America’s famous sports center, without ever giving a thought to the
story behind the building. It is a story of intrigue in which those
who conceived the idea and started the negotiations for the gigantic
structure were pushed into the background by the world’s greatest
promoter, Tex Rickard.
Once Rickard had all the necessary data placed in his lap, he maneuvered
those whose brain child it was right out of the picture and proceeded
on his own. Today the new Madison Square Garden is known in every nook
and corner of the world where sports are followed as the “House that
Tex Built,” but if proper credit were given to those who planned it and
negotiated for its erection.... Well, here’s the story.
It was the year 1923. America had developed one of the great skaters in
the history of the country. His name was Bobby McLean.
Bobby had come from the Mid-West, where he had cleaned up in racing
competition. At the invitation of the Swedish government, he went
abroad to take part in international races at Stockholm, and later in
other parts of Europe. He gained fame and fortune abroad. His name had
headlined the sports pages both in Europe and America.
I was in Stockholm at the time and became acquainted with his manager,
Dinty Scanlon, an energetic promoter who, in later years, induced Sonja
Henie to come to America, and who for several years was her manager.
Scanlon saw the possibilities of exploiting ice skating in America
and broached the subject to me. He was the pioneer of the ice skating
revues in America and to him goes the credit for inaugurating the ice
extravaganzas that have since become part of our country’s winter sports
schedule.
I was then sports editor of the New York _Telegram_, and Scanlon,
knowing how close I was to Rickard, showed me plans for the building of
a huge ice rink in New York and asked whether I thought he could obtain
Rickard’s aid. I was for the project and thought Tex would be interested.
There was only one ice rink in New York at the time, the St. Nicholas
Rink, and that had outlived its usefulness.
Scanlon, discussing his plans, declared that if funds were available to
build the rink, we could make the arena the ice sports center of America
by getting contracts from Eastern colleges to use it for their hockey
matches, as well as importing the Scandinavian, Swiss, and other famous
European ice revues. With that in mind, I decided to lay Scanlon’s plans
before Rickard and look for a location.
We were aware that Tex Rickard’s long lease on the old Garden would soon
expire and that the New York Life Insurance Company would not grant a
further lease of more than one year. Stories had appeared in the _Wall
Street Journal_ to the effect that the insurance company was anxious to
demolish the old structure and build a home to house its own people.
Scanlon and I figured the time was ripe for quick action.
The Manhattan Railway Company, operating the street cars of New York
along the main highways, was in bankruptcy proceedings, with Judge Julius
Mayer in charge. Through Judge Mayer, I learned that any of the car
barns, situated at Thirty-third Street and Fourth Avenue, Eighty-sixth
Street and Madison Avenue, and Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue, could
be purchased, provided we could obtain the bondholders’ consent.
With that information, I proceeded. I requested Scanlon to obtain two
extra blueprints for his proposed structure. A few days later, he came to
my office with the plans and the architect’s picture of what the proposed
sports arena would look like.
The blueprint of the proposed structure was then published in the New
York _Telegram_ with a story on the front page written by me. I pointed
out that Rickard’s lease on the old Garden would soon expire and the
building would be torn down within a few years; and to make certain
that a substitute building to house sports in New York would be given
the people, several sportsmen proposed to build a gigantic structure
conveniently located near the theatrical district, the feature of which
would be a skating rink and motion picture theatre.
The story created a bombshell in New York. Rickard was besieged for
confirmation; but all he could confirm was that his lease would be
renewed for only one year. He knew nothing about any sportsmen becoming
interested in the erection of a structure to take the place of the famous
old landmark. The story in the _Telegram_, he said, was news to him, but
he was interested.
That was my ace. I was not only eager to get public reaction but also
Rickard’s. I did not have long to wait. Rickard sent for Scanlon and me.
Before meeting him, however, we made certain that we could obtain other
backing in case Tex should turn a deaf ear to us.
New York City at the time had a man of wealth in the building business.
His name was George Backer. He had just completed a large commercial
building on Fifth Avenue near Thirtieth Street, then the largest in the
city. Scanlon, McLean, and I got in touch with him.
It didn’t take us long to convince Mr. Backer that we had something worth
while. He was quick to see the possibilities and promised us that if we
could get Tex Rickard to organize a company to put up $2,250,000, he
would back the venture with an equal amount. He told us to tell Rickard
of his interest in the matter.
Before we left Backer, he told us to see Judge Mayer again and find
out at what price the barn opposite the _Morning Telegraph_ on Eighth
Avenue, between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Streets, could be purchased. He,
like Scanlon and myself, favored that location because of its proximity
to Broadway and the theatrical district, which, even then, was moving
northward.
Backer gave us permission to work with his architects on the preliminary
plans. They estimated that it would require about $4,500,000 to erect the
building and buy the land, and that was the amount we set out to get,
half from Backer and the remainder from the Rickard syndicate.
We were certain that with Mr. Backer behind it, the plan couldn’t
fall through. With great faith in our eventual success, I arranged an
appointment for Scanlon and myself to discuss the matter with Tex. The
following day we went to his office in the Madison Square Garden tower,
where the three of us, with Frank Coultry, Tex’s treasurer and Ike
Dorgan, his publicity ace, went into conference.
We unloaded our plan to the group telling Tex that Backer would show
good faith by putting up $500,000 to underwrite the undertaking and the
remainder when Rickard’s share was posted. We also placed before Rickard
the blue prints for the installation of an ice floor in the arena, the
new invention of a Philadelphian who had already tried out such a plant
successfully in the Philadelphia Arena. We convinced Rickard that with
this new system, he could use the rink floor for ice hockey one night and
within ten hours, have the floor ready for a fight, basketball, horse
shows or for any other purpose.
He was keenly interested. He asked us to leave our plans with him and
return in three days, which we did. With Rickard at our next meeting was
Colonel John Hammond, a West Pointer, who later became vice-president
of the Garden in charge of hockey promotion. Col. Hammond was an ardent
ice fan, having been captain of the Cadets’ hockey team and he seemed
impressed with the idea. Rickard was even more interested. We had brought
the Philadelphia inventor with us and our backer’s legal adviser to give
further details.
Going more deeply into the plans, we showed Rickard where he could
use the new building for all kinds of sports events and exhibitions,
in addition to having a meeting place, bigger and better than the old
Garden. Our plans called for a motion picture theatre on the street
level, with an arcade leading to the arena. We had a tentative agreement
from the Keith’s Theatre to lease that portion if the building was
erected. The present Garden has only a few changes from the plan Scanlon
and I offered.
Rickard asked where we contemplated building if he decided to go in with
us. We told him of our conference with Judge Mayer and his suggestion
to call a bondholders’ meeting to get their consent. Judge Mayer also
wanted us to show our good faith with a deposit of $25,000, and we had a
certified check for that amount ready. We suggested that the best place
would be the site of the car barns at Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue.
Rickard assured us he would report to our syndicate in a few days, as he
wanted more time to think it over and to discuss it with his financial
backers. When we next met, however, we learned that he was not in favor
of the project.
“It’s too costly, Nat,” he said. “I spoke to John Ringling and others
who might become interested, and they say it’s a foolish move. It would
be a total loss. The location is no good, and the plan for an ice rink
is out of the question. We couldn’t operate both fights and hockey; and,
besides, we haven’t the teams here.”
In an effort to induce Rickard to change his mind, Scanlon told Tex that
Judge Mayer could probably get the barn site for $2,200,000, and I added
that I was confident we could obtain it for less with cold cash.
Rickard indicated it was too risky and Col. Hammond backed him on that.
We couldn’t budge Tex, and thus our bubble burst. We thought he was the
only sportsman to whom such a proposition could appeal, and when he
refused to accept our offer, both on a percentage basis and on a stock
partnership, Scanlon and I gave up.
Behold our astonishment when three months later we learned through a news
item delivered to the papers by Ike Dorgan, Rickard’s publicist, that
Tex, with Colonel Hammond, had organized a Wall Street Company for the
purchase of the Fiftieth Street car barns, and that a huge arena, a new
Madison Square Garden, would be built there, featuring an ice plant for
hockey and ice reviews! When I heard that Colonel Hammond was associated
with Rickard and would be in charge of the hockey and ice department, in
addition to being the representative of the Wall Street group that would
back the project, I was furious.
Scanlon and I went to Rickard and accused him to his face of
double-crossing us. Scanlon told Tex that we were the originators of the
new Garden arena plans and that he had stolen our idea, based on the blue
prints submitted to him. We demanded that we be taken into the project
and threatened to bring suit if we were not, but Rickard laughed us off.
Well, within a year, the new Garden was built. Mike Jacobs, who later
succeeded Rickard as the country’s foremost promoter and to whom Dinty
and I had also broached the subject, was thoroughly conversant with the
details and asked us not to bring suit as we had contemplated. Mike had
become one of Rickard’s financial advisers. He found that Tex required
more money than his backers were willing to put up, and it was through
his efforts that additional funds were obtained to assure the completion
of the structure.
Despite Mike’s pressures, Scanlon was still bitter about Rickard’s
maneuver, and had not George Backer died shortly after Tex’s
announcement, Tex would have had a half million dollar suit on his hands.
The only change made in the plans Tex finally used was the elimination of
the motion picture theatre and the erection of stores, instead.
Thus the new Garden came into being through the foresight of a great
lover of ice sports, Dinty Scanlon, whose eagerness to find a place in
New York where his champion Bobby McLean could exhibit his skill, was
responsible for the design as he and I worked it out.
Although the idea and the original plans were ours, credit for the final
erection of the Garden belongs to Mike Jacobs. It was he who persuaded
Judge Mayer to get the bondholders to sell the car barns at Fiftieth
Street for $2,500,000 and it was he who urged Rickard not to accept the
Eighty-sixth Street or Thirty-fourth Street sites, which Judge Mayer was
more anxious to dispose of and which Tex was willing to take in order to
avoid the Scanlon suit.
I recall being present at a meeting when Rickard told Mike that the Wall
Street combine to which he had appealed was favorably impressed with the
Thirty-fourth Street and Madison Avenue site because of its nearness to
the old Garden.
“That’s where those fellers are wrong,” said Mike, “I agree with Nat and
Scanlon that the Eighth Avenue car barns would be the best location. The
trend for amusements is to the midtown section. It will soon be the heart
of the theatrical district. Everything is moving up towards Fiftieth
Street.”
Thus did this man of foresight visualize New York’s future. The job
of negotiating for the land was turned over to Jacobs. According to
fable, the Garden was financed by a group of 600 millionaires, each of
whom contributed the sum of $1,000. The fact is that $5,600,000 was
required for the building and the car barns, and Jacobs manipulated the
deal whereby Rickard obtained the funds. After giving Rickard his first
$25,000 to turn over to Judge Mayer to show good faith in the proposed
purchase, Mike negotiated a bank loan for Tex for an additional $100,000
to start the ball rolling. It was not until then that a six-man syndicate
headed by banker Richard F. Hoyt, came in, with the rest of the money.
As for the 600 millionaires, they each put up $1,000 at a later date to
become life members of the Garden Club. In return for their money, they
also were given stock.
Mike Jacobs, as Rickard’s agent, was handsomely rewarded for his loan
and his very important part in the negotiations. He told me his prize
totalled $117,000. It was only after the property had been bought that
it became known that Rickard had been working on a “shoestring” and that
had it not been for Jacobs, he would never have been able to put over the
deal.
As for Scanlon, the man who originated the idea and who with me, had the
first plans for the new Garden drawn up, I don’t know whether he ever got
any money from Rickard, but I received from Tex the sum of $2,500 and
some stock, in settlement for my claim against him—small amount, to be
sure, but being friendly with Tex, I decided not to press the issue.
That’s the story of how the present Garden came to be, a story of
intrigue that made Tex Rickard and Mike Jacobs millionaires.
[Illustration: 14]
DESTINY’S PARTNERSHIP
As surely as there is a tide in the affairs of men, there are men marked
out by fate to be carried by that tide to fame and fortune. All the
forces of destiny seem to conspire to give them the breaks. Such a man
was Tex Rickard.
George L. “Tex” Rickard, boxing’s man of destiny, died on January 6,
1929, at the age of fifty-eight. I knew him intimately for a quarter of
a century. I wrote the story of his life and acted in a confidential
capacity for him on many occasions. I have no hesitation in saying that
he was one man in a hundred million marked out by fate.
President of Madison Square Garden, acknowledged king of the boxing
world, Tex Rickard lived long enough to put the fight game on the big
financial map and to make himself and many other people millionaires.
The Grim Reaper claimed him just as he was about to retire and, for the
first time in his career, enjoy himself by taking things easy.
I said good-by to him the day before he left New York for Miami, where he
died following an operation for appendicitis.
For a man of his years he looked youthful. The dark eyes were as keen as
ever and the expressive lips just as ready to curl into a smile or to be
compressed into a hard, fighting line.
With his hat tilted on the back of his head, he looked at me and said in
his usual quick manner and with his Texan cowboy drawl:
“Nat, one big promotion, and I’m through.”
I smiled. “I’ve heard all that before, Tex.”
“This is straight. I’ve taken boxing from a thousand bucks to two
million. One more big promotion, then I quit.”
“You couldn’t quit if you tried, Tex,” I replied.
To see Rickard towards the end of his life, king of the gilded age of
boxing, one might have thought that he had been just lucky. Well, Tex had
plenty of luck, and he needed it. But one must look into his personality
and his career to understand the secret of his success.
He was the last of the picturesque men of vision and daring: Western
cowboy, gold-hunter, gambler, promoter: a man whose personality had as
much color as a rainbow.
“Nat, never lose your guts,” Tex once said to me after I had suffered a
heavy financial loss. “If you do, you’re finished. Better shoot yourself
and get out of it.”
That stern creed was the rock on which Tex Rickard built his fame and
fortune. But fate looked after him. For example, he left Goldfield,
Nevada, in 1910 to sell copper properties to a big prospector.
“I’m not interested in your copper,” the prospector said, according to
Rickard, “but if you’ll promote a fight between Jack Johnson and Jim
Jeffries out here at Reno, I’ll back you.”
Every sports promoter in America was bidding for that fight but nobody
had enough faith in the match to offer Jeffries what he wanted to come
out of retirement. Tex staggered the fight world by offering $101,000,
and he got the fight.
I recall a scene in Naegeli’s Hotel in Hoboken, New Jersey, when Rickard
appeared with several of his backers to clinch the fight. Tex walked into
the hotel, waited for all hands to be seated, then opened the eyes of
both Johnson and Jeffries by placing $20,000 in gold on the table. That
gold settled the argument and got him the fight, for while other bidders
for the bout were talking big, Rickard showed his good faith with money.
Previous to the meeting in Hoboken, all the bidders and the principals
had congregated in the Albany Hotel in New York City to discuss plans for
the match. Almost every sports writer in New York, and many from cities
as far west as California, were among those present. When the principals
arrived to talk business, Police Commissioner Baker announced that he
would be forced to arrest everyone if a contract for the fight were
signed on the premises, for such a procedure would be against the law.
That’s why the scene was shifted to Naegeli’s Hotel in New Jersey.
Rickard made ring history with the match, for not only did he referee,
but he drew gate receipts amounting to $270,755, high figures for the
period.
The result of the Reno fight convinced Tex that there was more money
in the fight game than in mining, and thereafter most of his time was
devoted to pugilism. When he decided to devote all his time to boxing
promotion, the gilded era got under way.
* * * * *
When Rickard came to New York, boxing was at a low ebb. He had
successfully promoted shows in the West and when he took over the Garden,
he saw no reason why his success should not continue.
I recall a dinner party he tossed for New York journalists at the
Biltmore Hotel. Free loaders crashed the gate in large numbers, but that
didn’t disturb Rickard. He sat back as the boys made speeches in which
some questioned his ability to make money on weekly boxing shows at the
Garden, while paying rent amounting to $52,000 a year. At that time, as
I have mentioned previously, the Garden was only occasionally rented out
for events other than boxing.
Tex said nothing. He leaned back and smiled as he puffed his Perfecto.
He saw things in the future that the scribes were blind to. At that time
boxers were wearing bathhouse suits and ordinary street shoes in the
ring. Barbers, ham actors, bum politicians and stick-up guys occupied
front row seats that should have been used by the press. Holders of
ringside seats were pushed about, laughed out of their rightful chairs
by rowdies and gangsters. The aisles were filled with loafers and gate
crashers, blocking the view of people who had paid good money to see the
fights.
That’s how boxing was run in New York before Tex took over—not only in
the Garden, but in all the other clubs. But he had seen boxing staged
on a different level by Jim Coffroth in California and he decided to do
the same thing on the East coast. Law and order prevailed at Coffroth’s
promotions and people were seated properly. Coffroth had a fine
organization and he ran his affairs in a decent manner, without delays
and without mob ruling.
Rickard remembered all those things when he came to New York and he lived
to see the Garden take over where Coffroth had left off. He lived to see
ushers in bright uniforms give each patron the seat the check called for.
He saw women by the thousands at his shows.
At Reno, at the time of the Jeffries-Johnson fight, I recall how Tex
fooled the scribes with his “telephone booths.” A few days before the
fight, the newspapermen went out to look the grounds over at Tex’s
invitation. Over the entrance to the arena and right back of the last
raised seat, about twenty-five feet from the ground, they noticed a row
of covered boxes that looked like telephone booths. Tad Dorgan, grabbing
Tex by the arm, pointed to the boxes and asked what they were for. Tex, a
cigar in his mouth, and with his usual poker face, replied:
“I put those in for the convenience of the newspapermen who want to phone
after the fight.”
No one thought of investigating. We accepted Tex’s explanation and the
next day’s reports from the camp mentioned the item. But on the day of
the fight we noticed that the booths were covered with curtains and upon
checking further, found that Mrs. Rickard, Mrs. Jeffries, and other
women, were seated in those “telephone booths,” all hidden from public
view. That was the first effort Tex made to have women enjoy boxing
without being molested.
* * * * *
Following the Reno battle, Rickard hit the trail southward. He went to
Argentina, where he bought a ranch and raised cattle for export. Just
about the time he decided to get back to the States, a young Colorado
hobo-miner was making his way East after a few successful fights with
unknowns like himself. His name was William Harrison Dempsey, and he was
destined to become the perfect partner of the vast Rickard promotion
enterprise.
Hanging on the wall in my office today is a wrinkled right-hand boxing
glove. On the back of it, stretching almost from the curled finger-tip to
the wrist, is a dry, dark-brown stain. This glove is a souvenir of the
three most furious rounds of fighting I have ever seen, and the stain was
made by the blood of one of the bravest men who ever stepped into a roped
square.
Jack Dempsey wore those gloves to win the heavyweight championship of the
world. He was, in my opinion, the most colorful fighter of the twentieth
century. The blood stains came from Jess Willard on that unforgettable
afternoon at Toledo, Ohio, July 4, 1919, under a blazing sun that caused
the thermometer to register 101 in the shade.
Fate must have smiled when Tex first clapped eyes on this young genius of
the ring, with his dark, indrawn brows and curly black hair, for it was
Rickard’s opinion that the gigantic Willard couldn’t be licked.
Even when Dempsey knocked out the huge Fred Fulton in eighteen seconds,
Tex couldn’t see that destiny had presented him with a fighter who,
perhaps alone of all pugilists, could carry his daring and ambitious
schemes to success.
The Dempsey-Willard bout decided matters, although it was not a startling
affair financially. I was in Toledo some days before the fight sizing
up the chances of the men. Willard I knew to be a good, though not a
brilliant champion. He was so contemptuous of his smaller opponent that
he hadn’t troubled to get himself into proper condition.
I went around to see him one morning at ten o’clock and found that he was
still in bed. I mentioned the matter to Tex.
“I know, Nat,” he replied. “He’s taking Dempsey too lightly. Thinks he’s
got a cinch. I wish someone could make him see this fight more seriously.”
Dempsey, the product of barefisted brawls in mining camps and hobo
jungles throughout the West, had a string of knockouts to his credit, but
he had never stacked up against so huge an opponent as Big Jess. Still,
Rickard’s opinion of Willard was shared by all in the challenger’s camp.
Jack had worked hard to get himself into condition. I shall never forget
the wonderful physical appearance he presented, with his flashing dark
eyes and skin tanned to the color of a hazel nut. He looked fit to fight
the world the day he entered the Toledo ring for that title bout.