50 YEARS AT RINGSIDE
[Illustration]
50
YEARS AT
RINGSIDE
NAT FLEISCHER
[Illustration]
FLEET
PUBLISHING
CORPORATION,
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT 1958 BY NAT FLEISCHER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PROTECTED UNDER INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT CONVENTION
AND THE PAN AMERICAN COPYRIGHT CONVENTION
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 58-8780
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
FOREWORD
If the readers of this autobiography of one of the standout sports
reporters of the half century, and a pre-eminent authority on boxing in
particular, get half the thrills I enjoyed while going over the advance
proofs, it will take its place with the most successful efforts of its
kind.
Here we have the eye witness accounts of the Pepys of the ring scene
these last fifty years.
This is a story which nobody has produced in the past, and certainly is
not going to duplicate in the future.
It is the life story of a man who lived through increasingly exciting
eras of the nation’s history, and the nation’s sports annals. The
conditions which obtained through those eventful decades will not come
again. The man who banged his typewriter through these crowding years
will not come again upon a similar sequence in the sports kaleidoscope.
Here are behind-the-scenes pictures, the inside stories of so many
developments which have waited, until now, for my lifetime friend Nat
Fleischer to reveal them.
Here are pathos, comedy, and intrigue; the seamy, sombre stories, and the
funny ones as well. Ring heroes of the past come to life in these pages
to reveal themselves in the full panoply of their championship stature,
or in the meaner habiliments of the character on the fringe.
It is a fine book, and I thank Nat for having written it.
DAN DANIEL
To Trudie
TABLE OF CONTENTS
[Illustration]
FOREWORD
BOOK ONE
1. THE DRAMA OF SPORT 3
2. MY BOYHOOD YEARS 7
3. MY WORK AS A REPORTER 13
4. AN INTERVIEW WITH ROOSEVELT 19
5. I FIGHT TO BE A SOLDIER 25
6. OLD NEW YORK 29
7. THE UNDERWORLD IN BOXING 45
BOOK TWO
8. AN AMAZING AMATEUR 55
9. THE MICHIGAN ASSASSIN 63
10. JACK JOHNSON 75
11. A BLACK OMEN 82
12. BOXING’S HARLEQUIN 90
BOOK THREE
13. A STORY OF INTRIGUE 99
14. DESTINY’S PARTNERSHIP 108
15. A SCOUT FOR TEX RICKARD 125
16. UNCLE MIKE JACOBS 138
BOOK FOUR
17. DONNYBROOKS 163
18. FIGHTING COURAGE 171
19. RINGSIDE THRILLS 176
20. LAUGHS AND ODDITIES 188
21. CHAMPS AND CHUMPS 199
BOOK FIVE
22. ADVENTURES ABROAD 211
23. A DREAM COMES TRUE 225
24. THE FITZSIMMONS CLAN 235
BOOK SIX
25. BIRTH OF _THE RING_ 245
26. MEET THE PRESS 252
27. A SUMMING UP 273
BOOK
ONE
[Illustration]
[Illustration: 1]
THE DRAMA OF SPORT
I am a sports romanticist. For me, the annals of the ring are
unparalleled in their appeal. The saga of what has been called the “Sour
Science” achieves peaks of interest and excitement that are found in no
other recreation or entertainment.
That boxing has this unmatched position is not to be wondered at. A
contact sport in its simplest form, it is an individual battle which
tests the courage, skill and stamina of two men.
Each era has its own heroes. Boxing styles keep changing. The demands of
the public change as the years roll along. New faces gain popular acclaim
and heighten popular controversy, and the interest in the sport gains new
momentum as these colorful characters make the headlines.
Since controversy is the life blood of the sport, it is easy to see why
stories about boxing and the non-combatants closely associated with its
promotion, management, matchmaking, and supervision, offer a special
appeal to the reader.
There is romance in boxing. There is a spectacular glamor to the fight
parade as it rolls along through the years: the explosive violence that
was Jack Dempsey winning the heavyweight championship by a knockout
over the behemoth, Jess Willard; Dempsey punched out of the ring and
coming back to stop Luis Firpo in the wildest four minutes ever seen in
boxing’s violent history; Joe Louis getting his quick, lethal revenge on
Max Schmeling; Ezzard Charles achieving a once-in-a-lifetime peak to go
fifteen close rounds with slugging Rocky Marciano—these moments brighten
the pages of boxing history.
Not all the thrills are to be found in the padded ring. The side show
often furnishes the laughs, pathos, color, and the drama that make boxing
what it is; but the anecdotes that have the greatest appeal are those of
the champions.
The intimate side of the ring’s title holders, the behind the scenes
tales of the wizards of the roped square, the hair-raising experiences,
both in and out of the ring—these are the human interest stories that
make boxing a world sport.
Five decades of sports writing furnish the backbone of this book,
material I’ve gathered from my diary of more than half a century of
reporting and collecting.
During my many years of association with sports, I’ve studied the likes
and dislikes of champions; their eccentricities and fighting qualities,
as they compare with those great fighters of another era. It is part, I
suppose, of the capacity for hero worship that is more or less inherent
in us all.
I’ve found champions in boxing a different breed from the average
person who engages in sports as a recreation. When I asked a newly
crowned champion how he felt when he finally reached the heights, “No
different,” was usually the answer I would get. Anticipation always
exceeds realization.
I recall an interview with Freddy Welsh after he had won the world
lightweight crown; “Somehow, now that I’ve won the championship, it
doesn’t look so big,” he told me.
I was present at a dinner at which Gene Tunney, retired undefeated
heavyweight king, and I were the guest speakers, and when I asked Gene
the same question, he answered:
“In human endeavor, the most important thing is not so much the
realization of the goal; the effort of the chase is worth more to the
hunter than the actual capture. I cherish the crown. But my greatest
thrills came not in winning it but in my climb to the top. Now that the
goal has been reached, it is just another incident in my boxing career.”
There is no rosy road to success. But once it has been obtained, the
hero worship begins. In boxing there are those whose names typify
crashing power; others whose cleverness and defensive skill place them
in the category of great ringmen. Still others are remembered for their
intriguing personalities, their humor, wisecracks, and _color_.
In these pages you will find the human side of these vivid personalities;
first hand information on fights and fighters that is authoritative; the
elements in boxing that made ring history; the never-to-be-forgotten
incidents that make boxing the fascinating sport it is.
* * * * *
My work as a journalist has brought me in contact with sportsmen the
world over. I have interviewed presidents and kings, promoters, managers,
and fistic celebrities from the four corners of the globe. I have
received _La Medaile d’honneur d’or de education physique et des sports_
from France; the _Constantine Ordine Militare de San Georgie di Antioche_
and the _Commandatore della Stella al Merito Sportivo_ from Italy; and
the Order of the White Elephant from King Bhumibol Adulyadej of Thailand
for my work on behalf of international boxing.
I have been on intimate terms with every heavyweight champion since James
J. Corbett. When Corbett died, I wrote thirty articles on his career for
the King Features Syndicate. To my headquarters, facing the main entrance
of Madison Square Garden, have often come Jack Dempsey, Gene Tunney, Jack
Sharkey, Joe Louis, Jimmy Braddock, and many other great names of the
past and present. Their photographs look down on me from the walls of my
office and jog up my memory as the fleeting scenes of the days that have
gone into the record books press for my attention.
Although there aren’t as many great fighters around today as in the past,
they are the best we can now muster and we must be content with them. As
a class, the boxers today are more wholesome, more eager for the good
things of life than those of the old days who often spent their substance
and their genius with the prodigal hand of the waster.
I have seen almost every heavyweight championship bout in the past half
century, and most of those in other divisions—bouts that reach across
a stretch of many exciting years—years of prosperity, war, depression,
and change in boxing technique. They are years that saw the legalization
of boxing throughout the world, the promotional extravaganzas of the
great Tex Rickard and the million dollar gates, the reign of two of the
greatest heavyweights of all time, Jack Dempsey and Joe Louis, and the
rise and fall of Mike Jacob’s empire.
I entered the field of journalism as a sports writer during the
transition period of boxing—the repeal of the Horton Law abolishing the
sport, the beginning of the club membership era, and the subsequent
adoption of legalized boxing throughout the world. It is satisfying to be
a part of the new era, but a nostalgic treat to be able to look back on
the old.
[Illustration: 2]
MY BOYHOOD YEARS
I became interested in boxing the day I learned how to make a fist.
I began to show interest in journalism when I contributed to the monthly
magazine at Public School No. 15 in Lower Manhattan. Later I became its
editor.
As a youngster, I loved athletics of all kinds. I played baseball,
basketball, rode a bike with sufficient skill to do tricks on it, boxed
and wrestled. And right here I want to pay tribute to the Boys’ Club, the
Brace Memorial School, and Christodora House, which all through the years
have done so much for the youngsters of the East Side of New York where I
was born, November 3, 1887.
At the Brace Memorial School and the Boys’ Club, I learned to appreciate
the value of organized, supervised athletics. It was one thing to
exercise in the streets and yet another to become involved in the closely
regulated activities of a club.
The Public Schools Athletic League provided another fine influence on
boys like myself. For years, school sport in New York was run on a
haphazard, catch-as-catch-can basis. Then came the P.S.A.L., in which
General George W. Wingate and Dr. Luther Halsey Gulick were the moving
spirits, and school sports became organized, supervised, regulated.
The P.S.A.L.’s first big track meet was held in Madison Square Garden,
and there I competed in my first important race and won the 220-yard
dash. It was there, too, that I first heard the roar of the crowd. I have
been listening to it ever since.
* * * * *
My parents came to America in 1868. They brought a large family into the
world. Among nine who survived, five of us have passed our seventieth
birthday. Grandfather died at the age of 102 and grandmother, 101, and
dad was close to 80 when he passed away. So you see the Fleischer family
comes from hardy stock.
Brother Mark and I were the family athletes. I was thirteen when I
entered Townsend Harris Hall, the preparatory school for City College.
There, and at college, I continued my interest in sports and won many
prizes.
My experiences during adolescence paved the way for my future career.
In 1899, for example, I saw my first professional fight, a contest in
which Terry McGovern was pitted against Pedlar Palmer, British champion.
I’ve lived that fight over and over again. For me, that was the thrill
of thrills: to be twelve years old and present at one of the most
talked-about bouts in American pugilism!
My home was but a few doors away from the Brace Memorial School for
newsboys, an organization opposite St. Bridget’s Church on the corner
of Avenue A and Eighth Street. I did chores after school hours for
Superintendent Walter Grosvenor and Grove Dale, athletic director. The
walls of Dale’s room were decorated with photographs of famous athletes,
and McGovern was among his favorites.
I had completed dusting when Dale, pointing to McGovern, remarked:
“There’s a great little fighter. I’m going to see him box for the
championship tomorrow. Mr. Grosvenor was to accompany me, but he can’t
make it. If you can get permission from your ma, I’ll take you along.”
I was delighted at the invitation, but needless to say, I didn’t ask my
mother, knowing her answer would be “no.” Instead I rushed out of the
building, waited a while, then returned to tell Dale that permission had
been granted.
The impression that fight left with me patterned my future. Henceforth, I
became a collector of the fight pictures distributed by various cigarette
companies, and to this day, I have more than 5,000 in my attic. They
cover almost every fighter of note among the greats of the past.
A fortnight later, I joined a boxing class organized by Dale, and in a
short time I was the captain and star of his outfit, as well as president
of the Oregon Athletic Club, which he sponsored. We not only boxed, but
had an excellent baseball and basketball team. I was catcher and first
baseman of the ball club and participated in the club’s other activities.
As a boxer, I scaled only 122 pounds, but was fairly clever and could
hit well. Leach Cross, later one of the toughest lightweights in the
professional field, was my age. He was one of the neighborhood’s best
scrappers, a lad who would put up his fists at the least provocation,
and on many occasions we crossed each other’s path and settled matters
without the aid of gloves.
I remember a baseball game in which Leach and I were on opposite sides
and he resented the manner in which I tagged him out at the plate,
preventing his team from tieing the score. He rushed at me and in a jiffy
we were rolling all over the grass. Mr. Dale separated us and suggested
that we settle our differences with the gloves. We agreed and what a
shellacking I took! In later years when I became a reporter, I took keen
delight in watching Leach do to others what he had done to me.
As captain of the Oregon Athletic Club, I accepted a request of Mrs.
Oliver Harriman and Mrs. Jay Gould, sponsors of the Boys’ Club, to have
our team meet the Boys’ Club members as part of the inaugural program
arranged for the opening night of their new gymnasium. The second bout on
the program was between Joe Gordon and me. Gordon scaled ten pounds more
than I did, and I refused to go on until I was told that the rounds would
be cut to two minutes each, and we would box only two rounds.
I walked into the ring with chest out, proud as a peacock as I received
the plaudits of the gathering. However, the show ended within a few
minutes. We sparred, and in seconds, the lights went out for me. I was
knocked cold. I recall, as I regained consciousness, seeing Mrs. Harriman
rubbing my forehead and Mrs. Gould patting my hand, yet I didn’t know
what was wrong. I couldn’t understand what the fuss was about, until I
learned from Leach Cross that my opponent, Gordon, was a ringer, a “pro”
fighting under an assumed name. The incident almost caused a ban on
boxing at the club.
* * * * *
Though I was only five feet two inches tall, I was a good sprinter and
broad jumper at City College. In a meet with Rutgers, I cleared 19 feet 8
inches for a winning leap, and in a triangular meet with Pratt Institute
and New York University, I did two inches better.
In 1904 I had become a City College correspondent for the _Morning and
Sunday World_ and the New York _Press_ and two years later I was accepted
by the _Press_ as a cub reporter on part time service, doing general
reporting and copyreading under the supervision of both the sports and
city editors.
When I graduated from college in 1908 with a Bachelor of Science degree,
I was assigned to work under James R. Price in the sports department.
He was one of the best teachers I could have wished for. He primed me
for the sports editor’s post which I later held on several New York
dailies for a quarter of a century. I also had the fine guidance of three
experts: Ernie Lanigan in baseball, George B. Underwood in track and
field and general sports, and Charles F. Mathison in boxing. A year later
we were joined by another baseball expert, Frederick G. Lieb.
Although I liked my work, I had a strong hankering for commercial
chemistry and matriculated in a postgraduate course at New York
University. My hours on _The Press_ were long. I seldom reached home
before one in the morning, yet for three months I spent my mornings at
the University, bending over Bunsen burners, retorts and vials. One
morning, exhausted, after a long tour at the paper, I mixed several
chemicals that caused an explosion that blew me out of N.Y.U. I was asked
to pack up and quit. So ended my budding career as a chemist.
I still was undecided about continuing as a reporter, and since I had
passed an examination to teach in the New York schools, I accepted an
assignment as an instructor in a sixth grade class of girls in Public
School No. 7 on the lower East Side of Manhattan. I worked there until
school closed at three, then reported to _The Press_, where I seldom
left before eleven in the evening. It was a gruelling grind I had mapped
out for myself, and two months before summer vacation I handed in my
resignation to Dr. Kottman, the school principal.
I also held a license to teach during the summer in the playgrounds, and
for two summers I was a supervisor of athletics in the Red Hook section
of Brooklyn, a tough neighborhood where my boxing knowledge came in
handy. During that time I organized the first Fourth of July schoolboy
track and field meet under the supervision of the Public Schools Athletic
League. This later became an annual event for many years under the
direction of the Park Playgrounds’ Board.
* * * * *
I have passed through three depressions and have a vivid recollection
of each. Though I was only six years old when the nation’s businessmen
went into mourning during the crash in President Grover Cleveland’s
administration, I recall how my brothers and I sold newspapers to make
both ends meet. However, despite hard times, six of us graduated from
college.
[Illustration: 3]
MY WORK AS A REPORTER
April 14, 1912.
That’s a date I shall always remember.
It was the day on which I received my baptism of fire as a big time
reporter. It was the day of the sinking of the _Titanic_, then the
world’s largest ship. The mishap to that gigantic craft which was hit by
an iceberg and went down in mid-ocean with many world celebrities aboard
was largely responsible for my promotion to the executive post of sports
editor.
Ever hear of the “dog-watch?” If you have any friends in the newspaper
field, they’ll tell you that it is a term used to designate the desk men
who remain on the job after the early edition goes to press. They must
handle any startling news that might arise, news of sufficient importance
to necessitate revamping the front page and setting new material for the
late editions, or in cases of extreme emergency, to get out a special
extra. To the “dog-watch” I owe much.
On that April night I took over the sports desk of the New York _Press_,
filling in for Jim Price, the editor. I was there alone. My desk was
full of proofs and I was busily engaged in reading them when Alexander
Stoddard, who filled in as night editor, interrupted me.
Mr. Stoddard that evening was in charge of the news department and he,
like me, was sitting in on the “dog-watch” when the biggest news item
of the year broke through the Associated Press. The news was carried in
envelopes to the city editor every twenty minutes by an Associated Press
messenger. It was the last delivered envelope that stirred things around
the “Press” building to a pitch of excitement that I’ve never since seen
duplicated in my newspaper career.
The message carried in that delivery read: “Flash—Titanic Strikes Iceberg
in North Atlantic—Report All Safe!”
That flash brought about action in our newspaper office that set an all
time record. Alex Stoddard, James Scott, chief of the composing room, and
I immediately got everything in motion for what was probably the quickest
edition ever put out in New York.
Our first edition was closed. The paper was about to go to press. The
New York _World_, the New York _Herald_, and the New York _Tribune_ all
had a half hour earlier edition than _The Press_ so when that flash
came through, these papers were already on the street while _The Press_
alone still had a chance to make the news in its first edition. We had
the jump on everybody, and Alex Stoddard made the best of it with the
speed and cooperation that only experienced newspaper hands can give. The
morgue was next to the sports department. Stoddard ordered me to locate
a copy of the passenger list of the maiden voyage of the gigantic and
magnificent _Titanic_, a list that had been furnished by the Associated
Press before sailing time. He called the composing room to acquaint Scott
with the big news and Scott, at Stoddard’s command, had page one ripped
apart as the paper was about to be put “to sleep.”
The superintendent of the press room was told to clear the presses for a
quick extra, and all hands were alerted.
The Circulation Manager was apprised of the news and he in turn called in
all available men in the delivery room, had his wagons lined up for the
emergency, collected newsboys from Park Row, then the journalistic center
of the city, and the stage was set, so far as the mechanical departments
were concerned, for the biggest scoop of the era.
While this was going on, another Associated Press envelope was delivered
which read:
“Cape Race, Newfoundland—Sunday night April 14—at 10:25 tonight the White
Star _Titanic_ called ‘C.Q.D.’ to the Marconi Wireless Station here and
reported having struck an iceberg. Immediate assistance was requested. So
far no report on condition of passengers.”
With that as a lead and the names of the passengers, I helped to get out
a front page story of one of the greatest disasters of our time.
I didn’t think human hands could work so rapidly! Within half an hour our
papers were in circulation along lower Broadway and around the Brooklyn
Bridge. Newsboys ran pell-mell along the thoroughfares shouting their
wares. The Press delivery wagons were speeding up Broadway to Herald
Square and Times Square, the two busiest sections of the city for early
morning life, and there our extra was out a good twenty minutes before
any other paper could publish the news of the disaster in a make-over
edition.
For days after that feat, the New York _Press_ was the talk of the
newspaper world. Of course, we were fortunate in going to press a little
later than the other papers, but the big thing in our scoop was the fact
that the “dog-watch” was on the alert.
When the _Titanic_ sailed on her maiden voyage, the largest ship afloat
at the time, she carried a notable list of passengers. Among the 1,517
passengers who went down were Nathan Strauss and his wife; Captain
Archibald Butt, aide to President Theodore Roosevelt; John Jacob Astor;
William Stead of the _Review of Reviews_, a London magazine editor who
wrote the sensational book, _If Christ Came to Chicago_, and Charles
Frohman, America’s greatest theatrical producer.
When the _Carpathia_, which had rescued most of the 690 survivors,
arrived in New York, the commotion about the dock was much like that
occasioned on the arrival of a hospital ship during the First World War.
Thousands flocked to the _Carpathia_ pier, but only newspapermen and
officials were permitted inside the police lines, I among them.
Lady Duff Gordon of London, was among those saved. As she was good copy,
most of the reporters were assigned to interview her in her suite at the
Murray Hill Hotel.
The room was crowded with newspapermen when she recounted her story
of thrilling rescues, episodes of heroism among passengers and crew;
pathetic scenes in a sea strewn with dead, maimed, and shrieking men,
women, and children.
I have had many memorable moments in my newspaper career but the
assignment from John Hennessey, the Managing Editor, to work with the
veteran members of our staff on the sinking of the _Titanic_ gave me my
greatest reportorial thrill.
* * * * *
I had a guarantee of only $10 per week as my take home pay when I started
my journalist career, but following the _Titanic_ disaster, my minimum
was raised to $45 per week plus whatever I could make at space rates
above that sum. In those days many of us were paid in that manner.
During my first two years as a cub reporter, I often sat around for ten
hours with little to do other than a few rewrite stories and frequently
finished a week with $15 or less in my pay envelope.
The raise I received elated me. It was the biggest money I had earned as
a reporter. It wasn’t long, however, before I became Sunday editor of the
Automobile section and Scholastic sports editor in addition to writing
feature articles and covering general sports events.
When _The Press_ was merged with the _Morning Sun_ and Jim Price resigned
as sports editor, Frank A. Munsey, the new owner, appointed Joe Millard
to take charge, with me as his assistant. Millard had been covering
racing and was a heavy drinker, and he didn’t last long. I took his place
within a few months after the merger. I served under Mr. Munsey on every
paper which he purchased in New York. I was his sports editor on the _Sun
Press_, _The Morning Herald_, _The Morning Sun_, _The Mail-Telegram_ and
_The Evening Telegram_.
As Sports Editor I gathered around me a staff of experts that made _The
Telegram_ outstanding for its sports coverage. In addition to Underwood,
Mathison, and Lieb, I had Dan Daniel, Francis Albertanti, Peter Bernaugh,
Hughey Mulhare, Harry King, Nan O’Reilly, Howard Valentine, Al Copeland,
and James K. McGuinness—experts every one of them, each capable of
reporting any branch of sports.
For thirteen years I was Frank A. Munsey’s top man in the sports
department. Every time he junked a newspaper by amalgamating it with
another, he placed me in charge. The break came in 1929 when the
Scripps-Howard interests bought the New York _Telegram_. I had been in
Europe on a two-month feature assignment on the reconstruction era in
Central Europe following the war and knew nothing of the loss of my
position, until I was informed by ship news reporters at Sandy Hook upon
my arrival home. Roy Howard ousted me to make way for Joe Williams, a
Cleveland sports writer from the Scripps-Howard organization.
I pondered for several weeks over my future and finally decided that I
would devote all my time to _The Ring Magazine_ which I had organized in
1922. I also continued as American correspondent for several British and
French newspapers, posts I still retain.
[Illustration: 4]
AN INTERVIEW WITH ROOSEVELT
“Like father, like son,” is an adage as old as the hills, but it is very
often true. I was in San Juan, Puerto Rico, in 1932 to referee a fight
and paid a visit to the Governor, Theodore Roosevelt, son of the great
“Teddy.” Years ago, when I was a reporter, I made the acquaintance of the
grand old warrior of the Roosevelt family, and meeting his son in San
Juan, I was deeply impressed by the resemblance of the offspring to the
sire.
Teddy Jr. was a chip off the old block. The smile, the handshake, and
the energy put into his work as Governor were not the only reminders of
his illustrious dad. His love for sports was another. Teddy Jr., like
his father, was an expert at squash tennis and racquets and a boxing
enthusiast.
A few days after young Governor Roosevelt was inaugurated at San Juan,
I watched him box Frank O’Ben, the Island’s leading instructor, at the
latter’s well-equipped gymnasium.
His father, President Theodore Roosevelt was a remarkable man:
politician, ranchman, soldier, hunter, and all-around athlete. The
Roosevelt boys were brought up on an athletic diet and each was taught
the art of self-defense at school. Boxing was always one of Teddy’s
favorite hobbies.
I recall the day in 1908 that the American Olympic team returned
triumphantly from London, where little Johnny Hayes, our marathon runner,
gained international fame in his race with Dorando Pietri, the Italian
who collapsed at the finish. I met the homecoming team at Sandy Hook and
accompanied the victorious brigade back to New York City.
The hero, of course, was Hayes. When the ship reached quarantine, we
received word that President Roosevelt had invited the entire Olympic
contingent to spend the following day at his Oyster Bay Estate where he
would officially welcome each of the members.
Out to Oyster Bay the little army traveled, and when we reached President
Roosevelt’s estate, we were met by the Roosevelt family, government
officials, and a large delegation of home town folk. It was heart warming.
I learned much about Theodore Roosevelt, the athlete that day. Beaming
with delight, he shook the hand of every member of the returning team.
Then he told us how he had become so interested in athletics. In his
youth he was referred to as a chicken-livered kid because his delicate
health did not permit him to play in vigorous games with other lads. He
didn’t like being kept in the background, however, and had no scruples
about letting his parents know it.
“I made my health what it is today,” he said. “When I found that
physically I was not the equal of other boys, I was determined to make
myself fit.”
Here he was, receiving America’s foremost athletes, the young men upon
whom the youth of the land looked with envy and admiration, and he
immediately realized the opportunity to bring home a point to hundreds of
thousands of American children.
“When a boy,” he continued, “I was sent to Moosehead Lake to rid myself
of asthma. I was brought up by a maiden aunt who decided that the change
of air would help my ailment and also help to build me up. While en
route, I became acquainted with three lads who took a keen delight in
teasing me. They called me ‘Sissy’ and other names I didn’t like, and my
pride was hurt. I made up my mind that I would learn how to defend myself
against such attacks, and that’s how I came to take up boxing.
“On my return home, I told father what had happened. He laughed it off
but consented to have Tom Long, a former fighter, teach me the manly
art. When I was in the third year at school, I became the lightweight
champion. Then I took up wrestling, another sport I liked, and by the
time I matriculated in college, I was pretty good at both.”
He told of the day he stopped by the Harvard gymnasium for some
recreation and exercise, and one of the members of the Harvard boxing
team invited him to spar. Roosevelt admitted he was quick to oblige. They
donned the gloves, stepped to the center of the ring, and as Roosevelt
put forth his right hand for the customary boxing handshake, he received
a powerful blow to the jaw. The punch staggered him, and according to the
President, he was flabbergasted at the unsportsmanlike display.
“The students were quick to note the discourteous act,” he said, “and
cries of ‘shame’ and ‘foul’ filled the air. Much to the discomfiture of
my opponent, I held my hand out until he complied with the courtesy of
the ring, and then I proceeded to hand him a business-like shellacking.
“I taught that fellow something,” continued the President. “I taught him
that boxing was a sport for sportsmen in which the rules of fair play
must be observed, and he and I were the greatest of pals throughout the
remainder of our college days.”
* * * * *
Roosevelt, when Police Commissioner of New York, followed boxing with a
keen interest. When the police attempted raids in the old club membership
days, he urged them to be lenient. Often he had them stand at the
ringside to guard the contestants until the fight was over before he
would permit them to interfere and make the arrest.
Back in 1916, when I was sports editor of the New York _Press_, I went
out to Oyster Bay to get an interview with the retired United States
President. At the time, the boxing game was being threatened by certain
disgruntled politicians and blue law agitators, and things looked black
for the sport. The flame against boxing had become so widespread that it
seemed as if nothing could extinguish it, and I thought that a talk with
Roosevelt would be timely.
I remembered my interview with him years before, and I recalled how
ardent a fight enthusiast he was. So I figured that a story from him on
the good points about boxing would help our cause. Here is his statement
as I published it:
“When I became a member of the New York State Legislature,
there was considerable commotion up at Albany by a faction that
was opposed to boxing. I took up the issue with them. Like
my father, who believed that a fair, stand-up fight would do
a boy a lot of good, I arose to defend boxing. I surprised,
even shocked, many mothers when I said that ‘the boy that
won’t fight is not worth his salt. He is either a coward or
constitutionally weak. I have taught my boys to take their own
part and fight their way whenever they must. Cowardice is not
in their make-up. I do not know for which I should punish my
boys quicker—for cruelty or flinching. Both are abominable.’
“I have never been able to sympathize with the outcry against
boxing. The only objection I have to prize fighting, is when
there is talk of fake or crookedness, and such talk is common.
Where there is smoke, there is fire and I figure that such
gossip is never entirely unfounded.
“Outside of that, I regard boxing, professional and amateur, as
a vigorous, healthful sport that develops courage, keenness of
mind, quickness of eye, and a spirit of combativeness that fits
every boy who engages in it for the daily tasks that confront
him.
“It is not half so brutalizing or demoralizing as many forms of
big business, and certain legal work that is often carried on
to help such business.
“I have often thought that if we had more boys’ clubs where the
manly art was taught, we would have fewer youthful criminals,
the street corner type of hoodlum, and would breed a better
class of young American citizens—the future voters. Boxing
develops elements of character that are difficult to obtain in
other sports—fairness, the spirit of give-and-take, courage,
and alertness.
“It is only the bully who always wants to give and to avoid the
taking. If boxing were taught in every public and secondary
school and in college, this nation would soon find itself rid
of the bullies and would develop in our youth a spirit of
manhood, a spirit that teaches fairness to our fellow men. We
would be rid of street corner rowdies and cowards, and make our
boys a better, sturdier, healthier lot.”
In Washington, President Roosevelt frequently boxed with Professor Mike
Donovan of the New York Gymnasium and Steve O’Donnell, another former
fighter. When, after a long lapse, Harvard, of which Roosevelt was
an alumnus, decided to restore boxing as an inter-collegiate sport,
Roosevelt was instrumental in obtaining for his friend O’Donnell the post
of boxing instructor. After the appointment, O’Donnell received a letter
from Roosevelt which he permitted me to publish in the _Morning Sun_.
Here is the letter which is now in my museum:
“Dear Steve:
You know of my interest in boxing since I often put on the
gloves with Mike Donovan, Jack Cooper, and you. I had to
abandon the sport after an eye injury, sustained in a sparring
match with a young Captain of Artillery who cross-countered me
on the eye, and blinded me. Fortunately it was the left eye
but had it been the right, I never would have been able to go
shooting—my hobby.
When I was in the legislature and was working very hard with
little chance to get outdoors, all the exercises I had were in
boxing and wrestling. I was extremely fond of both and still am.
Naturally through my enjoyment of boxing I grew to know a good
many fighters and to most of those, I grew genuinely attached.
I have as a result never been able to sympathize with the
outcry against the sport. I have always regarded it and still
do, as a fine, healthy, manly form of entertainment and have
never thought of it as brutalizing. Of course matches can be
conducted under conditions that will make them brutalizing, but
this is just as true of football and other highly strenuous
contact sports.
Bob Fitzsimmons was a good friend of mine. I admired him as a
pugilist. For a long time I enjoyed his friendship and that of
John L. Sullivan. There never was a better prize fighter than
the “Boston Strong Boy.” When he was in his prime, no finer
fighter ever stepped into a ring.
When I went to Africa to hunt wild game, Sullivan presented
me with a gold mounted rabbit’s foot. I carried it through my
African hunting trip and it certainly brought me plenty of
luck. I believe that boxing should form a major part of the
athletic recreation of our Army and Navy and should be included
in the physical education program of every college.
I congratulate Harvard on its acceptance of boxing as an
inter-collegiate sport and you on your appointment as Harvard’s
boxing coach.”
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
[Illustration: 5]
I FIGHT TO BE A SOLDIER
Back in 1914, when the Mexicans were raiding the Texas Border and it
looked as if Uncle Sam would have to take a firm hand in subduing Pancho
Villa and his gang of marauders, Major General Leonard Wood, commanding
the Second Army Corps at Governors’ Island in New York Harbor, at the
suggestion of several New York newspapermen, decided to drill members
of the Fourth Estate in soldiering. The reporters who had organized a
Newspapermen’s Military Corps, with the object of mastering the Manual of
Arms, received permission from the State Armory Board to use the drill
floor of the Seventy-First Regiment Armory, where twice a week they
assembled for instruction.
On Monday evenings, from five to six o’clock, they were taught how
to drill by regular army officers, while on Thursdays they attended
lectures on maneuvers and the use of arms. I was among the organizers,
our aim being to get the jump on others in the event war was declared,
so that we could be mustered into service as junior officers. For a time
it was a novelty for the people in the vicinity of the armory to see
the scribblers, tall and small, lean and fat, shouldering muskets and
drilling through the busy business thoroughfare of midtown New York.
Then came General Pershing’s campaign against Villa, and that, with the
outbreak of war in Europe, intensified the uneasiness of our country.
There followed an order for the New York regiments to leave for the
Mexican border and many of the members of the Newspapermen’s Military
Corps accompanied the boys, better fitted to serve in the campaign, than
they ordinarily would have been.
Those who didn’t go continued their drills in New York with Major General
Leonard Wood in charge, and Major Brown and Captain Hall, both of
Governors’ Island, as our instructors. And when the United States joined
the Allies in 1917, it was the Newspapermen’s Military Corps that became
the nucleus of the famous Plattsburg Citizens’ Training Camp. Among the
first graduates were the writers who for two years had been drilling
under General Wood and his aides while working as reporters or desk men
on New York papers.
I was the smallest member of the original group, only 5 feet, 3 inches at
the time, and when I filed my application for Plattsburg, though I had
had considerable military training and was a good drill master, I was
turned down because of my height. I protested vigorously and even went so
far as to place my complaint before General Wood and Captain Hall, but
was informed that nothing could be done for me.
Then came the draft. Time for enlistment was short. I was thirty-one
years old. I was eager to serve because I was not a raw novice, and I
realized that men of experience were now needed. I tried to enlist
in the Regular Army but I was turned down here too. I then offered my
services to the Marine Corps, but the same old remarks greeted me—“Sorry,
you’re under-sized.” The Navy likewise turned me down. I decided that
there must be something radically wrong when a government will turn
thumbs down on men it could use in an emergency but whom the officials
deemed too short.
Even the draft boards were instructed not to accept anyone who was not
at least 5 feet 4 inches tall, and it was then that I got busy. I went
to see my Congressman and my United States Senator. I told each of my
military training and my experiences with the officials in our military
service.
I suggested that the Army, Navy, and Marine Corps could make good use
of almost anyone, regardless of size, and that those who were unfit
physically to shoulder a gun could be utilized in general camp work,
thus relieving other servicemen for the tougher task of fighting. My
suggestion was seconded by my boss, Keats Speed, Editor of _The Sun_. I
was called before a military board in Washington to state my case and
within a week, I received a notice directing the military authorities to
lessen the minimum height for enlistments to 5 feet, 3 inches.
Within two months, when further enlistments were halted and the draft
went into effect full force, the order called for a minimum of 5 feet 2
inches, and still later, in order to give the service the fullest man
power possible, every physically fit man, regardless of his size, was
ordered accepted for service.
Thus I felt I played an important part in bringing down barriers that
were keeping from the Army men who were eager and willing to serve. I
have in my collection the editorial in _The Sun_ based on my argument in
Washington.
* * * * *
I served through the war as an instructor at the School for Sergeants at
Camp Greenleaf, Chattanooga, Tennessee, and when I was mustered out of
service I reported back for duty as sports editor of the _Morning Sun_.
At home “a big surprise” awaited me. Wherever I’ve traveled, I’ve
browsed about in search of boxing books, photographs of famous fighters,
old watches—particularly those that belonged to famous fighters or
sportsmen—stamps, and cigarette pictures of baseball players and boxers.
My boxing library contains more than 1500 books, many of them rare
volumes on fistiana and wrestling, some dating back 300 years. When I
left for camp in 1918, I filled my room with my collection. I also packed
away many old trophies: gloves worn by John L. Sullivan, spiked shoes
worn by Sullivan and Corbett in their battle at New Orleans, John L’s
diamond studded cane, the colors of Jack McAuliffe, Jack Dempsey and
George Dixon, among many other relics I treasured.
When I returned home, honorably discharged by the Army, my sister, with
whom I lived following the death of my mother, smilingly greeted me.
“I’m happy you’re home again,” she said. “I have a big surprise for you.
Look in your room.”
I did, and what a shock I received! It was almost empty. She had gotten
rid of all my publications and many of the relics, including a valuable
set of Pierce Egan’s _Boxiana_ in the original boards.
“I knew you’d like a clean room. I called in a junkman and let him have
what Mother so often called ‘your junk!’”
That “junk” meant a fortune to me, but there was nothing I could do but
try to redeem some of the property. Fortunately the books had been sold
to a second hand dealer and I salvaged them, but at an exceedingly high
price.
[Illustration: 6]
OLD NEW YORK
Unlike us poor mortals, cities die and are reborn. Who of you whose locks
are graying around the temples, visiting the place of your birth, would
recognize it as the city of your boyhood days? Only here and there have
the world’s largest cities retained their ancient sameness.
I knew New York when it was far different from the town it is today, and
in it I passed the happiest days of my life. We old-timers realize this
more poignantly as we grow older and look back.
Thinking of the high cost of living today, I recall Dolan’s restaurant,
the most noted among the many coffee and cake places spread in that busy
downtown section of New York. Dolan’s was in the old Potter Building on
Park Row, the gathering place for the humble and the big shots in the
field of journalism. Ham and beans was the most delicious dish. The most
called-for item on the menu, it could be obtained for only ten cents with
an additional five cents for a cup of java. One could have his choice of
ham or corned beef, and with it went bread and butter on the side.
And the sinker! For ten cents one could have his coffee and biscuits
soaked in warm butter. We called this the sinker dish, much like the
coffee and doughnuts we get today. Within minutes after a paper was
put to press—usually about eleven o’clock at night—a rush was made
for Dolan’s. Office boys, compositors, printers’ devils, editors, and
reporters—they all made a bee-line for the beanery. The place was known
as a newspaperman’s institution. Scarcely an editor in Park Row’s
newspaper environ wasn’t a habitué of this famous eating place.
And then there was Perry’s “drug store” where one could get drinks at all
times of the day or night. That was situated in the old World Building
and was an exceedingly popular drinking emporium. The literary geniuses
of Park Row were its patrons.
This old New York has long passed. Its heart is still beating, the same
streets remain, many of its old buildings are still standing, scores of
persons whose acquaintance I made when I was a cub reporter, continue to
enjoy its pleasures—but it is not the same city in which I grew up.
The Old Madison Square Garden, the very heart of New York, is gone, and
figuratively speaking, that was New York to us. You could ask a New
Yorker how to get to the Museum of Natural History, the Aquarium, City
Hall, the Metropolitan Opera House, and other noted buildings, and he
would hesitate, but he could direct you to Madison Square Garden on 26th
Street and Madison Avenue without difficulty. After telling you the
easiest way to reach it, he’d probably wind up by asking you, “What’s
going on there tonight?”
The Old Garden is gone, but in its place is a new one, the building I
call home during business hours, and like the one which Stanford White
designed, it is the rendezvous of both fans and athletes from all over
the world.
Whatever was of New York, or for New York, was staged in the old Garden
just as now it is staged in the “House that Tex Built” on Eighth Avenue
between 49th and 50th Streets. I could write the story of our times with
the Garden as my only backdrop, for so much of New York’s business,
political, social, and sporting history was made between its walls.
There the world’s greatest statesmen have addressed huge audiences and
the rafters reverberated with the soaring, ringing phrases of orator and
demagogue. The world’s greatest song birds were heard in the arena.
During the First World War, it was the stamping ground of thousands of
patriotic Americans who flocked there to listen to war talks and to aid
in charity for the war wounded. Many noted French, Belgian, and British
war heroes gathered under its roof from the hectic period of 1917 to the
signing of the armistice.
The Garden was one of the triumphs of its architect, Stanford White.
Originally built to house the horse show, it soon became a show place
for every conceivable kind of event, but particularly sports. The Arion
Ball and the French Ball were fixtures there—annual festive affairs of a
Bohemia that is no longer seen in New York.
But the shows were the big thing in the old Garden: horse, cat, chicken,
automobile, motor boat, airship and sporting goods shows; wild west
rodeos; boxing and wrestling matches; walking, running and cycling races
(especially the six-day bike races); and biggest of all annually—the
circus. Every winter saw expositions that drew thousands to the Garden.
Its history was truly the history of New York over half a century.
Madison Square Garden and its neighborhood will always have a special
place in American literature, for in its environs, in a park across the
street, O. Henry sat and listened as the “Voice of the City” gave up its
tales to him.
With the old Garden gone, the memories that live the longest and most
vividly are those of its great sporting events—affairs I frequently
reported.
It was there that William A. Brady, who managed Jim Corbett and Jim
Jeffries, and later became one of the world’s leading theatrical
producers, staged many thrilling events. Smiling Bill Kennedy, the rotund
Pat Powers, debonair and handsome Harry Pollock, dapper and energetic
Jimmy Johnston, astute Billy Gibson, and colorful Tex Rickard and his
partner, John Ringling—each had a hand in making the Garden the show
place of New York.