but as in the case of Leonard when he fought Tendler, brains triumphed over brawn. Had not Charley White “frozen” in that fifth round, he would have been returned the champion. At least that was the consensus among the newspapermen who watched Leonard pull through the round.

Leonard was an extraordinary fighter—an artist when it came to providing thrills. Let’s take a look at his fight with Richie Mitchell, the Milwaukee lightweight on January 14, 1921, in Madison Square Garden for the benefit of Ann Morgan’s Devastated France Fund. Richie already had been stopped by Leonard in seven rounds, but he was a good pugilist and the return bout brought out a vast throng of society fans, among them Governor Al Smith who was viewing his first ring battle. There must have been a lot of ruined dresses that night, for before the proceedings were over, frenzy broke out.

When the bell rang to start the fight, Benny, very cool and rather contemptuous of Mitchell, walked straight out to meet him with a left to the face and followed with a right aimed at the jaw. It missed the button and struck the Milwaukee boy on the cheekbone, but it dropped him flat.

The referee started the count to a scene of excitement seldom surpassed in my experience. The society fans went wild. Mitchell’s seconds bawled at him to remain down and take his time.

Richie may have heard them, for he didn’t get up until “nine.” He was groggy. His legs wobbled. He sought to embrace Leonard, but a short left-hook to the chin, sent Richie down again.

And down he stayed until “nine.” When he got up, he reeled about in front of me. I saw that he had a nasty cut under his left eye.

I saw Leonard leap forward again, bent on making a quick finish. He shot a left to the jaw, followed by a right. The Milwaukee boy rocked like a tree in a storm, then went down for the third time to a volley of rights and lefts.

I got one of those reactions I often had when I saw a brave man taking too much punishment. The big thrill suddenly faded into revulsion. For with me there is no thrill without sport, and there can be no sport when one man is hopelessly beaten.

Did I say beaten? The revulsion came too quickly. Richie Mitchell got up again at “eight” and ran into another terrific bombardment of solid smashes, hooks, and jabs; but still he wouldn’t go out. He actually fought back, getting home a few lefts to Benny’s face. He showed heroic courage, and courage will work miracles in the ring.

Leonard, brushing aside the lefts, waded in. Then suddenly he stood still. I saw his whole body stiffen and sprang to my feet. Something was happening—had happened!

Richie, almost out, had put all his strength into a left to Benny’s stomach. The glove buried itself, forcing the champion’s head forward.

Like an arrow came Richie’s right, flush on Leonard’s jaw.

There was a sudden hush. The atmosphere was tense with utter astonishment. Benny Leonard, the idol of New York, out on the canvas! It was unbelievable! Then pandemonium broke out.

The count piled up as Benny struggled to get to his feet. I heard his handlers yelling:

“Get up, Benny, get up!”

I heard Billy Gibson, Leonard’s manager, shout:

“Shake your head, Benny! Shake your head, Benny!”

I saw Leonard get up and nod to Gibson, as if to say he was all right. And then we saw a superb exhibition of ringcraft. Benny feigned an attack, and as he closed towards Mitchell, he grabbed his opponent instead of striking and held on.

Richie got in a light left, for he, too, was in bad shape. Benny fiddled about and kidded Richie into doing nothing until the bell rang. He had out-smarted his opponent at the critical time and robbed him of a title victory when it was there for the taking.

This was one of the greatest rounds that I had ever seen in the ring, but it was only the beginning. The next session was a mill royal. Benny soon got up to his tricks again but Richie had him groggy with a terrific right to the jaw, and immediately afterwards Mitchell was almost out from a bombardment to the head.

This sort of fighting went on for three more rounds.

In the sixth, Benny put over a right with such force that Mitchell fell on his back. He was on his feet at “nine,” and went on the defensive, with chin tucked into his shoulder and taking most of Leonard’s blows on his arms. But he was a pitiful figure to behold. His lips were smashed and bleeding and his eyes almost closed. Yet they fought on.

Richie went down again for “six” from body blows and with inhuman courage, he again got up only to be floored for another long count. There was Mitchell staggering about in a neutral corner, and there was Leonard firing away in an effort to stretch his rival flat. He finally succeeded. After another down Referee Haucap pushed Benny aside as the eight count was completed, and called a halt to one of the greatest ring battles seen in the old Garden under the regime of Tex Rickard.

I had the good fortune to see many such hair-raising contests. Let’s take that between Ad Wolgast, lightweight king, and K. O. Brown, on February 8, 1911. After that scintillating bout, the Michigan Wildcat was sitting in his dressing room when I entered, after having fought my way from the ringside in the Philadelphia arena where they fought a sensational ten-rounder. Had a decision been permitted—this was a no decision contest—by my scoring Brown would have won the crown, for the sturdy little New York Dutchman had given Wolgast a fine shellacking. For six rounds he had Ad at his mercy while the throng cheered. He had Wolgast on the brink of a knockout, but failed to take advantage of the situation and lost his golden opportunity.

I was eager to learn why Wolgast, who had fought great battles with Battling Nelson and was one of the toughest of all lightweights, had permitted Brown to gain such a big advantage over him.

Ad sat in a chair as I entered, his head in his hands. His manager was staring gloomily at the floor, his hands in his pockets and a cigar in his mouth. Mingled with the smell of the cigar was the odor of liniment.

“Hello, Ad!” I said.

Wolgast looked up. He was a short, square fellow, under five feet four in height, but with the shoulders of a middleweight. His fair hair, now lank and dark with water from the spongings, indicated his German ancestry.

“Hello, Nat!” he responded mechanically.

“What was wrong with you, Ad?” I asked.

The manager looked at him as if he, too, would like an answer.

“That fellow Brown,” replied Wolgast, “he’s a southpaw. I can’t do anything against them.”

“You’re not telling me that, Ad,” I said. “I figured that being a southpaw, Brown would be easy going for you.”

Ad looked up. “Well, he wasn’t easy. You saw how it was. I tell you that southpaw stance is a puzzler. I thought it would be easy, and I did do some of my training with a southpaw sparring partner to make sure. But he got me puzzled all right. I couldn’t get going, Nat.”

“How do you figure it out, Ad?” I asked.

“You never know from what angle those southpaws are going to hit. That got me all tangled up. Then this Dutchman can punch so that he leaves a dent wherever he lands. I’d rather fight two left-stance men in one ring than one southpaw, and I’m well out of this mess. You can figure the rest out for yourself, Nat.”

Ad was piqued. He had taken a bad lacing. One of his eyes was nearly closed, and his lips looked as if they had been having an argument with a mincing machine. Judging from the manager’s sober expression, it wasn’t going to be a happy evening, so I wished Ad good luck and left Philadelphia for home.

On my way back to New York, I got into an argument with some of the boys about southpaws. Most of them said the obvious thing—the southpaws should be easy meat for men who fought with the left arm and foot extended. But Ad Wolgast’s experience made that opinion extremely doubtful.

“There has never been a southpaw champion yet,” said one of the boys.

“You’re wrong there, pal,” I interposed. “Bendigo was a southpaw. He won the heavyweight championship of England by whipping Jem Burke just over a hundred years ago.”

“Orthodox fighters have learned a bit since then, Nat.”

“Well, all I can say is that Ad Wolgast isn’t one of them,” I replied. “And I’d like to see some of the other champs up against southpaws before I make up my mind.”

Dissatisfied with his showing against Brown, Wolgast arranged another engagement with the blond, hard-hitting Dutchman within a month, March 3.

“Dumb” Dan Morgan, K. O. Brown’s manager, had pressed for this second contest after his man’s impressive exhibition in Philadelphia. Wolgast had demanded a guarantee of ten thousand dollars—an enormous sum in those days, and certainly enough to put an end to negotiations. But “Dumb” Dan was so certain that K. O. Brown could put Wolgast to sleep within ten rounds that he went into the match on a very short purse which enabled Tom O’Rourke to meet Ad’s demands for the big guarantee.

The seating capacity of O’Rourke’s New York club was only twelve hundred, but as soon as the match was signed, there was an enormous demand for tickets. Tom put up his prices and charged five, ten, and fifteen dollars for the seats, but even then there was a riot, and police reserves had to be called out to deal with fans who fought to get in. The jam was so great that the police had to rope off the entire block, clear it, and then control the stream of fans right into the hall.

I have seen many wild gatherings at the scene of a big fight, but few to surpass this one. Although we knew we were in for a thrill, we didn’t quite figure on the sort of thrill we got. It was a savage bout from start to finish. Both men absorbed tremendous punishment.

I had seldom seen such punching from lightweights. The two men fought toe-to-toe and wouldn’t concede a foot. On several occasions the lightweight crown tottered on Ad Wolgast’s head, as the ferocious Dutchman, with his baffling southpaw stance, crashed home his dynamic right on the champion’s cheeks, just missing the button.

Then apparently it began to dawn on K. O. Brown that the championship was in his grasp, and that he would have to pay proper respect to Ad’s swings if he was to get away with it. Here the Dutchman made a mistake—and it cost him the world title.

In the eighth round, Brown landed a punch on Wolgast’s chin that had the champion groggy. Ad went back on his heels, his eyes rolling. For a moment he staggered forward with open mouth, and the Dutchman just missed connecting with his deadly right. I saw him about to leap in, and then check himself.

The crowd was yelling for him to finish Wolgast, but he stood fiddling about, feinting. Meanwhile, the groggy champion was slowly recovering his senses. What could have happened to Brown?

He told me afterwards that at that instant he suddenly remembered how Cross shammed grogginess and then whipped over his terrific right and that memory decided K. O. Brown to take no chances.

“Go in and finish him!” yelled “Dumb” Dan Morgan to Brown. “Finish him now!”

I saw the Dutchman turn and shake his head to his manager.

“Just one more, K. O.” pleaded Dan.

Wolgast was helpless. He was reeling about the ring like a drunken man, out on his feet. But Brown refused to believe it. And there was a world championship at stake! My heart was in my mouth. But what of poor “Dumb” Dan, who had steered the Dutchman to this supreme moment, and now, in the very harbor of victory, Brown wouldn’t anchor!

Only one punch was needed to settle it, but the Dutchman continued to fiddle his chances away. His southpaw stance had presented him with the great opportunity, but he couldn’t take it.

For the next two rounds, Ad Wolgast, still groggy, managed to keep Brown out by a strictly defensive fight. Even when he had partially recovered his senses, he had no effective answer to his opponent’s style, and finished the fight—a no-decision affair—a loser on points, in my opinion. However, under the rules that governed boxing at that time, only a knockout could rob him of his world title, and the Dutchman had failed to deliver it.

There was an extraordinary scene in Brown’s corner after the fight.

Dan Morgan was frantic.

“Just one blow,” he howled. “Any kind of a punch and you would have become the lightweight champion of the world!”

The Dutchman looked sheepish.

“Say something, you sap,” bawled Morgan. “You had the title in your hands and you let it slip away. Why didn’t you go after him?”

“Aw, Mister Morgan, I didn’t know it,” said Brown. “I taut he vos kiddin’ me.”

K. O. Brown’s failure deferred the winning of a world title by a southpaw for three years when I saw George Chip, middleweight champion of the world knocked out in a huge fistic upset by Al McCoy in the Broadway Club of Brooklyn, April 6, 1914. Three years later, November 14, 1917, I saw McCoy dethroned in Brooklyn in another thriller by a tough Irish middleweight, Mike O’Dowd. That bout went into the sixth round when a terrific left split McCoy’s lips and a right to the jaw put Al away. McCoy was an ordinary fighter, but he takes his place in the Hall of Fame as the first southpaw to win a world crown in a gloves contest.

Every nation has had its quota of thrill providers in boxing—with the Irish and the Jews, in my opinion, leading the field during the years covered in my reminiscences.

Sitting in my offices was Jack McAuliffe, the first recognized American lightweight champion who retired undefeated. He had paid me a visit about three months prior to his death and asked for help on an article he was writing on Irish fighters.

“Tell me, Jack, what is it the Irish have that carries such appeal for the boxing enthusiasts?” I asked.

Jack wrinkled his brow and with one word gave me the answer: “Gameness.”

I thought he hit it on the head. One can’t discuss thrilling fights of the past half-century without bringing in the names of dozens of famous Irish battlers who fought to packed houses in New York in the club membership days and later under the Walker Law. Who can forget the performances of Harlem Tommy Murphy, Willie Lewis, Jack Britton, Mike McTigue, Mickey Walker, Mike O’Dowd, Jimmy McLarnin, Tommy Loughran, Philadelphia Jack O’Brien, Dave Shade and Jimmy Slattery? Some were powerful hitters, others scientific boxers, and many combined both hitting power and science to give us masterful exhibitions.

The many contests between Britton and Ted Kid Lewis, the bouts between McLarnin and Barney Ross, the hair-raising bout between Billy Petrolle and McLarnin, November 21, 1930, in Madison Square Garden, the battle with Stanley Ketchel in which Philadelphia Jack O’Brien’s head rested in the rosin pan as the final gong sounded on March 26, 1909, in the Fiss, Doerr and Carroll Horse Mart ring—they were bouts one cannot forget. And then there were the great battles in which Mickey Walker was a contestant. His draw bout with Jack Sharkey, July 22, 1931, his knockout at the hands of Max Schmeling in the Long Island Bowl, September 26, 1932, and his battles with Shade, McTigue and Harry Greb, all in 1925, were performances that brought out the fighting spirit of the Irish to its fullest extent.

McLarnin’s three contests with Barney Ross, May 28 and September 17, 1934, and May 28, 1935, the second of which was the only one the Irish lad won, are unforgettable affairs. When Jimmy fought Petrolle, November 21, 1930, he displayed fighting courage that many thought was beyond reason. I recall the smashed, bloody figure of Jimmy, reeling under the terrific impact of Petrolle’s merciless wallops; yet as he stood in the ring, bathed in his own gore, hardly strong enough to keep his hands up in defense, he wouldn’t give in. Referee Haley, one of the best bantams in the pre-commission days, moved over to Jimmy and begged him to quit.

“No, no, please don’t stop it. Don’t ask me to quit,” he pleaded. Weak, but still defiant, he staggered through to the finish of the tenth round. In their two subsequent contests, May 27 and August 30, 1931, McLarnin avenged the defeat, winning both.

In the same ring in Madison Square Garden, January 6, 1928, I saw another splendid Irish pugilist, Tommy Loughran of Philadelphia, go down in the opening round from a bone-crushing right on the jaw delivered by Leo Lomski of Oklahoma. Nobody expected Tommy to get to his feet before the count could be completed. Yet he did! As the referee reached “nine,” Loughran arose, reeled, and was all but out on his feet. One of Lomski’s seconds yelled, “He’s out, Leo! Go get him! Get him now!”

Lomski rushed forth, and there followed two minutes of the rawest melodrama. Tommy took a terrible shellacking but remained upright. He not only finished the fight, but won on points. It was a memorable battle. A salute to these great Irishmen for enriching the story of the ring!

Not all the thrills I received as a reporter came from boxing. Wrestling had its share. It was truly a sport then, not the burlesque which it has become in recent years. Those were the days of George Hackenschmidt, Frank Gotch, the Zbyszko brothers, Stanislaus and Wladek, Ernest Roeber, Gus Schoenlein, Ed Strangler Lewis, Jim Londos, Jim Browning, Joe Rogers, Dr. Roller, and many others. I knew them all and covered the career of each in my book From Milo To Londos. My association with Jack Curley, the Tex Rickard of the mat sport under whose guidance the masters performed around the country, brought me into close contact with these world leaders.

I often dined with Curley, George Bothner, and William Muldoon, a champion of the old school, and it was through my meetings with them that I gained my knowledge of wrestling. Frequently I would sit at the ringside of the old Madison Square Garden for two or more hours watching the skillful maneuvering of the contestants. I recall vividly the longest match I ever witnessed—that between Strangler Lewis and Stanislaus, the elder Zbyszko. It got under way at ten o’clock and it was well past one the following morning when we left the arena.

Unlike the burlesque of current matches, their technique was masterly. I reported those wrestling affairs as I handled boxing—in detail—for the public was fascinated at the time. Watching Fred Beall apply his double-nelson; Jenkins his crotch and half-nelson; Lewis his famous headlock; Zbyszko his lightning rushes; and Joe Stecher his scissors hold, gave me as much of a thrill as I got out of viewing an exciting bout between top pugilists.

20 LAUGHS AND ODDITIES

Often, though the contestants in a bout were of mediocre caliber or the fight lacked thrills, some amusing incident developed that enlivened the affair. There were many such over the years that I jotted down in my diary.

It was in the spring of 1916. Billy Gibson, who managed three world champions, was operating at the old Manhattan Opera House in New York City, on West 34th Street. He matched Charley Weinert, Newark heavyweight, not yet nineteen, with rugged veteran Andre Anderson in a ten round bout. Despite his youth, Weinert already had established himself with the nation’s front-line heavyweights. The Jersey youngster’s speed and flashy boxing had carried him to victories over the likes of Battling Levinsky, Jim Coffey, Tom McCarty, Porky Flynn, George (Boer) Rodel, Gunboat Smith, and Jim Savage—all top men.

Anderson was a holdover from the turbulent “White Hope Era” and was a tough campaigner who had faced the best of the heavies. The ring was pitched on the stage of the opera house. In the second round, Weinert jolted Anderson with a left hook and followed through with a vicious blow to the jaw. Andre reeled, tumbled backward through the ropes, rolled off the stage, and fell into the orchestra pit where an assortment of musical instruments had been stacked. He landed seat first in the wide, inviting mouth of the big bass horn, to the keen delight of the spectators. That incident saved the show.

Tightly wedged into the horn, Andre strove in vain to extricate himself while Billy Joh reached across the ropes and tolled off the fatal ten.

It was some twenty-five years ago that Hollywood’s Victor McLaglen arrived in New York to make a personal appearance at the premiere of one of his movies. That same day, February 3, 1933, Boston heavyweight Ernie Schaaf was billed to box Primo Carnera, the Italian Behemoth, at Madison Square Garden. Vic, who had been a boxer and wrestler himself prior to gaining fame in the movies, was an ardent fight fan. As soon as his personal appearance was concluded, he rushed over to the Garden to watch the main event.

I was sitting directly in front of him at ringside when McLaglen suddenly rushed from his seat upon seeing Phil Schlossberg, one of Schaaf’s seconds, accompanying his fighter down the aisle to the ring. Vic greeted Phil with a mighty slap on the back and broadly grinned as both recalled their six-round match at Vancouver in 1908.

Curious as to the details of their bout, I questioned him after he had returned to his seat.

“I’ll always remember that fight with Phil,” he replied, “because it almost resulted in my death. For two rounds we were fighting on even terms. In the third, Phil split my lip with a punch and the blood began to flow freely down my throat. When I returned to my corner, my second, a nervous fellow, asked me to toss my head back, and as I did, he poured a ‘healing lotion’ down my throat. I collapsed immediately, and as I was unable to catch my breath, I had to be carried to my dressing room. What I’d had was ammonia—a good dose of it.

“You can take it from me, Nat,” concluded Victor, “I never again took a mouthwash without smelling it to make sure it wasn’t ammonia!”

On December 15, 1947, I saw a comical performance by Mexican welterweight Nava Esparza, in a bout with Brooklyn’s Rocco Rossano at the St. Nicholas Arena in New York City.

Twenty-six seconds after the fight began, Esparza was counted out in the quickest knockout in the history of the St. Nick Club. After the ten count had been tolled, Nava was helped out of the ring. He climbed down clear-eyed, apparently in complete control of himself. As he got to the bottom step he reached down and picked up his own water bucket.

Quickly reversing his movements, he climbed back into the ring with the bucket. What for? To await the next fighter. Later in the dressing room he snapped back into focus, and was surprised to find out that while dazed, he had attempted to become a second.

A yarn that got a big laugh from servicemen to whom I told these stories during my visits to training camps and hospitals during the last war, concerned Sam Langford’s fight with Jim Smith, an inexperienced but towering 6′ 2″ Negro.

It was in the Autumn of 1911, and I was assigned to cover the fight at the Atlantic Gardens on the Bowery in New York City, a famous old club that operated during the Frawley Law club membership days. Lew Raymond, a colorful figure, was matchmaker and promoter. Langford, a frequent performer at the club, was popular with the patrons who packed the arena every time he fought. Smith came into the ring physically unfit, and Sam decided he would end the affair in a hurry.

I was in the dressing room with Sam and his manager, Joe Woodman, when Smith and his handlers passed Langford’s dressing room on the way to the ring.

“Yuh gonna let me off easy, Sam, ain’t yuh?” Smith asked.

“Yuh gonna stay so long as ah think it’s good fer yuh,” replied Sambo.

The bout got under way. Smith started dancing around the ring to avoid Sam’s hits. Now and then Sam did contact his opponent’s body, but he couldn’t get over a clean shot.

Came the fifth round.

“Fer why yuh keeps running like dat?” inquired the angry Langford, as he stopped in mid-ring and looked at his opponent with disgust. “Is yuh so frightened you’se afraid to fight? Come on in an’ do some fightin’!”

But all he got was a laugh from Smith.

Suddenly, as Smith wheeled about to get out of the corner, Sambo leaped forward, let go one that came up from the floor and struck Smith with such force on that part of his anatomy where the monkey has his tail, that Big Jim was raised off the floor and landed with a thud on the canvas. He lay flat as Referee Billy Joh counted him out.

When Smith finally got to his feet, he looked angrily at Sam and said:

“Why yuh ’it me dere?”

“Cause yuh got eyes in yoh head but dere’s none you got behind yuh.”

Here’s another on Sambo that took well with servicemen.

In 1913, Sam was booked to fight John Lester Johnson, a burly Negro who could hit and who had fought a ten round no-decision bout with Jack Dempsey when the Manassa Mauler made his début in New York. Raymond had booked the pair for the Atlantic Gardens, and the place was jammed on the evening of the affair. Johnson was a “new one” on Sam’s list, but he knew enough about Sambo not to gamble on his punch. So when the bout began, like many other Langford opponents, he started to race around the ring.

Several circuits had been made when Sam suddenly halted, stood a foot or so away from the ropes, and watched his man scamper about like a scared jack-rabbit. He was convinced that his opponent wouldn’t remain long enough in one place to make a fight of it, so he did some quick thinking. He estimated the speed at which Johnson was moving, then let a winding right go at his fleeing rival. The punch caught John Lester “on the fly” and halted his flight with dramatic suddenness. The fist landed on the base of the spine, and Johnson went crashing to the floor. His head was clear, but the clout had paralyzed his legs, and he was counted out and had to be carried to his dressing room.

It was at the Howard Athletic Club in 1908, that I first met Stonewall Allen, the Negro “Fighting Parson.” He was one of the strangest characters in the New York sporting world. A good boxer, he always prayed publicly before he left his corner for the first round. On this particular night he met a tough sailor boy, Mike McGarry, the “Fighting Tar.”

Half-way through the first round the sailor caught Stonewall with a smash on the mouth and knocked out three of his teeth. As the “Parson” stopped to pick them up, a wild swing caught him on the jaw and flattened him out for the full count.

When he recovered his senses, Allen, as was his custom, knelt and prayed. The boys in the gallery began to razz him. One of the sports writers at the ringside asked him in a loud voice what he was praying for after being knocked out.

He rose to his feet and, rolling his eyes heavenward, answered:

“I’se thanking de Lawd for gibing me a soft spot to land on.”

Al Singer was a terrific puncher. He was so confident of his ability to punch holes in anything on two legs that he entered into a match with Jimmy McLarnin, September 11, 1930, then the hardest hitter, pound for pound, of any boxer in the game. It was an overweight affair, and Al ought to have known better.

For two rounds he outboxed McLarnin. In the third session, Jimmy induced Al to swap punches. It was a terrific spectacle to see these two human battering rams going at it without any attempt at defense. The crowd was whipped to fury as the bone-crushing smashes struck home. But it was too good to last. McLarnin unleashed a straight right to the point of Singer’s jaw, and down he went.

Jimmy was so certain that Al was out for keeps that he did a few handsprings, his usual procedure after a victory. But Singer began to rise at “nine,” and as Referee Johnny McAvoy was bringing down his arm for the “ten,” Al leaped to his feet.

McLarnin was just finishing a handspring at the time, and Singer, seeing his chance, rushed in. He missed a crashing punch by the fraction of an inch, and McLarnin replied with a smashing left hook to the jaw which finished Singer’s interest for the evening.

A few months later, Al Singer fought Tony Canzoneri in Madison Square Garden, November 13, 1930. Tony nearly set up a record by battering Al into submission in one minute and six seconds. The knockout came with dynamic suddenness and swept the fans off their feet. A left hook caught Al off his balance and drove him back on his heels. Another punch of the same sort finished him.

I was staring fascinated at the drama when Ed Hughes, a sportswriter and cartoonist, sitting next to me said, “What the hell happened? I was writing that the boys had come into the ring!”

I also recall the strange ending to the New York début of Babe Herman, flashy young Californian, whom Jack Kearns managed during the early 1920’s.

Herman’s opponent was Irish Johnny Curtin, colorful Jersey City slugger, and the scrap was held at Charley Doesserick’s Pioneer Club.

For five rounds it was Herman’s brilliant boxing and sharp-shooting against Curtin’s rugged two-handed aggressiveness.

The Babe nailed Irish Johnny on the chin with a vicious right just as the bell clanged the end of the fifth. Beyond jolting him as it landed, the punch seemed to have no serious effect on Curtin. Gingerly, Irish Johnny turned to walk to his corner. He had taken about two steps when, suddenly, the full force of that wallop caught up with him, and he pitched forward on his face.

Despite the frenzied manipulations of his handlers during the minute’s rest, Irish Johnny was still out and unable to answer the gong for the sixth.

The bizarre results of “delayed-action” punches also gave a strange twist to the ending of a battle I saw in New Orleans in 1921 between Happy Littleton, hard-hitting local middleweight, and Jack Bloomfield, clever Englishman.

Littleton clipped Bloomfield on the chin in the ninth. Jack staggered for a moment, then turned away from Littleton, groped his way to a corner, and started to stumble along the ropes.

While the bewildered Littleton looked on, Bloomfield, in the manner of a Leon Errol or Jimmy Barton, reeled around three sides of the ring and was headed for a complete lap when his legs finally caved in, and he collapsed to the canvas to be counted out.

Can a man, standing on his feet, be unconscious and be counted out by the referee? It has been done, and I’ve seen it. I saw a lightweight championship change hands, May 28, 1917, in such a bout. Benny Leonard had cornered champion Freddy Welsh. Welsh was unsteady on his feet and desperately trying to hold himself up. He slipped one arm over the highest rope, and braced himself just as Leonard landed a hard punch to the jaw. Welsh started to fall toward the floor to get a moment’s rest. Benny, always a very shrewd fighter, started a quick flurry of punches which knocked Welsh across the top rope.

Kid McPartland, a very good referee, made Leonard step back. The champion was out, hanging on the ropes, his feet on the canvas. McPartland counted the final ten over him, and as convincing proof that poor Welsh was absolutely unconscious, he slid off the ropes at the end of the count and fell in a limp heap on the canvas.

Not long after his victory over Welsh, Leonard beat Phil Bloom in a fight that had a peculiar ending. Benny hit Phil on the chin, and Phil retired from the fight with a broken ankle. He had sat on it when he went down.

I recall a discussion which once arose between a group of sports writers and experts concerning queer happenings in the ring.

One mentioned the case of Willie Lewis and Sailor Burke. I saw that fight at the Fairmont Club, on August 13, 1909. It was a ten-rounder, and both men were tough and clever.

Willie Lewis was a really great welterweight. He met and beat the top-liners of a period which included such battlers as Billy Papke, Harry Lewis, Dixie Kid, Mike Gibbons, and Curley Watson. But Sailor Burke had a big punch and was as hard as granite. In the first round he dropped Willie with a hard right to the chin for a count of six.

Willie returned the compliment in the second session by putting the Sailor down for nine. It was a peach of a blow—a left hook that lifted Burke clean off his feet.

Then came the fantastic third round. Both men were mixing in the middle of the ring, with Lewis having a shade the better of the milling. They stood toe-to-toe, hammering away at each other with lefts and rights to the body and jaw, when suddenly Burke started a right hook.

Willie tried to beat him to the punch with a similar blow. Both wallops landed good and true—both men staggered—and then, to the roar of the crowd, both slumped to the canvas.

Referee Billy Joh was amazed. For a moment he didn’t know what to do. Shouts came from all over the house. In both corners the handlers were wild with excitement, yelling their heads off. Then Billy jumped between the fighters, and with head down, started to count.

It was an extraordinary situation. Burke, who had landed on his face, was trying to turn on his side, but Lewis, in falling, had toppled in such a position that part of his body was resting on the Sailor’s knees, and this prevented him from getting to his feet.

The count went on; “three ... four ...” Then Lewis started to wriggle, partly releasing Burke “... five ...” Willie was scrambling to his feet. “... six ...”

The gong went for the end of the round and saved the situation. Eventually Lewis put Burke out for keeps in the sixth round, but the thrill of that third session had drained the spectators of interest.

As soon as the fight was over, I went to the dressing room and had a talk with Billy Joh. I was anxious to know what would have happened, if neither man had been able to get up and the gong had not sounded.

“I was puzzled for a moment, Nat,” said Billy, “but I soon remembered we are fighting no-decision bouts. For the sake of records, I should have continued the count and the man who got to his feet first would have been the winner.”

Two of the strangest knock-downs I have ever seen took place at the same Fairmont Club, one between Boyo Driscoll and Biz Mackey and the other between Soldier Kearns and “One Round” Davis, both in 1911.

In the fight between Kearns and Davis, the latter was handing a whale of a beating to Kearns and apparently had victory well in hand. But Kearns stepped in and like lightning shot up a magnificent uppercut which turned Davis over in a back somersault.

A cry rose from the crowd as Davis finished the somersault on the back of his neck, his head bent under him and his toes resting on the floor.

“Good heavens!” said a voice near me. “That must have broken his neck!”

The referee began to count, and Davis still maintained his dangerous and grotesque position.

“Pick him up!” the crowd roared. “His neck’s broken!”

And it looked as if a tragedy had happened. I saw Kearns step forward to help his fallen opponent, but his handlers shouted for him to keep still. Davis didn’t move, and the count went pitilessly on.

As soon as he had ticked off “ten,” the referee rushed in and raised Davis from the canvas. He was still out and his head swung helplessly on his shoulders. His handlers ran into the ring to cries of “Get a doctor!” They carried him to his corner, where a few minutes later he was revived.

Half-an-hour later, I was talking to him. He was still slightly dazed, but so far as I could see, really none the worse for his experience. How he escaped severe injury to his neck was a mystery to me.

Billy Joh refereed the Boyo Driscoll-Biz Mackey fight and was forced to count over both men at the same time. This extraordinary affair began when the boys were close to the ropes, hammering away at each other’s body.

Billy Joh stepped in and separated them. As he did so, the fighters went for each other with everything they had. Both landed with a right to the jaw simultaneously. Driscoll went spinning toward one side of the ring and Mackey toward the other. They were stretched out flat while spectators howled with delight. Mackey was up at “Seven,” swaying like a drunken man. At “nine” Driscoll stumbled to his feet. Each staggered about the ring unable to do any fighting. It was extraordinarily comic. Laughter rocked the house as the men groped blindly to find each other. When eventually their gloves met, they fell into a clinch and remained that way without doing anything to each other until the gong sounded.

Many things that look queer to spectators are no joke to the fighters, but I must confess that I have often sat at ringside and enjoyed some of the antics. Some years ago two husky lightweights, Hugh Ross of Kentucky and Tom Kelly of New York were pitted against each other in a ten-round bout. When the final gong sounded, Ross was all in, on the verge of collapsing. As he fell into his chair, grasping the ropes, he turned to his second:

“What round was I knocked out in?” he inquired.

Seconds later the announcer was hailing Ross the winner, but the groggy fighter didn’t realize it. In the dressing room he couldn’t be convinced that he hadn’t been kayoed. He thought his handlers were spoofing.

21 CHAMPS AND CHUMPS

Every profession has its quotas of goofs and bulge-heads. Boxing leads them all in quality and quantity of whims, fancies, peculiarities, and idiosyncrasies. The history of the champs and chumps of fistiana is a saga of trickery, superstition, and practical jokes that would fill a good-sized public library.

Since the gaslight days when fighters wore skin tights and fought bare-knuckled for a hundred rounds, performers of the roped square—an amazing collection of grotesque personalities—have used tricks that would confound a Hindu fakir, and followed fetishes that would stymie a practitioner of Voodoo.

Of the fighters I have known intimately, Leonard, Johnson, and Young Corbett ruled the roost when it came to making disconcerting remarks that enabled them to regain their equilibrium while they were palming off the hot stuff on their opponent. Philadelphia’s Lew Tendler wasn’t quite certain that he had knocked champion Benny Leonard bow-legged in the eighth round of their fight at Boyle’s Thirty Acres in Jersey City, July 27, 1922, and forgot to put across the finishing touches when Benny, smiling, said to him:

“You hit pretty hard, Lew. Why don’t you hurt me?”

Tendler, uncertain how to take the remark, permitted Leonard to hold on and to talk until it was too late to put over a haymaker. Leonard was as happy as a lark when he pranced to his corner with the knowledge that he had hoodwinked Tendler into missing an opportunity for a knockout.

Leonard had another favorite ruse that he’d use whenever he faced a tough opponent, as in the meeting with Richie Mitchell in the old Garden. Benny, while taking the referee’s instructions, turned to his rival and remarked:

“Now, boy, let’s make it a real fight. Those fans want to see action. But if I knock you down, don’t get up too soon. Take nine, you may need it.”

Of course, he usually spoke so that the ringside scribes could hear what he had said, and that added to the discomfiture of his opponent. Benny’s remarks paid good dividends.

Harlem Tommy Murphy would cut loose with a line of gab every time he dropped an opponent. A talkative fellow, Harlem Tommy would upbraid his man for not doing well, and then, after he had dropped him for the count, he would remark:

“Sorry, old top. Give my regards to the folks when you get home.”

Former world bantamweight champion Johnny Coulon, came to pay me a visit when I was in Chicago recently. We discussed some of his fights, especially the one in which he beat Frankie Burns in New Orleans in a twenty-round bout, February 28, 1912. Coulon asked me if I recalled how he kidded Burns out of a possible knockout in the fourteenth round, when Frankie had caught the champion with a corking right to the chin.

Coulon was tossed back on his heels. It looked as if he would tumble to the canvas, but he caught himself in time, grasped the left arm of his opponent, backed Burns against the ropes and then, while trying to clear his head, said:

“Why, Frankie, you’re a sap. You have a good punch but you don’t know how to toss it. Watch me!” Instead of taking advantage of the position he held by virtue of that stunning wallop, Burns tore himself away from Johnny’s grip and covered up while maneuvering himself out of range of Coulon’s right. While he retreated, the champion fully regained his faculties and, following Burns, actually caught him with a powerful right to the chin that almost dropped the challenger.

Burns never knew that he had been duped. But it wasn’t the first time Coulon had come up with this stunt when stunned.

Fighters are probably the most superstitious of all athletes. In many years of experience with their ways, I have come across some extraordinary cases of ring superstition. Few boxers I have met are free from it.

One of them was Gene Tunney. He dismissed luck as a factor in the fight game, although he had plenty of it—for example the “long count” he was given in his contest with Jack Dempsey at Chicago. But Gene affected to despise everything that savored of superstition.

“It’s up to me,” he would say coolly.

Incidents that would have driven most fighters into a state of superstitious fear had no effect on Gene, and his almost inhuman calm sometimes had a bad influence on his opponents. He never batted an eyelash. He was cool, collected, a study in perfect composure. No fighter in recent years, with the exception of Loughran, approached Tunney’s ring demeanor.

Dempsey, on the other hand, was like Jeffries in that he was so nervous that he twitched and tossed, moved his feet to and fro in the resin, worked his hands over the upper strand of the ring, and could scarcely await the call to battle. He was pulling at the leash every moment he waited for the bell.

Dempsey had his full share of superstition. He always went into the ring with a dirty old maroon sweater thrown across his shoulders. Once I asked him about it.

“That sweater, Nat,” he said, “has been with me ever since I began fighting. I bought it in St. Louis out of my first ring earnings, and I have never been beaten while wearing it. Once I left it off and lost the decision.”

Jack handed the tattered garment to me for inspection. It was certainly an odd fetish for one of the best-dressed boxers of modern times.

“You may laugh at me, Nat,” he went on, “but that old sweater brought me luck against Fred Fulton, Carl Morris, Bill Brennan, and Georges Carpentier, and I’m sticking to it—to the last thread.”

I didn’t laugh, because I have often thought that fighters in the heat of battle get a clearer insight into the nature of things than most of us.

Just before Dempsey left his dressing room for his memorable fight with Luis Firpo, “Doc” Kearns decided that Dempsey was so invincible that he no longer needed his lucky garment.

I was at the ringside and saw Jack climb into his corner. He was wearing a brand-new white sweater with which he’d entered the ring.

“Here, Doc, take this,” he said. “I don’t want to see it again. For my next bout give me that old sweater you wouldn’t let me wear tonight. That Firpo fellow nearly put me out because I didn’t wear that sweater.”

Many Catholic fighters cross themselves before the first gong. Johnny Summers, star British boxer, among others, always took a rosary into the ring.

When Harry Wills, the ebony-skinned New York heavyweight, fought Jack Sharkey, both fighters were asked to say a few words to the radio audience before the bout started. Sharkey obliged by shouting into the microphone:

“I’ll whip Wills tonight. I’ll knock the bozo out!”

“Harry, will you say something?” asked the announcer.

“Sorry,” replied Wills, “I’m superstitious. I never say anything before a fight. It brings me bad luck.”

But when the fight was over and Wills had been declared the loser on a foul, he rushed to the mike and cut loose with a barrage against referee Patsy Haley, who had disqualified him.

Bob Fitzsimmons was very superstitious.

“Nat,” he said, “I’ve often heard people ridicule others who told them of a dream that affected their careers. I believe in dreams as I do in the Gospel, and my reason for this strong feeling is that almost every dream I have had has come true.

“More than ten years ago, the night before my fight with Jim Jeffries on Coney Island, I dreamed I was fighting a tough battle, and that I was knocked out. When I got up in the morning I told my wife about the dream.

“‘Rose,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid it’s all over. I’m going to lose my championship.’

“‘Don’t be silly, Bob,’ she said. ‘What makes you say such things?’

“I told her of the dream I had had the previous night.

“‘I shall lose all right, Rose. I’ve never known a dream of mine not to come true.’

“You know what happened, Nat. I lost the championship to Big Jeff in the eleventh round.”

And then Fitz went on to tell of several other dreams that had come true.

Like his old opponent, Jim Corbett, he also believed that horseshoes brought good luck, and he told me that when he began his training for the fight with Corbett at Carson City, he himself—for he was a blacksmith—made a large horseshoe and placed it on the floor of his dressing room.

“I made two horseshoes every week I was in training, Nat,” he said, “and gave them away to newspapermen and my handlers. When I had made the thirteenth horseshoe I decided to keep that for myself. One morning I was out on the road. My wife was following me on horseback. Suddenly I got a hunch. I stopped running and said to her:

“Rose, I’m going to stop Corbett in the thirteenth round. The horseshoe has told me so.”

As a matter of historical record, Fitzsimmons knocked out Jim Corbett with his famous solar plexus punch in the fourteenth round—only one round beyond that which he had predicted.

A few years ago, I flew to San Francisco to attend the Ezzard Charles-Joey Maxim fight. I met Tom Sharkey, and together with Rocky Marciano and some sports writers, we went to San Quentin Prison to entertain the inmates. Old Tom was in a reminiscent mood. He told us that while he was preparing for his fight with Gus Ruhlin, Bob Fitzsimmons had sent him two peacocks.

“When those birds arrived I nearly passed out, for I remember an old woman once telling me in Ireland that the owner of a peacock never had any good luck,” said the fighter who gave Jim Jeffries his toughest battles. “I wanted to send those birds back to Fitz, but I loved him like a brother and didn’t want to offend him. All through my training, I wept thinking of the unlucky peacocks, and when I lost to Gus in the eleventh round, I blamed it on those Jonah birds.”

Negro fighters are usually very superstitious. Tom O’Rourke, manager of the original Joe Walcott, once told me that Joe refused to train unless Tom presented him with a rabbit’s foot.

“No rabbit’s foot, no luck,” Joe would say.

I once asked Sam Langford if he believed in the jinx.

“Yes, sah,” replied Sambo, “my jinx is colored fighters, sure.”

The goal of his ambition was to annex the world title, but Jack Johnson stood in his way, and Langford blamed his failure to become the champion on members of his own race.

The Boston Tar Baby preferred to fight white men once a week to Negroes once a month. His record shows that he was whipped by Dave Holly, Young Peter Jackson, Joe Jeannette, Harry Wills, and Jack Johnson—all colored boxers.

“White men are my meat,” he told me, “colored men are my hoodoo!”

Joe Humphreys, who at one time helped me to collect data for a life story of Terry McGovern, in one of our many conversations told me, “Nat, there was probably never a fighter who believed more in lucky omens than Terry. I’ll never forget the day he fought Aurelia Herrera in San Francisco. He climbed into the ring all smiles, greeted his friends at ringside and then sat down to await the instructions of the referee.

“Suddenly, one of the spectators signalled to Sam Harris, Terry’s manager, and pointed to McGovern’s left shoe. It was unlaced.

“This was one of Terry’s deepest superstitions. During the preliminary work, between the time that McGovern entered the ring and went to the middle for instructions, the trainers had purposely neglected to tie the lace.

“When the referee motioned the fighters to the middle of the ring, Terry took off the unlaced shoe, spat in it for good luck, put it on again, and told one of his handlers to lace it.”

A mass of superstitious fears, the Brooklyn Terror also believed in the “lucky kiss.” He was convinced that unless he received a good luck kiss from his wife before a fight, he would be sure to lose.

Tiger Flowers, the Georgia Deacon, boxed in New York City quite frequently during 1925 and 1926. The Deacon, who won the world middleweight championship from Harry Greb, not only would kneel and pray, but would carry a Bible into the ring and offer to the Almighty a few words from this precious book. Unfortunately, an eye infection resulted in gangrene, and Flowers died soon after becoming champion.

During the vaudeville tour of Jim Jeffries and Tom Sharkey, I listened to Jeffries tell his audience that he regarded a twisted lace as a sign of ill-fortune. Whenever he noticed that a lace was twisted, he made his handlers remove the glove and relace it. He also said that he insisted on having a certain seat at the training table in camp, and would never permit a change to be made after the arrangements had been completed. A change, he said, meant bad luck.

On my visit to Burbank to attend Jeffries’ seventy-fifth birthday, he told me a story about a dirty penny which he found on the road in Asbury Park while training for his fight with Fitzsimmons. Jeff and Tommy Ryan were taking a run, and when they halted Jeff kicked aside a penny that was in his path. The coin was covered with mud, and Jeff was loath to touch it, fearing bad luck.

He asked Tommy to pick it up. But Ryan was also superstitious and refused. Jeff then remarked:

“Tommy, I’ll pick it up. If it’s heads up, I’ll surely beat Fitz. If it’s tails, I’m a sure goner.”

Heads it was, and Jeff told me that he was as happy as a lark that day.

And he, of course, won the battle.

And so it goes. Superstition is part of human nature. The world’s most famous fighters have used rabbits’ feet, praying beads, lucky charms, the lucky handshake, the wife’s or sweetheart’s handkerchief, and many other talismans to bring them luck in the ring.