THE LAST GREAT PRIZE-FIGHT
TOM SAYERS AND THE BENICIA BOY
The fight between Tom Sayers, Champion of England, and Heenan, the
giant American, was about the last conspicuous affair with bare
knuckles fit for place in any history of the Prize-Ring. There were,
no doubt, good bye-battles, but there is no record of them as such.
From first to last, in the oldest days of all, just as to-day, we look
to championship contests for representative form--and seldom find it.
One or both of the champions may be as good men as it is possible to
find, but the show that they put up when pitted against each other
is frequently poor when compared to the performance of a couple of
“unknowns.” But this battle, viewed from various angles, was a good one.
Tom Sayers, Champion of England, was challenged by the American,
Heenan, who came over with a bevy of supporters. The fight was arranged
to take place on Tuesday, April 17th, 1860; but the utmost secrecy had
to be preserved in order to avoid the police.
The following paragraph appeared in _The Times_ for April 2nd (This was
before the days of sensational and prominent headlines, and the reader
had to search for the news which interested him):--
“_The Forthcoming Prize-Fight._--Hertford, Saturday. This afternoon
Colonel Archibald Robertson, chief constable of the Hertfordshire
Police Force, made application to the justices assembled in petty
session at Hertford for a warrant to apprehend Thomas Sayers, the
‘Champion of England,’ and John Heenan, the American pugilist, in
order that they might be bound over to keep the peace....”
The gallant colonel failed to apprehend the delinquents, and at 4
a.m. on the great day an enormous special train steamed, under sealed
orders, as it were, out of London Bridge Station, carrying about a
thousand people, which number was more than trebled on the field of
battle. This was at Farnborough, near Aldershot. The actual meadow was
cunningly chosen, for it was practically surrounded by double hedges
and ditches, and was a difficult place to come at in a hurry: the idea
in the minds of the organisers being that if any body of men did try to
interfere, due notice would be given of the fact to the principals and
officials.
The fight began at 7.25 in the morning. A twenty-four foot ring was
formed. The men shook hands, and tossed for corners, Heenan winning and
naturally choosing the slight advantage of the higher side in a gently
sloping space and a position which put the sun in his antagonist’s
eyes. The American was the first to strip, and was seen to be an
enormous fellow, 6 feet 2 inches in height, with very long arms, a fine
deep chest, and perfectly trained. He combined with these magnificent
proportions much grace and freedom of movement. Sayers had a good look
at his man, nodded his head quietly, and then stripped himself. He
was only 5 feet 8 inches. His chest was not specially broad or thick,
nor did his arms give the appearance of unusual development. Only his
shoulders suggested where his wonderful hitting power came from. But he
was a hard little man, and he, too, was in perfect condition. On the
face of it, and to those spectators who were unacquainted with Sayers’s
previous performances or the history of the Ring (with its records of
Tom Johnson and Jem Belcher), it appeared once again to be an absurd
match. Heenan towered over his man and seemed to be about twice his
size in every dimension.
They took up their positions, and laughed at each other as they moved
round, each man to his right in order to avoid the other’s right hand.
Then Heenan led and just reached Sayers’s mouth, getting a hard reply
which, amidst loud applause, drew first blood. They sparred for a
little longer and then closed, when Sayers, as they used to say in
these days, “got down easily.” A man was not allowed by the rules to go
down without a blow, except in a close, in order to avoid punishment.
Their seconds sponged them down, gave them water to rinse their mouths
with, and they came up again. This time they were quicker to work.
Sayers looked at his huge adversary with perfect confidence in himself,
and the coolness of long experience and a great capacity. Mere size
troubled him not at all. He had fought and beaten big men before.
Heenan led and led again and then a third time, but on each occasion
Sayers threw back his head, and all three blows fell lightly. Then
the big man got closer and sent home one on the mouth which made the
English champion reel. But he returned at once to receive a whack on
the forehead which knocked him down in his own corner. This, the first
knock-down, did not trouble him in the least, though the Americans at
the ring-side naturally shouted their delight.
After the half-minute Sayers came up quite fresh, though he had a big
lump coming up on his forehead and his mouth was swollen. His footwork
was brilliant. He nipped in and out, avoiding the long arms and always,
when a blow did land, managed to be on the retreat, so that its force
was lessened. But the sun shining in his eyes was a trouble, and he
frowned and tried to work Heenan round so that he had his share of it.
Heenan, however, grinned, and held his ground. Then Tom Sayers darted
in to plant a hard body-blow, but caught a severe right which knocked
him down. Once more Sayers tried to get out of the sun, and failing,
closed and slipped down.
By this time he was a good deal marked, and there was a severe cut over
his eyebrow. Both remained excessively cautious, and all at once the
humour of it seized them and they put down their hands and roared with
laughter, again--small wonder it is that foreigners used to think us a
race of madmen, until--that is--the French began to play the same game.
(Only for the most part, the French take boxing very, very seriously.)
Suddenly Heenan steadied himself and shot out a straight left which
fairly caught the champion and, for the fourth time, knocked him down.
A large number of the spectators believed that Sayers was a beaten
man. For a large number of them had not seen him fight before, and had
no idea how much he could take. More experienced ring-goers watched,
patiently suspending judgment. And presently the inexperienced folk
were startled. Heenan sent out a smashing blow which Sayers entirely
avoided, jumping right back from it, instantly bounding in again and
delivering a terrific blow on his man’s eye. It was one of those
sliding, upward hits which almost split the American’s cheek before it
reached his brow, and it sent Heenan staggering away.
The rest did little to improve his appearance. He was bleeding
profusely, swollen and disfigured. Sayers was getting comfortably set.
He stopped a hard lead with his forearm, and dashing in, dealt out a
harder one; and then another which seemed almost to crush Heenan’s nose
and very nearly lifted him off his legs. Five-foot eight and six-foot
two. Not bad going.
In the seventh round, Sayers hit Heenan an awful blow which sent the
blood spurting from his nose. Heenan grabbed hold of his man to put
an end to this punishment, and Sayers got in some damaging body-blows
before he fell underneath.
“As well as can be expected,” thought Sayers to himself. Yes: he was
doing very nicely, but he was not quite as happy as he looked. How
long would it be before Heenan or his seconds spotted the truth.
Hadn’t they noticed yet that he was extremely shy of hitting with
his right--had been shy for the last two rounds? And in his previous
battles it was his right upon which he had depended for victory. One
really good right-hander from Sayers was commonly reckoned to be enough
for anybody. But he couldn’t use his right now. He had tried and it was
useless. That tremendous whack that he had stopped with his forearm
had numbed it at the moment, and he had thought nothing of it until he
tried to use it in offence. And then he knew that his right was out of
action. He thought at the time that the bone was broken. As a matter of
fact it was not, but a tendon was, which (for such intensely practical
purposes) was just as bad. The arm was also one mass of inter-running
bruises and fearfully swollen. So he held it across his chest in its
orthodox position, and it was all he could do to keep it there: and he
kept his face wooden and innocent and went on fighting with his left.
The enemy shouldn’t know before they must.
And round after round the little man came up smiling, relying on his
feet for defence and his left for attack. Heenan also grinned. They
were a good-humoured couple, as these couples of the Prize-Ring so
often were. Once he landed a horribly severe smasher on Heenan which
knocked him down, and instead of taking his rest for half a minute, he
went prying into Heenan’s corner to watch his seconds wiping away the
blood. He might learn something in that way, he thought, which would be
more valuable than thirty seconds on an another fellow’s knee. Heenan,
however, could take plenty of punishment, too, without complaining.
After this they fought a tremendous round which lasted nearly a quarter
of an hour, and at the end were so exhausted that both of them had to
be carried to their corners by their respective seconds. It had been
foolish, Sayers now realised, not to take the rest he was entitled to.
He must not play tricks like that again. He was greatly knocked about.
His mouth and nose seemed as though they had been knocked into one, but
his trick of throwing back his head as Heenan’s huge fist caught him
had done much to preserve his eyes.
Only once did he show a sign of anger. He drew back after a rally to
spit out blood, and the American onlookers laughed. That stung him, and
he dashed in again and gave Heenan a left which sent him reeling back,
and another and another. A fourth hit made Heenan reel where he stood,
so that with his right to follow up with Sayers might have knocked him
out of time. As it was, he dared not come too close, for he feared
being thrown upon his bad arm. But he shot out his left twice more, and
one on Heenan’s ribs sounded (so said _The Times_ correspondent) “all
over the meadow as if a box had been smashed in.” Blows given with
boxing gloves which sound loud and draw involuntary “Oh’s!” from the
spectators usually mean nothing at all. But sounding blows with a naked
fist, particularly on the body, may mean a good deal.
Now Sayers could no longer raise his arm, and it hung limp at his side.
Fortunately for him, Heenan was not an adept in the use of his own
right. It was maddening to him to stand there and hit and hit again
and to be able to make so little apparent impression on a man so much
smaller and with but one arm in action. And Heenan was now a terrible
sight. His face looked as though it were gashed with deep wounds, and
indeed Sayers’s sharp knuckles had lacerated the skin and the American
was bleeding terribly. And then he managed to land a very hard left,
which he shot in over Sayers’s awkward left-handed guard, and the
champion was knocked down. Then Heenan in the next round picked his
man clean off his legs and threw him. And immediately afterwards they
were both laughing at each other, neither in derision nor affectation.
It was a rare fight, and good fun in its somewhat rough way, and worth
laughing over. But one of the American’s eyes was now completely
closed. And he was getting hard put to it to see. But he knocked Sayers
down once more.
Up and at it again. Sayers hit his opponent with tremendous force, and
Heenan closed and then for the first and only time, forgetting his
arm for the moment, Sayers exerted himself and threw the giant down.
And he kept cool, watched his opportunities, and gave no chances.
Nevertheless, the twenty-first and twenty-second rounds ended in his
being knocked sprawling on the grass.
Heenan was fast going blind, and his backers yelled to him to keep
Sayers in the sun and to throw him. With those shouts of encouragement
in his ears he dashed at the champion and planted a tremendous
body-blow which knocked him down and nearly beat the senses out of him.
It was at about this time that several of the police found their way
through the crowd and began to come near the ring. But the huge
crowd did their utmost to make that approach a difficult one. Sayers
was getting weak, Heenan blind. It was really a race between the one
failing and the other. Once when Sayers retreated fast round the ring
with his man after him, Heenan managed to catch him and close and hit
him when on the ground. Cries of “Foul!” went up, but the referee ruled
that the blow was “struck in the heat of fighting” and was not to be
regarded as a foul. That excuse would not “wash,” as they say, nowadays.
[Illustration: _Drawn by G. Sharples_
_Eng^d. by Percy Roberts._
TOM SPRING.]
Heenan’s sight became worse, and once in his own corner he gave his own
second a stinger in mistake for Sayers. In the thirty-ninth round he
got Sayers’s head under his left arm when in a corner. He was too weak
to hit him severely whilst “in chancery,” but leant upon the stake and
held on to Sayers as though trying to strangle him. The champion could
not move his head, try and pull and twist it as he would, but with a
great effort he got his left free and from his awkward position planted
a couple of blows. Heenan then twisted round so that Sayers’s neck was
tight against the upper rope, and he leaned hard on it. The Englishman
gradually grew black in the face, and it was evident that he could
not breathe. Both the umpires called out, “Cut the rope,” and this
was promptly done. By the rules they should have directed the seconds
to separate the men, but no doubt they believed that this method was,
in the circumstances, hardly quick enough. The police at this moment
appeared at the broken ring-side, and the crowd surged in, leaving
only as much room as the men could stand up in face to face. Each now
knocked the other down, and then the police stopped the fight.
Heenan’s sight was bad and he had to be led away by the hand; but both
he and Sayers walked quite steady; Sayers declaring that he could have
gone on for another hour.
The fight had lasted for two hours and twenty minutes and the result
was declared a draw.
We are always brought up to believe that Sayers would have won without
any sort of doubt at all if they had been allowed to go on for a few
minutes longer. Naturally enough, that is the popular view, and the
one promulgated (to quote a voice that, so to put it, is still heard)
by William Makepeace Thackeray.
“I think,” he wrote in the _Cornhill_, “I think it is a most
fortunate event for the brave Heenan ... that the battle was a
drawn one. The advantage was all on Mr. Sayers’s side.... Now when
the ropes were cut from that death-grip, and Sir Thomas released,
the gentleman of Benicia was confessedly blind of one eye, and
speedily afterwards was blind of both. Could Mr. Sayers have held
out for three minutes, for five minutes, for ten minutes more? He
says he could.”
Thackeray is generally supposed to have been present at this fight and
indeed was reported so by at least one newspaper. In this article in
the _Cornhill_, he denies it, though in a somewhat involved fashion.
His indignation in the matter was much more forcibly expressed in
_Punch_ for April 28th, 1860, to which he contributed (anonymously):--
THE FIGHT OF SAYERIUS AND HEENANUS
A LAY OF ANCIENT LONDON
(Supposed to be recounted to his great-grandchildren, April 17th, A.D.
1920, by an Ancient Gladiator)
“... What know ye, race of milksops,
Untaught of the P. R.
What stopping, lunging, countering,
Fibbing or rallying are?
What boots to use the _lingo_,
When you have not the _thing_?
How paint to _you_ the glories
Of Belcher, Cribb, or Spring--
To _you_, whose sire turns up his eyes
At mention of the Ring?
* * * * *
Then each his hand stretched forth to grasp,
His foeman’s fives in friendly clasp;
Each felt his balance trim and true--
Each up to square his mauleys threw;
Each tried his best to draw his man--
The feint, the dodge, the opening plan,
Till left and right Sayerius tried:
Heenanus’s grin proclaimed him wide;
He shook his nut, a lead essayed,
Nor reached Sayerius’s watchful head.
At length each left is sudden flung,
We heard the ponderous thud,
And from each tongue the news was wrung,
Sayerius hath “First Blood!”
Adown Heenanus’s Roman nose
Freely the tell-tale claret flows,
While stern Sayerius’s forehead shows
That in the interchange of blows
Heenanus’s aim was good!
Again each iron mauley swung,
And loud the counter-betting rung,
Till breathless all, and wild with blows,
Fiercely they grappled for a close;
A moment in close hug they swing
Hither and thither round the ring,
Then from Heenanus’s clinch of brass
Sayerius smiling slips to grass!
... in each succeeding round
Sayerius smiling came,
With head as cool and wind as sound,
As his first moment on the ground,
Still confident and game.
How from Heenanus’s sledge-like fist,
Striving a smasher to resist,
Sayerius’s stout right arm gave way,
Yet the maimed hero still made play....
Fain would I shroud the tale in night,--
The meddling Blues that thrust in sight,--
The Ring-Keepers o’erthrown;--
The broken ring--the cumbered fight,--
Heenanus’s sudden, blinded flight,--
Sayerius pausing, as he might,
Just when ten minutes used aright
Had made the fight his own!
Alas! e’en in those brighter days
We still had Beaks and Blues,--
Still, canting rogues, their mud to fling
On self-defence and on the Ring,
And fistic arts abuse!
And ‘twas such varmint had the power
The Champion’s fight to stay,
And leave unsettled to this hour
The honours of the day!...”
Well, never mind about the canting rogues: we have seen Thackeray’s
opinion of the men’s chances and the popular opinion. Let us now see
what may be said on the other side.
A few days afterwards a correspondent, signing himself “Heavy-weight,”
wrote to the _Times_ pointing out that Heenan’s behaviour in the
thirty-ninth round was fair by the Rules,[3] though the Rules were
quite unnecessarily barbaric. He goes on to show that Heenan’s
partisans were in the proportion of one to every ten of Sayers’s, and
that the American had not been fairly treated. “If,” he says, “the
English party, the stronger, had been anxious that the fight should
go on, I think the doctrine of probabilities leads us to suppose that
it would have gone on; if the American party, the weaker, fearing
their man would be beaten, had wished it to be stopped, I think the
same doctrine points out to us that their wishes would not, in all
probability, have been gratified.”
And when we remember that the police first appeared on the outskirts of
the crowd, just at a time when Sayers was getting a good deal the worst
of it, and a very long time before they finally forced their way to
the ring-side, and that they did so just at the moment when Sayers was
under Heenan’s arm, we are bound to admit the force of “Heavy-weight’s”
contention. It is quite possible that Sayers _would_ have won the fight
if it had been allowed to continue, but I don’t fancy that his backers
thought so.
It is interesting to know that after this battle the editor of _The
Times_ received many anonymous contributions to a testimonial for
Sayers. The amounts received varied from a shilling’s worth of stamps
to notes for £25, and many of the subscribers wrote to say they had
never seen a prize-fight, but desired to express their gratification at
the splendid courage of the champion in defending the belt.
PART II
GLOVES
CHAPTER I
PETER JACKSON AND FRANK SLAVIN
It is appropriate to begin the second part of this book, which deals
with Boxing in its modern sense, with an account of a fight described
by all who saw it as the best ever seen. It took place thirty years
ago, and things that happened thirty years ago are apt to be,
superlatively, the best or the worst according to the point of the
story. There seems to be no doubt, at all events, that the encounter
between Frank Slavin and Peter Jackson was the best ever seen at the
National Sporting Club.
Frank Slavin, as we have seen, was one of those boxers of the
transition period who overlapped. He had fought both with bare knuckles
and with gloves. Both he and Peter Jackson were Australians, and both
claimed the championship of that country. The contest at the National
Sporting Club was said to be for the World’s Championship, but that is
a phrase which on no occasion means very much. All that matters for our
present purpose is that the match was an important one between two fine
and evenly matched men.
Peter Jackson has been called the “first black Gentleman.” He was born
in the West Indies in 1861, and went as a lad to Australia, where,
in Sydney, he was a fellow-pupil with Slavin of Larry Foley, who in
turn had sat at the feet of Jem Mace. Indeed, in the past, Slavin had
himself given Jackson lessons in boxing. The black had only once been
beaten, and in 1891 he had fought a draw of sixty-one rounds with
James J. Corbett. In those days an unlimited number of rounds--that
is, a fight to a finish--had not been prohibited in all the states
of the Union, and this remaining custom of the Prize-Ring was much
abused. The battle took place at the California Athletic Club, at San
Francisco, for a purse of 10,000 dollars. It was a poor affair. Jackson
hit straight, Corbett crocked. But the white man was cleverer than the
black at avoiding punishment by clinching at the psychological moment.
Often he refused to break away until the hissing of the crowd became
a positive menace. For the last fifteen rounds there was no boxing at
all. The men were utterly exhausted: Corbett had hurt an arm, two of
Jackson’s ribs were broken. The referee at last declared the fight a
draw. He might just as well have done so much earlier.
Every one who came in contact with him liked Peter Jackson for a quiet,
well-behaved, sportsmanlike fellow without the slightest brag or bounce
about him, which in their worst manifestations are so characteristic of
his race. He was known for a first-rate boxer, and Mr. Eugene Corri,
the well-known referee, declares that he was the best boxer he has ever
seen. He stood 6 feet 2 inches and weighed 13 stone 10 lb. in perfect
condition, against Slavin’s 6 feet 1 inch and 13 stone 6 lb. There
was only a year’s difference in their ages: both men had been finely
trained, though some, disappointed in the result, say that Slavin was
a shade over-trained. He was a big-boned, square-jawed rock of a man,
hairy and ferocious: while Jackson’s skin shone like black marble.
The match took place on May 30th, 1892. The National Sporting Club had
not been long founded, and its theatre was packed to its extremest
limit. The contest was to be one of twenty three-minute rounds, and
four-ounce gloves were used. Jackson’s chief physical advantage was a
slight superiority in reach, but it was known that Slavin’s strength
was prodigious, and his right-hand punch on the ribs, his best blow,
was famous and terrific. He was a harder hitter than Jackson, and
though up to the end of the sixth round his blows were not so many as
his antagonist’s, they meant more. Before the men entered the ring
that night, Slavin said (Mr. Corri tells us in his book, _Thirty Years
a Boxing Referee_): “To be beaten by a black fellow, however good a
fellow, is a pill I shall never swallow.”
It is unwise to say that sort of thing.
It has been said, too, that Slavin taunted Jackson in the ring. However
that may be, the splendid black man was confident in his quiet,
unassuming way, and he at all events held his tongue. His method of
fighting too, was orthodox and cool. When at the beginning of the first
round Slavin came charging at him, Jackson put out his long straight
left, and the white man was shaken by the blow. It was his policy
to get close to Jackson so that he could bring off his tremendous
body-blow. It was Jackson’s policy to keep him away and to box at long
range, and he did this. Some young man had once said to Jackson at
the club: “They tell me you black chaps don’t like being hit in the
stomach?” “Can you,” Jackson replied, “tell me of any white man who
does?” But there is no doubt that negroes are, as a rule, weaker in
the stomach than white men, unless like Jack Johnson, the more recent
champion, they especially cultivate the abdominal muscles. No doubt
Jackson knew, too, that one of Slavin’s blows was worth two of his: but
he boxed with quiet assurance and defended himself with vigilant care.
Again and again Slavin rushed at him and tried to force his way close
in: again and yet again Jackson propped him off, reserving his strength
while Slavin dissipated his. Slavin was the favourite when the men
entered the ring, but it is notorious that the greatest gamblers will,
in boxing, back a white man because he is white.
Peter Jackson did not entirely avoid all the white man’s blows, but his
footwork was wonderfully good, and even when he failed to guard against
them, he generally managed to be moving away when a blow landed, so
that most of its power was lost. He seldom gave Slavin a chance to put
in one of his regular smashers. And in the meantime the accumulated
force of the black’s many but lesser hits, together with the energy
wasted by Slavin in futile charges across the ring, weakened the white
man. Up to the sixth round it was any one’s fight, though Peter Jackson
was an easy winner on points up to that time. But what are points,
after all, against one punch whether it is deliberate or “lucky,” which
ends a fight? And Jackson very nearly fell a victim to just such a
punch. He had never relaxed his vigilance, he never presumed on his
opponent’s weakness. He attacked when he saw a safe opening, and for
the rest contented himself with holding Slavin well away with that
beautiful long straight left. And yet at the end of the sixth round he
was all but beaten. Frank Slavin was getting desperate. The men were
fighting for a big money prize, but it is unlikely that the £1750 which
would be the winner’s share was foremost in the white man’s mind as he
strove in the ring. Jackson was a good black fellow, but he was black,
and Slavin’s pride of race was very strong in him. Rightly or wrongly,
he felt that there was a peculiar shame in accepting defeat from a
nigger. But he knew that he would have to make haste. Good as his
condition was, these six hard rounds had taken much of his strength. He
drew every breath with labour: and though many of a boxer’s movements,
whether in offence or defence, are instinctive, the work was very hard
work, his light boxing boots were like the boots of a diver, his knees
shook a little as he stood still. He was very weary. But he meant to
win. He gathered himself up and hurled himself at Jackson, and by
sheer determination and weight forced the black across the ring to the
ropes, and then with all his weight behind it he sent in his tremendous
body-blow. Mr. Corri, who was sitting near the ring-side, tells us that
it “seemed to spring from the calves of his legs and upwards to the
muscles of his right shoulder and right arm.” And, “I have never seen
such an expression of consummate deadliness upon a human face as that
which spread across the features of Slavin at this crucial stage.”
The blow doubled Jackson up “like a knife.” It caught him just under
the heart and the sound of it was heard throughout the hall. The black
man gasped and reeled. The onlookers were completely silent save for
an involuntary “Oh!” which here and there forced itself to utterance.
Had Slavin hit Jackson but half a minute earlier in the round he must
have won. The black was helpless. Slavin must have finished him. As it
was, before the white man could follow his advantage, the round ended,
and Jackson had a minute in which to recover. In his corner, and loud
enough for Mr. Corri to hear him, Jackson said to his seconds, “If he
hits me like that again, I’m done.” And his seconds worked on him,
sponging, massaging, fanning, doing all that they could to restore him.
When time was called for the seventh round Jackson, though no doubt
weak, had recovered. He _appeared_ to be strong and fit again, and
appearances in these circumstances are beneficially deceitful. And in
despite of his momentary elation in the last round, Frank Slavin came
up tired.
But Jackson had to be careful, and he knew it. He did not lead, but
kept his guard rigid, and “used the ring”--that is, by brilliant
footwork he kept out of danger, avoiding the ponderous and slackening
rushes of his adversary. When the eighth round started, Peter Jackson
had quite recovered, and Slavin was slower and more weary than ever.
His weakness was evident. But it must not be thought that his was a
mere exhibition of brute strength run to seed. Far from it. The white
man boxed well, and he, too, kept out of danger. In the next round,
however, Jackson sparred with great brilliancy, piling up many points,
while just before the end he shot out a particularly good left. Slavin
was obviously desperate now, and grew careless of the punishment he
received, staking everything upon the chance of bringing off another
mighty blow.
And yet weary as both were by now, they came up quite jauntily for the
tenth round. Slavin shot out a fierce left, but it only just touched
Jackson as he moved back. He rushed at the black man again, and this
time Jackson avoided him altogether. Thrice Slavin dashed in with
furious left and right quickly following each other. And the third time
he tried this, instead of stepping back, Peter Jackson came in to meet
him, and ducking Slavin’s blows, planted his own left, followed by the
right in immediate succession, on the white man’s jaw. The second blow
came over with terrific force, and Slavin reeled. But he still stood
and swung wildly at his man without thought of guarding, his senses
almost gone, and only a desperate pluck to keep him from falling.
Jackson followed him and rained blows upon him, until Slavin stood
still hardly able to lift his hands. Whereupon Jackson, good sportsman
that he was, turned to Mr. Angle, who was refereeing the match, and
raised his eyebrows. “Experience,” say the Annals of the National
Sporting Club, “has repeatedly shown that there is always a punch left
in a big man, even when he appears disabled. Dallying at such a crisis
is dangerous. Jackson, however, turned round in the most chivalrous
manner and looked at the referee. The rules of the game were beyond
dispute. Mr. Angle said: “Fight on.”[4]
There was nothing more to be said: “I must finish him, then--sorry,
Frank,” and with obvious distaste he went in. Even then in his anxiety
not to hurt the man he did not hit hard, and Slavin took five blows
before he went down. His courage was exemplary. He could so easily have
fallen. He stood, however, and took the blows like the man he was. At
the fifth he fell forward on his knees and in a blind, instinctive
effort to rise again, not knowing what he was doing, he clutched Peter
Jackson round the legs. But he could not rise. The ten seconds were
counted. For the first time in his life Frank Slavin was beaten, for
the first time knocked out.
And Peter Jackson took his victory quite calmly. Without a trace of
swagger he returned to his corner, and, later, helped to carry Slavin,
who was really ill, out of the ring.
CHAPTER II
JAMES J. CORBETT AND JOHN L. SULLIVAN
The last three years of the nineteenth century were rich in great
encounters, or so, at any rate, it seems to us now. The transition
period, when bare-knuckle fighting had degenerated into the most sordid
and secret ruffianism, had passed; and a virtually new sport had taken
its place. And of all the giant names associated with Boxing as we
understand the word, those of Corbett and Sullivan are immortal.
A boxer’s life, as a boxer, is a very short one, so that though both
of these men have long since passed into the mythology of the Ring,
both of them, were both alive, would be, at the time of writing, but of
middle age.
James J. Corbett was a highly skilled heavy-weight whose title to fame
as a scientific boxer has been much obscured by the fact that he began
life by being a bank clerk. This genteel avocation had not formerly
been mentioned in conjunction with the Ring, and much was made of the
coincidence both in America and England. Corbett was not behindhand
in fostering the impression of social superiority. And his nicknames
of “Pompadour” and “Gentleman Jem” given him for the arrangement of
his hair and his charm of manner, tended rather to overshadow his real
merits. This is generally the case with boxers who assume or have
assumed for them (by their business managers) airs which have nothing
to do with the matter in hand. It is very amusing, when you think
of it, how the lovers of boxing have always made implicit apologies
for the sport by drawing attention to the extrinsic merits of its
exponents. It is perfectly true that far more professional boxers have
been blacksmiths or porters or dockers--“working-men,” in fact--than
bank clerks or actors, but at this time of day such comparisons are
surely irrelevant.
What matters most to us now is that Corbett was a first-rate boxer.
He was a Californian, born in San Francisco in 1866. During the
period of clerkdom he won various amateur competitions, and at the
age of eighteen, turned professional. In 1889 he beat Joe Choynski--a
very powerful slogger--thrice. The first of these battles lasted for
twenty-eight rounds and was a particularly fierce one. Corbett was
now generally recognised as a supremely scientific boxer. For so big
a man his speed was prodigious, and the skill with which he used his
feet amazing. He had the build of an all-round athlete, stood six feet
one inch, and weighed thirteen stone in hard condition. He belonged to
the new generation of boxers, of men who had never fought with bare
knuckles. He had the distinction of being what is called a “scientific
pugilist” and not a “prize-fighter.” And, as already explained, he was
a person of some consequence, not a mere hewer of wood or shifter of
barrels, but a bank-clerk. No end of a fellow, in fact ... but he _was_
a good boxer.
His encounter with Sullivan took place at New Orleans on September 7th,
1892. It was supposed to be for the Championship of the World (as well
as some £9000), but the title should be qualified by the word “white.”
John Laurence Sullivan had not earned the full title of Champion,
because he had, one imagines for his own convenience, refused to fight
Peter Jackson. He “drew the colour-line,” as the saying is.
Sullivan was a mighty slogger, who had fought a great deal with his
naked fists, and was a man of tried courage and endurance, but he was
not a man of exceptional scientific skill. He was 5 feet 10½ inches in
height, and weighed a good deal over 14 stone. He was thirty-four years
of age.
[Illustration: John Heenan and Tom Sayers.]
In 1889 he had fought Jake Kilrain, a man with a great reputation, of
about the same age, weight, and height. This had been a bare-knuckle
affair and had lasted for seventy-five rounds, which occupied two hours
and a quarter. On that occasion Sullivan was in magnificent fettle,
and very often disdained to rest between the rounds, standing against
the ropes in his corner and chatting with his seconds. This fight also
took place at or near New Orleans, and as the month was July, it was
insufferably hot. Indeed it is a wonder that both men were not touched
by the sun. The actual place for the encounter was kept secret, as the
police were out to stop it. Indeed they chased the combatants all over
the country afterwards. Now Kilrain prided himself on his wrestling
and ended the first round by throwing Sullivan with great force to
the boards. But to his great astonishment thereafter Sullivan turned
the tables on him at that game, and threw him, at various periods of
the fight, no less than eleven times. But it was as a smashing hitter
that Sullivan had made his name, and it was by terrific hits that he
wore Kilrain down. In the third round Sullivan’s seconds claimed a
foul because they believed his man had hit him below the belt, but
this was not allowed by the referee. A few rounds later Kilrain drew
first blood by a splitting blow upon the ear, which resulted in making
Sullivan coldly furious, and in the next round, the seventh, he knocked
Kilrain down with a blow on the jaw which would certainly have ended
a glove-fight. After that Kilrain fell at every possible opportunity,
sometimes from a light hit, sometimes without being hit at all. He
fought very foully, stamping on Sullivan’s foot with his spiked shoes.
Indeed, the insteps of both of them were severely scored by spikes at
the end. It was not an exhilarating encounter. During a great deal of
it there was next to no fighting at all. Kilrain kept away and dropped
to avoid punishment. His blows, such as they were, became feeble. He
was badly beaten. In the forty-fourth round Sullivan was sick, and
Kilrain immediately asked him if he would give in. “I don’t want to
hit you in that condition,” he added. To which audacious observation
Sullivan replied: “You’re crazy. I’ve got you licked.” The “temporary
indisposition” did Sullivan a lot of good as a matter of fact, and
he fought all the better afterwards. In the seventieth round Kilrain
seized Sullivan by the legs and tried to throw him. It was a palpable
foul, but then the whole battle was foul so far as he was concerned;
and the referee was grossly to blame for allowing such a display to
proceed. In the end Charley Mitchell, Kilrain’s chief second, went over
to Sullivan’s corner and asked him if he’d give Kilrain a present if
he gave in. “Of course I will,” said Sullivan: and he was declared the
winner. He was very little marked, but Kilrain was both disfigured and
exhausted.
Now to return to the later fight, Corbett was much younger, longer
in the reach, quicker, in better condition, and much more scientific
than Sullivan. On the other hand, the old stager could hit a good
deal harder, had far more experience, and was two stone heavier. His
only chance lay in an early knock-out. And it was evidently Corbett’s
best plan to keep away from him and wear out his strength. Sullivan
was one of the glaring and stamping kind of boxers who beat timid men
before a blow has been struck. To hard-headed and insensitive people
it is a matter of perpetual astonishment that sheer bounce and bombast
should cow an opponent in the ring; but, as an odd and unhappy fact,
it frequently does so. But it took hard blows to beat Jem Corbett. He
knew what to expect from Sullivan. He knew that he would try to rush in
and beat down his guard and half kill him before the fight had fairly
started. And Sullivan did try this. But Corbett was a good boxer and he
had character, and he ducked and stepped aside, or stepped back, not
attempting to hit, only making sure that he was not hit.
There were people who called Sullivan a coward. He showed no cowardice
that day. Even in the fourth round his legs began to grow tired, but he
stood up like a man. In the fifth round he caught Corbett a terrible
blow on the throat, and he tried to follow it up with a mighty right
swing; but though hurt Corbett avoided the second punch and sent in
two hard smashes on his antagonist’s face. These he instantly doubled
with blows on the ribs and nose. Sullivan was dazed, and only the call
of time saved him. He was bleeding a good deal when he came up again,
but seemed refreshed and wisely kept away out of reach. The seventh
round showed that his condition was poor. He was breathing hard, and he
misjudged his distance. Corbett could hit him almost as he liked; but
Sullivan’s capacity for taking punishment was almost infinite.
Corbett saw now that he had the fight in hand if he were only careful.
Sullivan was weakening before his eyes, but he dare take no risks. Once
he sent in a right which closed the older man’s left eye, and after
that he drove in some good body blows, but he held his hand a little.
He must not go “all out” until there was no possibility left of a
“lucky” punch from Sullivan.
And yet the beginning of each round found the veteran fairly fresh
and always game. The minute’s rest and the attentions of thoroughly
competent seconds revived him wonderfully, so that Corbett began to
feel just a little uncertain. What punishment the man could take! Ah,
but “youth would be served,” and Corbett’s nimbleness of foot kept
him out of danger. The eleventh round started by Sullivan brilliantly
attacking with the left on the head followed by a hard right on the
body. For a moment the onlookers believed that Sullivan had turned the
tide in his own favour. Corbett was hurt: if only the old chap could
keep it up.... But the young one fell into a clinch--a thing he never
seemed reluctant to do in order to avoid punishment, and as they broke
away he sent a right to his opponent’s chin which drove his head back.
The next three rounds were slow. Corbett felt confident again, finally
confident. He was perfectly sure of his man by this time. Sullivan was
trying to ease the pace a little, for he was clearly done, and Corbett
would take things comfortably for a while to reserve his own strength,
keeping the big man well exercised, though, so that he should not
recover his wind. In the sixteenth round Corbett sent a left hook to
the body which visibly shook Sullivan, who was unable to land one blow
that mattered. True that in this round Sullivan pulled himself together
and aimed a blow which would certainly have stretched Corbett senseless
if it had landed on his jaw; but then Corbett entirely avoided it, and
sent home three spanking blows on the face without a return. And yet,
after being virtually a beaten man for several rounds, John Sullivan
was the better man in the seventeenth. He began by knocking Corbett
down, not severely it is true, for he caught him when he was for once
standing in a bad position with his feet almost level. And Corbett
found that he could hit hard still. Indeed he was a giant of strength,
and if his legs had been as strong as the rest of him he should have
won. He rushed Corbett to the ropes and forced him back against them
and hit him left and right. Corbett was profoundly thankful for
the call of time. He was very cautious when they came up again. He
remembered all his boxing, which is exactly what a weary man is often
incapable of. He knew that Sullivan felt that he might have a chance
yet by rushing him off his feet; and when the rush came he was ready.
Instead of stepping aside this time he timed his adversary nicely, and
sent out a right which took Sullivan on the jaw. It was a damaging
blow, but the veteran went on fighting. In the next round he put his
own right on Corbett’s jaw and spun him round, but failed to fluster
him or seriously shake him. For the rest of that round Corbett kept a
respectful distance and sparred. Then at the beginning of the twentieth
Corbett realised that his turn had come. He began at once by rushing
in his turn, got Sullivan up against the ropes, clinched to hold him
there, broke and banged his right on the body and shot a half-arm blow
to the side of the head. Sullivan was in a bad way. He reeled, and
Corbett came after him, but the call of time intervened. Sullivan was
now hopelessly beaten. He came pluckily up for the twenty-first round,
but could hardly put up his hands. Corbett smashed in a right swing
to his jaw and the veteran fell. The yells of the watching crowd, and
particularly those of his seconds in the corner, helped to steel his
resolution, and he dragged himself up at the sixth second. Corbett
immediately hit him again, thrice, and it was all over.
Youth had been served, and the boxer had beaten the slogger, which,
other things being equal, he invariably does.
CHAPTER III
ROBERT FITZSIMMONS AND JAMES J. CORBETT
Robert Fitzsimmons was in all respects the opposite number of Jem
Corbett. He was in the great tradition of fighting blacksmiths. A
rough, simple soul, who was perfectly content to be a prize-fighter.
Three or four years younger than Corbett, a Cornishman by birth, he
had emigrated to New Zealand with his people, as a lad. His first
successes were won in amateur competitions organised by Jem Mace, the
old bare-knuckle champion. Later on he went to Sydney and learned
under Larry Foley, himself a pupil of Mace. In 1890 he moved to San
Francisco, and for some years he carried all before him. He beat
Peter Maher, Jem Hall, Joe Choynski, and Dan Creedon. Then, in 1891,
he knocked out Jack Dempsey in thirteen rounds, for the World’s
Middle-weight Championship. Fitzsimmons was just short of six feet in
height, and, at the time of his fight with Corbett, he had filled out
from the middle-weight limit of 11 stone 4 lb. and was now slightly
over 12 stone. His is another name that will never be forgotten so long
as men talk of boxing.
The match between these two was of great importance at the time, and
(this is so seldom the case) it is important to look back on: for it
was a fight between two strong men, both of great reputation, with
somewhat similar records, but perfectly different methods. It was a
match between an intensely scientific boxer and a rugged fighter, who
had, however, a kind of skill or shrewdness not closely related to
conventional boxing science, which carried him very far. Fitzsimmons
was, indeed, a more remarkable man than Corbett.
In order to explain Fitzsimmons to the best of my ability, it will be
necessary to make a small excursion into autobiography.
Just before Christmas of 1908, Fitzsimmons came to England on a
music-hall tour. He was due to arrive in London one Sunday afternoon,
and it occurred to me to meet him at the station and ask him to box
with me. It would be an interesting experience. I went to St. Pancras,
and waited until the regular interviewers had finished with him. I was
not anxious for any one to overhear my curious request. Just as he was
getting into a taxi with his manager, I asked him if he would put on
the gloves with me that night. He needed a good deal of persuading,
but in a slow, unsmiling way he was a good-natured fellow, and after a
while he consented. Accordingly we met later on in a private room at
the National Sporting Club, and boxed two rounds. The only other person
present (it being Sunday night, the club was, officially, closed) was
Fitzsimmons’s manager.
It is not affectation to describe this encounter as a real pleasure.
Making due allowance for the self-complacency an amateur (in all senses
of that misused word) would feel at taking on a great champion, I can
honestly say that I enjoyed those two rounds for their own sakes. Of
course, I knew perfectly well that he wouldn’t “eat” me; but quite
apart from any competitive spirit, which, in this case would have been
absurd, boxing is a definitely enjoyable pastime.
I emerged from the encounter with a black eye, and--for the first time
in my life--a bleeding nose, but my experience had been extremely
interesting. Fitzsimmons was taller than I, much heavier, and far
longer in the arm, but I found him quite easy to hit. I suppose I can’t
quite exclude the “competitive spirit” after all, let alone my amateur
self-complacency, for I was delighted at sending in one really hard
straight left which took Fitzsimmons on the mouth and sent his head
right back. If I say, with all diffidence, that it was a respectable
blow, it is only to emphasise the fact that my opponent’s head, driven
back, sprang forward again exactly like a steel spring. In fact, you
could always hit Fitzsimmons, but it wanted a Jefferies to hurt him, as
we shall see later on. He was an awkwardly made man, hard and angular,
with a back and shoulders phenomenally developed. His very long arms
may be compared to wire-bound bamboo, and unlike the arms of heroes in
fictitious boxing stories, with no biceps to speak of and indeed no
special show of muscle at all.
Fitzsimmons was not a first-rate boxer, because he had never learned
to defend himself, but he had an almost infinite capacity for taking
punishment, which was his title to genius in the ring.
The great fight between Fitzsimmons and Corbett for the championship
took place at Carson City, Nevada, on March 17th, 1897. No love was
lost between the two men, who refused to shake hands at the beginning.
Bad feeling in sport is, no doubt, deplorable, but as in this case it
does not necessarily spoil sport.
It was evident that both men were nervous and showed the utmost respect
and caution for one another. Fitzsimmons led off with the left, and
Corbett ducked. This lanky, raw-boned, skull-faced man troubled him.
Fitzsimmons’s eyes were like those of an ill-tempered horse--fierce
and cold. And they were merciless. The American missed the more
comfortable and open ruffianism of some of the men he had fought, or
the full-blooded and jovial savagery of John Sullivan. Nevertheless, he
got in the first blow, and thereafter paid most of his attention to his
man’s body. Before the first round was over his confidence returned,
and his greater skill in ducking and slipping and getting away was
manifest. In this, as in most of the subsequent rounds, Corbett showed
himself by far the better boxer, and he was well ahead of his opponent
on points. Other things being equal, the better boxer wins. But other
things in this battle were not equal.
Let us try to put ourselves, so to speak, in Corbett’s shoes. He
must have been quite satisfied that he had won the first round on
points, and we may be sure that his seconds did not fail to hearten
him. He began the next round with his full confidence, and attacked.
Fitzsimmons replied, and they fell into a clinch. Indeed this round was
spoiled by much hugging and holding, though once Corbett broke away
to put in two quick hard lefts on his antagonist’s head which seemed
to stagger him. In the next round he came in close and put in a hard
right over the heart, which drove his man back. Fitzsimmons glared
and showed signs of anger, and made a futile rush at Corbett which
must have pleased him greatly. To see evident signs of temper in your
opponent inspires confidence. You feel that if he really loses his
temper he will lose his head and become wild. Practised boxers seldom
do this, because they know that with a fresh and still vigorous man
real “wildness” means a speedy downfall. But Fitzsimmons never lost
his head in that sense. He may have been angry in a way of speaking,
but he could keep a hold on himself. As though to remind him that he
must not charge like that, Corbett stopped him again and again with
hard counters on the ribs. In the fourth round the pace of the fighting
became furious, Fitzsimmons still being somewhat reckless, hitting much
harder than Corbett but not nearly so accurately. In the meantime the
American avoided nearly all the punishment intended for him by the most
graceful and polished footwork. Both men were by now a little winded
and fought slower through the next round. Corbett again showed himself
markedly the better boxer, landing blows with both hands and getting
away out of distance without any trouble. There was a little clinching,
and then a hard left from Corbett made Fitzsimmons’s nose bleed. He was
now perfectly happy. He felt that it was only a question of time and he
would have his man well beat.
Fitzsimmons’s wife, who was present at the ring-side, was now heard
to urge her husband to attack the body. But in this sixth round,
before he could act successfully on that good advice, Corbett came
in close and sent a whizzing upper-cut to the Cornishman’s jaw which
sent his right foot tapping involuntarily in the way that always
happens with a jaw-blow just not hard enough or accurate enough to
knock a man down. Just after that Corbett landed again and Fitzsimmons
fell, remaining down for nine seconds. Corbett’s heart must have
glowed. True, the nearly beaten man rose and managed to fend off his
opponent’s triumphant attack for the rest of the round. But Corbett
went back to his corner not greatly disappointed. It was no doubt a
pity that he couldn’t finish him off at once: but surely the effect
of that knock-down blow would be felt at the end of the minute’s rest.
Surely--and yet--would it? There may likely have been a subconscious
shadow of doubt in Corbett’s mind. He was himself tired, and, though
his seconds whispering to him took his immediate victory for granted,
they were just a little anxious. The seventh round found Corbett
dashing in to complete his work. Right and left again and again he
smashed into Fitzsimmons’s face, bruising and battering, almost pulping
it so that hardly a feature was distinguishable. But the effort tired
him, and he failed to land a blow on the vulnerable jaw. With a man
so reckless of defence as Fitzsimmons, it was, as already explained,
easy enough to land a blow--just a blow and another. But to land that
blow where no hardihood can stand against it, that is, at the side of
the chin, is another matter, and calls for thought and guile. And the
cunning though not yet the strength seemed to have gone from Corbett.
When a boxer is worn out it is often his forethought and ringcraft
which give out before the actual force of his blows. And Fitzsimmons
must have looked horrible, soaked in blood and with ferocious eyes
and the iron hardness of his limbs still full of spring and vigour.
With his long arms swinging, he slouched round the ring watching his
opportunity. In the eighth round Corbett sent a driving left straight
to his mouth and split his lip so that more blood flowed, and again and
yet again Corbett stopped his furious rushes with straight blows, so
that Fitzsimmons battered himself upon them by flinging forward his own
weight. But it seemed impossible to hurt this thin, awkward man. And
Corbett grew more and more cautious, and in his heart more hopeless.
His footwork was still a miracle of speed and neatness, and he kept
dancing in and away again, dealing out to his opponent a series of
hooks and swings and upper-cuts which must have defeated a man of even
his own build and lasting power. But footwork should be economical and
never for show, and Corbett was using his feet more than was necessary,
and adding, in this way, to the whole encounter’s great total of
fatigue. And so it went on till the fourteenth round--Fitzsimmons
bashed about, staggered sometimes, out-boxed and out-generalled in
every round, but still strong and agile and ferocious. Corbett, weighed
down with infinite weariness and unmarked.
It was a hard test for him, as it is for any man in like case. His very
arms were an intolerable weight, he was sick with weariness. And--he
was unhurt and was faced by a virtually beaten man. And now he dragged
his feet and his pace was gone from him. He could not see a moment
ahead. He could only do the simple things. He could lead with his
left and did so. And Fitzsimmons dodged the blow and they fell into
a clinch, and the Cornishman grinned wickedly over his shoulder. His
moment had come now and he was quite sure about it. They broke away,
and Fitzsimmons came in again, sliding his feet along the boards with
an almost reptilian movement. With his left foot foremost he sent a
hard left to Corbett’s mark: then whipped his feet over, left behind
right, almost in one movement, and shot his right up from below to the
jaw. The American’s face was seen to go gray. His great body seemed
slowly to crumble and he went down. As the referee counted the seconds
he struggled to rise. But he was paralysed--out.
When at last he did manage by an heroic effort to find his feet again
he lost his head and wildly threw himself at his antagonist. Seconds
and officials leapt between the men and held him away. Great strength
and an abnormal capacity for endurance had beaten one of the finest
boxers who ever claimed the Championship of the World.
CHAPTER IV
JAMES J. JEFFERIES AND ROBERT FITZSIMMONS
James J. Jefferies was an enormous fellow who for many years held the
World’s Championship. He stood 6 feet 1½ inches, and his weight was
generally in the neighbourhood of fifteen stone. He was born in 1879,
and before he was twenty he had at least eight conquests to his name,
and had fought drawn battles of twenty rounds each with such men as Gus
Ruhlin and Joe Choynski. And having knocked out the majority of his
opponents in a very few rounds, and being a man of phenomenal strength
and hitting power, it naturally followed that he should challenge Bob
Fitzsimmons for the World’s Championship. This he did, and the fight
took place at Coney Island Athletic Club, near New York, on June 9th,
1899.
If it wanted a sledge-hammer to hurt Fitzsimmons, the hammer of Thor
was needed for Jefferies. There has seldom, if ever, been a man who
could take a harder blow, whether on the “mark” or the jaw, without
turning a hair. He was not a scientific boxer of the first order, but
he was no mere windmill, and he knew enough not to fight “raggedly.” He
was, however, slow.
In arranging the conditions of the match beforehand, Fitzsimmons
was anxious to have all hitting in holds forbidden, as it is by the
strict English rules: that is to say, he preferred a clean break from
a clinch. In most boxing contests now, both in England and America,
when the referee stands in the ring he breaks the men away from each
other, often by the use of considerable force, and passes between
them. By this means each man has time to get ready again to start
fighting in a fair manner. Jefferies objected strongly, for a man of
his great weight and power can do a great deal of damage by hitting
“on the break-away.” Fitzsimmons was a very fair fighter, and upheld
the English tradition in respect of clinches. Also, he knew, of course,
that a clean break was greatly to his advantage. In the end the point
was left to the referee, who thrust himself between the men to end a
clinch.
The ring used was only 22 feet square; no weights were announced before
the fight, but Fitzsimmons was probably between twelve and thirteen
stone, whilst Jefferies was evidently a good two stone heavier.
From the very beginning it was seen that the old champion was much
the better boxer, Jefferies much the stronger man. Heaven knows that
Robert Fitzsimmons in his lean and lanky way was strong enough for six,
quite apart from his spiritual qualities of will-power and courage. But
Jefferies was phenomenal--is, no doubt, still; for though one speaks of
him in the past tense, because this fight took place many years ago, he
is at the time of writing still a comparatively young man.
At the time of this encounter Fitzsimmons himself was only, and also, a
young man in the comparative sense. He was thirty-six, and in despite
of his agility he was stiffer and less alert than he had been. Only two
years had gone by since his great battle with Jem Corbett, but they
were two years of great significance in the life of an athlete.
He began with his old brilliance of footwork, darting in and out,
hitting Jefferies almost as he liked: but his blows were not hard,
not hard enough, not so hard as they used to be. On points the first
round was certainly his, and he wound it up by sending home a splendid
right on his man’s ear. The second round was much spoiled by clinching.
Jefferies began to assert himself, landing hard on body and face. He
crouched low, and with his forearms close to protect his head, “bored
in,” as they say, and went for Fitzsimmons’s body with short-arm blows
behind which he swung his huge weight. Fitzsimmons tried to put in a
right upper-cut, but his adversary guarded it and they clinched, the
referee parting them. Immediately afterwards Jefferies shot out a
straight left which caught the Cornishman hard in the face when he was
standing square, so that he was off his balance, and the blow knocked
him down flat on his back. Such a knock-down as that does little harm,
and Fitzsimmons rose at once, scorning to take advantage, as so many
men would have done, of the ten seconds’ count. It should be remembered
that the blow on the jaw which ends, or nearly ends, a fight makes a
man fall forward. The third round was very even: they had settled down
to hard fighting, and there was a good exchange of blows. The same may
be said for the next round, except that Jefferies’s punches were much
harder, and once Fitzsimmons was visibly shaken. He must have realised
about this time that the odds were considerably against him. He had
excellent opportunities for virtually free blows--blows which he could
deliver with all his power, perfectly timed, and nicely judged. And
they seemed not to inconvenience Jefferies at all. He tried his famous
“shift” upon him without avail, that trick of his own invention by
means of which he beat Jem Corbett--that dancing, glancing change of
feet so that the right hand followed the right foot and smashed into
the body under the heart and then glanced upwards to the jaw. Jefferies
stood it all, and crouched and glowered and came on, quite impervious
to anything that he could do. Once again Fitzsimmons decidedly “won”
the sixth round. But of what use was that? He showed himself the better
boxer, he landed more hits than his antagonist landed. That was all.
There were to be other rounds beyond the sixth, and Jefferies was
unhurt, unweakened, only biding his time. The seventh was the same,
and this time Jefferies showed a little uncertainty. Fitzsimmons
with his years of experience might be feeling a little desperate:
Jefferies was only a lad, and realised the great difficulty of landing
a punishing blow. No one knew better than he how much cleverer a boxer
was the Cornishman. Jefferies was slow to start work in this round,
and even, it seemed, a little reluctant. He kept backing away to avoid
Fitzsimmons’s rushes. The old champion never charged blindly at his
man; he knew too much for that. But he could get with extraordinary
speed across the ring, coming with a sliding, slithering movement
which was snake-like in its quickness and certainty. And the expression
of his face and especially of his light blue eyes was terribly and
coldly fierce. For all the awkward, unsmiling kindness of his nature,
Fitzsimmons could look a very devil when he was fighting.
After a little Jefferies halted and tried to force his man up against
the ropes, but Fitzsimmons nipped easily away and held his own
comfortably. But he was not happy. He could not hurt his opponent, and
before this he had been used to make himself felt in seven rounds. In
the next round Jefferies was again slow and reluctant at the outset,
but after a little sparring he put in a couple of lefts without serious
return, and later finished the round with a spanking straight left
which sent Fitzsimmons staggering half across the ring.
The ninth round settled the matter. Fitzsimmons led off and attacked
ferociously, but was sent back again with just such a left as had
troubled him in the previous set-to. He left his body open, and
Jefferies swung all his great strength and all his mighty weight into
a body-blow which caught the veteran over the heart. He gasped audibly
and time was called. But that was the winning blow. The fight was
knocked out of Fitzsimmons. He was still almost dazed when he came up
for the tenth round. Again Jefferies used that best and safest of all
blows, the straight left, and Fitzsimmons was shaken to his heels. He
could not defend himself: he could only stand and take what he was
given. The next blow sent him to the ground, and he only rose, very
groggy, at the seventh second. And now, though it made no ultimate
difference, Jefferies lost his head. Fitzsimmons had been beaten by the
blow over his heart, the effect of which would last much longer and
take far more out of him than three or four on the jaw which failed
to knock him out. But Jefferies could not have known that for certain
at this moment: and seeing his man weak and tottering he swung wildly
at him. If he himself had not been so extraordinarily strong, or if
the elder man had not been already broken, he might well have lost the
fight by that wildness. It has happened scores of times. As it was,
an inferior blow from Jefferies knocked Fitzsimmons down again, but
only for five seconds. Done as the old champion was, the blow must
have been a comparatively poor one, or he could not have risen in the
time, though, as had happened earlier in the fight, his pride would
not allow him to take full advantage of the “count.” Even then, in his
excitement, Jefferies failed to finish his man, and the round ended.
Then the eleventh round began, and Fitzsimmons showed the stuff that he
was made of. He always had the reputation of being strong, and hard,
and phenomenally plucky: but he had been badly hurt by that blow in the
ninth round and the cumulative effect of several others. Yet he did not
mean to be beaten without a great struggle. Immediately time was called
he dashed across the ring and attacked Jefferies with all his might.
It was not of the slightest use, for Jefferies was quite ready for him
and the veteran was too weak now to do any damage, but it was a good
effort. Jefferies waited for him to expose his body and then sent two
more hard right-handers to his heart; then several blows at the head,
ending with a left half-arm blow which dazed Fitzsimmons, so that he
stood, or rather tottered, helpless, with his arms down, in the middle
of the ring. Jefferies looked at him for a moment to make quite sure
that he was as bad as he seemed, then swung left, followed by right, to
the point of the jaw. Fitzsimmons fell forward, down and out.
In spite of his age and his defeat at Jefferies’s hands, Fitzsimmons
challenged the champion to a second battle three years later; and on
July 25th, 1902, they met again at San Francisco. It was not much of
a fight, and the whole business was viewed with great disfavour in
England. It was regarded as an outrageous commercial transaction:
and indeed it was little more. Fitzsimmons, in fact, consented to be
thrashed for so much down--consented, rather, to risk the very strong
probability; for no one suggested that the fight was not a perfectly
square one. Fitzsimmons was now only 11 stone 6 lb., whilst Jefferies
weighed 15 stone 5 lb., quite an absurd difference when we remember
also the disparity of their ages. Once more there was no sort of
doubt but that the Cornishman was the better boxer. He had forgotten
nothing: Jefferies had learned very little. The first two rounds were
slightly in Fitzsimmons’s favour, but after that the big man’s huge
natural advantages made the end inevitable. At the end of the second
round Fitzsimmons was bleeding severely from the nose, and it usually
takes a very heavy blow indeed to draw much blood from the nose of an
old hand. But Jefferies’s cheek and eye were also cut and bleeding, for
Fitzsimmons had not treated him gently. In the fourth round Jefferies
crouched low and glowered at his man, bent on hurting him. He guarded
the beautiful long straight lefts that Fitzsimmons sent whizzing in
and attacked the slighter man’s body. The next round was very fast,
whilst the men were fighting; but there was a good deal of clinching
too, in which Fitzsimmons, however much he tried to save himself, got
the worst of it, because the overwhelming weight of his adversary was
thrown forward on to him. Superficially Jefferies looked much the worst
of the two, for Fitzsimmons’s sharp blows had cut his face in several
places and he was bleeding profusely. This was due not so much to the
hardness of the older man’s hitting as to the softness of Jefferies’s
skin: for the champion could generally beat his opponents so easily
that severe training seemed to him not worth the candle. Fitzsimmons
was unmarked, but the damage was partly to his body and visible only
in vague red blotches such as gloved fists make, and partly in store
for him. And yet by boxing he had the better of the sixth round, and
his hope rose. He was not a man of vivid imagination, just a healthily
hopeful fellow, with plenty of self-confidence. Jefferies had beaten
him once, and only a round or two before he had been winning--winning
on points, at any rate. He had forgotten that fight now. He only knew
that he was his adversary’s master in the art of boxing, and surely
good boxing, skill, ringcraft, experience would win now? Did he think
about it like that? Not at all. There was no time for thinking, only
for an instinctive effort to do his best, to put in one of his very
best and hardest blows on the point of the jaw--not the exact point,
but an inch or so on either side of the exact point. That was where
the impact of his glove must come, that part of his glove behind which
lay the protruding knuckle of his second finger--the striking point
of the anatomical piston. He must land that blow with terrific force,
and the sharp upper end of the jaw would be levered up to the bundle
of nerves at the place where the skull is thinnest, the semi-circular
canals behind the ear would be temporarily deranged, the sense of
equilibrium would go, there would be, speaking roughly and somewhat
incorrectly, a slight and quickly passing concussion of the brain. The
victim would fall, the old champion would be a champion once again....
Desperately Fitzsimmons tried to land that blow. But the sixth round
ended and nothing happened. In the next round Jefferies came crouching,
but rushing, across the ring, and Fitzsimmons caught him with a hard
left on the mouth; and a little later, Jefferies, with blood to get
rid of, stopped to spit (or to “expectorate,” as the sporting papers,
with their inimitable refinement, put it). It was, I suppose, a
legitimate opportunity, though a fastidiously chivalrous boxer would
not have used it: in any case, Fitzsimmons did, and attacked his man
with all his might. He sent in three hard blows, meant for the jaw,
which again got Jefferies on the mouth, doing no decisive damage, and
before time was called again Jefferies had got home upon the heart with
one of his devastating rights, just as he had done in the previous
encounter. They began the eighth round with fairly equal exchanges,
and then fell into a clinch. They broke away, and as he stepped back
Fitzsimmons began to talk. Now, there is no doubt that he had hurt
Jefferies; certainly he had hurt him more than in the match at Coney
Island. It is not to be said that he would have won if he had been more
careful--who can say? The probabilities are against it. But he began
to talk to Jefferies, and he paused to do so. It is most surely true
that you cannot do two things at once when one of them is fighting. I
don’t know what Fitzsimmons said, but we may be pretty sure that his
words were words of scorn. “Mouth-fighting,” as it is called, is a
more foolish than reprehensible practice. To stand and invent rude
epithets for your antagonist, to shower invective upon him, to deride
his method of boxing, or to impugn his sportsmanship is so very far
beside the point--especially the point of the jaw, which is the real
bone of contention. And in order to talk Fitzsimmons necessarily laid
aside his strict vigilance. And Jefferies, who wasn’t always slow, took
a most legitimate advantage and swung his left at long range at his
opponent’s stomach. It was, on the whole, a lucky blow, for it caught
Fitzsimmons just beneath the breast-bone at that point which we call
the “mark.” And the Cornishman, for once, was taken unawares: the blow
made him gasp, and it made him tuck in his stomach instinctively, with
the result of bringing his head forward and down. Jefferies’s huge left
swung back and forward, again, catching him full on the jaw. And once
again Fitzsimmons knees gave, his face went ashen gray, his body sank
forward ... seven, eight, nine--Out!
[Illustration: Bob Fitzsimmons and James J. Corbett.
(A Caricature.)]
After this defeat Fitzsimmons fought about ten other battles, though
four of them hardly count, as they took place in those states of the
American Union where only short contests are allowed, and failing a
knock-out no decision must be given by the referee. Such contests seem
to us quite pointless. If men are giving an exhibition of scientific
boxing, as for charity or as on one occasion or another they often do
in this and other countries, why should it not be called an exhibition,
even if the sparring partners are heavily paid for that purpose? For,
of course, the tendency in No-Decision contests is for the men to “go
easy” and not to try to knock each other out. And if men are boxing
their best so far as science goes and yet not giving their physical
best to the affair, the whole event is apt to be meaningless. Besides,
science and physique are intermingled. A man is not boxing his best who
doesn’t try to finish his opponent as speedily as possible, who doesn’t
try, that is, to assert his superiority of combined force and skill.
Fitzsimmons won battles again, and lost them again. And he went on
fighting till 1914--not very long before his death, at the age of
fifty-four or so.
CHAPTER V
TOMMY BURNS AND JACK JOHNSON
If the last decade of the nineteenth century saw the growth of
glove-fighting to a high level of scientific achievement, the first
decade of the twentieth saw the decline of its management to the
uttermost pit of low commercial enterprise. Not that the promotion of
any professional athletic contest has ever been entirely free from the
besmirching influences of money: it has not. Rascality apart, there
have always been hucksters who shouted their merchandise of weight
and muscle and skill in raucous and unseemly tones. But when real if
degraded cunning is brought to the job, the issues are obscured, and
unsophisticated sportsmen, behind the times in business methods, are
apt to be deceived.
Fighters, you may say, are born, whilst champions are made--in Fleet
Street and the complementary thoroughfares of New York and San
Francisco. A particular boxer is discussed in some newspaper every
day for a considerable period. He is advertised, in fact. You get
accustomed to the fellow’s name in exactly the same way as you get
accustomed to the name of some coffee or toffee, tailor or tinker. You
begin to regard him, quite unconsciously, as an inevitable concomitant
of everyday life. And when the paper tells you that he is a champion,
you, having a general interest in boxing but knowing very little about
it, accept him as a champion.
This boxer happens to be a good boxer, wins many fights, and you take
it as a matter-of-course. The newspaper pats itself as you might say,
loudly on the back for having made a good shot. The boxer happens to
be a bad boxer and is beaten every time, and you and the newspaper
denounce and deride him--you, because what you thought was your
opinion is shown to be wrong, the newspaper which (in collaboration
with the boxer’s manager, business-manager, publicity-manager, and
general manager) invented the poor fellow: because it is unable to
flatter itself.
The genuine champion, who will be content with a small c, is not made
by newspapers. By his own merits he emerges from the ruck and he makes
his own way. But he can make his way, probably, much quicker with the
aid of newspapers, managers, who sometimes exploit him, and other sound
business methods: and not his way only, but his fortune. Carpentier
is a transcendent example. He is a magnificent boxer, who was bound
to have made a name for himself by boxing and boxing alone. And we do
not grudge him the fortune which boxing and boxing alone would not
have brought to him. But we do grudge the vast sums made by spurious
champions (or their managers), and the sums much more vast and rolling
and altogether disgusting made by the promoters of what are, virtually,
spurious contests.
Now the most notorious boxer of the first ten years of the present
century, a really good fighter, of unorthodox methods and exemplary
fortitude, was Tommy Burns. His real name was Noah Brusso, he was
said to be a French Canadian by birth, and he had won the World’s
Heavy-weight Championship by beating Marvin Hart in 1906. He was born
in 1881, stood 5 feet 7 inches, and weighed 12 stone 7 lb. He was very
broad for his height, and always somewhat inclined to fatness.
In 1907 Burns came to England, and in that and the following year
summarily knocked out the best men that England could find to meet him.
Our best in this country at that time were very poor indeed. Gunner
Moir, quite a third-rate boxer in point of skill, was Champion of
England. There was the wildest excitement about his match with Burns,
because Moir’s prowess had been trumpeted far beyond its merits. Burns
knocked him out in ten rounds. It was a disgraceful affair, because
there can be no doubt that the Canadian could easily have beaten
him much sooner. On that occasion it certainly seemed as though he
were boxing to please, or rather not to disappoint the spectators.
The public like to have “value for money.” And, of course, there are
always cinematograph rights. What will the much larger public, outside
the actual place of battle, say if the film consists, as it has done
before now, of five minutes’ display of American pressmen, seconds,
and other boxers who have nothing to do with the matter in hand, and
half a minute’s fighting with three visible blows? The public will be
disgusted, and they won’t go to see that picture, and the film-rights
will be negligible. I am unable to remember whether moving pictures
were taken of the encounter between Tommy Burns and Gunner Moir, but
if they were that would be a sufficient, if not a good, reason for the
unnecessarily protracted bout, as it certainly has been the reason in
other contests.
Burns, then, was Heavy-weight Champion of the World, and was, in the
course of nature, liable to be challenged to fight for his title. And
there had come into prominence a huge negro, Jack Johnson, who was
anxious to fight Burns. In England we had hitherto heard very little
of Johnson. He was three years older than the white champion, stood
6 feet and one-half inch, and weighed 15 stone. He appears to have
started his career in 1899, and from that year down to December, 1908,
when he finally succeeded in getting a match with Burns, he had fought
sixty-five contests, half of which he won by means of a knock-out.
Excepting Peter Jackson, he was about as good a black boxer as had
ever been known. He was very strong, very quick, a hard hitter, and
extraordinarily skilful in defence. He was by no means unintelligent,
and, not without good reason, was regarded generally with the greatest
possible dislike. With money in his pocket and physical triumph over
white men in his heart, he displayed all the gross and overbearing
insolence which makes what we call the buck nigger insufferable.
He was one of the comparatively few men of African blood who, in a
half-perceiving way, desire to make the white man pay for the undoubted
ill-treatment of his forbears.
Whether Tommy Burns really wanted to avoid Johnson or not it is
difficult to say. Certainly, it seemed as though he did. Or, on the
other hand, the long procrastination may have been deliberate, with the
end in view of rousing public excitement, to its uttermost pitch of
intensity: and thus, perhaps, of acquiring more pelf. Burns succeeded,
at all events, in rousing the public impatience and irritation which
immediately precedes boredom. And it would be a dull business to trace
the whole story of Johnson’s efforts to get into a ring with him. It is
enough to say that he finally succeeded, a match was made, and the two
men entered the ring at Rushcutter’s Bay, Sydney, New South Wales, on
December 26th, 1908.
As so often happens in a black and white affair, feeling ran very high,
and it was feared by responsible people that black, in the person of
Jack Johnson, would not on this occasion get a fair chance. But as the
event proved, the fight was perfectly fair--in that sense, and we may
be sure that Johnson was well cared for and guarded. Interference by
the police was by way of being expected, and it was arranged before
the contest that if the police did stop the fight in its course, the
referee would give a decision on the merits of the encounter up to the
moment of interference.
If Johnson’s demeanour had always been insolent, it is unnecessary to
look for another word to describe the conduct of Tommy Burns. For all I
know, at heart Burns may have been a modest man, though I don’t think
so. But to hear him talk you would think that no other boxer had ever
existed. There are two ways of getting a hearing and of making people
think well of you: one is to talk as though the person spoken to was
the most important and interesting and delightful man or woman alive,
to talk with such conviction in that way that the person in question
believes himself to be just that. The other way is to shout aloud that
you are the most important person (and all the other things) alive,
and upon my soul, if you shout loud enough you will find believers.
Naturally or deliberately, Burns did this, and quite a large number of
people believed in him. And it must always be remembered that they had
something to believe in. Burns was a decidedly good boxer. His manner
in the ring was unorthodox. He had no settled attitude or position to
take up at the beginning or return to between rallies. He kept his
hands and his feet in the positions which suited the demands of the
moment. His style was loose and easy, and he could hit hard. Also he
went in for glaring balefully at his opponents, stamping on the floor
to inspire terror, and worst, “mouth-fighting,” pouring vituperation
upon his man and telling him exactly what he was going to do to him.
All this sort of thing makes modern professional boxing a sorry
business, though no peculiarly bad instances have occurred lately.
Indeed, boxers have begun to understand that it does not pay.
The men entered the ring on the appointed day, and Johnson’s natural
advantages were at once evident. He was taller, heavier, and stronger
than Burns. They were both well trained, but Burns always scorned the
conventional abstinences and smoked cigars right up to and including
the day of a fight. He never looked really hard all over. And now
directly the fight started Johnson began by going straight for his
opponent and knocking him down. Burns rose in eight seconds, obviously
shaken. He crouched with his right hand forward and his left back,
and attacked the black man’s body. Johnson kept away from him and
sent his right across to Burns’s chin, rather too high to bring him
down again, but enough to make him stagger. Then Burns sent home a
blow on the jaw, but not a good one, and a hard opening round came to
an end. No one supposed then that Burns stood the faintest chance of
winning. But Burns was going to do his best. He was acutely conscious
of his position as the white champion. He was filled with passionate
antagonism to the black man because he was black. Right or wrong, this
antagonism is one of the strongest prejudices that moves men. And there
was nothing about Johnson, as there certainly was about Peter Jackson,
to mitigate the accident of his birth. Rather the contrary.
The second round began, and the negro taunted his white opponent. He,
too, was a great hand at “mouth-fighting,” but as he talked he boxed,
and he swung his right and caught Burns on the chin. The white man
stumbled slightly and his ankle gave so that he fell, but he rose again
at once to receive a straight blow on his left eye, which immediately
began to swell. Then Johnson put in a swing on Burns’s stomach. It was
his round, and he went to his corner grinning widely, as only a black
man can. Burns tried to get close at the next set-to, and again and
again hit his adversary’s ribs, but these blows made no impression on
Johnson who, whilst the in-fighting continued, struck Burns heavily
over the kidneys. During the fourth round both men talked, heaping
insults upon each other. And so it went on. Once, after pounding Burns
heavily on the ribs, Johnson clinched and over the white man’s shoulder
laughed for the benefit of the crowd, and made ironic observations to
Burns. It was in the seventh round that Johnson began seriously to
hurt his man, and it was palpable to experienced onlookers that he was
trying to do so. “I thought Tommy was an in-fighter,” he called out,
and sent Burns violently down with a terrific right on the body. Both
the white man’s eyes were now swollen, he was bleeding at the mouth,
and Johnson was all over him, hitting him as he liked, left and right,
hard, but not too hard. He could have knocked him out at any time now,
but that was not at all his idea of fun at the expense of the white
race. He would keep him on his feet and hurt him. He knew Burns would
never give in so long as he could stand. He no doubt guessed that
the referee would not stop the fight so long as the smallest chance
remained of a lucky blow from Burns.
Then the talking began again. “Come on, Tommy, swing your right,” the
black laughed, and Burns snarled back, “Yellow Dog!” A disgusting
performance on both sides, you say? Yes: and yet there was something
wonderfully fine about Burns that day. His prejudice may have been
foolish, his behaviour in talking, whether he started it or not, was
childish, his methods of self-advertisement before the fight reached
the nethermost pit of vulgarity. But he was game. To take a beating at
any time, even from your best friend, is hard work. But take a beating
from a man you abhor, belonging to a race you despise, to know that
he was hurting you and humiliating you with the closest attention to
detail, and the coldest deliberation, to know that you don’t stand more
than one chance in a hundred of landing a blow which could hurt him,
and not one in ten thousand of beating him, and to go on fighting,
doing your best to attack, your utmost to defend yourself, with your
knees weak, your hands too heavy to lift, your eyes almost blinded,
your head singing and dizzy--this requires pluck.
By the tenth round even Johnson was a little tired, but Burns was
nearly done. His valiant but futile efforts to land a damaging blow
drew forth the laughter of his adversary, who stepped away from him and
banged him on the back or sent his right whizzing up from underneath
to smash his wind, or pound him on the nose and mouth. Burns’s mouth
indeed had been badly cut some time ago, and round after round Johnson
hit it again and yet again, never missing, always with the fiendish
desire to injure and to give pain. In the thirteenth round it was seen
that the police were getting restive, they were closing in upon the
ring, having in mind, no doubt, the likelihood of a serious attack
being made upon Johnson. And Burns, reeling against the ropes, gasped
out an appeal to the referee to let the fight go on and not to let
the police interfere--which, naturally, was beyond the power of the
referee. The fourteenth round was the last. Burns tried to hit, then
retreated, and Johnson following quickly sent a hard right-hander
to his jaw, which dropped him. Very slowly, with obvious pain and
difficulty, Burns rose as the eighth second was counted. And Johnson
went for him again with all his might. Then the police stopped the
fight, and the referee pointed to the new black champion.
Burns was a brave man, and he did the utmost in his power to put up a
good fight against a much heavier, stronger, and more skilful boxer
than himself. But it should certainly be recorded that he received
for his considerable pains and trouble the sum of £6000--which he had
bargained for beforehand, “win, lose, or draw,” and without the promise
of which he would not have undertaken the contest.
CHAPTER VI
TOMMY BURNS AND JOE BECKETT
In order to dispose of Tommy Burns so far as this book is concerned,
it is necessary to break the chronological order of contests and jump
twelve years. Between his defeat by Johnson and the encounter to be
described now, the records tell us that he engaged in five matches,
none of the first importance. Then, in July of 1920, an affair was
arranged with Joe Beckett, the Heavy-weight Champion of England. This
took place at the Albert Hall, and should be regarded rather as an
event than as an athletic contest.
As already suggested, the interest in many widely-advertised
glove-fights is spurious: a passion of sensationalism stimulated by
the Press. The fight between Beckett and Burns hardly comes under that
head, because there is always a genuine interest in watching the return
of a veteran, whether that veteran be boxer or prima donna. Burns had
been in the hey-day of his fame when Joe Beckett was a young lad. He
had been execrated by sportsmen for his trick of “mouth-fighting,” for
trying to intimidate his antagonists by heaping insult upon injury
during the course of a battle; and also for his rank commercialism. He
had been one of the first “business boxers” to be seen in England, and
we had been rather appalled by the phenomena. Since those days we have
grasped the fact that there is a practically negligible correlation
between professional sport and sportsmanship, so far at least as
boxing goes--especially now that men like Jim Driscoll and Pat O’Keefe
(both of whom appeared as seconds in Beckett’s and Burns’s corners
respectively) have retired. It was from Burns that we first learned the
dodge of demanding a fixed fee for a contest--so much down, whatever
happened. And Burns, having through his Press agents arranged to be
famous and to be a certain attraction to the multitude, could get
pretty well what he asked.
To set against this unpleasing but no doubt justifiable business
acumen, Burns was gloriously plucky. And in his fight with Beckett he
displayed that merit undiminished. People remember these things; they
remember the fame (never in Burns’s case entirely undeserved) and the
good points quite as readily as the notoriety and the bad ones: so that
Burns had a great following at the Albert Hall, and, in despite of his
age and condition, his chances against the younger and stronger man
were considered good.
I had seen Burns watching several fights during that year, and his
appearance did not suggest the hardened pugilist. Even in the ring
after training he was much too fat, and he did not box like a young
man. He was thirty-nine and looked a good deal more. Yet he remembered
a good deal of his boxing. His footwork was still excellent, though
he wasted his height by keeping his feet too far apart. His blows,
however, were not really hard, except when he made a special effort to
knock Beckett out. For punishment the English champion’s hitting was
much more level and dangerous. But Beckett looked singularly foolish
on several occasions: he hooked and he swung and he led, and over and
over again his opponent simply wasn’t there. Burns’s defence was good,
and it was youth and strength that beat him. But he deserved to be
beaten if only for continued holding and “lying on” his man. “Lying on”
consists of resting your head on your antagonist’s chest or shoulder,
making some pretence at in-fighting, but all the while throwing
your weight forward so that you get a good rest, and your opponent
holds you up and loses energy in so doing. In a long contest between
heavy-weights it is extremely important to save all the strength you
can and to make your man do the more work.
Taken as a whole, this contest was full of bad boxing. The referee was
continually having to separate the men, and the fault was nearly always
Burns’s.
The first two very cautious rounds were Beckett’s. In the third Beckett
too, held a little: for Burns landed a right high up on the jaw hard
enough to make him careful. That round made many people believe
that Burns was going to win. In the next round, which was dull and
tedious from much holding and clinching, Beckett showed himself most
respectful, and covered himself, if not with glory, at all events with
his arms. It was soon seen that Burns was beginning to flag, though
now and again he made a spurt with what looked like renewed vigour. In
the sixth round he was virtually beaten, but he continued to keep his
head out of danger and fought on with commendable courage. After about
a minute of the seventh round Beckett knocked his man down with a hard
right on the point of the jaw. Burns was badly dazed and only rose at
the ninth second. He dashed at Beckett and made a despairing effort
to knock him out, but he had no strength and no sense of direction.
Beckett easily avoided his blows. Burns was really beaten now, and,
after he had risen from another knock-down blow, his seconds very
wisely threw the towel into the ring as a token of surrender--much to
their principal’s indignation. The seconds were fully justified, for
unnecessary punishment to a man of Burns’s age and condition may be
more serious than it looks.
The public, who make contests of this kind possible, do not
sufficiently realise in what way they directly affect the future of
boxing in England. The majority of onlookers at a big show have only
the haziest notion of what good boxing is. They are bored by too
much clinching, but, determined to get some of their money’s worth,
they would be still more bored, if, after due warning, the referee
disqualified a man, or, the fault being equal, ordered both men out of
the ring. A strong referee, with the best interests of the sport at
heart, does this. It seldom pays the promoters of big show contests to
appoint strong referees.
This fight between Burns and Beckett was clean in comparison with
many others, and is described here because it was between two very
well-known men and because it typifies the futility of the return to
active service of long retired veterans who are not in good condition.
Also it was typical of the modern show-boxing of which, since the war,
there has been so much.
The only thought in the mind of either man was a knock-out. Men who
stand up and hit straight with exceptional skill (like Jem Driscoll)
also think of a knock-out, but only as a fortunate termination to a
well-laid scheme and lengthy preparation. They wear their men down by
real boxing and then seize an opportunity. Men like Joe Beckett, on the
other hand, not being really good boxers, aim for a knock-out all the
time, and hit straight once in a blue moon. It is true that in fighting
Burns, Beckett wore his man down until he failed to stop a finishing
blow, but it was the finishing blow that he was trying for all the
time. Burns, on the other hand, in persistently trying for a knock-out,
was perfectly right; because, though a better boxer than Beckett, he
hadn’t the strength to meet a young man on his own ground. He must
have known that he couldn’t last very long, and that he must dedicate
his superior skill to the landing of a knock-out blow before he was
too tired. His superior skill was not enough, and so when he got into
danger he helped himself and hindered Beckett (though not for long) by
holding. In doing that he was breaking a cardinal rule.
But it is the sentimental or dramatic element in boxing--quite a real
one--which draws the closest attention of the crowd. So long as a
fight is comparatively fair and one of the men is well-remembered as
having caused much excitement ten years or more ago, what more can be
needed? The veteran wins, or the veteran is beaten. In either case he
is under the white glare of light put up on behalf of the cinematograph
operators. The crowd, unless its money is upon the issue, don’t much
mind what happens, who wins, provided they get their money’s worth of
excitement.
CHAPTER VII
JACK JOHNSON AND JAMES J. JEFFERIES
Johnson’s victory over Burns in 1908 created, if we are to be judged by
our newspapers, both in England and America, a sort of absurd terror.
A black man was champion, and no white man could be found capable of
beating him. Of course, the enmity that he inspired was very largely
Johnson’s own fault. His conduct was outrageous, and, worst of all, he
had a white wife. If he had behaved as Peter Jackson did there would
have been much less trouble. As it was, one man after another was tried
with a view to training a “White Hope,” as it was said, and no new man
could be found anywhere who would stand the least chance of beating the
negro.
At last, nearly two years later, the old champion, James Jefferies
consented (after, we may be sure, some prodigious bargaining) to fight
Johnson, and the match was arranged to take place at Reno, in the
state of Nevada, on July 4th, 1910. Before the fight he is said to
have bragged that no living man was capable of knocking him down for
ten seconds. But boasts of that kind should always be discounted. They
mean very little. If said at all, they are said for print in the hope
that they may have a depressing effect upon the opposing camp. It is
unlikely that Jefferies really believed what he said.
Once again some doubt was felt whether the black would have a fair
chance of winning, but if any plans ever were made to “get at” him or
to break the ring, they were frustrated. The greatest doubt of all
in the minds of the public, both in England and America, was whether
Johnson would be heavily paid to let Jefferies knock him out. And that
doubt was set at rest by Johnson himself, who, in an “interview,”
which was obviously sincere, explained that he could get all the
money he wanted by fighting straight, and that his one ambition was to
thrash any white man pitted against him so that the “white race should
kow-tow” to him.
The men were fairly well matched, though some doubt was expressed as to
Jefferies’s health. There is no doubt that they trained well, though
again the white man certainly had superfluous flesh on him. He weighed
16 stone 4 lb. against Johnson’s 15 stone 2 lb. Their height was much
the same, but Jefferies’s enormous chest made Johnson look narrow.
Jefferies’s greatest handicap lay in the fact that he had retired six
years before and had not fought since. His retirement had been genuine.
He had no desire to fight again. But he was badgered and worried
and importuned: it was “put to him as a white man.” And as a white
man he nobly agreed to fight the black, but--that was not the only
consideration. The purse was one of 101,000 dollars.
Now Jefferies had never been either very quick or very skilful, but he
had never been beaten. He had won all his many fights in the past by
his strength. He knew that he was now matched against a very good man,
but he really expected as well as hoped to win. Good judges of boxing
shared the hope, but not the expectation. The return of a veteran
always fills every one but the most sanguine of his supporters with
misgivings.
The crowd about the ring was enormous--women, cowboys, poor men, rich
men, yellow, red, and black men. The grand stand alone held 18,000
people. It was announced by the doctor officially appointed for the
occasion that Johnson was upon the brink of nervous collapse. But a few
minutes later when he entered the ring he certainly appeared to be well
and confident.
Nothing of any interest occurred in the first round. Both men were
desperately cautious. Jefferies crouched with his head sunk between
his huge shoulders, whilst the black stood up straight, a magnificent
figure of a man, his left hand up and out, his right diagonally thrown
across his chest in the conventional manner, his knees very slightly
bent. He was perfectly poised, his weight equally shared by both legs.
The crouching attitude has its advantages, but amongst the several
points against it is the fact that it is unnecessarily fatiguing. So
the men circled round each other, hitting tentatively now and again, to
see whether the other was on the alert and quick to guard, not letting
go, risking nothing. And in the second round also both exercised the
extremest care. Once Jefferies hit out with all his might and missed
Johnson by inches as he side-stepped. And the black laughed at his
failure. An equal round.
But Johnson got seriously to work in the third round, sent in a hard
right-hander to the head, and during a clinch put in two upper-cuts
which, however, appeared to do no damage. Jefferies smiled and kept
perfectly cool. It would not have been worth while smiling unless he
had been hurt just a little. He was boxing well. Oddly enough, despite
his long inactivity, many of the spectators observed that he had never
boxed better. There were very hard exchanges in the next round, Johnson
landing on the ear, Jefferies drawing blood from the mouth. Indeed
the white man landed again and again, but he was not the man who had
knocked out Bob Fitzsimmons. He did not hit nearly so hard. It is quite
likely that his actual boxing was all the better for a long rest and
then careful training with many different sparring partners: but hard
hitting must be practised constantly, and moreover, it is a virtue
which to a less degree than the science of boxing, follows the general
trend of a man’s health: and Jefferies had not the constitution he once
had. The fifth and sixth rounds consisted mostly of clinching, but at
the end of the latter Johnson opened up an old wound on Jefferies’s
eyebrow which bled so severely that the blood streamed down his face,
and his eye began to close at once. The next round was certainly
Johnson’s. A vicious right swing on the side of the head staggered
the white man, who was already beginning to lose what little speed he
had. Weeks of severe training are made of no avail in an amazingly
small number of minutes of hard fighting. Jefferies was hurt, and his
way of boxing now showed the onlookers that he was hurt. Johnson,
meanwhile, was perfectly cool and boxing easily and well. There were
to be no tricks this time, no cruelty of keeping an opponent on his
legs so as to hurt him. Jefferies was a harder man than Burns, and
Johnson would not take the smallest risk. Was he not “out” to humiliate
the whole white race? Had he not said so, and was he not doing it?
Of course, to those two men and to ninety per cent. of the onlookers
this contest was, as it were, a life and death affair, as important
as a minor war. I don’t suppose that it occurred to any one of them
that boxing is, when all’s said, a sport, a sort of game, a method of
exercise for spare time. Certainly the men were being very highly paid
for their “game,” but did that fact alter the essential littleness
of the whole thing? No: it was perceived to be a desperate encounter
between the white races and the black, and nothing less portentous at
all.
[Illustration: _Photo: “Sport and General.”_
Jem Driscoll.]
And Jefferies tried again and again to batter his way through Johnson’s
guard and failed. He feinted and hit, but he was too slow; and each
time his glove went out with all his power behind it, the black ducked
or side-stepped, getting away from danger with an agility which was
astonishing in so big a man. And Jefferies knew now that he could not
beat him. He was desperate, and made mad-bull rushes without avail.
In the tenth round one eye was so swollen that he could not see from
it, and Johnson hit him again and again. A man less strong would have
been knocked out long before. Jefferies went slowly and painfully to
his corner at the end of the eleventh round, his great chest convulsed
with his hard breathing, his face haggard. He tried his best, but he
was now hopelessly weak, and by now he had lost a good deal of blood.
He was terribly punished in the thirteenth round, but he took his gruel
without flinching. Three hard blows sent him staggering just before
time was called. And Johnson was still fresh and strong, boxing calmly
and well. The fifteenth round was the last. Jefferies staggered up from
his corner and Johnson went straight up to him and knocked him down
with a long straight left. Very slowly, very painfully, Jefferies rose,
only getting to his feet at the tenth second. Then the black hit him
again, and again he went down. This time he was utterly dazed. With all
the will in the world he couldn’t rise in time; and the ten seconds
were gone at the moment when he, after a dreadful struggle, had risen
to his knees.
It wasn’t until April of 1915, that Jack Johnson ceased to be Champion
of the World. He was then knocked out at Havana by Jess Willard (who
stood 6 feet 6 inches and weighed 17 stone) in twenty-six rounds. No
interest whatever was taken in this contest in England for, bearing the
date in mind, obvious reasons. Also, the encounter was not seriously
considered on sporting grounds. Willard was subsequently beaten very
easily by Dempsey in three rounds.
CHAPTER VIII
GEORGES CARPENTIER AND BOMBARDIER WELLS
Bombardier Wells has a most peculiar record. The chart of his successes
and failures is like conventionalised lightning. He began with success
and then failed miserably: then up again to the top of the tree and
down again to the bottom of the ladder. His career, his temperament,
the state of his nerves, have been more widely and more portentously
discussed than the weight of Tom Sayers, the muscle of Tom Cribb, or
the reach of Peter Jackson.
One school maintains that Wells is a first-rate boxer, another that he
is a bad boxer. It all depends upon what you mean by boxing. If boxing
is a game as golf is a game, an almost theoretical attack and defence,
the rudest expression of which is what we call an “Exhibition”--then
Wells is a first-rater. But if boxing is the translation into rude and
rough sport of a quite practical defence and offence, whereby one man
disables another (but confined within rules which are unlikely to be
obeyed in a very serious affair, any more than the Geneva Convention is
obeyed in very serious wars)--if, within these rules boxing means the
real conflict between two men whose strength and endurance as well as
skill are supremely tested--then Wells is, on the whole, a bad boxer.
The explanation of Wells is extremely simple: he is a scientific boxer
who does not really like fighting.
When we talk of a “natural fighter” we mean a man who, however
good-natured--and good nature has nothing to do with it--enjoys bashing
people and is willing to run the risk of being bashed. He may be
skilful too, though that is beside the point. Wells has been called a
coward--which is frankly absurd. He has never provided any evidence of
cowardice. He does, no doubt, “know the meaning of fear”: the bravest
men always do. The “man who does not know what fear is” clearly is a
very useful man indeed, but he is not so brave as the man who knows
all about it, is indeed afraid, but keeps his fear in hand. In this
sort of discussion too sharp a line is usually drawn between brave
men and cowards: too sharp a line is usually drawn in any discussion
about primitive qualities. I don’t suppose that Wells enjoys being hurt
any more than I do, but his difficulty lies in the fact, that he gets
no enjoyment from hurting--or, let us say rather, winning physical
domination over--other people. A boxer to be a good boxer must have
the instinct for bashing. This may not be a highly civilised instinct,
it may (for all I know) be highly reprehensible, but it is present in
successful pugilists, and they can’t get on without it.
Wells was born in 1889, and as a soldier and amateur won the
Championship of all India by beating Private Clohessey in 1909. Two
years later he won the English Heavy-weight Championship by knocking
out Iron Hague at the National Sporting Club in six rounds. Wells
was one of the names mentioned as a “White Hope” at the time when
England, Australia, and America were being ransacked for a champion
to beat Johnson. The match was actually arranged, but it was very
wisely stopped by order of the Home Office. There was, as already
said, a great deal too much “feeling” associated with the proposed
contest which had nothing at all to do with the sport of boxing. It is
impossible to say how any fight that never took place would have gone,
and retrospective surmise is fairly unprofitable: but so far as we can
judge from the two men’s respective records, there seems to be no doubt
that Johnson would have won quickly and with the utmost ease.
The two most interesting encounters in Wells’s career were those with
Georges Carpentier. The Frenchman’s record will be described in more
detail later: it is enough to say for the present that he was the first
French boxer of the highest order, the first to make us realise that
boxing was not the sole prerogative of the English-speaking races.
[Illustration: _Photo: “Sport and General.”_
Jimmy Wilde.]
The first encounter took place at the Ghent Exhibition, on June 1st,
1913. Wells stands 6 feet 3 inches, and his weight is generally in the
neighbourhood of 13 stone. Carpentier is half an inch under six feet,
and in those days was probably little more than a middle-weight, if
that. On this occasion he fought, if not at home, at least near home:
and there was a big crowd present of colliers from Lens, just over the
border, amongst whom he had been born and bred.
Natural advantage was with the Bombardier. Three and a half inches is
a great “pull” in height, and he had a corresponding superiority in
reach. So it was plain to Carpentier and his advisers that he must
do his utmost to get close to his man and to keep there. Wells, on
the other hand, under-rated his opponent. Like most Englishmen at the
time he could not understand how a Frenchman could be a real boxer. It
seemed to be against the settled order of nature.
Now Wells was weak in the body, and he knew it. He could see that
Carpentier was strong, and soon found him a hard hitter, and as he
kept on attacking the body, the Englishman propped him off with long
straight lefts. And for a time he kept at a distance, and Carpentier,
misjudging the extra reach of his opponent lowered his guard. Then
Wells sent in a hard blow at long range and all but beat him. A hard
blow, perfectly timed, but not quite hard enough. Carpentier tumbled
forward and remained down for nine seconds. But Carpentier really loves
fighting for fighting’s sake, or did then. He had been all but knocked
out, but he had in a superlative degree the will-to-go-on. And Wells,
as had happened before, as happened afterwards too, failed to follow up
his advantage with hot but reasoned haste. Having put in a good blow
he was always rather prone to stand aside, so to speak, and admire its
effects; thus allowing those effects to pass off. So it was now. It is
true that he had decidedly the better of the second round, leading off
with a splendid strong and long straight left: but he failed to bustle
and worry Carpentier, and the Frenchman, as the very seconds went by,
recovered. And in the third round Carpentier was himself again. Wells
was utterly astonished. He had quite forgotten that the stunning force
of a punch on the jaw passes very quickly: and he allowed himself to be
flustered and confused, and he showed plainly that he was puzzled. He
forgot to box and hit wildly and wide of his mark. And now Carpentier
had got back nearly all the strength that had been beaten out of him
in the first round. He sent in a vicious right to the jaw which shook
Wells. When a blow on the “point” has done damage short of knocking a
man down, he generally gives the fact away by an involuntary tapping
of his right foot upon the floor. It is like a strong electric shock
which, communicated first to the brain, runs instantly through the
whole nervous system. So the spectators could see that Wells had been
more than “touched.” And then the fourth round began and Wells was
careless and in his turn lowered his guard: and Carpentier’s right hand
whipped across over the shoulder to the English champion’s jaw, whilst
an instant later his left came, bent, with his weight behind it, to the
stomach. And--that was all. Wells was counted out, and, as well they
might, the colliers from Lens wildly yelled their triumph.
This encounter, pricking as it did the bubble of an age-old tradition,
yet had very little effect on the admirers of the Bombardier. Or rather
it was, perhaps, that they refused to believe that the Champion of
England (however little that title may mean) could be really beaten by
any one across the Channel. They regarded the final knock-out as an
accident. After all, Wells had all but won at the very outset, and for
some inscrutable reason he had given the fight away, first by lack of
energy and then from sheer carelessness. This would surely have taught
him a lesson?
There followed after the affair at Ghent three contests in which
Wells proved eminently successful. He knocked out Packey Mahoney in
thirteen rounds at the National Sporting Club, after receiving early
in the fight two very hard right-handers in the body which made him
visibly squirm. That was one of Wells’s chief defects--he showed when
he was hurt. But it was interesting to be shown that, because it was
not supposed that he could stand two such blows on the body. Yet he
recovered from them gradually and did not, this time, forget his boxing.
The next fight was a very unequal affair with Pat O’Keefe,
Middle-weight Champion of England, and subsequently winner outright of
the Lonsdale Belt. O’Keefe was a fine, fair boxer, but he was giving a
couple of stone, and Wells’s head was right over him. He boxed with the
utmost pluck and gave the heavy-weight a lot of trouble before finally
he was quite worn out and sent down beaten in the fifteenth round.
Then Wells knocked out Gunner Moir quite easily in five rounds, thus
turning the tables, for Moir had knocked out the Bombardier more by
good luck than by sound judgment two years before.
And then at last on December 5th, 1913, six months after his defeat at
Ghent, the return match with Carpentier was arranged and took place at
the National Sporting Club.
Of course, if you regard sport only from a competitive standpoint,
this affair will seem to you a sheer disaster. It was England against
France, and France decisively won. It is only human nature, I suppose,
which sticks the national labels so prominently on to an event of this
kind, but it seems unnecessary and rather a pity. There was really no
England and no France in the matter, but two boxers called respectively
Carpentier and Wells, who met in a roped ring to hit each other with
padded fists for the ludicrously excessive stakes of £300 a side and a
purse of £3000. And now that we are more used to the idea of Frenchmen
boxing than we were in those days, the international habit of thought
has largely, and fortunately, dropped into the background of our minds.
It is worth mentioning that members at the National Sporting Club that
night paid for their guests’ seats five, ten, and as many as fifteen
guineas. One onlooker, just before the men entered the ring for the big
contest of the evening, left the hall.
“I’ll be back presently,” he said to a friend, “when they’ve settled
down. I don’t want to see all the preliminaries and hand-shaking.” So
he left his fifteen-guinea seat and went into another part of the club.
On his return he found that it was all over. Rather an expensive drink,
in fact.
The contest had lasted precisely seventy-three seconds.
It was a dismal affair, and brief as the test was there was no
possible doubt but that Carpentier was Wells’s master. Both the men
were extremely well-trained. Wells was in excellent health and could
make no excuse on that score. At the very outset the Frenchman went
straight for his man and planted a good left at his body before
he knew the round had begun. Then he came in close and vigorously
attacked him with a succession of short half-arm blows. He danced
away for a moment and was at Wells again. The Englishman was entirely
flabbergasted. His presence of mind was all gone. He sank his left in
a futile attempt to guard his body, but Carpentier’s right was past
it in a flash, whilst his left followed instantly to Wells’s nose.
Wells tucked away his stomach and took a step back. Carpentier reached
the body again, nevertheless; and as they went apart for a moment
it was seen that Wells was stupefied--more by the very speed of the
onslaught, spectators said, than by punishment. Which is as may be.
Carpentier hit to hurt, and it is exceedingly unlikely that he failed.
But it was again the science of boxing which deserted Wells. He seemed
to be paralysed. He did nothing: no long left came out to keep the
Frenchman away. He wouldn’t be kept away. A great lot of nonsense has
been talked about his actual hypnotic power or that of his ebullient
manager, M. Descamps. But the reason why Carpentier won victories in
those days and has won others and greater ones since, is simply that
he is an extremely good boxer with any amount of fighting spirit--the
love of fighting, the sheer intention to win. That form of will-power
does communicate itself to an opponent in the ring and with disastrous
results, if he be a man of less vitality.
Then Carpentier moved forward again and swung left followed by right
hard upon Wells’s jaw. Then left and right at the body. Both blows
landed on the mark--and it was all over. Wells reeled for an instant
and then sank forward. At the call of Four he rolled over on to his
back. He tried to draw up his knees, but he was completely knocked out,
paralysed, and done. And--for those who like the national labels--the
Champion of England lay beaten at the feet of the Champion of France,
without having struck a single blow.
CHAPTER IX
JOE BECKETT AND BOMBARDIER WELLS
At the time of writing this chapter, Joe Beckett is the Heavy-weight
Champion of England, and has been ever since the contest described
below when, on February 27th, 1919, he first met Bombardier Wells.
He is not a very good champion. His skill is not of the first order,
and he has neither the height nor weight to supply his deficiencies.
Carpentier disposed of him in a round, because Carpentier is
incomparably the better boxer. Wells is also a better boxer so far as
skill--one might almost say “mere” skill--goes, but as some one said of
him once, “He’s too bally refined,” which is a better description of
the Bombardier than most loose generalisations. He is too bally (and
I might dare also to add--“blinking”) refined, both in his style of
boxing and in his appearance. The old-time pug-faced bruiser is dying
out, not only because men no longer fight with their bare knuckles,
but because their skill is so much greater in defence than it used to
be, that a broken nose is a comparatively rare accident; and modern
surgery can make a job of the worst battered faces. Your opponent
aims chiefly for those places which are most susceptible to temporary
but overwhelming effect--the jaw and the mark. The most terrific
blows on either spot do not produce disfigurement. What is known as a
“thick ear” is common enough still--many amateurs have it: but Wells
has managed to avoid even that. His profile might easily be called
Greek--at all events by some one who had once seen a photograph of
Praxitéles’ Hermes and had rather forgotten it. Even Carpentier, whose
personal appearance is discussed much as a good-looking actor’s, and by
the same sort of people, looks, at close quarters, more of a bruiser
than does Wells.
_Punch_ chose to be amusing on this subject not long before the war,
satirising the old and new methods of the manner in which celebrities
of the ring were photographed. In one drawing you see the old
bruiser, a doughty ruffian, stripped to the waist, with a flattened
nose, beetle-browed, with a long aggressive chin, piggy eyes and
short-cropped hair; in the other you have a smiling young man dressed
in the last palpitating extremity of fashion, with longish hair brushed
back from a somewhat noble brow, whilst beside him a beautiful young
woman smiles into a baby’s cot. The source of Mr. Punch’s inspiration
was not far to seek.
In the old days a boxer was portrayed at his job just as actors and
actresses were, because his job it was that interested people. And
like actors and actresses he is still photographed at his job. But
to-day just as you will see in the illustrated papers photographs of
theatrical people playing quite irrelevant games of golf or making hay
which has nothing to do with the point, so you will see photographs of
feather-weight champions dandling purely inapposite infants. It is an
age when people like to assure themselves (for some inscrutable reason)
that show-people are just exactly like people who are not on show.
For good or for ill, boxing has become more and more a matter of
exact science in which the quick use of brains has, to some extent,
superseded purely physical qualities. And a new type of professional
boxer has therefore been evolved. Nevertheless, it is worth observing
here that the most important quality of all for success in the ring
remains unchanged from the very dawn of fist-fighting, a quality
possessed by Tom Johnson, by Jem Belcher, by Tom Spring, Sayers,
Fitzsimmons, Carpentier--what we call “character.”
Now Joe Beckett (to continue for a moment this unseemly discussion of
other men’s personal appearance) is in the old tradition of English
champions. He “looks a bruiser.” This is largely due, no doubt, to
much rough and tumble fighting in his youth, when he travelled with a
booth, which is still (as it has been in the past) a first-rate school
for a hardy young bruiser. In this way he won a great many contests,
which have never been recorded, and then began a regular career of no
particular distinction in 1914. In the following year he retired after
fighting Pat O’Keefe for eight rounds. In 1917 he was knocked out also
in eight rounds by Frank Goddard, on whom, however, he had his revenge
in two rounds two years later. He lost on points to Dick Smith, who
was once a policeman and amateur champion, after a contest of twenty
rounds. Indeed the people who beat Beckett were better known and better
boxers than the people whom he beat. But all this time he was improving
as a boxer and getting fitter and stronger.
When he entered the ring at the Holborn Stadium with Bombardier Wells
he was, as they say, a picture. He was in perfect, buoyant health; a
mass of loose, easy, supple muscle slid and rolled under his bronzed
and shining skin, he was obviously eager and ready for a good fight.