was glory in itself, but to stalk the woods in Ketchel’s company at night
for the elusive snipe, that was an experience to be cherished.
The next day, dinner over, the great hunt was on. We of the fourth
estate would gather at the Inn to see the fun. A lone miner’s lantern
was the only means of finding the trail through the woods. The victim
was provided with a potato sack. Into this sack Ketchel and the scouts
proposed to drive the wary snipes.
A snipe potpie was to be the culmination of the hunt, and the victim was
told that he must not permit the snipe to pass him on the trail once
Ketchel and his aides started off for the birds. “A snipe,” said Stanley,
“would never change his course after starting down the trail.”
The snipe trail was found after a long skin-scratching jaunt through the
briars, with a number of newspapermen trailing the leaders to add more
realism to the affair.
“Now you remain here and keep the mouth of the bag open right in the
middle of the path,” said Ketchel to the poor victim. “The snipe will
see the hole and run right into it. You just can’t miss them. From the
chirping that is now going on in the brush, there should be several dozen
of them on the loose tonight. Mind you now, stay on guard, keep the bag
wide open and keep your eyes open. Be on the alert!”
Ketchel would then pick up the lantern and accompanied by the scribes,
hit the trail back to camp, leaving the snipe-snarer holding the bag.
We’d return to Woodlawn Inn by a roundabout way and there Ketchel would
start a card game lasting until midnight. Then, in a sympathetic tone,
he’d remark that it was about time that the poor dupe in the woods was
relieved of his burden. But instead of going back to him, his training
staff would laugh it off and retire for the night, letting the chap in
the wilds find his own way out of his predicament.
The sniper would come to the inn during the wee small hours of the
morning and find it closed for the night. Those gloomy darkened windows
seemed to laugh down at him to tell him that he had been kidded. Usually
Ketchel and his companions would never hear from the hunter again; that
was one sure way of eliminating the pest from the camp. Occasionally,
however, there would be some persistent fellow who would come back the
next day and seek out the great middleweight.
In the latter case, the victim would lament his ill-fortune, only to
get a bawling out from Stanley for apparently “disobeying” his orders;
Ketchel would tell him that because of his negligence in not doing
what he was told, the hunters lost all the snipe. And that evening,
immediately following dinner, out on the trail again would go the fighter
and his pals to give the pest another little “ride.”
* * * * *
I first came to know Ketchel when he was introduced to me by Hype Igoe,
then his manager as well as a famed cartoonist and boxing scribe for the
New York _World_. I cherished the friendship that developed from that
introduction and requested assignments to cover Ketchel’s fights in
New York, Philadelphia, and Boston, including one of the most thrilling
contests I’ve ever seen.
In my years of covering the fight beat I’ve witnessed many exciting
bouts, but not many offered such a variety of bitter, tornadic milling,
rapid footwork and cleverness, as the fight between Ketchel and the
celebrated light-heavyweight, Philadelphia Jack O’Brien.
This classic battle was fought in an era when referees didn’t interfere
as they do today, and when officials were more hard-hearted because
they didn’t have to depend on boxing commissions for an assignment. It
took place in the ring at Fiss, Doerr, and Carroll’s Horse Mart on East
Twenty-fourth Street, near Lexington Avenue, in New York City. I went to
report the fight, expecting O’Brien to be defeated rather easily, since
he had fourteen years of ring activity behind him and had reached the age
of thirty-one. Gloriously handsome and courageous, his opponent was a
virile, young, bone-crushing puncher whose hitting power and relentlessly
savage attack had earned him the _nom-de-guerre_ of “Michigan Assassin.”
Nevertheless, I came away singing the praises of O’Brien, for his display
of bulldog courage, consummate ringcraft, iron nerve, and Arctic coolness
in time of crisis made him the hero of the evening.
The fight was so thrilling, it sputtered and sparked with moments so
tense that I could feel my heart beating in my throat from start to
finish. O’Brien, with his old fighting head and heart, withstood the
wolflike rushes of a slashing, ripping, tearing young opponent. Cunningly
hiding his hurts, he bluffed Ketchel time and again into doing things he
should have avoided.
During the first seven rounds, O’Brien stood off most of Ketchel’s
machine gun volleys by clever boxing. Many of the blows landed, but
most of the damage was done by O’Brien. Ketchel believed he could whip
anybody, regardless of weight, but he had never faced such astounding
adroitness as was displayed by O’Brien that night. Philadelphia Jack
chopped his opponent’s face up with powerful jabs for seven rounds until
it was a blanket of blood.
In the middle of the seventh round, Ketchel slowly dropped his powerful
arms at his sides and, to our astonishment, took a deep breath as if
preparing for a new life. Then came the unexpected. He went after his man
and drove him from corner to corner. O’Brien, who was obviously slowing
down, called upon all his skill, and yet he could not prevent Ketchel
from reaching his body with cruel drives to the chest and heart. Just
before the bell sounded, a right opened a deep gash over O’Brien’s eye.
He took his punishment like a stoic, but every time he struck home an
effective blow, Stanley would snort and snarl like a wounded animal and
redouble his efforts.
Throughout the eighth round, Jack tried every strategy of the ring game
to postpone what seemed the inevitable end. At times he clinched and
stalled, only to pull himself together and fight back viciously. But
nothing could stop Ketchel. He kept coming on, bloody as a slaughterhouse
killer.
As the ninth round opened up, he drove a terrific belt to the pit of
O’Brien’s stomach. Gasping for breath, Jack collapsed against the ropes.
Few expected him to get to his feet, but he did. He immediately went into
a clinch to save himself from a knockout. We all expected the worst, and
we were not disappointed.
Like a shark on the blood scent, Ketchel went after his opponent as the
final round started. O’Brien, spent, exhausted, his body wracked with the
pain of the last two sessions, gamely tried to put his usual spring in
his steps as he faced the final assault. But the Michigan Assassin would
give him no rest. Swinging left and right to the jaw, he dropped Jack
for a short count. It was obvious from the look of pain on his face that
O’Brien was being hurt dreadfully every time Ketchel landed a punch. Each
blow seemed to rattle every bone in his body.
It was apparent that Ketchel had been told he would have to score a
knockout to win and he went after it. Every time he lashed out, O’Brien’s
blood was spattered around the ringside. Again he put Jack down with a
powerful stomach punch, and again the aging battler struggled to his feet
before the referee could count him out.
There were only twelve seconds to go and unless Ketchel could score with
a kayo wallop, he’d lose the newspaper decision so far as the majority of
the writers were concerned.
He leaped forward. The seconds were waning. We all figured it was too
late now for Stanley to make it. The bell would surely save Philadelphia
Jack, despite those knock-downs.
Eight seconds were left and then—the roof was blown off the arena as
Ketchel drove both hands to the body and quickly followed with a swing
to the jaw. The blow was so powerful it lifted Jack off-balance and sent
him toppling back and down. His head bumped into the resin box in his own
corner, which his handlers had forgotten to remove during the excitement
of the previous round. As Jack’s head went into the resin box, the impact
was sufficient to send him into unconsciousness. He was as inert as a
stone. The bell clanged when referee Tim Hurst had reached the count of
four and a brave battler was dragged to his chair.
Did he win? Did he lose by a knockout?
Confusion? Loads of it. The clock showed that O’Brien had been saved,
since only four seconds had been counted when the fight ended. But the
writers and spectators didn’t depend on that timepiece to settle such
an all-important matter when thousands of dollars had been wagered on
a kayo. As decisions were against the law in those days, additional
interest was added to the arguments, pro and con, regarding the final
status of the fight.
The arguments continued well into the night and the sports desks of the
various papers were flooded with calls. When the consensus in the morning
and evening newspapers showed that the reporters present had declared
O’Brien the winner by a shade, there was hell to pay from those who
figured they had been unjustly deprived of their winnings. They simply
couldn’t understand how the decision could be given to a man who had
finished a fight stretched out on the canvas with his head resting in a
pan.
Never have I seen the duplicate of that classic ring battle—a no-decision
affair in which it seemed that everybody wanted a verdict rendered.
* * * * *
A few months before Ketchel was shot to death, I journeyed to Boston with
Tad Dorgan, Wilson Mizner, Hype Igoe, Judge Kelly and George B. Underwood
to see him fight Porky Flynn. The bout took place on May 17, 1910. Flynn
wasn’t much of an opponent, although he outweighed the champion, but
Stanley was offered a sizeable purse and accepted the match.
Flynn didn’t last any longer than expected, going down before Ketchel’s
terrible fists in the third round. But before the men had entered the
ring, Stanley had become involved in a discussion with a wealthy Boston
sport who was backing Flynn. The Bostonian sneered at Ketchel’s ego after
hearing the champion boast of what he intended to do to the local entry.
Stanley got mad.
“Now look here, you pretend to be a sport, don’t you?” he snapped. “Well,
I’ll just bet you a thousand dollars, even money, or any odds you want,
that I’ll knock Flynn out inside of four rounds. There’s a chance for
you to back your opinion.”
It looked like easy money to the sport and he accepted the bet. After
Ketchel had knocked Flynn out in the third round, he went over to the
loser’s corner, grabbed up the bucket of water and dashed the entire
contents over the prostrate fighter. Then, turning to Porky’s backer
sitting at the ringside, Ketchel shouted derisively:
“There’s your man! Fork over that thousand.”
* * * * *
Ten days later Ketchel defeated the Gas House pride, Willie Lewis,
at the National Sporting Club in New York City. Both men conformed
to championship weight requirements, Stanley tipping the beam at 156
and Lewis at 154. Despite his defeat at the hands of Papke, Lewis
had an opinion—almost an obsession—that he could whip Ketchel. He
freely predicted that one of his wallops to the jaw would transfer the
middleweight title, though the bout was scheduled as a no-decision affair.
The sporting public didn’t share Willie’s confidence in himself. The
night of the fight there was a huge gathering in the Club, but the crowd
came more to see Stanley in action than with the thought that they would
see the championship change hands.
Ketchel appeared drawn and tired as he entered the ring, while Lewis
seemed to be in the pink of condition. The bout was scheduled for ten
rounds and Tom O’Rourke was the referee.
The first round was very tame, each man trying to feel the other out.
Willie was plainly scared of Ketchel’s smashing right and the crowd
yelled for action.
In the second, after Lewis had put three punches to the head, the
champion decided it was time to open up. The men mixed it for a few
seconds and then suddenly Stanley’s famous sleep prescription—that
terrible right swing—was applied to Willie’s jaw at the point where it
would do most good. Lewis went down as if he had been shot and was unable
to move a muscle for more than two minutes. When he finally revived
sufficiently to be helped from the ring, he cried like a baby.
After the fight, Ketchel went to his dressing room and hurriedly slipped
his trousers and sweater on over his fighting togs. Then, along with
Toby, the hunchback who always accompanied him, “Pete the Goat,” his
chief handler, and several newspapermen, he jumped into his big red auto
and whirled down to Luchow’s Restaurant on East Fourteenth Street, a
popular eating place of the period. There he bought a keg of imported
beer and several cases of champagne, and then the whole party, including
Igoe, Underwood and myself, started for the champion’s training quarters
at Woodlawn.
We drove up through Central Park and continued on up Seventh Avenue.
There was a fire in the neighborhood that night and the fire lines were
extended across the thoroughfare. That didn’t stop Ketchel. He slammed
through the lines. A motorcycle policeman speedily went into action, but
Ketchel’s car had covered seven blocks before the bluecoat caught up with
us. A rough session followed.
When Stanley tried to get the car in motion again, the cop threatened
him. We were expecting a free-for-all when Underwood and I flashed our
police cards and explained to the officer that Ketchel had just stopped
Willie Lewis and was eager to get back to his training quarters at
Woodlawn.
“I know Ketchel,” the cop said rather gruffly. “What are you trying to
put over on me?”
It required considerable proof before the officer would be convinced,
but when he was, instead of arresting us for violating the fire laws, he
paved the way for Ketchel’s party for about a mile, and then, with a
hearty handshake, bid Stanley good night.
Arriving at the Inn some time after midnight, the champion aroused the
occupants and set up the drinks and a fine supper. He even sent “Pete
the Goat” and Toby clear up to Yonkers to drag the bartender out of
bed and down to the Inn to help the celebration by playing the violin.
Unfortunately, the bartender could play only two tunes—“The Wearing O’
The Green” and “Where The River Shannon Flows”—and these he repeated over
and over again.
* * * * *
Ketchel was superstitious and believed in signs. If someone threw a hat
on his bed or opened an umbrella in the camp quarters, he’d throw a fit.
He invariably made it a point to shake hands with all his seconds before
the bell sounded to start a fight, and “Pete the Goat” was always the
last one whose hand he’d grasp. Old timers will remember little Toby.
Stanley wouldn’t go into the ring unless Toby was in the building and
somewhere near his corner.
Although a man of whims, Ketchel made friends easily. He was bashful to
an extraordinary degree—almost, at times, to the point of timidity. In
conversation with newly arrived writers or visitors to his camp, he would
speak in monosyllables, but once he became thoroughly acquainted, he was
one of the gang. The transformation was almost electric.
He never wasted time on press agents, nor did he make any reservations as
to the color, weight or reputation of his opponents. He was ever ready
to meet all comers, yet his lazy, easy-going way of pulling away from a
punch, and the fact that his handsome features were unmarred to the end
of his days, was proof that his opponents didn’t hit him as often as they
appeared to.
Stories have been written about Ketchel’s lack of nerve. I wish that the
fellow who started that canard could have been in his camp on the day
or night before a fight, for this ordinarily good-natured and frolicsome
man would become as sour and crabbed as a wounded grizzly bear. All of
us took great pains to keep out of his way, for he would have a fit of
temper at the least provocation.
All stone and ice and concentration when he entered the ring, Ketchel was
as cross as a sick old woman in the few hours leading up to fight time.
Nevertheless, I always enjoyed his company. He was a great fighter—the
greatest middleweight I have ever seen in ring action—and his untimely
death by gunfire at the hands of Walter Dipley at the age of twenty-four
was a heavy loss to boxing.
[Illustration: 10]
JACK JOHNSON
The year was 1910.
Jack Johnson had defeated James J. Jeffries to retain the world
heavyweight championship. The cry for a “white hope” to dethrone the
Negro king was now greater than ever.
Jack Johnson remained for a short time in Reno, where I saw him stop
Jeffries, and then went on to Chicago, where he was the center of a wild
reception. I was told to stay with Johnson until his arrival in New York,
where the police feared a race riot would make things very uncomfortable
for all concerned.
I shall never forget the sight that greeted us in New York: Thousands of
Negroes crowded the streets, parading, shouting, shooting off fireworks,
and carrying on in hilarious fashion. They were celebrating a Roman
holiday. It seemed to the police that the Negroes were hell bent for
trouble and they took every precaution to prevent it. There were some
fist fights, but the anticipated disorder on a large scale was missing in
contrast to the street riots which Johnson’s triumph over Jeffries caused
in other cities.
When I arrived in Buffalo on the Jack Johnson Special, a throng
surrounded the car where Johnson was standing on the platform. A backfire
from an automobile brought speedy action by the police who had mistaken
the backfire for gunfire. We all made a dive into the club car, and when
we learned what had actually taken place, Johnson, with his broad grin,
returned to the platform to greet the cheering gathering. It was so
unlike what we had expected!
From Birmingham down to the Grand Central Station, it was one grand
ovation after another at each station stop. When we reached New York,
the crowd was so dense the police had difficulty clearing a path for the
homecoming party to get to the cars.
The reception that Johnson received at the station was nothing compared
to the gigantic ovation that awaited him in Herald Square when he reached
Baron Wilkes’ Hotel, a rendezvous for the colored sports folk of the
big city. Thousands blocked the square. It was with the greatest effort
that the conquering hero of the Negro race was finally able to make an
entrance into his hotel headquarters where his wife, Ruth Cameron, was
living.
Many white folk crowded the banquet room and no one was molested. It was
a good natured gathering for the most part.
Johnson and I were good friends. He had promised me an exclusive
interview, and he asked me to accompany him to his suite. There, when
asked to comment on the stories that his victory had stimulated race
riots throughout the country, he remarked:
“Nat, why should they bring in the black race against the white race in
athletics? I licked Tommy Burns fairly. I did the same in my fight with
Jeffries. My battle with Jeffries was not a contest between a black man
and a white man, but between two boxers who were out to establish their
right to the heavyweight championship of the world, a right I claimed and
Jeffries disputed. I beat him and now the matter is settled.”
The interview was suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Johnson’s emergence from
the bathroom. She had been preparing for the evening’s celebration and,
having no idea that Jack was entertaining a guest in the living room, was
completely nude.
Thinking that her husband, who was rumored to be having difficulties
with his white wife, had purposely brought a white man into the room
to embarrass her, she let loose with a violent tirade. Jack tried to
explain, but was cut short when his wife, her eyes blazing menacingly,
raised a chair. Discretion being the better part of valor, this seemed to
both of us the propitious moment to leave.
The chair caught Jack in the center of the back as we raced down the
stairs with her curses flooding after us. I never did finish that
interview, though I was fortunate to have gathered sufficient data during
our long trip home from Chicago to write the story.
* * * * *
Johnson was one of the brainiest fighters I have ever known. He knew
boxing and was always able to give reasons for his opinions. I remember
sitting with him in his Reno hotel after the Jeffries fight and asking
him the reason for Jeff’s downfall.
“Well, it’s like this, Nat,” he said, standing up and throwing himself
into fighting pose to demonstrate. “I think it was the blow that closed
Jeff’s left eye that started him on his downfall.
“You see, I led and drew him out like this. He thought I would come back
with my right hand, but I crossed over and shot a strong uppercut to his
chin with my left—like this. I think that’s good ring strategy, although
I say it myself, and it certainly won the fight for me and lost it for
Jeff.”
When Jack was fighting his way to the top, he had to struggle against a
field that contained some of the greatest names in the history of the
heavyweight division. The period between 1905 and 1910 produced four
great colored fighters: Jack Johnson, Sam Langford, Joe Jeannette and Sam
McVey. There really wasn’t a white man who could be classed with this
dusky quartet, and that was the real reason why Jim Jeffries retired.
The toughest opponents Jack faced in his rise to the championship were
men of his own color. Among those whom he had to conquer were Hank
Griffin, Denver Ed Martin, McVey, Langford, and Jeannette—each as tough
as ebony, clever, and crushing punchers.
Some of the most thrilling contests I witnessed during the past half
century were between Negroes. There was a lot of jealousy among the Negro
heavyweights, for each believed himself to be the best in the world.
Johnson defeated Sam McVey three times, each contest being over the
twenty-round route. He clashed with Joe Jeannette six times, boxing four
no-decision bouts, losing once on a foul, and beating Joe over fifteen
rounds.
Johnson and Sam Langford met but once in the ring, and that famous mill,
like the Tunney-Dempsey fight in Chicago, and the Firpo-Dempsey clash,
has come up for discussion time and again.
They fought at Chelsea, Massachusetts, and Jack was declared the winner
after fifteen rounds. Langford’s supporters claimed that Sam almost had
Jack out, but Jack’s adherents said that Langford took the worst beating
of his career.
Joe Woodman, Sambo’s manager, stated after the fight that Langford
floored Johnson with a right uppercut, but if you wanted to get Jack’s
goat, you had only to repeat that statement in his presence.
Jack Johnson often came to see me, and I sometimes pulled his leg about
the Langford fight until he was ready to tear the roof down. Once after I
had kidded him, he turned on me almost in tears.
“Listen, Nat, please don’t say that,” he pleaded. “Say anything you want
about me. Call me a quitter. Call me the worst fighter you’ve ever seen,
but please don’t say that Langford dropped me or even gave me a tough
fight.”
Dad Phillips, my father-in-law, an octogenarian whose knowledge of
boxing I’d pit against that of any man, was in my office and he listened
attentively to Johnson’s plea. When Jack had finished, Dad, who had seen
the fight, agreed with Johnson. His version of the battle as he related
it to me made Johnson quite happy. Here’s what Dad said:
“Jack Johnson decisively defeated Sam Langford. He was complete master of
the situation. Jack so far outclassed Langford that for a time, until he
purposely eased up on his onslaughts, the fight was one-sided.
“Langford was dropped twice for counts of nine, and he would have been
out the first time if referee Martin Flaherty had not slowed up the
count. At the end of the fight Sam had to be taken to a hospital.
“As for Langford dropping Johnson, that’s absurd. Why, he couldn’t land
on Jack.”
A few days later I cornered Joe Woodman, who handled Sam in that fight.
“Look here, Joe,” I said, “whatever you did years ago when Langford was
in need of publicity is okay with me. But now that Sam is out of the
picture, I’d appreciate the low-down on that knock-down which you said
that Sam scored over Jack.”
“It’s true, all right, Nat,” was all Joe would say.