BOOK FIVE

22 ADVENTURES ABROAD

I was struck with the wanderlust at an early age. I liked traveling and made up my mind in my youth that I would see the world, and I carried out my plan successfully as I grew older. From the time I was fourteen to the present day, the aggregate mileage I’ve covered would go many times around the globe. Collecting material for sports stories, visiting places of interest to better acquaint myself with world boxing conditions, hunting for world boxing talent, and on occasions officiating as referee in international bouts, both amateur and professional, enabled me to meet the leading sportsmen and sports writers of our country, Canada, South America, Europe, Asia, Australia, and New Zealand.

Prior to World War Two, I frequently acted as third man in the ring in contests in Spain, Germany, Venezuela, Panama, Cuba, Canada, and Puerto Rico. Including matches in the United States, I officiated in more than 1,000 boxing bouts, and probably refereed in more foreign countries than any other American.

Most of my trips were taken by air, though in the days when I was Sports Editor of New York dailies, I made many sea voyages, particularly to Central and South America. In 1948 I flew close to 60,000 miles to attend world boxing conferences, to see international contests and to study boxing conditions. That year I made three flights to Europe, four to various parts of Canada, three to Central America and one to South America, in addition to many in our own country.

On one of the European trips I flew to London, Dublin, Glasgow, Paris, Rome, Barcelona, Madrid, Brussels, Copenhagen, Stockholm, and Lisbon to look over youthful boxing talent. Such long journeys were the rule rather than the exception. Twice in 1951 and again during April, May, and part of June of 1952, I journeyed almost as far on behalf of boxing. In 1954 I flew around the world twice.

I was in Panama the year that the Canal was finished and opened for navigation and the following year, 1912, I made another trip to spend a vacation with the Duke family, owners of the Panama Railroad, the bank, and practically every other worthwhile financial enterprise in that old Spanish city, including the lottery. Two of the Duke boys were football players at Fordham University, and that’s how I became acquainted with them. I was still with the Press at that time, and had taken a three months’ leave of absence in order to gather material for special series which I had decided to write on “Sports in the Caribbean.”

I received a letter of introduction to Major General Goethals, builder of the Canal, from his West Point classmate, Irvin Wardman, Editor-in-Chief and part owner of our paper. Upon my arrival in Panama, I stopped at the Washington Hotel, where General Goethals was quartered. Presenting my letter, I was ushered into the presence of an elderly and stately looking Army man, kind but firm in tone. We spoke of Mr. Wardman and of New York, and then he asked me if I would care to go on a tour of inspection of the Gatun Lock and up the Chagres River.

I was delighted. The next morning we boarded a government motorboat, the General Christie. In addition to General Goethals, our party consisted of his Superintendent of Construction, several Army engineers and myself. It wasn’t long after we started that we heard a thunderous roar. To our right we saw a mountain of dirt drop into the Culebra Cut. A Japanese ship, the Maru Tamuiri, was caught in the rush and became wedged in between tons of earth and rocks.

I had my camera with me and with a newspaperman’s instinct, I clicked and clicked and got a splendid set of photos of the great slide. It was a break that comes once in a lifetime for a newspaperman.

There was no trip on the Chagres River that day. We returned to headquarters from where General Goethals sent his report to Washington, and I mailed a story to my Sunday magazine section and with it went the plates with the pictures of the slide.

My photos and story reached the office of the New York Press too late and to hold off another week wouldn’t do. John Hennessey, our Managing Editor, chanced to meet Carl Van Anda, the Editor of The New York Times, at the Press Club and offered the material to him. He was elated at the opportunity to obtain a first hand photo illustrated story from an eyewitness and two months later, when I returned from Panama to resume my work in New York, Mr. Hennessey explained why he had let the Times use the photos. After congratulating me, he told me that Mr. Van Anda wanted to see me.

I got in touch with him immediately and received a warm greeting. He thanked me, and as I was about to leave, he remarked:

“By the way, that must have been an expensive trip. What did it cost you?”

Imagine my surprise a few days later when I found a letter from him on my desk containing a check with this message: “This is in payment for the splendid pictures you sent from Panama.” That check paid for a good portion of my long trip.

I’ve often told that story in discussing newspaper work with young boys whom I broke into the sports writing field. I should like to add that every office boy who worked for me is now an executive, or was one, on a New York newspaper.

There was Robert Maher, one of my first copy boys, who became night sports editor of the Evening Sun; Eddie Galiani, my New York Telegram office and copy boy, who later became assistant racing editor of that paper; Donald Pratt, another from the Morning Sun, whom I took under my wing as a sports writer, is the Editor-in-Chief of the Fairchild Newspapers, the largest chain of commercial journals in the country. There were many others of whom I am proud to say got their start and guidance in sports writing from me.

In 1911, the year previous to the Culebra Cut Slide, I spent two months in Panama City and on one occasion, with one of the wealthy Duke boys to guide the party, we went many miles up the Chagres River which enters into the Canal. There on the banks of a settlement, I photographed Indians standing on the beach and others in shell-like canoes. I was amazed by their physical appearance! They had light hair, pinkish eyes and white-spotted bodies.

About fifteen years later, New York newspapers carried big headlines of a tribe of Albinos discovered along the Chagres River in Panama and several were brought to New York to be exhibited at the Grand Central Palace. I was confident that I had seen such creatures many years before in my travels, but was joshed considerably until I decided to hunt through some of my old pictures and located a photograph of three such Indians posing for me. Perhaps those I had snapped were not from the same tribe as those discovered by the New York Historical Society’s representatives, but their features were identical. They were Albinos who lived about 50 miles up the Chagres River. Thus I lay claim to a “discovery,” though I wasn’t aware of it until I read the story of the “find” by the Historical Society.

It was in 1911 that I put on the first professional fight ever held in Panama. I also staged one for a benefit conducted by the Panama Herald in which I was the referee, and the boxers, with the exception of one giant Negro, were all from American Army camps.

I saw my first cock-fight in Panama that year, and enjoyed the sport very much—primarily because I had a good run of beginner’s luck and cleaned up on the fights. I left the arena, a dilapidated shack, more than $200 the richer and carried away with me a set of old time Spanish spurs which I bought as a souvenir and still have on exhibition in my Ring office.

I also had the chance there to spin the wheel for the first Panama lottery, the winner of which was an undernourished, little old woman upon whom Dame Fortune smiled that day to the extent of $20,000. A part ticket I held, won third prize, and I collected $60.

Among the many exciting experiences I had during my tours in various parts of the world as a referee or judge of important international boxing matches, two stand out—my encounter with gunmen in Caracas, Venezuela, and in San Juan, Puerto Rico. In April, 1939, I was on a Central American tour and while in Puerto Rico, I was asked to officiate in the world bantamweight championship match between Sixto Escobar and Kayo Morgan. The bout was staged under conditions such as I never again encountered.

At the time there was considerable dissension among the natives regarding American rule. The Nationalist Party on several occasions tried to assassinate the leading legislators and had gone so far as to incite insurrections in Ponce where a number of persons, including the chief of police, were killed. Four of the leaders were sentenced to the Atlanta Penitentiary for long terms by the U.S. Government. Governor Winship, an ardent boxing fan, had returned on the day of the fight from Washington, where he held a conference with President Roosevelt on the Island’s unrest.

Four boxes were reserved for him and his party at the Stadium and unusual protection was arranged by Police Chief Orbeta because of reports that an attempt would be made on the Governor’s life. The bout was delayed for almost an hour due to the late arrival of the guests of honor, and then, amid wild cheers from an overflow gathering, the contest got under way.

Seven rounds had been completed when a terrific downpour drenched us. The tropical storm caused a stampede among the thousands of spectators who sought shelter. Like all such torrential rains, the storm lasted only a short time but was sufficient to give those seeking the lives of the Governor and members of his cabinet a chance to carry out their work.

Within minutes after the cloudburst, the arena and an area within a mile or more surrounding the stadium, were in total darkness. The electric wires had been cut and during the blackout, while spectators were being drenched, shots were fired. There was a flash from the top of one of the walls surrounding the arena. The Secret Service guards immediately crowded around Governor Winship and his party and a speedy exit was made under heavy guard with torchlights guiding the way. Many persons took refuge under the ring and hundreds crowded around it. The fighters, managers Harry Baxter and Lou Brix, and I, couldn’t get out of the ring.

For almost three quarters of an hour we remained in total darkness wondering what was in store for us. While the commotion continued, mobsters broke down the gates of the stadium, and a mad rush was made towards the ring. The bleachers were bulging from the sides, and the grandstand and ringside seats were full to the limit when the fight had started. When the rain stopped and the bout was resumed, fist fights added to the confusion, as those who had paid ten dollars for their seats battled with the hoodlums who had rushed the gates.

But the fight went on, and after eight more rounds, Escobar was awarded the decision, thus holding on to his crown. Fortunately, Governor Winship was unharmed. Those who tried to assassinate him had been keenly disappointed, for if ever a stage was perfectly set for such an attempt on the life of a notable, this was it.

In their escape, the guerillas left many blood stained handkerchiefs on top of the wall enclosing the arena. On the inside of the stone wall, blood indicated that more than one person had been on the job. The cuts were sustained from jagged glass that had been fitted into the cement on top of the fence by city officials as a protection against gate crashers. It was indeed fortunate that no one was killed.

The day after the fight I wrote a story for El Mundo, the leading paper in Puerto Rico, in which I covered the attempted assassination thoroughly, including the findings of Harry Baxter, manager of Kayo Morgan, and myself. The story created a sensation. The government denied that any attempt had been made on the life of Governor Winship, and a rival paper, which was supporting the rebels against the United States, battered my brains out editorially. However, Chief of Police Orbeta acknowledged the facts with a declaration to the press:

“The culprits who cut the electric wires in an attempt to kill our Governor, will be caught and punished!”

Puerto Rico, like Cuba, was a second home for me for many years. Scarcely a winter passed that I didn’t spend a month or more in those Islands where I am as well known as in my native city. I refereed fights in Havana and San Juan and often wrote boxing yarns for papers in those cities.

In July, 1939, I was asked by the Venezuelan Commission to arrange the fight between world featherweight champion, Joey Archibald, and Simon Chavez, the Central American titleholder. The bout was to be held in the bull ring at Caracas and I was to referee.

Jess Losada, one of Cuba’s leading radio commentators on sports and a sports columnist, managed Chavez; and Al Weill, who in later years was the matchmaker for the Twentieth Century Sporting Club and the International Boxing Club, and handled several champions, including Rocky Marciano, managed the featherweight king. Losada and Weill couldn’t get together on terms for the Venezuelan fight, hence my aid was sought. I was told to offer Weill $10,000 and two round trip tickets, plus the privilege of 40 per cent of the gate. I was also to inform him that the Boxing Commission would request me to act as guest referee. On those terms Weill accepted.

I flew to Caracas a week before the fight. I stopped at the Hotel Majestic, where Archibald and Weill’s representative, Sammy Richman, were also staying.

The publicity was excellent and interest in the fight was keen. The day before the bout, which took place on a Sunday afternoon, the bull ring was sold out. The stage was set for the biggest gathering that had ever seen a glove fight in Caracas and a record gate was assured.

That night, I was sitting in my room listening to a Spanish music program on the radio. I had donned my pajamas because of the extreme heat. A call came in from the desk clerk informing me that two men were eager to see me. Although it was late, I told him to send them up to my room.

They introduced themselves as Miguel and Arturo Mendez, brothers who had lived in Brooklyn prior to making Venezuela their home. They told me they were bookmakers. The Spanish are heavy bettors on sports events and thousands of bolivas, they said, had been wagered with them on the fight. They themselves were betting heavily on Chavez to win.

“We know you well, Nat,” said Miguel, the taller and huskier of the pair, “and we come to see if everything is all right.”

“In what respect?” I inquired.

“Simply that we don’t want to lose our money. Archibald is a big favorite and we want to see that our man doesn’t lose. The Americans here have bet a lot on him.”

“You want me to protect your money by giving the decision to Chavez? Is that it?” I angrily asked.

“You guessed it right,” replied Miguel. “Are you with us? It will be well worth your gamble.”

With that Miguel nodded to his brother, who took out a wad of bills from his coat pocket and placed it on my bed.

I brushed the money to the floor and ordered the men out of the room.

“Not so quick,” snapped Arturo. “You’re making a big mistake. Think it over,” he said, as he gathered up the money, and then taking a gun from his pocket, twirled it close to me as a sign of what might happen if I didn’t cooperate.

“We’ll go now but we’ll call you at ten tomorrow. We want our answer then,” Miguel said as they left.

I reached for the telephone, got the chairman of the boxing commission at the Caracas Country Club, and told him what had happened.

“I’m not going to referee,” I informed him. “I’m coming up to see you, and I’ll return the $600 that was advanced to me for my flying fare.”

There were two other members of the boxing board with him when I arrived.

“You are the drawing card as much as your champion,” he said after hearing my story. “You cannot turn us down. I will see that you have full protection. A policeman will be with you all day tomorrow and you’ll have plenty of protection at the arena.”

We then drove up to the promoter’s house and from there back to the Hotel Majestic, where I repeated my story to Sammy Richman and Losada. I was finally persuaded to change my mind and accept the assignment.

The next day at the arena, I was placed in a small room during the preliminaries and was closely guarded by two armed soldiers. At a given signal, I was ushered to the ringside and entered the ring as Chavez and Archibald came down the aisles.

Gendarmes and soldiers encircled the ring at four-foot intervals throughout the fight for my protection should the decision go contrary to the wishes of the two former Brooklyn thugs, who had apparently learned about sure-thing gambling during their stay in New York.

For four rounds Archibald battered Chavez all over the ring. I had visions of what would happen after the fight and sweated it out, but there was nothing I could do about it, since I was determined to give an honest decision, come what might.

Early in the fifth round, Chavez caught Archibald with a right to the jaw that staggered the American. He gave Archibald a sound beating throughout the round and that was the turning point of the fight.

The high altitude had affected Joey to such an extent that he had shot his bolt in those first four sessions, and thereafter he was at the mercy of his opponent In the last two rounds, Archibald could scarcely raise his arms and when the final gong sounded, I quickly lifted the hand of Simon Chavez, the winner.

The scene that followed was something to remember. Chairs were broken by partisan enthusiasts in the wild rush for the ringside. Hats were tossed into the air. Wild shouts, as only the Spanish can screech and shout, rent the air.

And there I was, resting against the ring post, my uniform wet from perspiration, but happy in the knowledge that I had defied the gangsters who tried to have me fix that fight and that my presence had helped bring in a gate of $36,700, a record.

Nine months later, the same promoter paid Jack Dempsey $5,000 and two round trip tickets for himself and Ned Brown, his publicity man, to come to Caracas to referee the fight between Chavez and Sixto Escobar, of Puerto Rico. It was expected that the presence of the great Manassa Mauler would add greatly to the figures grossed by Archibald and Chavez, with me as referee, but the fight was a complete flop. The gate reached only $18,432, and the promoter went in hock for plenty.

They couldn’t understand what had happened, but the answer was simple. Dempsey reached Caracas a day before the fight, thus preventing the promoter from publicizing his presence, whereas I was on the job a week in advance, went on the air to help the show, appeared daily at the training camps, and even wrote stories which were translated into Spanish.

The incident that caused me the most personal embarrassment occurred during my visit to Havana during the winter of 1958. I had received an invitation from the Cuban government through General Fernandez y Miranda, head of the Cuban Sports Commission, to attend the dedication of the new Havana stadium, the most beautiful and completely equipped arena I have ever seen. I had visited General Miranda, President Batista and Ernesto Azua, chairman of the Cuban Boxing Commission, a few weeks before to arrange the program for the sports carnival scheduled for that week.

Unfortunately, my presence was commented upon in a six-page article entitled “Unhappy Cuba’s Cockeyed Week” in the March 6 issue of LIFE magazine. Among the many photos was one of General Miranda and me which bore the caption “Slot king is Batista relative, Fernandez y Miranda, here talking with boxing historian Nat Fleischer.” Needless to say, this caused me considerable embarrassment as the article was an exposé of mobster activities in the Cuban capital. There was nothing in the story to indicate that I had any connection with gambling in Havana, but the intimation was there.

I was besieged by calls for days following the article’s appearance. Friends and acquaintances joshed me continually about my association with racketeers, and to each I had to explain that my appearance in Havana was on behalf of sports and in no way connected with gambling. Through my work as a journalist I have met many of the mobsters mentioned in the Life story, as most of them were New York’s top shots of the Prohibition era. They are now firmly entrenched in the Nacional, Riviera and Capri hotels running their investments into gigantic fortunes.

As for General Miranda, I know him only as a member of President Batista’s cabinet in charge of physical education and sports. He has frequently visited Madison Square Garden and The Ring office and is a most charming man. I wasn’t aware that he was “king of the slot machines,” in Havana, but I do know that he is one of the six finest shots in Central America, where he holds many records, not only for shooting but for track and field and amateur boxing and wrestling.

It should be noted that through General Miranda’s efforts there is far less juvenile delinquency in Havana than there is in New York. A little more of the Cuban athletic spirit and enthusiasm for boxing, baseball, basketball and swimming would undoubtedly be welcome in America’s largest city.

The sports carnival itself was marred by a tragic opening day accident in the Gran Premio, a 315 mile automobile race. Fidel Castro’s rebels had kidnaped Fangio, Argentina’s great road champion, in the hopes that his absence would prevent this major event from taking place, but the race got underway after an hour-and-a-half postponement.

The objective of the rebels seemed to be attained a few minutes later, however, when the car of Armando Garcia Cifuentas skidded on an oily stretch and crashed into the crowd, leaving a toll of seven persons dead and thirty-seven injured. The race ended in confusion.

That morning I was in the Nacional Hotel with Truman Gibson, Secretary of the International Boxing Club, which sponsored the boxing show held two days later, when the telephone rang and a voice asked:

“Is that Nat Fleischer, The Ring editor?”

“Yes. Who is this please?”

Instead of answering the voice continued:

“You know what happened to Fangio?”

“Yes,” I replied. “What about it?”

“Well you also a big shot—you in boxing. You are helping Batista. Look out.”

And with that statement, down went the receiver with a bang.

I laughed and Truman asked me what was so funny. I repeated the conversation and added that someone is playing a prank.

“Prank, hell,” he quickly answered. “Watch your step. That guy means business. You’ve had a big part in arranging the details for the show here. I think you’ll find it safer in the Casino than in this lobby.”

I paid little attention to the threat, assuming, then, that it all was a joke. Now I’m not so sure.

Nothing did happen. I attended the opening of the sports arena, where, instead of the full house expected, less than 10,000 were present. Many were secret service men, police from the security bureau, and men of the armed forces, since the government, like the folks who might have attended had the rebel scare not kept them away, had been warned that the building would be bombed. As each spectator entered the arena, he was searched for arms—not a very pleasant way to start an evening’s outing!

As for the main event, which had World Champion Joey Brown pitted against Orlando Echevarria, champion of Cuba and Central America, it lasted less than a round. The Cuban was counted out in two minutes and five seconds. The rest of the program, which featured two Latin-American championships, was exceptionally fine and thrilling.

23 A DREAM COME TRUE

As a youngster, I thought that traveling in the Orient was reserved for books and dreams—or Marco Polo. Yet as a grown man I found myself in the land of my dreams. I may say now that my childhood fancies did not measure up to the dazzling reality: the violent contrasts of fabulous wealth and unbelievable squalor; the customs so strange to me; the glorious color of temples and palaces; the beautifully exotic land itself.

Early in 1954, I received a cable from Brigadier General Pichai Kullavanijya inviting me to visit Bangkok as the guest of the Thailand government for a world bantamweight championship fight that had been arranged for May 2 between Jimmy Carruthers of Australia, the titleholder, and Chamrern Songkitrat, Orient champion, a young Thai sublieutenant of police. I accepted, and when I left for the scene of action, it was my first flying trip around the world. I have since taken several.

The trip was an eventful one but it was Thailand, more than any other country I visited, that impressed me. Its beautiful temples; its barefooted priests with their yellow loose robes, an umbrella in one hand and a bag of food in the other; naked children roaming the roads; people of many races crowding the colorful market places; three-wheeled vehicles jamming the streets with their fares—they left an impression I shall never forget. Hong Kong with its mixed races, its crowded thoroughfares, its beautiful fragrant flower market, and its poverty; Tokyo with its pretty kimono-dressed women; Manila with its reminder of the atrocities that befell its inhabitants during the Japanese invasion; ancient Asia Minor cities with their historic biblical shrines; the ruins of Athens; Istanbul with its Byzantine architecture; beautiful Rome and Paris; busy London, colorful Stockholm, Copenhagen, Antwerp, and Amsterdam—they all hold the tourists’ interest, but not like Siam. I enjoyed my visit to each, but Bangkok left the greatest impression.

Let me tell you about the stage setting for the two championship bouts I saw there. In a scene unparalleled in ring history, a scene that was reminiscent of the historic Dempsey-Tunney world heavyweight championship bout in Philadelphia, a gathering of 59,760 persons paid 5,000,700 ticals, $227,304.90 in American money, to see Carruthers retain his throne by a hairline margin and, following his victory, announce his retirement. Unlike championship bouts in other countries, this one was limited to twelve rounds. I arranged it so.

Those who witnessed the Dempsey-Tunney contest in Philadelphia can imagine what we encountered in Bangkok by picturing a tropical storm that started three days before the fight, drenched the spectators who braved it, made a lake out of the ring, and flooded the muddy streets over which thousands trekked to the National Stadium.

Bulbs from the overhead lighting system crashed to the canvas from time to time, forcing temporary halts to the fight while a broom brigade I had organized swept the glass and water from the ring. It was the first championship fight staged in that country, and the sports-loving folk of that little kingdom went all out to see it. As the guest of the Thailand government I was appointed overseer of the affair, and in view of the unbelievable conditions under which the contest was staged, I granted permission for the boxers to enter the ring in their bare feet to lessen the danger by making the footing more firm.

I had never seen anything like it before. Dignitaries from Thailand and other nations, most of them dressed in their native garb; nobility from many lands; fight fans who came to the scene by foot, bicycle, tricycle, horse back, auto, train, and wagon—a reminder of the picturesque scenes portrayed in stories of bare-knuckle fights in England—all headed for the Stadium, the national sports arena. Traffic was so congested that it took me more than an hour to cover less than a mile from the Government Resident Palace, where I lived for a month, to the arena.

The mass of humanity, trudging through the streets unmindful of the adverse conditions or the ruin of their colorful garments, was a picture to behold: the varicolored holiday dress of the Siamese, Hindus, Japanese, Chinese, and other Asiatics in contrast to the conventional Western dress of the Australians and Americans, many of whom were from our government agencies.

Between weighing-in time and the fight, thousands visited the Emerald Buddha Temple where the scene was most impressive. Hundreds gathered within its walls. We knelt in prayer with shoes parked outside—the native custom. When I emerged, the rain was coming down so heavily that I pleaded with Carruthers to have the fight postponed, but he wouldn’t think of it.

“Let’s get it over with,” he said. “I’ll take my chances.”

Since I had the final decision, I held a confab with the principals and the government officials, and it was decided that a postponement would be dangerous: because of the housing shortage it would be impossible to care for the many visitors. The bout went on. We called it “the Battle of the Typhoon.”

I sat through the fight with my clothes soaked. In spite of an army raincoat I had borrowed, the water flowed down my body, yet I enjoyed the affair more than any I had ever witnessed. When the fight was over, before we were able to get to the military car that had been assigned to me, we walked almost knee-deep through a sea of mud for half a mile, and when we got to the Resident Palace, my suit had shrunk to such an extent that my valet found it necessary to slit the trousers to remove them. I couldn’t use my shoes and coat again.

When the contest was over, Referee Bill Henneberry of Australia, the only official, quietly raised the hand of Carruthers, “the winner and still champion.”

It was a very close affair, and many in the vast arena booed the verdict. Never having attended a fight in the Orient before, I was expecting a riot momentarily. But fast thinking on the part of the defeated young boxer turned what might have been a disaster into a wild ovation.

Chamrern quickly took the microphone from the announcer, held up his hand for silence, and standing in mid-ring he said in his native tongue:

“My dear friends, I am proud to have been able to bring fame to my country by being the first Thai boxer to contend for the world bantamweight championship, and I am personally satisfied that the decision was fair and beyond doubt. If I am not sorry, my friends and countrymen, why are you?”

The sportsmanlike remark was greeted with thunderous applause, and eventually restored decorum. At a banquet the following day, tendered in honor of High Police Commissioner Delaney of New South Wales and myself, General Phao Sriyanonda, Director General of the National Police and later Thailand’s Prime Minister, presented Songkitrat with an advanced rank in the Police Department, and to me he gave a handsome silver cocktail set with other gifts of silver for my daughter.

A few months after Carruthers had announced his retirement, the Thailand government again requested that I act on its behalf in arranging a bout to obtain Carruthers’ successor. Since Songkitrat had already gone twelve rounds with Carruthers, and Robert Cohen of France was recognized throughout the world as the leading challenger, I brought the pair together with the consent of the European Boxing Federation, the New York Commission, and the National Boxing Association. The story of how that bout was arranged is well worth telling.

With the crown vacant, the Thailand government contacted me while I was in London and requested that I offer Cohen 10,000 pounds sterling ($28,000), tax free, with all expenses for himself and his managers, if he would agree to meet Songkitrat for the title. Before starting negotiations, as a member of the Advisory Board of the World Boxing Championship Committee, I contacted its members and obtained their consent. Then I did the same with the European Boxing Federation, the New York Commission, and the National Boxing Association, and when I got the green light from all, I flew to Paris to see Cohen’s manager. He asked me to discuss the matter with his partner, Robert Diamond, in London.

With the guarantee agreement set, I drew up a contract which called for the contest to be staged on September 19, 1954, in Bangkok, with Teddy Waltham, secretary of the British Boxing Board of Control, as neutral referee at a fee of one thousand dollars. A Thai official and myself were to act as judges. With this set, and accompanied by Diamond, I went to the Thailand Embassy in London, and there the Ambassador affixed his signature on behalf of his government, Diamond signed for Cohen, and I signed for the World Boxing Championship Committee, of which I am an honorary member.

Thus for the first time in the history of boxing, an Ambassador signed a contract for a boxing match. I was proud of my achievement and prouder still of the manner in which the affair was handled.

Boxing received its greatest recognition in recent years when Their Majesties King Bhumibol Adulyadej and Queen Sirkt, the Thai cabinet, ambassadors and ministers from foreign countries, with high-ranking officers from the Allied Forces stationed in the Far East, all sat in a specially constructed grandstand to watch the fight—despite another torrential rain that kept up until about half an hour before the bout went on.

A gathering of 69,819 that paid $200,952.24 saw the Thai champion go down to defeat.

As on my first visit, I was quartered in the spacious Resident Palace, a lone occupant except for a valet, two maids, and a cook to look after my comfort. I was given a military car and chauffeur and an English-speaking Police Lieutenant aide, throughout my stay. Outside my residence, two sentries were on duty day and night.

On the day of the fight, despite another heavy tropical rain storm, as before, all roads leading to the battleground were jammed throughout the day. People headed for the stadium on foot and in vehicles of various sorts, and to take care of the heavy traffic, two thousand police and members of the armed forces were brought in from the provinces to help the Bangkok force. People from the bordering countries of Cambodia and Laos crowded streets already full of Chinese, Hindus, Filipinos, and Siamese.

Outside the stadium, hawkers were carrying huge rolls of cellophane and plastic sheets, which they cut and sold in large strips to take the place of rain coats. These street merchants reaped a harvest. Their merchandise went like hot cakes at 15 bahts (50 cents) a strip. With these over their heads and shoulders, the fans entered the arena and sat in varicolored chairs—blue, white, brown, red, orange, and yellow—arranged in rows.

The day following the bout, General Phao gave a dinner in my honor at which the French Ambassador and many government notables were present. At this affair His Majesty awarded me the Fourth Class of the Most Exalted Order of the White Elephant, the highest honor that may be conferred on a foreigner. The white elephant is a sacred animal in the land of Buddha, and Buddhism is Thailand’s national religion. It is sacrilegious to kill a white elephant—the symbol of purity.

In addition, I received a silver and gold combination humidor and pipe rack, built around the head of a tiger that had been shot by General Phao, and a stuffed tropical bird whose gay plumage and song I had admired in the palace garden the previous day. He also presented me with a necklace and bracelets of beautiful Siamese silver for my daughter, Joan.

I shall always recall the wonderful greeting I received on this second visit to Bangkok. As our Pan-American plane approached the field, we could see hundreds of children waving American and Thai banners, and as the plane landed, a roar went up. It was as much a surprise to me as it was to the others to hear Captain Max Webber announce:

“Will all passengers kindly remain seated while a guest of the Thai government gets off the plane first.”

That guest, I soon learned, was me. As I stepped out of the plane, General Pichai and General Mora, headed a large delegation of government officials who had come to escort me. Applause and shouts of “Our Uncle Nat is here,” made me feel very much at home.

I was swamped with garlands, each made up of fragrant flowers with red, white, and blue ribbon holding them together. So heavy was the load across my neck that I requested to be permitted to hold some. There was a military escort of motorcycles and jeeps, followed by fifty cars and buses, each flying the American and Thailand flags, and banners blazing the words “Welcome Our Uncle Nat Back to Thailand.”

It was an amazing tribute to boxing since I was representing the sport.

At dinner that evening General Pichai asked if I would like to see Siamese boxing. What a question! What baseball is to the Americans, cricket and soccer to the British, and Sumo to the Japanese, hand-and-feet fighting is to the Thai folk. It brings out the throngs and has its idols of whom Songkitrat is one. Whether they win, lose, or draw, these heroes are decorated with wreaths, receive beautiful gifts of silver, and are showered with attention wherever they go.

It’s a sport in which the rules and regulations that govern international boxing are tossed aside. The code which governs it prohibits gouging, hair-pulling, and striking an opponent when he is down—otherwise everything goes. The contestants use their feet, knees, and elbows as offensive and defensive weapons, and once the action gets under way, fur flies. The bouts are usually thrillers, with not a moment of inactivity.

The foreign visitor watching a Siamese boxing match is not so much attracted by the hand-and-feet fighting as the opening ceremony that often lasts from five to ten minutes. It is called “Ram.”

It is a peculiar combination of praying, limbering-up exercises, an acknowledgement to the fans for their presence, and a salute to the opponent, instead of the usual handshake to which we are accustomed. The fighters first bow until their heads touch the ground. This is when the prayer to Buddha is made. Then each fighter twists his head toward his manager’s corner with another prayer, this time for the man who has trained the fighter. Next comes a salaam to the crowd. Then with head still bowed in reverence and with hand upraised towards heaven, the fighters recite a prayer for victory. The final stage of the ceremony is that in which the fighters prance around the ring like toe dancers and shadowbox as they have been taught by their masters. They move their hands in mystic waves, kicking their legs high, then each goes to the other’s corner and bows to his opponent.

A band of six musicians plays during this ceremonial prelude, and continues to play throughout the fight. The weird music is reminiscent of medieval days; and the entire “Ram” rites, I was informed, may be compared to the ceremonies attending the opening of athletic tournaments in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

With the conclusion of the ceremonies, the fighters are called to the ring center where the action gets under way. Each has a white band on his arm. It is known as the Holy Band or mongkol in Thai language, and is supposed to give strength and courage to the contestants. Beneath this band is a small charm, a tiny Buddha statue, or a pebble from the holy soil of a Buddha Temple.

The referee calls for time, and as soon as the fight gets under way, six musicians begin their quaint music with two high-pitched guitars, two oriental drums, and two flutes. This accompaniment is nerve-wracking to an American. Those accustomed to it would regard a match dull without it. The tempo speeds up as the bout progresses and the action in the ring remains rhythmic as the boxers keep pace with the musicians.

The Siamese boys make our boxers look like novices as far as their courage and ability to take punishment are concerned. They take a shellacking, giving and receiving blows, and European rules would call for quick disqualification.

24 THE FITZSIMMONS CLAN

The 1956 Olympic Games were over. My long stay in Melbourne, where I had gone to report the international boxing competition, was completed. Should I journey back to the States by way of the Far East, stopping off in cities familiar to me through previous visits?

That was a decision I had to make quickly because of the heavy transportation problem, and it didn’t take me long to do so.

I remembered a letter I had received from Timaru, New Zealand, from Betsy McKenna of the Club Hotel, whose mother was the patroness of the New Zealand Sports Association and whose father for many years was a prominent sportsman in the South Island. Shortly before his death, his daughter had invited me to visit Timaru if I went to the Olympic Games. This decided me: I would take a trip to New Zealand where famous American boxers had performed in the days of Eddie McGoorty, Jimmy Clabby, George Chip, Jeff Smith, and Billy Papke. I would visit Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch, and Timaru.

So on to Auckland I flew, a six-hour flight from Sydney; and from that point in the North Island as my headquarters, I headed down south, my final destination being Timaru, the home of many of the Fitzsimmons family.

Everywhere I went, friendly hands greeted me. Radio recording was a must in each of the cities where I stopped. I was on the air, on radio and television, a total of twenty-nine times, including six special recordings for the Government-controlled national radio—so great was the interest there in international boxing.

Timaru was my objective because of the many entertaining hours I had spent with Bob Fitzsimmons during his stage career. I was out to gather material about the Fitzsimmons family, and I obtained what I was after.

Two of the greatest boxing figures made their start in the Southern Hemisphere. Fitzsimmons in Timaru and Les Darcy in Maitland, New South Wales. These fistic stars were idolized in their homelands. Mention the name of Darcy or Freckled Bob in any pub, and you’ve started a discussion that may last for hours.

In my journeys through Australia and New Zealand, I met many sports enthusiasts who knew Les and Bob. Some at three score and ten have vivid recollections of the early days of these men whose names occupy a niche in the Fistic Hall of Fame.

When I visited Maitland to unveil the Darcy Memorial and spoke to a gathering of about 5,000 who had come from all parts of the Commonwealth to honor the memory of their idol, I thought I had met all of the pugilistic celebrities of the past and present who had any part in keeping boxing alive in that part of the world. But my subsequent trip to Timaru uncovered still more.

Timaru is a small dot on the southwestern coast of the mainland in the South Island of New Zealand. It is seldom in the itinerary of the tourists, and receives little attention even from New Zealanders.

Yet this little city of only 23,000 inhabitants, in the sheep farm district 100 miles from Christchurch and about 200 miles from Auckland, can stand on its own as an historic athletic center. It has a unique claim to fame in the sports field, having produced five of the world’s greatest athletic performers.

Remember Jack Lovelock, the famous 1500-meter king to whom Hitler presented an oak tree—part of the Olympic ceremonies at that time? Jack brought it home to Timaru, presented it to the high school, and today it stands 75 feet high in the school yard, as a memorial to this famed middle distance runner who died in America.

Then there was the race horse, Phar Lap, known as the “Red Terror”; it thrilled the turf world with its great performances before dying soon after being shipped to America.

And Dick Arnst, the world-renowned sculler, had few equals. He was born in Timaru and lived there all his life.

The little city that had less than 3,000 inhabitants when the Fitzsimmons clan first settled there, also boasted of a great billiard player, Clark McConachy. A master of the cue, he was one of the greatest in the game.

But Timaru bases its greatest claim to athletic fame on the first man to win three world championships—Bob Fitzsimmons, holder of the middleweight, heavyweight, and light heavyweight crowns. The city claims Bob as its very own, although the British have always been free to take credit for his accomplishments on the grounds that he was born in England.

The Timaru folk keep Ruby Robert’s name alive with stories about his escapades and thrilling anecdotes about the strength of his dad, the ability of his brother Jarrett as a mighty smithy, and the fighting spirit of the entire family. The citizens—average country people such as one meets in any farm land—are proud of the part their city has played in international sports.

They take you to the street where Bob first learned the blacksmith trade, point to a little camera shop now occupying what once was Fitzsimmons’ place of business; the alley adjoining where the horses were kept until ready to be shod; the little passageway, a short street now occupied by stores, where Bob made his start at fist tossing; the anvil on which he worked, now owned by Joe Stewart, blacksmith to the Timaru Harbor Board, and an old building where the sign that was displayed outside the original Fitzsimmons’ horse shoeing establishment hangs with the legend, “J. Fitzsimmons, Veterinary Shoeing Forge.”

Visiting the Fitzsimmons’ clan was a delight. So much has been written about Bob and his birthplace—Elston, Cornwall, England—and so little about his adopted city, where he worked as a blacksmith during his boyhood years, and learned the rudiments of the trade in which his fists were to gain for him an international reputation, that if my visit to Timaru did nothing more than to put it back on the fistic map, I will be delighted.

Bob’s picture hangs in almost every hotel lounge in Timaru. And you can’t get to first base if you try to convince them that Ruby Robert was a Cornishman and not a New Zealander. Mention of my itinerary to Kiwis invariably brought forth the statement: “That’s where Fitzsimmons lived. We’re proud of him.”

Ruby Robert’s first job, his relatives recalled, was in Reid’s and Grey’s Foundry in Stafford Street North, a short distance from where the Dominion Hotel now stands. Boxing had far greater appeal for him than any other sport, and he took to it like a duck to water. One of the old settlers I interviewed remarked:

“There’s many a time when Bob, left alone in the shop, would go down the alley to have a little go with the gloves. He didn’t have much difficulty getting some one to spar with him while another kept a lookout at the blacksmith shop.”

“Did the family ever speak of Jem Mace who is credited with having taught Bob the finer points of boxing?” I inquired of blind Jack Fitzsimmons. (A steel splinter had penetrated his right eye while he was working as a smithy.) He’d talk for hours about boxing and the prowess of his uncle if he could get a listener.

“Yes,” he replied. “His sister Catherine had a vivid recollection of Bob’s early days and often told us of the celebrities with whom Bob associated. Mace, she told us, was Bob’s teacher and a mighty good one. He had a night school where he taught boxing and Bob attended it after working hours.”

Continuing after a short pause, Jack said, “She told us that Uncle Bob began boxing at the age of fifteen, and our father said that Bob had engaged in three bare-knuckle bouts with heavyweights when he scaled only 142 pounds. Father, you know, was Bob’s brother and he, like Bob, was strong and vigorous. He had thin legs—a family trait, I believe; from the waist down, they were similarly built.

“I recall Dad saying that it wasn’t long after Mace took charge of Uncle Bob’s training that he was fighting all comers of any weight class in South Canterbury. Bob’s fame spread, and stories of his prowess drifted to Australia; at the age of twenty, he left Timaru for Sydney, where he fought in matches arranged by the great Larry Foley.”

I was amazed at the boxing knowledge of Jack Fitzsimmons. Blindness hadn’t affected his memory. He recalled dates and places which normally require research in The Ring Record Book for accuracy. I was shocked upon my return to America to learn that Jack died shortly after I had left for home.

Discussing Ruby Robert’s sense of humor, Jack Fitzsimmons remarked:

“Aunt Catherine told us that he grew up with plenty of it in his make-up. And from what we learned from our father and read in The Ring and elsewhere, his antics in his training camps and in his social gatherings portrayed the picture well. He was full of pranks and never was disturbed when they were played on him, Dad said. It was his easy-going temperament that enabled him to make friends wherever he went.”

Jack added, “You know when Uncle Bob was fighting in Australia there was little difference between amateurism and professionalism. When Mace arranged the affair in which Uncle Bob gained his first prestige as a boxer, ten other boxers competed in the tournament and the rounds weren’t limited as they are today when amateurs compete. A bout finished only when one was knocked out, yet the Mace tournament was advertised as an affair for amateurs.”

Wes Jack took out some mellowed newspaper clippings telling of Ruby Robert’s visit to Timaru, following his retirement from boxing. In one, Fitzsimmons tells of the time he won the New Zealand title.

“I didn’t have things easy,” he told his interviewer. “As a young man who weighed at the time less than 125 pounds, I had to face tough opposition with opponents far heavier. But I reached the top, although in so doing I had to fight men of all sizes and weights.”

Discussing the blacksmith shop, a story related by Bob’s brother, Jarrett, two of whose sons became heavyweight champions of New Zealand, held my attention. Jarrett, who died in Timaru at an old age, telling his sons about the power in the arms and shoulders of his brother, said:

“I’ve often been asked how brother attained his strength. I think it came from fighting and subduing crazy horses brought into our blacksmith shop. If there was anything Bob liked, it was to be assigned to shoeing a brute. He would remark:

“‘It strengthens my arms and legs when I’m kicked across the shop and it helps develop the sand in a man.’”

In The Ring museum in Madison Square Garden there is a letter from Fitzsimmons addressed to me. I had seen him in Chicago in 1914, at which time I interviewed him, and when I mailed the article to him, he added to his statement:

“The cave-men of the ring are extinct. Champions such as we had when I was in my prime are gone, never again to return. The champions of the future will be as children compared to the rough and ready battlers of twenty or more years ago. Fighting, like all other sports, is reaching out along lines of improvement. The men of today realize that boxing is more important than is slugging.

“They are beginning to see the advantages of knowing how to block and feint and those who still can retain their punch are the ones who will reach the top. You’ll find as the years pass that fighting will become more and more scientific and championships will change hands on points and not on knockouts.”

Those were the words of one of the greatest champions of all time. He foresaw many years ago the change that already has taken place.