to me a new heavyweight, who shuffled uneasily as he listened to the
following conversation.
“Nat,” said Joe Woodman, “I’d very much appreciate it if you would run a
story and picture of this lad. He’s a good boy, but needs some publicity.”
“Gladly,” I replied, “but on one condition, Joe—that you tell me here and
now the true story of that alleged knock-down in the Johnson-Langford
fight. I’ve been flooded with letters about it, and Dad Phillips, who saw
the fight, tells me you’re all wrong about it. Now you’ve got to tell me
the truth if you want any help from me.”
Joe chuckled.
“You’ve got me, Nat,” he replied, “Langford never dropped Johnson. But I
was anxious to fix up another fight between the two and knowing Jack’s
pride, I invented the story of that knock-down to goad him into the ring
against Sam again.”
“Although it never happened, all the newspapermen believed it. They
just never took the trouble to investigate. That knock-down was just a
publicity gimmick.”
So, here was the truth at last! Shrewd Joe Woodman not only disposed of
Langford’s alleged knock-down, but ended the canard that had upset Jack
Johnson whenever the topic was discussed.
* * * * *
Had I followed the advice of Johnson when I was making my choice in
the first fight between Max Schmeling and Joe Louis, I would have
picked the winner. Johnson, during the trips he made with me to Louis’s
camp, repeatedly called my attention and that of other scribes to the
fighting flaws that could easily cause the downfall of the rising young
heavyweight sensation when he faced such a sharp, powerful hitter as
Schmeling. On several occasions he stripped for action in my office,
and before friendly newspapermen, he went through maneuvers to prove his
contention.
Johnson pointed out that Joe had his body slightly twisted when he
faced an opponent so that if he missed his left, he was wide open for a
counter punch. “He’s always off balance,” said Jack. “I’ve seen him hit
frequently this way by sucker blows. A clever boxer who hits like the
German can knock Louis down and might even knock him out. To avoid this,
Louis has got to change his stance.”
I published a story in _The Ring_ giving Johnson’s views, and so did
Hype Igoe in the New York _Journal_. And to add spice to my daily radio
program on boxing, I took Johnson to station WNEW the following evening
and there he repeated his opinion about Louis’s faults and gave his
opinion of the way a clever, hard-hitting right-hand sharpshooter could
stop the Brown Bomber.
What happened in the Louis-Schmeling first fight is ring history. Jack
Johnson was vindicated. His preview of that contest was so accurate as to
be almost uncanny, for every mistake Louis made was called in advance by
Johnson on my sports program and in my office before newspapermen.
[Illustration: 11]
A BLACK OMEN
Jack Johnson was in trouble with the United States Government. He had
been indicted for violation of the Mann Act and had fled to Europe to
avoid incarceration.
The search was on for a “white hope” to relieve Johnson of his
heavyweight crown. From every part of the world big, husky, burly men
were brought to America in the hope that they would meet the requirements
and bring back the championship to the Caucasian race. Some of these had
a knowledge of boxing, while others, drawn mostly from farms, lumber
camps, and crowded cities, were at least willing to give it a try.
The best of a select gathering was Luther McCarty, but he died tragically
while boxing Arthur Pelkey in Calgary, Canada. The one outstanding
remaining heavyweight was Big Jess Willard, who was known as the
Pottowatomie Giant. Brawny and powerful, this six-foot five-inch
cowboy had defeated Gunboat Smith and Boer Rodel, had knocked out Bull
Young, who had died shortly after from his punishment, and had fought
no-decision bouts with Pelkey, Carl Morris and McCarty.
Jack Curley, a famous promoter and manager, backed by Harry Frazee, a
theatrical producer, conceived the idea to pit Willard against Johnson.
He was confident that Big Jess could wrest the title from the Negro and
after considerable difficulties with the laws of Mexico, our country and
Cuba, he finally succeeded in overcoming all obstacles, and the contest
was booked for the Marianao Race Track near Havana, Cuba.
I was about to take my annual vacation. From 1909 through 1914, I had
visited the Pearl of the Antilles nine times. I loved to visit the
Island, had many friends there, and invariably paid my expenses by
writing baseball and boxing articles for _El Mundo_. Naturally, I was
delighted to learn that the heavyweight championship would be decided
there. I had no trouble convincing Jim Price, sports editor of my paper,
that the assignment to cover the battle belonged to me.
I left New York a fortnight before Willard and his trainer, Tex O’Rourke
arrived, and set myself up at the Palace Hotel which Johnson made his
Havana headquarters. Jack and I had been friends for many years. He
was an arrogant man, but I liked him despite the many bad marks he had
against him. However, I felt that the easy life he had led, his carousing
in France and Argentina, had softened him and that Willard, if in
condition, should emerge a winner.
“You’ll have to work like a beaver to get into physical condition, Jack,
Willard is no slouch,” I told him.
He laughed this off. He hadn’t done any training for a long time, and he
figured he didn’t have to do much for Willard.
What happened later proved the fallacy of his contention. He lost the
title, but there is more to the story of that defeat than Johnson s
overconfidence or lack of training. There was the Black Omen.
They called Johnson the Black Colossus. He stood astride the boxing world
and sliced the opposition to ribbons. With the exception of Jack Dempsey,
he gave me more thrills than any fighter I saw in half a century at the
ringside. In fact, I rank the burly Negro as the best heavyweight of all
time. Just look at the procession of top heavyweights he whipped—Jack
O’Brien, Tony Ross, Al Kaufman, Jim Flynn, Frank Moran, and James
Jeffries, among others.
But when the leading “white hope,” Willard, was booked as his opponent,
I felt confident that here was the man who would upset the applecart.
Not that he was a great fighter by any means; but because wine and women
had taken their toll and had left the Galveston Giant at the mercy of
the first Caucasian heavyweight who could condition himself to last more
than fifteen rounds. No matter how poorly primed Jack was to face top
opposition at the time, he still was good enough to make a “monkey” out
of any of the “white hopes” for at least fifteen frames. His mastery
of ring science, his ability to block, counter, and feint, are still
unexcelled.
The initial odds were four to one on Johnson. But when the Cubans watched
him at his training camp, the odds took a tumble.
So when Tex O’Rourke, Willard and his retinue reached Cuba, I decided
to spend most of my time with Jess. He was the big story. The public in
America was more interested in him. They wanted to know how he shaped up
for the big test, what his mental attitude was, his general demeanor,
and the progress he was making. It was my job to see that our readers
received the information, and it was while out with Jess and O’Rourke
that I got a scoop that hit the headlines.
Willard was a mountain of a man, 6 feet 5 inches tall and 260 pounds in
weight. Yet he had two failings—his right fist lacked snap, and his legs,
though well proportioned for his massive body, tired too quickly.
For weeks his trainer had made the challenger run miles every day over
the roughest going he could find. By the time Willard reached Havana
his legs had been greatly strengthened and his wind was perfect. He was
bronzed as an Indian and supremely confident. In terms of endurance, he
was a match for any man alive.
Yet two days before the fight, I saw a dramatic, sickening change in him.
He became morose and restless. O’Rourke put down Jess’s ugly mood to
prefight nerves—a condition that frequently is found in pugilists when
the time for their combat approaches.
Then fate stepped in in the form of a black duck, and the brave,
gale-tossed bird won the world title for Jess!
On the morning of the fight, Willard, O’Rourke, and I were strolling
along the Malecon, the Havana thoroughfare bordering on the ocean. We
stopped by the sea wall and Jess looked gloomily across the waves.
O’Rourke’s face was lined with despair. I knew what was bothering the
trainer. Only a few hours to the battle for the world crown, and here was
the challenger behaving like a sulky child!
Suddenly a spot appeared in the distant sky. It proved to be a black
duck, flying from the direction of the Florida coast, many miles away. It
had lost its way and was seeking a place to rest.
Bravely it flew against a half gale with huge seas pounding below. Twice,
with wearily flapping wings, it sank to the waves. Each time it made a
frantic effort to rise again.
Spent and almost exhausted, the bird cleared the breakwater, grazed the
huge sea wall, flew about 50 feet upward, then like a stone, fell almost
at Jess’s feet.
Gently the giant picked up the gallant, feathered fighter. Tenderly,
like a mother nursing her ailing child, he held the duck to his breast.
But in a few seconds the bird’s heart stopped beating. It had made its
landfall, and had perished in the attempt.
Jess stood there, silent and motionless, stroking the sea-drenched
feathers, as though his caresses would restore the bird to life.
He looked at O’Rourke and said softly, “See how black and glossy his
feathers are, Tex? Too bad he had to hand in his check just as he reached
the end of the trail. What a game bird!”
Sunk in moody thought, Willard went on stroking the dead bird. As we
watched in amazement, we saw him change. His eyes brightened, his broad
back straightened. He turned to O’Rourke, slapped him on the back and
grinned.
And with the old brightness back, he cried, “I’ll knock Johnson cuckoo.
Tonight I’ll be the world heavyweight champion. This bird has shown me
something.”
He wrapped up the duck in a newspaper to take it back to his hotel.
“Sure you’re going to win, Jess,” agreed the trainer. “That’s what I’ve
been telling you all along. What made you think otherwise?”
“Sure I’m going to win,” Willard repeated.
“Could there be a better omen for me than this poor bird? That duck
flew a long way—right from Florida. He flopped at my feet. And this is
how I now see it. The fight’s going to be a long one and a hard one for
Johnson. But at the end the champion is going to drop at my feet just
like this black duck did.”
And so, with head held high, with springy confident steps, and carrying
the bird under his arm, Jess walked back to the hotel, where he had the
gallant battler buried in the garden.
* * * * *
The sun came down with blistering, blinding heat as Johnson and Willard
stepped into the Havana Racetrack Arena that day.
Jess had his instructions. O’Rourke’s plan of campaign had been drawn
up weeks before. He knew that Johnson was banking on an early knockout,
so he told Willard to play safe for the first eight rounds and let the
Negro carry the fight to him. After that it was up to Jess to try to wear
Johnson down.
Tex figured that by the fifteenth round Johnson would have shot his bolt.
Then Jess could open up and carry the battle to the tiring champion.
The gong went. Johnson slid lithely from his seat and attacked with the
ferocity of a hungry tiger. Bobbing and weaving before the huge Willard,
the whites of Jack’s eyes showed as he looked for an opening.
Twice he threw shuddering left hooks, but Jess was fighting according to
instructions and caught the blows on his arms, slowly backing away all
the time.
Jack feinted with a left and crossed with a right, and the punch smashed
home on his rival’s jaw. Jess quivered for a moment, then backed up. He
stabbed long lefts, but Johnson brushed these aside and continued his
attack. The bell rang, and Jess had weathered the opening round.
From the second round onward, Johnson cut loose with cold, savage fury
that punished Jess despite his strategy. Willard’s defense was good, but
he didn’t do too much on the attack until well past half the fight. He
was following O’Rourke’s instructions to let Johnson wear himself out.
Several times it appeared that Johnson would score a knockout as the
giant Negro kept tossing his punches accurately and to vital points. Near
the end of the seventh round, a shattering blow to the jaw sent Jess to
his corner in a noticeably unsteady condition.
He quickly recovered, but Johnson, still sensing an early kill, went
after his man with added fury in the eighth round. Savagely mauled, Jess
fought on, though his face was gory and his body red. Yet his heart, like
that of the black duck that had flown from the Florida coast upheld him.
Like that black duck, he aimed toward his goal.
Johnson tried hard for the knockout through the next few rounds, but
without success. After the sixteenth, the pattern of the fight began to
change. Jack started to slow down, while Jess kept climbing—again, like
the duck reaching for heights after striking the heavy sea waves.
From the eighteenth round on, I felt certain that Johnson knew his title
had gone. It was then that Willard went on the offensive.
In the twentieth round, O’Rourke told Jess to go in for the kill.
“You’ve got him licked,” the trainer urged. “He’s tiring. Keep at him.
Don’t give him any rest.”
The tables were now completely turned. Willard bore down on the champion,
battering him with both hands. But Johnson’s defense was superb. Even
when he was at the end of his tether, and Jess couldn’t miss, he
continued to make a fight of it.
In the twenty-sixth round, Johnson dropped his guard momentarily, and
Jess shot a right-hander under the heart. Johnson winced. His mouth
opened, his arms twitched upwards convulsively, and he started sinking to
the canvas when a left to the jaw hurried him on his losing fall.
There was no need for the second blow. The right-hander to the heart had
done the job. Jess was the new heavyweight champion of the world—the
first white man to hold the title for nearly seven years.
And it was at that moment, as Johnson took the count, that one of the
greatest controversies in the fight game began.
Months afterwards, Johnson said that he had faked the fight because
he had been promised that if he lost the title to Willard the charge
against him of transporting a woman across the state lines for immoral
purposes would be dropped. The photo of him lying on the canvas with his
arms over his face seemed to support this explanation, and many persons
jumped to the conclusion that he was shielding his eyes from the sun! But
the truth is that Johnson made the statement to alibi himself.
I have six photographs of that knockout and in each Johnson’s eyes are
exposed to the full glare of the sun.
When a fight is “arranged,” the man who is taking the dive doesn’t fight
for twenty-six rounds and break his rival’s ribs and jaw in the bargain,
as Johnson had done to Willard!
I saw O’Rourke back in the dressing room. The trainer was all smiles.
“Nat,” he said, “that black duck turned the trick. It won the title for
Jess.”
[Illustration: 12]
BOXING’S HARLEQUIN
Before he paid us the doubtful compliment of becoming our guest in the
middle 1920’s, Louis Phal—to give Battling Siki his real name—made France
too hot to hold him.
They put the singular Senegalese in a set-up against Georges Carpentier
in a Paris ring, and he ruined all the schemes of the wise guys by
knocking the Orchid Kid cold, after treating the horrified spectators to
an exhibition of jungle frenzy.
Then, with the light-heavyweight crown on his fuzzy head, he became the
pugilistic King Kong of the Paris boulevards, fighting and brawling on
the sidewalks of that city until the gendarmes warned him that if he
didn’t mend his ways he’d be lynched.
He had been brought from his native Senegal as a servant by a Caucasian
woman of high degree, who probably thought him amusing, for he was a
quaint black fellow with an extreme sense of humor.
The trouble was that neither the gendarmes nor the citizens of Paris,
especially women, could appreciate his jokes. And there was a sigh of
relief when Mike McTigue took the light-heavyweight title from him after
a fight in Dublin on St. Patrick’s Day.
The decision was a questionable one, but nobody bothered about that; Mike
put up a marvellous defensive fight against the black barbarian, who, at
one point in the proceedings, turned away from McTigue and threatened to
jump out of the ring and murder Georges Carpentier, who was sitting at
the ringside taunting the Senegalese.
Siki entered the United States quietly. Most fight fans didn’t know much
about him, except that he could hit hard and take a lot of punishment. He
was a fighter of the dock variety, and when he rolled his eyes he looked
terrifying.
He was as black as coal and had a thick ruffle of kinky black hair on his
head. The American “sports” forgot all about his European reputation and
gave him a good hand. They enjoyed his style and his antics, and he in
turn enjoyed the attention he received in the States.
I had heard many strange stories about the Singular Senegalese, as he was
nicknamed. I learned that he drank like a fish and was an ugly customer
when in his cups. I was told, before he reached America, that he wore
evening dress all through the day and paraded the streets with a monkey
on his shoulder. When he arrived in New York, I decided to meet him
personally and find out all I could for myself.
All the rumors were confirmed to my satisfaction the afternoon I came
upon this extraordinary man directing traffic with his cane in the middle
of 42nd Street and Broadway.
He was dressed in formal evening clothes, with a flowing French cape
lined with purple satin. He wore bright red gloves and gray suede shoes.
A laughing crowd surrounded him. Soon the police officer, none other
than big Pat McDonald, the Olympic hammer thrower, came along to inquire
the cause of the traffic hold-up and the reason for the gathering. As he
approached the fantastic Negro, Siki took off his high silk topper, bowed
in ceremonial French style, and extended his big hand in greeting.
Pat McDonald had a sense of humor. He lifted his cap, bowed in return,
and took Siki’s outstretched hand. At that moment a monkey leaped from
under the Senegalese’s cape to the head of the officer.
There was a shriek from the crowd as McDonald almost collapsed. But he
quickly recovered himself and caught Siki by the collar, bustling him
away. After that, I no longer doubted the stories of his pranks.
* * * * *
Siki was matched to fight Paul Berlenbach. I went to the weigh-in and
decided that Paul would win—if he could keep his nerve. Paul was a great
fighter and was not likely to be intimidated by this imitation King Kong.
Just after the weigh-in, I ran into Siki outside his apartment. He was
giving the monkey an airing and was in a playful mood. He sauntered up
and down the avenue, followed by a large crowd, strutting like a peacock.
Suddenly he turned and said something to the monkey in French. It leaped
instantly on the back of a woman in the crowd. With a shriek, the woman
fainted. Siki stood grinning like an ape, but the crowd began to murmur
angrily. A man out of the gathering ran towards him. The Senegalese
backed away, but just at that moment a policeman came along. When he saw
the cause of the trouble he whipped out his blackjack.
“What are you doing with that scarecrow around here?” he demanded of
Siki. “You come along with me. You’re taking too many liberties.”
The officer asked the woman, who had now recovered, if she would press a
charge of disorderly conduct against the Negro. Before she could decide,
Siki shouted excitedly, “Eet is not my fault, gendarme, eef my monkee, he
likes charming ladees!”
Everybody laughed, including the policeman, and the incident was closed
without further trouble.
But that night I sat at the ringside and saw the primitive Siki take
a terrible beating from Paul Berlenbach. For nine rounds he was a
punching-bag for the skillful, hard-hitting German-American.
Heavens, how Siki took it! From the first round he rolled his eyes and
snorted as if trying to terrify “Punching Paul”; but before the seventh
session the Senegalese had taken so much punishment that his eyes rolled
in agony. It was really a horrible exhibition of boxing, for Siki had
only the crudest idea of defense, and was helpless against the crushing
avalanche of blows which Berlenbach rained upon him.
In the eighth round Paul worked the Negro against the ropes just in front
of me, and bombarded him with paralyzing rights and lefts to the head.
As blow after blow smashed home, rocking Siki on his heels, I began to
wonder what had happened to the human fury that had battered Carpentier
into insensibility. Now the roles were reversed.
I have seldom seen more tigerish energy than Paul packed into his work
that night. Perhaps Siki was only half-human. At any rate, he took it
until the middle of the tenth round, when Berlenbach, punching with
lightning speed, shot home a bone-crushing right to the jaw.
Siki fell forward on his face, as if a bullet had struck him, and was
counted out. That was his last fight in the ring. Siki nearly succeeded
in driving his manager, the genial Papa Levy, insane, with his antics.
There’s an extraordinary story connected with the Senegalese’s fight with
Battling Norfolk, in Memphis, Tennessee, a bout which I witnessed.
Siki and Levy arrived in the southern city four days before the contest.
There was nobody to meet them at the station, and no announcement of
their arrival was made in the newspapers.
“Why my name no in zee papers?” asked Siki after scanning the local
sheets.
Levy explained that in Memphis there was no publicity for colored
performers, owing to the Southern prejudice against Negroes.
Siki became unruly. He was like a wild man. At that time, the song, “Yes,
We Have No Bananas,” was all the rage, and it gave Siki an idea.
He bought an enormous bunch of bananas, walked through the streets
singing the song, and tossing the fruit to the passersby. He could sing
quite well and attracted considerable attention. Within a few minutes a
crowd was following him. Two mounted policemen approached him. One yanked
Siki by the collar and hauled him to the police station. Siki made the
front pages, which he apparently set out to do—and filled the fight arena
the next day.
Back in New York he was soon up to his old tricks, squirting water from a
handgun at people on the streets, throwing handfuls of money to crowds,
and scattering bags of peanuts among the masses on Broadway.
The police warned him, but he answered, “Nobody hurt Siki. All lika Siki.
Siki him have good heart. Siki help everybody.”
One night he was picked up almost at the point of death in one of the
toughest districts in New York. He had been stabbed. He was taken to the
French Hospital, and a young reporter called the next morning to get a
story. Siki leaped out of bed and, clad only in his pajamas, slung the
reporter over his shoulder and ran out into the street.
Hailing a taxi, he dropped the reporter into the gutter and drove home.
Soon he was up to his usual tricks again, but his enemies were closing
in. One night he walked into a night club drunk, and began to smash it
up. The next morning he was found in the street with an ice-pick driven
into his chest. The police arrested his assailant, but Siki refused to
press the charge.
His time was short now; the curtain was about to ring down. On a winter’s
night, when gales of icy wind whipped the narrow canyons of Hell’s
Kitchen, two men lurked in the shadows. It was just past midnight, and
the street was deserted by all who valued their lives.
Siki entered the street muffled in a heavy overcoat. He was unsteady on
his feet and sang snatches of songs. Suddenly two automatics barked, and
the Senegalese pitched forward—dead. They found him the next morning
where he had fallen, and within an hour he made the front pages of the
newspapers for the last time.
BOOK
THREE
[Illustration]
[Illustration: 13]
A STORY OF INTRIGUE