paraded before the public in the old Madison Square Garden arena.
Other celebrated ringmen of the past who made history within its walls
included James J. Corbett, Charley Mitchell, Mike Donovan, Tom Sharkey,
Peter Maher, Kid McCoy, Bob Fitzsimmons, Joe Gans, George Dixon, Sam
Langford, Billy Plimmer, Kid McPartland, Battling Nelson, Joe Jeannette,
Willie Lewis, Freddie Welsh, Willie Ritchie, Leach Cross, Jack Dempsey,
Benny Leonard, Johnny Dundee, Midget Smith, Bill Brennan, Frank Moran,
Bombardier Billy Wells, Al Palzer, Jim Coffey, Joe Lynch, Pete Herman,
Johnny Buff, Gene Tunney, Battling Siki, Paul Berlenbach, Richie
Mitchell, Young Jack Sharkey, Harry Greb and Tiger Flowers. Since the
old bare-knuckle days, there was scarcely a ring idol who didn’t at some
time in his career take part in a Garden fight. The same was true of the
wrestlers. The only ones I failed to see were those who fought before my
time.
And amid a whirr of whirling wheels, there were little Bobby Michaels,
the Welsh Rarebit; Major Taylor, Harry Elks, Cannonball Eddie Bald,
Plugger Bill Martin, Al Shock, Tom Butler, Fred Titus, Teddy Hale and a
host of others of the go-it-alone years, when the cyclists rode six days
and nights, made their marks in the bike-riding world. I spent many
hours watching them circle the Garden track. Later these stars gave way
to Walter Rutt, Bobby Walthour, Joe Fogler, Jackie Clarke, Menus and
Johnny Bedell, Floyd McFarland, Eddie Root, Al Goulett, Al Grenda, and
Brocco—among others.
As the Garden was the temple of cycling when New York was wrapped in
the throes of the cycle craze, so it was earlier when the six day
go-as-you-please pedestrian races were all the rage. Those who starred in
that field were Dan O’Leary, Jim Alberts, Gus Guerrero, Pete Hegelman,
Littlewood, Roswell, and Weston. Such races would be wasted on half empty
arenas today, but they played to full houses when I reported them.
In the field of marathoners, as an old-timer, I recall the running of Tom
Longboat, Alf Shrubb, Johnny Hayes, Paul Akoose, Fred Meadows, St. Yves,
Gusta Ljungstrom, Sammy Mellor, and Dorando Pietri.
Remember Dorando, the man who lost the marathon to Hayes in London in the
summer of 1908, when he collapsed at the finish line? Well Dorando made a
pot of gold by that fall. He came to America and later, after piling up a
little fortune, established himself as a baker and confectioner in Italy.
I recall the wild scenes in the Italian quarters of New York when Tex
Rickard paraded him as a publicity stunt.
The Garden was the scene of many other foot races besides marathons, and
I was on the scene for most of them.
Will we of the old school ever forget the memorable match race between
Lon Myers and the great Englishman, W. G. George? Who of us who reported
the race, will ever forget the great ‘600’ between John B. Taylor, the
famous Negro athlete of the University of Pennsylvania (and forerunner of
the corps of Negro athletes who now dominate middle distance running in
this country), and Harry Hillman, later coach of Dartmouth College.
The stirring finishes of Mel Sheppard, Abel Kiviat, George Bonhag,
Harvey Cohn, John Paul Jones, Ted Meredith, Arthur Duffy, John Drew,
John Daly, Paul Pilgrim, Howard Valentine and John Joyce still set an
oldtimer’s heart to pulsing faster.
And the discus throwing of Martin Sheridan and Bob Edgren; the hammer
throwing of Pat McDonald, Bill Coe, Ralph Rose, Bob Edgren, and Matt
McGrath—And so many, yes, hundreds of other limber-legged, winged-footed,
mighty sons of track and field who made the old Garden famous!
For forty-four years the old Garden catered to all classes and all types,
millionaire and stevedore, banker and clerk. But time in its march
has covered many leagues. New York outgrew the old Garden and then a
bigger, more modern, up-to-date structure took its place as a monument
to Tex Rickard, who, in the last days of the old building, made the
lovely statue of Lady Diana atop the Stanford White Tower proud of her
surroundings.
Before Tex Rickard took the helm, the old Garden was a haven for the
crooks. Pickpockets flourished there, and the safety of the patrons at a
bicycle race or a fight was entirely a matter of luck. Rickard changed
all that by ousting the objectionable characters and making the Garden
what it is today—an arena where men, women, and children may go without
fear of being molested.
I recall a six-day bicycle race in 1909. It was bitter cold and the
rowdies, gangsters, and hoodlums of New York flocked to the arena to keep
warm. They could then obtain a gallery seat for fifty cents and remain
from the time the show opened until it closed—if they could last that
long.
Complaints were pouring into Police Headquarters as pickpockets plied
their trade with impunity. Several overcoats were stolen, and certain
patrons of the arena were waylaid and robbed in the basement. I was
assigned to Police Headquarters for the evening and learned that Martin
Sheridan, the best all-round athlete the police force ever had, would
conduct a raiding party on the nimble-fingered gentry at the Garden
starting at eleven o’clock. Sheridan was at the head of a Broadway
pickpocket squad at the time, and he was to take with him six of the best
detectives on the force.
At seven that evening, Sheridan asked me out to dinner. We dined with
two of his squad and my colleague, George B. Underwood, of the New
York _Press_, and at ten o’clock we started for the Garden. Into Harry
Stevens’ bar we went, that being the rendezvous for the police who were
to do the raiding, and while waiting for the late comers, Sheridan
invited us all to a drink.
It was pay day at Police Headquarters and pay day on our paper, and when
all hands were served, I asked for the bill. Martin would have none of
that. He not only insisted on footing it but ordered another round of
beer and then came the pay-off.
It was time to get going. The raid would soon be in order, and Officer
Sheridan was anxious to get his men stationed. He asked for the account,
placed his hand in his pocket to pay it, and then he let loose!
“Holly Gee, they picked my pocket! They took my pay envelope!”
Officer Sheridan was the only one who didn’t enjoy the joke. He pleaded
with me not to make mention of the theft in my story, and then he got
busy. He made up for his lost bank roll by making every gangster in that
arena pay a share of the loss. A battered, bleeding, frightful looking
lot of pickpockets, hold-up guys, and confidence men were taken down in
the basement, and to the tune of a rubber hose or black jack, they were
given unmerciful beatings. There were no more coats stolen or pockets
picked at the bike races that week.
It was on the occasion of the last go-as-you-please fun in the Garden, a
year later, that less than a hundred persons braved the howling wind to
see the opening race. The big arena looked like a deserted barn. Almost
all those present came on Annie Oakleys, as we called free passes in
those days. The half frozen newspapermen covering the race were seated at
a long table near the entrance and were busy grinding out their copy and
trying to dispel the gloom that hung over the place. Suddenly Tim Hurst,
who managed the Garden, was observed beckoning wildly from the other end
of the hall.
“Come here,” roared Tim, “Quick! Quick! Come here!”
Thinking a murder had been committed, we scrambled from our chairs and
rushed down to where Tim was standing.
“Look! Look!” he excitedly said, pointing to the box office. “See that
sucker and his gal buying a ticket!”
We all laughed, but that sucker gave us a good story a few minutes later.
Sitting in a box above the track, he placed his heavy, fur-lined coat
on a chair behind him, while his girl placed her squirrel coat over the
rail. The pair looked like aristocratic kids out on a slumming tour.
Within ten minutes after entering their box, the man’s coat was stolen
right under his nose. He demanded action from Tim Hurst, a fighter of the
old school—but Tim paid no attention.
“Who told you to come here?” shouted Tim in his well-known way. “Why
didn’t you stay where you belong? You got just what was coming to you for
going out slumming.”
The “sucker” hauled off and caught Tim with a beautiful right on the
whiskers and down went the Garden promoter right into the lap of Big Jim
Mitchell, the hammer thrower, who was then writing for the _Morning Sun_.
The offended patron happened to be Arthur Pelkey, the man who two years
later caused the accidental death of Luther McCarty in a “white hope”
match in Calgary, Canada. He had never met Tim Hurst and Tim had never
laid eyes on Arthur, but after the blow was struck, some of the scribes
recognized the fighter and a handshake ended further arguments. Pelkey
recovered his coat a few hours later when the culprit who stole it was
found sleeping on it in the basement.
Johnny Broderick, successor to Sheridan as head detective in the old
Garden, told me many times that before Tex Rickard’s regime, probably
half of the rogues gallery could be located between dusk and dawn at a
six-day race. Overcoat stealing was so common as to pass without comment.
During those races, members of the homicide squad were assigned to patrol
the Garden in pairs, and many fugitives from justice were picked up.
* * * * *
Of course, as I fondly recollect the early Garden days, not all my
interesting sports experiences as a reporter in the big city took place
there. For example, I was very much involved in the development of
distance swimming in the New York area.
Sitting around in the office of the New York _Press_ one night, after the
first edition had gone to press, the conversation turned to the diving
exploits of the shapely Australian, Annette Kellerman, who at the time
was hitting the headlines with her wonderful performances.
From diving we passed on to swimming, and then to distance swimming. We
spoke of the great Capt. Matthew Webb, the Englishman who was the first
to swim the Channel. Webb had tried to swim from the Battery in New York
to Sandy Hook, a distance comparable to the Channel crossing, and had
failed. I decided that night that I was going to find an American who
could make that Sandy Hook swim.
The first candidate for the job was Louis Durborrow, a Philadelphia bank
clerk who had earned himself a formidable distance swimming reputation in
the Delaware River. Louis quickly accepted the suggestion that he attempt
the New York Harbor crossing.
I organized the effort, and at dawn on a warm, sunny, Sunday morning,
Louis jumped off the dock at the Battery and headed for the Hook with Dan
Daniel and myself following in a hired fishing boat.
The treacherous currents proved to be too much for Durborrow, however,
and he was forced to quit. Some weeks later, he failed again. Then he
tried to swim from the Hook to the Battery, but this, too, ended in
failure for the bank clerk. On each occasion, Daniel and I were the only
reporters who accompanied the swimmer.
After Durborrow, I shifted to other swimmers. In addition to promoting
Sandy Hook attempts, I organized swims from East 23rd Street to Coney
Island, as well as Hudson River marathon feats. It was fun to get up at
dawn and go out in a small boat for the day. But it was no fun to return
to the newspaper office after dark, with the desk heaving with the waves
and the typewriter doing all sorts of tricks.
Here’s the odd feature of the Hook effort. The New York _Tribune_ picked
up my idea and promoted an open swim. I believe twenty-six started and as
many as three made the distance. Fighting against the tide, without any
rivals, Durborrow and others had failed. But with many swimmers involved
in a race against each other, the feat was accomplished.
Many of my biggest assignments were covered with Dan Daniel, whose
friendship I have always cherished. He was working for the _Herald_ at
that time, but in later years, when I was sports editor of the New York
_Telegram_, I persuaded him to quit and join my staff. He is now baseball
editor of that paper.
* * * * *
Late in September, 1913, I called him on the ’phone.
* * * * *
“Dan, Rose Pitinoff of Boston and a woman companion are going to make an
attempt tomorrow morning to swim from the Bellevue Hospital pier at 26th
Street and East River through the Narrows to Coney Island. I’m going to
accompany them in a motorboat. See if you can get the assignment from
your paper and come along,” I said.
Miss Pitinoff had already made two fruitless attempts to swim from the
Battery to Coney Island, but now she hoped to make it over another route.
Dan and I had accompanied her on her previous swims and I soon received a
message from him that we would be together again on this one.
The next morning at dawn all hands appeared, but to our surprise,
there was no place where Rose and her friend could undress and prepare
themselves for the trip. We tried to gain access to the Nurses Home of
the hospital, but without success. Then we went to that section used as
a morgue, and there, without asking permission, the girls quickly put on
bathing suits. However, on all such long distance swims—this one was 26
miles—the body had to be well protected with a heavy coat of vaseline to
keep out the cold.
It was a cold night and Dan and I were none too comfortable as we stored
hot coffee and sandwiches on the motorboat and waited for the girls to
start on their journey. Soon word came to us that the swimmers required
help. They had tried to enlist two nurses to rub the petroleum over their
bodies but were turned down. Since we had to leave with the tide going
out, I decided on the next step. I went into the building, removed my
coat, rolled my shirt sleeves and began plastering Miss Pitinoff’s body
with the jelly while Dan did the same for her friend.
To this day I don’t know how the police got word of this, but before our
job had been completed, two cops appeared out of nowhere and threatened
to arrest all for “indecent exposure” and “unlawful trespassing.”
We had a tough time explaining our mission and proving to the police that
the girls were out to engage in an athletic feat, and that Dan and I were
assigned to report the stunt. However, we finally managed to convince
them, and a few minutes after five in the morning, the swim got underway.
Although the attempt was unsuccessful, Miss Pitinoff came within a half
mile of reaching her goal, a considerable improvement over her previous
showings on the shorter Battery route.
* * * * *
In my young days as a reporter, I often walked home after hours from
the New York _Press_ building on Spruce and Nassau Streets to Harlem, a
distance of five miles. My pal, Daniel, always accompanied me on these
jaunts, weather permitting. We’d meet almost nightly after the first
edition went to press and walk from the _Press_ down to the Battery and
then up Broadway to 110th Street.
It was during these after-hours walks that we frequently encountered
situations that made the front pages of our papers. Fires, burglaries,
raids on gambling joints, and even murders, figured in our stories. I
vividly recall several that almost cost my life.
It was on one of those late evening excursions that we heard the shrill
blasts of police whistles—not an unusual occurrence—as we reached Lenox
Avenue and 114th Street. We had been walking for about two hours, and it
was close to three of a warm August night in 1911.
“Let’s go, Dan,” I shouted, scenting a good story, and down the street
I ran towards the sound of action. A little more cautious than I, Dan
hesitated while I entered a building into which the cops had raced. It
was pitch dark except for a flashlight carried by Officer Jerry O’Connor,
a friendly patrolman who covered the beat. He and Officer Egon Erickson,
high jump champion of the Mott Haven Athletic Club, were chasing an armed
hold-up thug. The police went after their man with drawn guns and with me
at their heels.
I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. As I reached the upper story
of the building, I heard the door of the roof slam, indicating that the
police were trying to locate their man there. I was about to follow when
I was nearly hurled over the balustrade by the thief himself, who had
avoided the cops by hiding behind the door.
“There he is,” I yelled, grasping the rail to regain my equilibrium as
the gunman started down the stairs. Seconds later, I found myself in the
grasp of Officer O’Connor, who had his gun pointed toward me.
“Not me, O’Connor,” I shouted. “I’m Nat, the reporter. He’s running to
the street,” I added, pointing downward.
The officer flashed his light on me and down we went with Erickson
following.
The culprit, accused of armed robbery, was caught and handcuffed. Then
both cops admonished me in no uncertain terms for the chances I had taken
in following them into the unlit building.
“You could have been killed,” said Erickson. “Don’t ever do that again.
Let us tackle these gangsters.”
There was Dan, standing on the corner of Lenox Avenue and 114th Street,
laughing and waiting for me to have some coffee with him.
“One of these days, you’re going to get it,” he said. “When are you going
to quit chasing burglars and following cops up dark alleys?”
* * * * *
About a fortnight later, we were on another of our long walks, but this
time we changed our course and headed up Broadway into Sixth Avenue and
Twenty-seventh Street, close by the Hotel Normandie. Many Greeks lived
in that vicinity, and on the corner was a social club, more correctly
referred to by the police as a gambling joint.
A shrill cry from a woman put us on the alert. She ran from the building
followed by a man brandishing a knife. He tripped as he ran across the
street but quickly recovered and raced back into the saloon from which he
had emerged.
I followed him and saw a murder committed. Unable to catch the woman, he
put the knife into the heart of the man with whom she had been drinking.
I quickly stepped out of the confusion that followed, but was
sufficiently close to hear him say, “She’ll never have him. He’s through.”
The murderer was arrested almost immediately, and the police insisted
on my accompanying them to the precinct house on Twenty-eighth Street
as a witness. When the trial was held, I was subpoenaed by the District
Attorney and for four days I reported. But the District Attorney decided
not to call me to the stand.
Things were going bad for Walter Zyhariat, the murderer, when I decided
to talk up. I approached the District Attorney and demanded to be placed
on the stand.
“We don’t need your testimony,” he said. “It will hurt instead of help
our case.”
Someone reported that conversation to the lawyer for the defense, who,
when the trial was resumed for his summation, requested that the court
permit him to reopen the case on the grounds that he had some new
evidence.
“Permission granted,” said Judge Foster. “Swear in the witness.”
I was called to the stand. I was first asked if I had been subpoenaed by
the prosecution.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you know of any reason why you were not called to the stand?” was the
next question.
I repeated what the District Attorney had said to me, and the lawyer for
the defense then took up the questioning. I told what I had seen after
which the lawyer asked:
“When he ran out of the saloon and went after his wife, was there
anything you observed that would help the court determine his condition?”
“He was dishevelled,” I replied. “His eyes were popping out of his head.
To me he looked like one who had suddenly gone mad, and so I reported in
my story.”
“I object,” shouted the District Attorney. “He is unqualified to
determine the condition of this person. I request that his remarks be
stricken from the record.”
I looked at Judge Foster. He seemed impressed with what I had said.
“As a newspaper reporter, the witness is a man of keen observation. His
testimony should be heard,” he said.
When the case was given to the jury, Judge Foster harped for some length
on my testimony and a verdict of manslaughter, carrying a twenty years’
sentence, instead of “murder in the first degree,” saved the defendant
from the electric chair.
* * * * *
In those days I could both sprint and run distances without tiring too
easily, and this athletic ability came in handy on nights when I had
to report track meets and get my copy in early. In the days of which I
write, telegraph service wasn’t used with any frequency. As I worked
on a morning newspaper, my story had to be in the office before eleven
o’clock. Press time was midnight.
One night, both Dan and I were covering the Military Athletic League
track and field championships at the Seventh Regiment Armory. After
George Bonhag, of the New York A.C., had romped home a winner in the
two-mile, Daniel and I decided it was time to head for our respective
papers.
The Third Avenue Elevated station was only two blocks to the east of the
Armory and five to the south, and as there wasn’t a taxi in sight, we
decided to run to the station in an effort to make our deadlines. I led
the way, and undoubtedly must have been feeling fine for we ran and ran
at a lively clip until Dan suddenly halted and breathlessly shouted after
me:
“What’s wrong, Nat? Where’s the durned El?”
We got our bearings and discovered that instead of traveling east and
then south, we were racing down Park Avenue and had reached Seventy-ninth
Street, far off our course, and more than a mile from the armory. We set
off again, this time in the right direction, and just made the second
editions of the _Press_ and _Herald_, respectively. But on our way to the
newspaper offices, we wondered why we hadn’t competed in the two-mile run
that evening. We might have beaten Bonhag.
[Illustration: 7]
THE UNDERWORLD IN BOXING
Prohibition failed to keep the average citizen from having a drink when
he wanted one, and no attempt by the authorities proved successful in
keeping the average New York fan away from boxing entertainment. But the
demise of the Horton Law in 1900 deprived the game of its legal standing
so far as shows catering to the general public were concerned.
Even as the speakeasy provided a welcome substitute for the vanished
saloon through the hectic period that preceded Repeal, so a haven of
refuge was furnished the patrons of padded fist slugfests by the adoption
of what was known as the club membership plan.
The fight game was a racket then and truly could be referred to as the
sport of rogues. Although there were some honest promoters in New York
when I covered the sports beat in those days, boxing as a whole was
ruled by ruffians, gangsters, and politicians. The many fixed fights
that soured the public on the sport were engineered by politicians
with headquarters in Tammany Hall, which then, as in the days of John
Morrissey and Bill Poole, had tremendous influence over the game. They
told the police what to do and how to do it. They made the odds, brought
about the fixes, and collected their bets.
Hoodlums used to keep pugilists in line. We still have plenty of that
today but the damage is done differently. Whereas in the “good old days”
it was an up-and-above board game with the unsavory element, today it is
all done through undercover agencies.
Politicians and police turned their eyes to avoid “seeing” what was going
on years ago, but in this era, city, state, and Federal investigations
keep hounding the criminal element in an effort to keep boxing clean.
When the Eighteenth Amendment was repealed, that didn’t end the tie
between the mobsters and the fight racket. To this day racketeers
continue to infest the sport. Frankie Carbo furnishes an example of the
continuing influence of underworld figures in boxing.
They not only muscled in on boxers in the old days, but on the prosperous
clubs as well. It was a case of take it or leave it with them. There
was no middle channel. They often stole fighters outright, and it was
worth one’s life to defy them. Practically every big city’s fight clubs
had bootlegger’s dough financing the operation. The Dutch Schultz and
Owney Madden gangs held sway in New York, the Boo Boo Hoff mobsters in
Pennsylvania and the Al Capone gunmen in Illinois.