impression on me. I was confident that out of this vast army of amateurs
there would spring at least one heavyweight who would make ring history.
Wherever the American flag flies, there the seeds of our national
pastimes—baseball and boxing—are sown and so I found it in Germany in the
years following World War I.
Buelow and Pilates had written to me about a young, handsome boy, a
powerful hitter and scientific boxer, who, after cleaning up in the
amateur field, had now reached top rating among the professionals. They
suggested that it would be worth while on my next visit to Germany, to
see this boy in action. His name was Max Schmeling. Now on my third
journey to Germany, I had decided to make the acquaintance of Max.
* * * * *
One night in mid-August, 1926, accompanied by Buelow, Pilates and several
newspapermen, I left Berlin for the town of Bernau, about thirty miles
away, to see the finals of an amateur tournament and a couple of pro
fights. Tracking over hills and a rocky valley, we reached a country
roadhouse. There I was told we would soon see some good boxing matches.
The place was jammed. To get to the meeting house we had to pass through
subterranean passageways that had been in use during the war as shelters.
Inside the building, situated in the far end of a spacious hall, was a
ring about 10 feet long and 8 feet wide. It was set on a platform about
3 feet off the floor. It had no mat covering nor any ring posts. The
ropes—three strands—were attached to pulleys fastened to the walls.
The spectators, more than a thousand, kept themselves in good humor
guzzling beer from German mugs and eating sausages and sauerkraut. Men,
women and children crowded the place. Some women dandled nursing babies,
others played with dachshunds. It was the strangest gathering I had ever
seen at a fight.
Shouts and applause greeted every knock-down of which there were many.
The people had the kind of naive enthusiasm you see in the old engravings
and paintings, such as Hogarth’s _Southwark Fair_. The huge hall where
all this took place was used both as a dining room and a meeting place
for the townsfolk, but on this occasion it was turned into a boxing
arena. My presence was expected due to advance announcements and after
an introduction by the Mayor, and a few words of greeting by me, I was
escorted to my seat.
In the midst of the sprawling country scene, a voice bellowed in my ear:
“Herr Nat. Herr Nat. There’s the boy you want to see. That’s Schmeling.
If you haven’t heard about him yet, you will pretty soon.”
The man who introduced us was Walter Rothenberg, the promoter.
Schmeling was a smiling, handsome youngster, six feet of gangling brawn,
a perfect specimen of physical fitness despite the poor living conditions
in Germany at the time. He was not present to box that night. He had come
to see his friend Otto Herse, later the champion’s sparmate and German
lightweight champion, engage in a three round contest. All the amateurs
received an equivalent in U.S. currency of two dollars for expenses with
an additional two for each winner. This was given them in lieu of prizes
since the lads were hungry; food was scarce and those in control informed
me that the money was distributed to give the boys an opportunity to
purchase food. That’s really what brought out so many competitors. It was
like handing out a meal ticket to each.
Buelow, standing at my side as I spoke to Schmeling, said that in the
decade following the war, he had not come across a finer boxer nor harder
hitter. He raved about Max’s boxing talent.
“Schmeling,” he said, “has everything a boxer needs to reach the top.” He
had taught Max the rudiments of boxing, watched him clean up the amateur
field and had then taken over his management when he turned professional
in 1924.
I asked Buelow how long Max had been fighting.
“Two years as an amateur and two as a professional,” he replied. When
Max became a pro, his advancement was rapid. In 1926 he fought two draws
for the light heavyweight title with the champion, Max Diekmann, won
it the following year and a few months later carried off the German
heavyweight crown.
“He’s growing fast, Nat,” said Buelow. “I think he will be a heavyweight
in another year. If you can bring him to America, you will be delivering
to Mr. Rickard the next world heavyweight champion, and I will let you
share in his management.”
At this stage, Schmeling scaled 171 pounds. I liked Buelow, who spoke
English and I promised to do what I could, but informed him that I had
never managed a boxer and had no intentions of accepting such a post now.
I realized that Buelow was one of the best judges of boxers in Europe and
my curiosity was aroused after he had spoken in such glowing terms of
Max. I was eager to see Schmeling in action against a top pugilist before
trying to sell him to Rickard.
Eleven days after my arrival in Germany, August 24, I had my chance. It
was the second drawn battle between Schmeling and Diekmann for the light
heavyweight crown. I saw a powerful hitter and expert boxer perform.
Though he failed to win the title, the evidence of his fine boxing assets
were on view that night. I liked his general work.
I sent a message to Rickard that I thought I had found the man for whom
he was hunting. I realized as did Buelow that Schmeling would soon
outgrow the light heavy ranks and be ready to tackle men in the higher
division. I cabled Rickard: “Have discovered an excellent fighter.
Suggest cable round trip tickets for him and manager. Willing to come to
America if guaranteed three fights minimum purse $10,000.”
Tex answered: “Can guarantee only one fight with option. Will pay full
expenses. You advance trip tickets.”
That didn’t appeal to me nor to Buelow. I wasn’t the promoter and
didn’t cherish the idea of advancing fares. Rickard’s gambling spirit,
I thought, apparently had deserted him. I cabled back: “You’re making
mistake. Schmeling is the goods. Can’t miss. Looks like coming
heavyweight champion.”
But Rickard was adamant. He turned down the terms with this cable: “Too
much involved financially for the risk. Have him pay own fare. I’ll
refund after signing contract.”
But Max and Buelow had no money. Both were keenly disappointed. I engaged
passage for New York and asked the fighter and manager not to make any
arrangements for a trip abroad until they again heard from me. They
agreed. In the meantime, in order to keep Schmeling busy, Buelow pitted
him against the top fighters of Germany and several from France. After
winning the light heavyweight crown from Hein Domgoergen in Leipzig, he
won a ten-rounder from Gypsy Daniels of England but met with a severe
setback when he was knocked out by Daniels in the opening round of a
return bout. Rickard seemed to have lost all interest in the German
following that disastrous affair.
But I did not. I still had faith in Schmeling and so told Tex. I
pleaded Max’s cause but without success. In the meantime Ishmael Pace,
successful Buenos Aires promoter, cabled Buelow to bring Max to South
America. Buelow, true to his promise, held off pending final word from me
regarding the negotiations with Rickard.
A few weeks passed, when to my surprise, I received a message asking that
I meet Max and Arthur at a Hoboken pier. They had scraped enough together
to make the trip across the Atlantic without Rickard’s help, so confident
were both that the fighter could make good.
But there was still another hurdle to jump. In his fight with Diener,
Max had hurt his hand. He was very much in need of financial aid and
was undecided whether to endanger his future by accepting one fight or
to wait until the break had mended. I urged the latter course and sent
him to Dr. Fralick, a bone specialist. Then I took him to the Garden to
introduce him to Rickard and his matchmaker. Tex studied the handsome boy
carefully. He took a liking to the German lad and agreed to sign him for
a fight with Joe Monte, a ten round match.
But now we faced more difficulties. Max had heard reports abroad of poor
decisions in America and sought protection. He insisted that he would
fight only if I agreed to become his co-manager with Buelow. Of course I
refused. He and Buelow came to my office the following day and pleaded
with me.
“If you don’t accept,” said Buelow, “Max will go home. He doesn’t want
to box here if you don’t help me handle his affairs. He is afraid that
the breaks will be against him if he hasn’t an American to see that he is
fairly treated.”
I tried to convince Max and Arthur that decisions in America were as fair
as anywhere in the world and that he needn’t fear a “raw deal,” but I
couldn’t convince Schmeling. Then I hit upon a bright idea.
I called in John (Ike) Dorgan, my partner in _The Ring_ magazine which I
started several years before.
“Ike,” I said, “I want you to meet the next world heavyweight champion,
Max Schmeling, and his manager, Arthur Buelow. They want me to take a
managerial interest in Max, but you know I don’t go in for that. How
about you taking over as his American representative. There’s 10 percent
in it for you and no cost to yourself.”
Dorgan was an excellent publicist. Previously I had turned over to him
Charley White of Chicago when White was one of the nation’s leading
lightweights. White had dropped his manager and had asked me to take
over. Well, Dorgan had reaped a fortune with White and I figured he could
make as much or more by representing Schmeling. But to my amazement, Ike
laughed my suggestion off, turning away thousands of dollars as later
developments proved.
“Why don’t you go away, Nat,” he said. “Haven’t you given me enough
headaches with one German?”
He was referring to Ted Sandwina, son of the strongest woman on earth,
who, with her husband, had come to America for a tour with the Barnum
and Bailey circus. Sandwina was a pretty good heavyweight but because of
several injuries, he flopped as an attraction in New York. I had met the
family in Europe and had suggested that they bring Ted to America for a
campaign and I had him sign with Dorgan.
When Ike refused to take over, Schmeling was prepared to go back home. I
tried once more. I approached Jess McMahon, matchmaker for Rickard, and
asked Jess’ advice.
“Turn him loose if he feels that way about our officials,” said McMahon.
But I didn’t. For friendship’s sake, I decided on a ruse. I would agree
to sign a contract but would not take a penny of Schmeling’s earnings nor
share any of his manager’s portion of Max’s purses.
The following day I called Buelow and Max to my office and there, with
brother Harold acting as attorney, an agreement was signed giving me a
ten percent interest in all of Schmeling’s earnings for a period of six
years. Buelow and Schmeling were elated. I took them to Rickard where
a contract for the Monte fight was signed. In that contest, Monte was
knocked out in the fifth round and the press raved over the excellent
performance of his conqueror. His climb to fame had gotten under way.
Time passed and the wheel of circumstance spun around. Schmeling became a
golden boy. He made good with a vengeance. He reaped a fortune.
Then Joe Jacobs, aided by Pete Reilly and Billy McCarney, his partners,
a trio of international boxing managers, weaned Max away from Buelow with
fabulous tales of what they could do for him.
Schmeling gave Jacobs a ten percent interest in him. But that was
insufficient for what Jacobs was eager to get—a firm grip on Max’s
future. He and his pals were seeking permanent property and so they
approached me. Jacobs offered me $5000 for my share of the contract I
held. I refused to consider it.
Jess McMahon came across with an offer of $10,000. Then Jimmy Johnston,
who also was seeking to manage Schmeling, walked into my office one day
and planted a certified check for $10,000 on my desk. “This is yours if
you’ll give me the ten percent interest you have in Schmeling,” he said.
Each realized the value of a contract with the man who was destined to
win the world heavyweight championship. I turned all offers down. My sole
interest was to protect my friends Buelow and Schmeling. On all sides
there were intrigues. Buelow was the target. They wanted to freeze him
out. He held 33⅓ percent. I told him not to yield. Legally he was fully
protected with his contract on file with the Boxing Commission and no
matter what Schmeling would now do to break away and go with Jacobs, I
was confident Buelow could collect his share.
The situation became tense. Threats were made against Buelow. But he had
my whole-hearted support. Buelow now sued Max for breach of contract. I
knew how hard he had worked to bring Max to the front and sympathized
with him. After Schmeling defeated Paulino Uzcudun of Spain in fifteen
rounds and gained a fortune for his fight with Jack Sharkey which he
won on a foul in the Yankee Stadium, June 12, 1930, Schmeling agreed to
settle matters with Buelow out of court. The suit was dropped with Arthur
receiving $39,000.
In his American campaign Schmeling appeared in bouts with gross receipts
amounting to almost four million dollars, yet Rickard saw him only once,
in the bout with Monte on November 23, 1928. Two years later Tex died,
and one of the greatest ring attractions was left for others to exploit.
As for me, I had a contract I never made use of. Had I exercised my
rights, I would have collected close to $220,000 as my share of Max’s
U.S. earnings. I never participated in the management of a fighter,
though I did collect for services rendered at times as a scout for
Rickard and his successor, Mike Jacobs, after I had left the New York
_Telegram_ in 1929. Schmeling’s contract rests in my Garden Museum.
* * * * *
It pleases me to realize what a part I played in the development of
international boxing and good will in sports.
Before lining up Schmeling for Rickard, I had been instrumental
in bringing another foreigner to America who proved a tremendous
attraction—Paulino Uzcudun. He had color, could sock, and was a fighter
of tremendous strength. He was a man of considerable courage. Here is the
story of Paulino—of how I discovered him in Europe and engineered the
deal that brought him to America under Jack Curley’s guidance.
It was on December 1, 1925, in Rothenberg’s Kaiserdam Autohallen in
Berlin, that my wife and I watched Paulino, the husky Basque, knock out
Hans Breitenstraetter of Germany, champion of his country. I cabled to
Rickard:
“Saw picturesque, hard-hitting Basque, Paulino, stop German champion.
Looks fine prospect. Colorful. Managed by Descamps and Carpentier.”
The next morning I received Tex’s answer by cable: “See Descamps. Offer
two round trip tickets terms and fights to be agreed upon.”
Then I witnessed one of the canniest pieces of press agentry in the
business. Descamps was a manager of the old school. He knew Tex was on
a spot. Descamps had a close friend in Jack Curley, American sports
impresario who had promoted many world events, including the Jack
Johnson-Jess Willard fight at Havana; and Descamps cabled Curley for
advice. They were aware that Rickard would stake everything for a good
heavyweight at this time and decided to hold out in order to obtain the
best terms possible. In short, they were going to play their hand to the
limit.
After receiving his reply from Curley, Descamps fixed his Latin eyes on
me, and with the nonchalance of a Machiavelli he said:
“Tell Monsieur Rickard zat Paulino, he ess not ready for America. In a
year perhaps. Who knows?”
Then Descamps turned on a publicity campaign that would have shocked
old man Barnum. All over the big cities of Europe he plugged a mammoth
build-up, telling of my offer on behalf of Rickard. However, in the case
of Paulino this was not necessary since he was a colorful boxer with a
huge box office appeal. Descamps advertised Paulino as a cross between
a Roman gladiator and King Kong. In France, for example, he plastered
the barns and billboards and men’s comfort stations with huge four-color
posters showing the Basque, axe in hand, toppling over a tree. The legend
read:
“Paulino Uzcudun, The Basque Woodchopper, Europe’s Greatest Heavyweight.”
Then followed the modest subscript: “He can fell an ox with one blow.”
I have one of the posters in my Garden Museum collection.
There was nothing for me to do but to keep cool and wait for the
publicity marathon to run itself out. But all the time I was in close
touch with Rickard, keeping him informed of the progress I was making and
of the activity of the man whose services he was not so eager to obtain.
I followed Paulino to Barcelona and watched him knock out Constant
Barrick in six rounds. I went with Descamps and Carpentier to Paris,
where Paulino dropped Horace Jones with three punches—then on to Germany,
where he and Franz Diener, the heavyweight champion of the Fatherland,
fought a vicious draw.
By now I was convinced that if Tex could get Descamps to change his
mind, America would see a hard punching heavyweight who would fit in
well with the plans of the Garden promoter. I kept after Descamps and,
having received a cable from Rickard granting me permission to add to his
previous offer, I felt confident I would land my catch.
But before I could close the deal, Descamps received word from Curley
to come to America by way of the Azores and Havana; he would book one
or two easy opponents for him in Cuba to add to the publicity. Thus,
I engineered a deal with Descamps who left Madrid with his party on
December 15, 1926. On New Year’s Day Paulino opened his campaign on the
American side of the Big Pond with a knockout in one round of Martin
O’Grady in Havana. Two weeks later he scored another one-round knockout,
this time over Antonio Fiero.
Then the party sailed for Tampa where I met them and there Homer Smith
was disposed of in the seventh round. With these preliminaries over,
Descamps, Jack Curley, Paulino, and I left for New York to confer with
Tex Rickard.
Paulino was the first of the stream of Europeans to bring new life to
American pugilism; and I was responsible for starting the ball rolling.
The arrival of Paulino and later others from Europe and Cuba enabled
Rickard to reap a bumper crop in his Garden promotions.
Paulino held the spotlight for ten years. He started off in the United
States by defeating Knute Hanson of Denmark and Tom Heeney of New Zealand
on points and stopping Harry Wills in four rounds. He ended his days in
Valencia, Spain, where he had been appointed Chief of Police by Franco,
for whom he had been a chauffeur during the Spanish Civil War.
[Illustration: 16]
UNCLE MIKE JACOBS
When Tex Rickard passed away, his chief aide, Mike Jacobs, took over the
reins as top boxing promoter. I knew Uncle Mike as few of the sports
writers did. I am familiar with the many facets of his personality and
witnessed many of his joys, sorrows, defeats, and triumphs. His defeats
were few and far between. His joys were many. His success was phenomenal.
His victories were numerous and impressive; I played a big part in them,
both before and after he took over the Madison Square Garden promotion.
I saw him transform boxing into a gigantic industry, even greater than
that which Rickard built in the Golden Era. During our thirty-five years
of close association, I watched this product of the sidewalks of New York
City become a captain of sports promotion. His success story is Horatio
Alger stuff.
Those who deal with the legends of boxing promotion like to hark back to
the days of Rickard. It invariably has been Tex of the Wild West, Tex
of the Klondike and the Pampas. He built an empire, it’s true, but had
it not been for the aid given him by Jacobs, I doubt that he would have
gained the international prestige that made his name a byword in fistic
circles.
A hard-headed business man, a cool and calm calculator who always had a
sound reason for every move, Jacobs improved on Tex’s methods, though
with less flamboyance. However, like Rickard, Jacobs lived in an aura of
fistic glamour and romance.
I first met Mike when he had his little ticket office in the Hotel
Normandie on Sixth Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street in New York City and
I was a cub reporter covering the Red Light District for news and the
Longacre A.C. fights. The latter, owned by colorful Billy Newman, was on
Twenty-ninth Street and the corner of Sixth Avenue, the scene of many
thrilling contests.
Jacobs achieved domination of boxing, which was Rickard’s dream but
beyond his mental capabilities. Both Tex and Mike on many occasions
conferred with me concerning important matches, and I had a big hand
in starting negotiations for both of them in international bouts or
championship contests. Often, long before his staff would arrive in his
Garden offices to begin the day’s work, Mike completed his plans for
major matches in _The Ring_ headquarters, where we met almost daily at
seven-thirty in the morning.
Pursuing the Rickard-Jacobs comparison, as I had an opportunity to
study the pair at close range, I found that Uncle Mike never made the
glaring mistakes which stand out in Tex’s biography. When Jacobs vacated
his throne because of illness, boxing lost a master manipulator. A big
figure in the boxing game had passed out of the picture! Another big
organization, such as Rickard had left behind, died. Another rich chapter
in boxing history had been written.
Rickard had his Jack Dempsey; Jacobs had his Joe Louis. When the Manassa
Mauler knocked out Jess Willard in three rounds at Toledo, Tex had the
champion whose crowd appeal created the first of the million dollar gates
and made it possible for the promoter to finance and build Madison Square
Garden.
When Louis knocked out James J. Braddock in eight rounds at Chicago, Mike
had the champion whose popularity brought back the million dollar gates,
and made it possible for Jacobs to move into Madison Square Garden.
* * * * *
The similarity between Rickard’s relationship with Dempsey and Jacobs’
with Louis is striking. Jacobs was a successful promoter for the Hearst
Milk Fund shows before he met Joe Louis. I had seen Louis in several
of his amateur bouts in the West. I watched him in the National AAU
championships in Boston and recognized a future world title holder. Then
I saw him three times in professional fights in the Mid-West, and came
back to New York raving about the young Negro whose clouting ability was
a reminder of the early days of Dempsey. Several of my editorials about
Louis attracted the attention of Damon Runyon.
I was working for Jacobs on a radio program and, following a broadcast,
Runyon, one of Mike’s partners in the New York Hippodrome, cornered me
and asked: “Just how good a fighter is Louis?”
Apparently my reply convinced him, because the following day he, Bill
Farnsworth, and Ed Frayne—the Hearst stockholders in Mike’s Twentieth
Century Sporting Club—got together with Jacobs and arranged a newspaper
party for a trip to Detroit to see Louis in action against Natie Brown.
But before embarking on the journey, Jacobs arranged a conference with
Louis’ handlers, John Roxborough and Julian Black, at which, as things
turned out, Mike signed Louis to an exclusive contract to fight under his
control.
Louis was a budding heavyweight then. The night the deal was set,
following his victory over Brown in ten rounds on March 28, 1935, a
partnership was formed that was to endure to the mutual benefit of both,
until Louis chose to dissolve it by announcing his retirement at Miami
Beach on March 1, 1949.
On that night in Detroit when he took over, Jacobs made Louis and his
managers two promises: his fights would always be on the level and he
would make him the world heavyweight champion.
Mike kept both promises. He kept them although there was considerable
prejudice rampant at the time, and despite the fact that Jack Johnson,
the only other Negro to hold the world title, had been an unpopular
champion. Jacobs never asked Louis to do anything other than get in the
ring and fight his best. And as the world knows, that best was more than
good enough.
* * * * *
Starting from his little ticket office, Jacobs later opened small
quarters on West 49th Street in New York City opposite the Forrest Hotel,
and eventually moved into spacious offices in Madison Square Garden after
he became a millionaire.