"My name is Steve Palmer; you've probably heard of me. Now to come to
the point; you look fairly intelligent."
He seemed slightly surprised, but grinned.
"With your brains and your body." I said slowly, "you should be
fighting in the best rings in the country--not second-rate joints like
this. I've followed your career. I've seen you fighting second-raters
in small clubs for the last few months, tearing into them, wide-open
and reckless. Now, listen, I'm saying this for your own good. As a
boxer you're a false alarm. Wait now, don't get sore. I've watched you
fight, and you're the toughest, hardest punching slugger I ever saw,
but you don't use your brains. You start your swings from the floor,
leave yourself wide open at all times, forget all about footwork and
fall for every trick your opponent tries. You fight almost like a man
in a trance. The only reason you've ever whipped anybody is because
you're a freak--a regular granite-jawed iron man. But you'll crumble
after a while under the steady fire of punches and go around cutting
paper dolls. Punch-drunk! Just another Joe Grim."
"I know it," he answered roughly. "But how is it any of your business?"
"Listen, Slade," I said as kindly as I could, "I wouldn't be wasting my
time on you if you were of the general run of iron men--a small-brained
slugger without intelligence enough to learn. But you have plenty of
brains, and probably more education than I have. I don't know how you
got into the game, or why you haven't learned some science, but you
have the makings of a champion. You've been going along without a
manager. I don't say I can make you a ring wizard. But I say this: if
you'll throw in with me, try your best to learn and apply what I teach
you, I'll make you a champion."
Costigan shrugged his shoulders.
"All right," he answered rather indifferently. "As you say. I've never
been knocked out yet, but this incessant battering is beginning to tell
on me already."
* * * * *
That was how I came to manage "Iron" Slade Costigan. I liked the boy
from the first; and I earnestly set to work to make a scientific
slugger out of him. Alone in my training camps I had him study the
tactics of Dempsey, McGovern, Ketchel and Tom Sharkey--men who, lacking
real cleverness, adapted themselves to their own particular style of
fighting. Costigan learned with an ease which astonished me.
At last I got him Johnny Hilan, a good, clever light-heavyweight, for a
sparring partner, absolutely forbidding Costigan to slug him.
I was astounded. To my amazement I watched my iron slugger glide about
Johnny for four fast rounds, outstepping and outjabbing him, tying him
up in the clinches, and flashing a defense that showed real genius.
"Slade," I said heartily, "I've been all wrong! I've been trying to
make a scientific slugger out of you. Now I'm going to make you the
classiest boxer the ring has ever seen! You're a queer fellow, Slade. I
never heard of a slugger before who concealed such latent cleverness.
It's absolutely beyond me how you've been such a tramp in the ring."
He shook his head in a helpless sort of manner and I was vaguely
worried to note that he did not seem at all enthusiastic.
"I could always box cleverly in the training quarters," he said, "but
the instant I climb into the ring I seem to be transformed into--a
tramp," he laughed sardonically.
I imported the cleverest sparring partners I could find and set to
work. Slade took naturally to his work and I was wildly enthusiastic.
I had stumbled on to the rarest of all finds--a clever heavyweight
with a killing punch. Could I make a cool crafty boxer out of Slade,
I knew no man in the world could stand against him. Fast, aggressive,
too tough to be worried by the few punches that would slip past his
guard, with the power of a projectile in each hand and the speed of
light in his feet, he would tower above the general ruck of fighters
like a giant above dwarfs. The manager's and fight fans' dream! The
super-fighter! A Corbett with the ruggedness of a Jeffries and the
punch of a Dempsey!
All these things I imparted to Costigan, but he listened silently and
his only comment was a despairing, empty and self-mocking laugh that
worried me deeply. But I went on.
At last I deemed my man ready to take the first step in the course I
had mapped out for him. Accordingly I matched him with one Joe Handler,
a tough fighter, fairly clever, with a wicked hitting ability. His
manager was looking for a set-up at the time, and did not object to
putting his man in with an unknown.
I impressed upon Costigan that this was his first step on the trail
that should lead from second-rater to champion. I instructed him to box
Handler, to keep away from him until he saw an opening, then to crash
in with the short heavy smashes I had taught him. Slade listened, but
said nothing.
* * * * *
The gong sounded. The crowd fell partly silent for a breathless
instant, as Handler came to the center of the ring, hands up and wary.
Costigan slid out of his corner in a half-crouch, moving with the
smooth cat-like tread that was his. I wondered if this could be the
same man who had fought Battling Monaghan.
Handler led with his left, but Costigan was out of reach. Again he led
and this time Slade stepped inside it and hooked a short left to the
body. Handler grunted and went back on his heels and instantly Costigan
was on him, raining right and left hooks to body and head. Somehow
Handler slipped blindly through the hail of gloves and clinched. The
referee broke them. Handler striking out blindly, connected with a
hard left. Costigan stepped back from a wild right. The crowd shouted
jeeringly, as crowds will, mindlessly, meaninglessly--and then to my
horror Costigan went out of his mind and charged in blindly, flailing
right and let!
My yells were in vain. He drove Handler about the ring with the force
of his onslaught, missing or landing glancingly with most of his wild
swings. The crowd was up, bellowing--they liked this, of course.
What do they care about a fighter or whether he spends his last days
maundering about with a punch-drunk brain?
Handler was so astounded by this metamorphosis that he was unable to
work out a plan of defense and just before the gong Costigan floored
him with a wild right swing to the side of the head.
Back in his corner, Slade sat with his head in his hands, paying no
attention to my curses and entreaties. For the second round he came
out slowly, in a boxing pose, but before the gloves touched, he went
to pieces again and reverted to his old style. Handler was so weakened
by the punishment he had received in the first round that he was in
no shape to withstand Costigan's ferocity, and after missing seven or
eight terrific swings, Slade landed a haymaking left to the jaw, and
Handler went down and out.
Slade sat in his dressing room in silence, his eyes on the floor. I did
not berate him, for I knew he was suffering. I slapped him on the back
and said: "Cheer up, kid, better luck next time. After all, this is
only the first bout."
"No, Steve," he said with a despairing gesture. "It'll be the same next
time and always. I've been this way ever since I can remember. I'll
never be anything but a tramp. It was only by chance I won--Handler was
so surprised at my change of style that he left himself open. Otherwise
he'd have beaten me to a pulp. Oh, I've had this experience before.
When I first started fighting it was the same way. To come out sparring
and dancing, and then the crowd--" He shuddered suddenly and clenched
his fists until the nails sank into his palms.
"The crowd! They yell and I go insane! I can hear every shout--'Fight,
you yellow tramp!' 'Get off your bicycle!' 'Stand up and fight, curse
you!' The force of those thousands of wills beats on me like a material
flood. I've seen psychologists. Mass hypnotism, they say it is. I'm
like a man in a trance, as you once said. A part of my brain goes to
sleep and all that remains is the wild beast urge to destroy my enemy.
The crowd beats down my will power and hypnotizes me."
[Illustration: "_Fight, you yellow tramp!_"]
"I've heard of such things," I said dubiously. "Still, I maintain that
it can be overcome. You slug naturally. I believe we can train you
until you box naturally; instinctively."
"I doubt it," said Costigan. "When the thunder of the crowd beats on my
brain, I'm stunned--dazed; only partly aware of what I'm doing."
I went back to the training camp with one object in mind--to drill
Costigan until he boxed as instinctively as he fought. To implant the
science of the game so thoroughly in his reflexes that his trained
motions would carry him through even if his brain "went to sleep."
The reporters pounced on the sensational knock-out of Handler, and
boosted Costigan's stock sky high. They proclaimed him a second
Dempsey, a smashing man-killer of the West, and laughed over his trick
of fooling Handler into thinking that he was a defensive boxer--as they
said.