cluster over the head of Willard, even before he climbed into the ring.
But he didn’t seem to notice them. Ironically, his chief concern was that
he might land himself in serious trouble by fatally injuring his youthful
opponent.
The night before the fight, I favored Dempsey, figuring that if the
battle went any distance, condition must tell. And that is how it was
with me when I took my seat by the ringside under a scorching sun which
made me sick with heat.
There were nearly twenty thousand people in the arena and the possibility
of seeing the world heavyweight title change hands was too much for
their nerves. They kept up a steady roar for an hour before the battle,
and when the men entered the ring, a cyclone of shouts and yelling was
unleashed.
The first thing that struck me was Dempsey’s apparent nervousness. His
perfectly trained body, I thought, was capable of standing the severest
test, but what about his nerves?
Here was an unknown factor.
He sat in his corner, elbows on his knees and head down, scowling at the
canvas. He was unshaven, and his growth of dark facial hair added to his
tough appearance.
Friends at the ringside shouted good luck to him, but he took no notice
of them. He even seemed to resent the presence of his manager, Jack
Kearns, who was talking to him earnestly.
Contrasted with this dark, berry-brown man, Jess Willard looked like a
high, blond animal. His face was tanned, but the skin of his body was
as white as a woman’s. He looked arrogantly confident as he waved to
friends, a superior smile on his lips.
Ollie Pecord, the referee, called the men to the middle of the ring
for instructions. Willard moved towards him with a long, sure stride.
Dempsey, on the other hand, broke into a nervous run. I watched the
scowl on his face deepen as Pecord was talking. Jack’s eyes never left
the ground.
Willard stood easily, listening, and occasionally throwing a contemptuous
glance towards his young challenger. He towered over Dempsey, yet I could
see that he was soft in comparison with the muscular, steel-hard man from
Manassa.
Back in their corners, the men got ready for the bell. Dempsey’s
nervousness seemed to increase with every passing second. He fidgeted and
shuffled his feet, as if unable to restrain the movement of his limbs.
Little did I dream that he was about to give the greatest exhibition of
fighting fury ever seen in an American ring.
The entire arena and ring were flooded with white-hot light. The heat was
terrific and most of the spectators had stripped to their shirts. I was
grumbling to the man next to me about the scorching I was getting, when
the gong sounded for the opening round. I didn’t notice the heat after
that.
Dempsey leaped from his corner like a tiger, facing the champion almost
in his own corner. He feinted with his right and shot a left to Willard’s
ribs. It connected with the noise of a wooden hammer, bringing a roar
from the crowd.
“By heavens, he can hit!” roared Bill McGeehan, famous New York scribe
sitting near me.
Seven times in that first round Willard was dropped to the canvas by
the smashing blows of his challenger. Dempsey presented a figure of
murderous fighting energy as he stood over his fallen opponent after
every knock-down. He was quivering and snorting like a wild animal and
his scowl was terrifying. Never had I seen human nature stripped so bare
of civilized pretense.
When Jess went down for the seventh time, Ollie Pecord started counting.
The gong sounded ending the round when he reached seven, but Pecord had
not heard it through the din and he lifted the arm of Dempsey in token
of victory by a knockout in the first session.
Pandemonium reigned. Dempsey leaped from the ring and was on his way to
the dressing room when the error was noted, and he was called back.
Willard seemed unaware of what was going on. He had been dragged to his
corner where he sat with broken jaw, his eyes glassy and bloodshot, and
the claret flowing from nose and mouth. Yet, to the astonishment of all,
the Kansas Giant got to his feet to face additional punishment in the
second round.
I have never seen a fighter so badly battered. There were groans from the
gathering. This was not a boxing match, but a slaughter, and when the
challenger began to pick out Willard’s terribly damaged eyes for further
attack, boos greeted him. Once Willard fought back, but it was a futile
attempt to stem the tide.
The spectacle of Willard, his face battered beyond recognition, standing
defenseless before this human tiger, didn’t accord with ideas of true
sport. Yet the fight went on!
The final act of this savage, brutal affair, was yet to be fought. I
watched Willard stagger to his corner. He was all in. He lacked the
strength to stand up and had to be assisted to the stool. The spectators
pleaded for the closure but Ollie Pecord, a referee of the old school,
would have none of that. He would not stop a fight so long as the
champion was able to come to scratch.
I despair to give an impression of Willard when he came up for the third
round—his last. He was almost blind and despite the ministrations of his
handlers, who worked furiously to aid him, his face was one mash from
forehead to chin. He hadn’t a chance in the world and as I looked at
him with a feeling of pity, I blamed his seconds for not tossing in the
sponge.
Blind fighting instinct alone dictated Willard’s move forward as Dempsey
leaped toward him when the third round got under way. This time Jess shot
up his right to protect himself, and it caught Dempsey under the chin and
jarred him. It sent his head back with a jerk—the only effective punch
the champion had landed in the fight.
There was a roar for the underdog. Everybody jumped up. The excitement
made me catch my breath.
But Dempsey recovered quickly, spurred to a fighting fury by the uppercut
that almost downed him. The black scowl had been replaced by a terrible
tigerish smile. He started pounding away at Jess’s body and jaw and when
the round ended, both the challenger and the champion were exhausted.
No words can depict Willard’s pitiful plight. He was half-dragged, half
carried to his corner, where he was planted on his stool in a state of
collapse. Ike O’Neil, his chief second, tried to revive him, but his
beaten body could not respond. Realizing his condition, Jess told referee
Pecord he could not continue.
Thus one of the greatest heavyweight championship bouts I have ever seen
came to an end, and the bloodstained right-hand glove that hangs on the
wall of my office recalls every thrilling detail of it. This was Jack
Dempsey’s high spot. I think it was also Jess Willard’s. To him goes an
honor hardly less than that of his conqueror, despite the battering he
took.
* * * * *
Were Dempsey’s gloves loaded?
That question has been discussed time and again in magazine and newspaper
articles by persons incapable of giving a proper answer except through
hearsay or from comments made by persons supposedly “in the know.” I
watched the crumbling of the Pottowatomie Giant and after the terrific
shellacking that Willard took, I heard many remarks that no human could
deal out so much punishment with padded mitts unless there was something
hidden in his gloves. Even to this day, one reads about “loaded gloves,”
and how plaster of Paris on Dempsey’s bandages cut Jess’ face to ribbons.
I was at the fight. I watched Dempsey in training. I saw Jimmy Deforest,
his trainer, tape Jack’s hands. I watched every move of the men in Jack’s
quarters. I think I can clear the atmosphere once and for all time with
an accurate version of what happened.
Jack Dempsey had no loaded gloves, nor did he use plaster of Paris over
his bandages. I make this assertion despite the recent statement by Jack
Kearns, Dempsey’s manager in that contest, that he had sprinkled plaster
of Paris powder over the bandages on Jack’s hands and then poured on
alcohol to form a plaster cast. I watched the proceedings and the only
person who had anything to do with the taping job was Deforest, who,
after he had taped the hands, poured some water over the bandages to keep
Jack’s hands cool. Of course, any solution poured over bandages will
harden them, but that’s all that took place.
Deforest became riled when the loaded gloves stories began to appear.
I recall a press conference he had with several reporters, including
myself, at which he angrily remarked:
“I regard the stories that I put plaster of Paris on Jack’s bandages
as plain libel. I’m tired of hearing people talk about such nonsense.
It’s pure trash. These rumors affect my reputation for honesty and fair
dealing. I did apply some water over the bandages when Jack complained
about the extreme heat, and that was all. I did not apply any foreign
substance to them. I used a hard adhesive tape. This certainly was not
irregular. It was not against the rules. It was the same kind of tape I
always used when I bandaged Kid McCoy’s hands.”
Deforest’s statement should settle all further arguments. It was not
until the recent fall-out between Kearns and Dempsey over the proposed
movie of Jack’s life (in which Kearns plays no part) that the latter gave
this new version of the bandaging of Dempsey’s hands. Kearns has always
denied the plaster of Paris yarn over the years, only to change the story
in the past few months.
* * * * *
It was during the training camp period for the Toledo fight that Rickard
first expressed to me his thinking for bouts to come. He had invited
the Connecticut sportsman, Joe Mulvihill, the Mad Hatter of Danbury, to
accompany us on a visit to Dempsey’s camp, and on the way, Mulvihill had
remarked, “One of these days, Tex, we’ll have a million dollar gate.”
Tex laughed and kidded him, but after Mulvihill had gone back to the
hotel with several newspapermen, Rickard turned to me and said, “That
ain’t a dream, Nat.”
I could see that he was visualizing things, though he didn’t do much
talking. He was keeping his plans to himself, but he did say to me: “What
we need is one big international heavyweight championship and you’ll see
the biggest crowd that ever attended a boxing match in this country.”
It wasn’t long after Dempsey won the title that I went overseas as
Rickard’s agent to seek the man that Tex wanted so badly for that million
dollar gate. He soon signed French war hero Georges Carpentier, for a
fight with Dempsey, and from the moment that the contract was made it
looked as if Rickard’s dream would come true.
I was Tex’s confidant in several of his boxing deals and I spent many
hours with him about this time. Shortly after the Carpentier-Dempsey bout
was made, orders started to pour into Tex’s office. Mike Jacobs, later
Rickard’s successor as monarch of the fight game, was in control of the
ticket sales, and he turned most of the tickets over to the agencies.
The demand for ducats was so big that Tex could take nothing but cash
or certified checks. Without putting down a cent of his own money, he
constructed the huge arena in Jersey City known as Boyle’s Thirty Acres
and still had enough to pay Dempsey and Carpentier their guarantees a
week before they entered the ring.
But it was a tremendous gamble, for if anything had happened to the
fighters, Tex would have had to beat it out of the United States. He had
little money of his own at the time and it would have been impossible for
him to make a 100 per cent refund if the fight had been called off.
Tex worried over this huge outlay when he started the promotion and
bemoaned the fact that he had planned the arena with 60,000 seats.
However, once the money started coming in, he knew he was clear as long
as nothing happened to the fighters. I recall meeting with him and Mike
Jacobs on an interview for a Sunday yarn. Asked for a rundown on the
seating arrangements and the ticket sale, Tex hesitated, then replied:
“I have 60,000 seats. I was worrying how we could get that many folks
to come to the show, but Mike and I are now trying to see how many more
seats we can put into the arena. We’re being flooded with requests. But
I don’t want to say nothin’ about that in the paper, Nat. I’ll give you
a good story, but it’s for the speculators who are grabbin’ all the
ringside seats.”
With that he told me how he put one over on them. He released a story to
the effect that because of the run on his ticket offices, he had received
permission from the Jersey City authorities to extend the arena stands
and to add 30,000 seats to its capacity. The ringside seats, he informed
the press, had been sold out during the first ten days, and to take care
of the many requests that were piling up at his headquarters, other
ringside sections were being built.
The specs fell for that story and another wild rush was made for the
ringside seats, the choicest of which Rickard had already allotted
Uncle Mike because of the financial aid Jacobs had given to launch the
promotion.
When, at the last moment, the speculators found themselves stuck with
many unsold ducats, Tex and Mike laughed.
“Let them worry, it’s their headache now,” was Rickard’s comment.
Rickard’s good angel smiled again and the take amounted to $1,789,238,
the first million dollar gate in the history of pugilism!
* * * * *
I met with Tex in his office after the Carpentier-Dempsey fight and got
the story of his promotion plans for the future. He was dreaming of more
big bouts and kept talking about another million dollar gate.
“Colorful fighters are what I need,” he said. “There’s one coming up from
Argentina and my people tell me he’s a big, husky fella from the Pampas
who kin fight.”
He was referring, of course, to Luis Angel Firpo. When he reached New
York and was brought to the Madison Square Garden tower where Rickard
had his quarters, I could see by the gleam in Tex’s eyes that he was
exceedingly pleased with the appearance of this man who would come to be
known as the Wild Bull of the Pampas and was planning another coup.
During the years that Jack Dempsey laboriously climbed the pugilistic
ladder, and even after his feet were firmly set on the top rung, many
questioned his claim to greatness. It was generally conceded that he was
a dynamic hitter, a fact that could not be disputed in view of his quick
victories over so many opponents, but fistic critics doubted his ability
to withstand punishment. It remained for Luis Angel Firpo to sweep away
all such doubts.
Firpo had only a vague idea of the finer points of pugilism, but because
of his Herculean strength, iron nerves, and almost limitless courage, he
was able to retire from the ring after three years with a million dollars
to show for his effort.
The Dempsey-Firpo fight was one of the biggest sensations of the modern
ring. It was an unqualified success from every point of view. Tex took
over a million dollars from the public and finally established himself as
the greatest promoter boxing had ever seen. It was never generally known,
however, that this memorable bout was within an ace of being called off
only hours before ring time. I am one of the few people who can tell
the whole story of just how close Rickard came to financial ruin that
September day in 1923.
Dr. William A. Walker, chief of the medical staff of the New York Medical
Commission, was at the weigh-in to examine the rivals. William Muldoon,
Chairman of the Commission, objected to the presence of newspapermen in
the room, but after considerable persuasion, he permitted Jimmy Dawson
of the New York _Times_, Dan Lyons of the New York _Globe_, and myself
to remain. Dr. Walker, while placing the stethoscope over Firpo’s chest,
accidentally bumped into the challenger’s left arm. Instinctively, Luis
threw the arm upwards. Not a sound came from his lips.
Thinking this a queer reaction, the doctor ran his fingers over every
part of the arm, squeezing it here and there as he tested for a fracture.
Firpo was smiling as Doc Walker’s probing fingers reached his elbow, but
under the smile there were lines of pain.
Boxing Commissioner Muldoon, one of the greatest physical culture experts
I have ever known, was watching the examination closely. “There’s
something wrong with that arm,” he remarked. He called Rickard over.
“What’s the trouble?” inquired Tex.
Walker tapped Firpo’s elbow. “This.”
Rickard turned pale. He had staked a fortune on the fight. He stood
there, clenching his jaws so that the muscles stood out. Despair was
in his eyes. His face grew even grimmer as he heard Doc Walker say to
Muldoon: “Firpo seems to have a dislocated fracture of the left arm.”
Firpo, who spoke no English, apparently grasped what was going on, for he
burst into a torrent of Spanish. The interpreter explained that the Wild
Bull had kept his injury secret because he didn’t think it serious and
didn’t want the fight called off. The doctor then asked the interpreter
to explain to Luis that to fight in his condition was dangerous and
against the law. The challenger laughed and said he was all right.
Muldoon thought otherwise. He was seething with rage.
“Why weren’t we told about this?” he demanded. “What the devil do you
mean by keeping us in the dark about this?”
Firpo waved his arms violently. He didn’t want to be called a quitter,
he said. And then he screeched in Spanish, “I can beat Dempsey. It is
nothing.”
Then, as though to prove it, this man of iron courage raised his left arm
and brought his fist down upon the table. The doctor was horrified, for
he knew, more than the rest of us, how terrible the agony of that gesture
must have been. But Firpo, with gritted teeth and a wild look in his
eyes, smiled.
Rickard and Muldoon looked on in amazement. Neither could understand the
Wild Bull’s confidence in himself. Then Tex’s hard shell of calm left
him. The poker face fell off like a mask, showing his features distorted
with rage. Tapping his walking stick on the floor—always a sign that he
had lost his temper—he swore at Firpo in Spanish, threatening him with
God knows what.
Muldoon, who had remained calm while sizing up the situation, laid a
restraining hand on Rickard, saying “Tex, you’ve had a bad break, and
I feel like taking the hide out of this fellow myself. We can’t get a
substitute and if the fight isn’t staged, there’ll be a riot and you’ll
lose a fortune. But I’ll see what we can do. From my examination, I think
it’s a simple dislocation without a break. I’m sure I can handle it.”
Walker had another probe at the left arm and agreed with the
Commissioner. Muldoon asked Firpo to put out his left arm and when he
did, suddenly jerked it forward, snapping the bone back into position.
That, to me, was the moment when Luis proved his absolute gameness.
Despite the suffering, he didn’t utter a sound, but the beads of
perspiration on his forehead showed the torture he was going through.
Firpo, with the arm tightly bandaged, remained in the doctor’s care for
the next three hours. The swelling was reduced, but when it came time for
Luis to go into the ring, I knew that he was in agony with every movement
of his arm. Only his fighting heart carried him through. Nine out of
ten men would have quit, but Firpo hurled himself into battle against
Dempsey, the most ferocious scrapper of the age.
Dempsey floored this magnificent fighting man seven times in the first
round and twice more in the second before he was declared the victor. But
believe it or not, the fist of that dislocated arm landed the punch which
sent Jack tumbling through the ropes on to the typewriters of the working
press.
Firpo’s gameness paid off. The gate was nearly $1,200,000, the fans were
satisfied, and Tex Rickard had been saved from ruin. Dr. Walker told me
after the bout that this was the greatest example of courage he had ever
come across in all his many years of association with fighters.
[Illustration: 15]
A SCOUT FOR TEX RICKARD
After Dempsey had disposed of Firpo, Rickard suddenly woke up to the
panicking fact that there wasn’t a colorful, international fighter
anywhere who could be tossed in against Dempsey to keep the million
dollar pot boiling. He had gotten accustomed to big crowds and big gates.
Now that Dempsey had ploughed through Carpentier and Firpo, and these
international bouts had drawn seven figure gates, Tex was through with
small fry. With American soil unable to turn up big enough drawing cards,
he decided to have Europe scouted.
One day Rickard phoned to the New York _Telegram_ and asked if I could
meet him that afternoon in the Garden. I did. My diary shows that it was
on October 14, 1923.
“Goin’ to Europe this winter?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “very soon in fact. I have my passage booked for next
week. The paper wants me to do some articles on Germany. They’re making
amazing strides in athletics, particularly in amateur boxing.”
“How’d you like to scout for me?” Tex asked. “Look over the field, and if
you see anyone you think I might be interested in, cable me.”
I agreed. Scouting wouldn’t interfere with my newspaper assignment.
My duties as outlined by Tex were to locate heavyweights of promise,
particularly good European prospects who in due course could be pitted
against our stars in top contests. He wanted men who could stand up in
his million dollar program. Annually I spent from six to eight weeks
abroad during my vacation and since only part of this period was paid for
by the newspaper, I was on my own so far as the scouting was concerned.
It didn’t interfere with my newspaper work.
On October 22, our wedding anniversary, my wife Trudie and I sailed
for Germany. I didn’t believe I could find any good boxing material on
my first trip for Rickard, but I decided to study the field thoroughly
and make contacts. I saw plenty of ring activity throughout Germany,
but nothing that impressed me—not a professional worth discussing with
Rickard.
Fred Walker, Managing Editor of the New York _Telegram_ asked me to
write a series for our special Sunday Section on “Reconstruction in the
Fatherland,” and in that series I wrote:
“Of one thing I am convinced—Germany is rapidly developing a nation of
athletes, with boxing holding the attention of youth more so than any
other sport. Germany is a nation to watch. Boxing is gaining a firm hold
in the Fatherland.”
The following year, after I had returned from a two-week trip to Central
America, wife and I again left for Central Europe for another series of
articles. Our trip called for a tour of Germany, France and Italy. This
time I was confident I could locate at least one prospect and I promised
Rickard I would have someone for him, but again I failed.
I did, however, make the acquaintance of the best international referee
in Europe, Arthur Buelow, and of Prof. Joseph Pilates, a physical culture
instructor now the owner of a studio a stone’s throw away from Madison
Square Garden. Both were behind the movement to develop boxing talent in
Germany and were doing a fine job. Buelow, prior to the war, had taught
the sport and had officiated in many international bouts as third man in
the ring, and Pilates was an instructor of boxing and physical training
in the Berlin Police Department and on the Isle of Wight where he had
been a military prisoner during World War I. They steered me on the right
path.
Pugilism, they said, was sweeping the country like a jitterbug craze,
and I found it to be so. Wherever I went, boys were engaged in club
competition. Every village had an amateur club where boxing was on
the daily program. From among the victors in the various district
organizations, came the national champions, and with conditions as they
were at the time, being a title holder meant a lot to the champion. Here
boxing was being practiced on the largest scale I have ever seen.
The leading promoter was Walter Rothenberg who operated in Berlin and in
Hamburg. He staged the championship matches and occasionally, as an added
attraction, had one or two professional bouts on the program in which
several of the contestants were boxers who had been in America prior to
the war, among them Jack Stanley, Jack Taylor and Paul Sampson, boxers I
had seen in action in New York City and in Hoboken, New Jersey.