the gate, Louis to get the other thirty, but Max scoffed at the terms.
Therefore, I can safely say that in this transaction there was nothing
that violated the spirit of fair play, no conniving or underhanded
dealing. Farr got the match only because Schmeling wouldn’t take it.
* * * * *
Conceded by only a handful of followers to have the semblance of a chance
against the Brown Bomber, Farr on August 30, 1937 in the Yankee Stadium
surprised all by harassing the champion with a continuous bombardment,
something no one other than Schmeling had been able to do throughout
Louis’ professional career.
Tommy fought the battle of all true-hearted, courageous Welshmen, but
lost the verdict because of Louis’ superior boxing ability. It was the
kind of fight that American sportsmen had been accustomed to see when
such stalwarts as Jem Driscoll, Freddy Welsh, Jimmy Wilde, and Owen Moran
appeared in this country.
As for Jacobs’ agreement with me, he forgot all about his promise after
he had Farr signed. Not only did I not share in the profits, but I didn’t
even collect what I had spent on trans-Atlantic telephone calls and
cables, and on wires to and from the N.B.A. executives.
* * * * *
In many respects Mike Jacobs had a Jekyl and Hyde personality. He was
cruel, inhuman at times to his help, particularly when things didn’t turn
out the way he had hoped and planned; yet on other occasions, especially
when he entertained at home, he couldn’t do enough to make his guests
comfortable. I found him a complex character, to say the least. Though
he lacked a formal education, he would come up with a knowledge of
affairs that many a college professor might envy. A man of ideas, he knew
publicity, fights, the stage, and people.
If you decided Mike was too ardent in his pursuit of money, you learned
of his many contributions to charity. If you made up your mind that he
was just a tough Broadwayite, a graduate of the streets of New York, you
discovered after a short stay at his magnificent Rumson Estate—one of the
show places of New Jersey—that he loved the country, was proud of his
farming, was wild about flowers, and had furnished his home with the very
best that money could buy.
Jacobs’ delight in horticultural pursuits and the furnishing of his home
provided a striking index to his character. His sumptuous estate was
located at Fair Haven, in the exclusive section of the Rumson colony
of New Jersey. My brother Jack, who at the time was president of the
National Auctioneers Association, had purchased the Shadow Lawn estate of
Mr. Parsons, vice-president of the Woolworth Company.
The contents of this luxurious home were put on public auction, and Mike
and I visited the estate to make some purchases. To my surprise, he
outbid the professionals in buying the cream of its contents, including
a forty-foot-long Persian rug worth $30,000, some huge Grecian statues,
and several oil paintings. Mike asked me to bid with him against the
professionals, and when the bidding was concluded, he had obtained the
beautiful rug for $7,800.
“Know what I’m going to do with this?” he asked me. “I’m going to have
enough cut off this rug to fit my living room, then I’m going to sell the
rest. I’ll get back all I spent here.”
This he did, to the horror of the aesthetes. And when the new deal
was completed, Mike had all he needed of the rug in his living room
cost-free, while selling the remainder of it for $12,500.
The bathrooms of the Shadow Lawn estate had gold fixtures. Mike bought
those to place in his home.
“What was good enough for that house is worth putting in mine,” he told
me. “Nobody in Rumson will have anything on Uncle Mike.”
But he never made use of the fixtures. He disposed of them also at a huge
profit without moving them. As a result of his shrewd bargaining, Jacobs
fitted his home with the best that was in the Parson’s mansion without
any cost to himself.
Almost everything Uncle Mike put his hands to seemed to turn to gold.
Only a few of the ventures into which he entered failed to return a
handsome profit.
When Farr came to America, Mike asked Tommy, Ted Broadribb, several
British writers and myself to visit him at Fair Haven. Proudly he took
us on a tour, showing us the rare gladioli with which he had won top
prizes at the State Fair; beautiful peonies and thousands of the rarest
type of American Beauty roses. Just as Mike began to explain how he grew
these flowers and why he was so fond of farming, a bulldog belonging to a
neighbor, to whom he rented a house, tore out across the garden of roses
in pursuit of a cat.
The owner stopped to apologize to Mike.
“You keep that hound leashed or find yourself a new place to live. Those
roses are far more important to me than your rent,” Jacobs shouted.
* * * * *
We were on our way to Chicago—Jacobs, Hype Igoe, Murray Lewin, Jimmy
Dawson, Jack Miley and myself. Mike held court in his pullman drawing
room. There were midnight sandwiches, drinks, card playing, and general
conversation until about three o’clock in the morning, when the party
broke up and we went to our separate compartments.
At six, there was a knock at my door. It was Mike.
“I’m surprised you’re sleeping so late,” he said. “We’ll pull into
Chicago in about three hours. Come on, let’s have some coffee.”
I protested that I had only just gotten to bed.
“You left my room at three didn’t you? Well, it’s six now,” he roared.
I dressed and went to the diner with Mike. The chef was not ready for us,
but Jacobs had no difficulty convincing him that it was in his interests
to get that coffee up in a hurry, and he did.
Getting up early and going after his coffee was a regular habit with
Jacobs. Two nights before the Louis-Braddock fight in Chicago he was
jittery and couldn’t sleep. I remained with him until about four in the
morning, when I finally broke away and got to my room. Scarcely had I
undressed when the telephone rang.
“You’re not in bed yet, are you, Nat?” asked Mike. “Come down and we’ll
have some breakfast.” I protested that I was sleepy and had three
broadcasts that day and needed some rest.
“What’s the matter with you guys?” he shouted. “You sleep your years
away.”
I yawned my way down into the coffee shop where Mike was sitting waiting
for me, and we had our breakfast but no sleep.
* * * * *
Yes, a complex character was this many-sided guy off the Coney Island
beats. And no matter what my grievances were against him, I always had a
fond spot in my heart for him. It’s not likely that we’ll have his like
again in the promotion field for many years.
BOOK
FOUR
[Illustration]
[Illustration: 17]
DONNYBROOKS
The drama of American sport is superlative. Each branch has a thrilling
story of its own, but for pulse-stirring interest, boxing is matchless.
It is a game of contest and contact, of skill and stamina, of
perseverance and grit—a battle between men. It has its romance, glamour,
spectacular endings, and feats of unusual courage that make it an ever
brilliant picture. They can all be listed under one title, “Fights I
Cannot Forget,” and of these I shall select a few.
One of my favorite fighters, most of whose bouts I reported, was Leach
Cross. Few fighters in my experience have had a more brilliant career
or fought as many tough battles. He was one of the standard bearers of
boxing in New York in both the club membership and Frawley Law days.
Leach, more than any other exponent of fisticuffs, popularized the
sport among the Jews in his city and created sectional rivalry that
often resulted in neighborhood fights. Through Leachie, thousands of New
Yorkers who might never have followed boxing, became ardent fans who were
largely responsible for the success of club membership shows before the
sport was legalized in New York. His success blazed the trail for Benny
Leonard, Ruby Goldstein and Sid Terris, among others. Cross and I were
neighborhood buddies. I admired him for his fighting qualities.
Of all of Leach’s fights, I pick that with Joe Bedell on March 16, 1911
at the old Clermont Avenue Rink in Brooklyn, as his best. I saw Cross in
most of his fights, but never in one so fast and furious as the Bedell
affair. Leach had Bedell down twice, but after the second knock-down he
pulled a boner. Thinking he had his opponent ready for the kill, he tore
in wide open and Bedell met his rush with a blow that came up from the
floor and landed Cross on the canvas with a thud. The bell saved him.
After being carried to his corner, restoratives put Leach in condition
to resume when the next round got under way. His fighting instinct alone
enabled him to carry on through the eighth round, but in the ninth he
went down again.
Hopelessly beaten as he came out for the final session, Cross feigned
grogginess—his favorite stunt—and, though weak, he maneuvered his
tormentor into position for the shot that brought victory. It was a
powerful smash to the jaw. Bedell went down, face forward, and was
counted out.
Another contest in which Cross participated thrilled me. It was St.
Patrick’s Day, 1908, when Leach was scheduled to meet Frankie Madden at
the Old Dry Dock Athletic Club at Tenth Street and Avenue D, one of the
toughest sectors on the lower East Side of New York City. A huge stable
and a very large lumber yard were located across the street.
Madden was a product of the same district as his manager, Bowery gangster
Jack Sirocco.
That night, the house was packed with Irish and Italians, who overflowed
into the aisles and jammed the exits. Hundreds were turned away—most of
them Jewish supporters of Leach, who couldn’t buy an admission ticket
that night or if they had one, couldn’t get into the club. Madden’s
friends saw to that. I pushed my way into the club with the aid of
Detective Martin Sheridan and my Police Reporter’s card.
Madden came into the ring with a huge shamrock sewed on his tights. The
crowd went wild with cheers for their favorite son. Cross was booed
heartily when he was introduced by Charley Harvey. It was obvious
that—except for his seconds and a few of us who had arrived early—Leach
had no friends present that night.
The fight got under way and for five rounds it was one of the most
vicious, brutal battles I’d ever seen. In the fifth, Leach, coming out
of a clinch, pressed the issue. He forced Madden towards the ropes and
suddenly let go a right that came up almost from the floor. It struck
Madden on the jaw and hurled him on top of the upper rope, where he was
counted out.
Now here’s the climax. Someone had telephoned the police that there was
a riot at the club between the Jews and the Irish. Three patrol wagons
loaded with bluecoats drew up to the club. But instead of finding a riot,
Inspector Russell arrived to see Leach raised on the shoulders of two
husky Sons of Erin. They were surrounded by a wild shouting group of
Irish and Italian fans paying their respects to Cross for the manner in
which he had gained his victory.
It was a scene I’ll never forget! There was nothing for the cops to do
except to order the club cleared.
Incidentally, it was the first time that any Jewish newspaper had
published the fight results. The morning after the fight, the _Jewish
Forward_ carried Leach Cross’s picture on the front page.
* * * * *
Another fight I vividly recall was that between Cross and Young Sammy
Smith of Philadelphia, whose true name was Isaac Rozetsky. It took place
on February 3, 1911, at the Manhattan Casino. This was a low, rambling
dance hall a stone’s throw from the Polo Grounds in New York—the same
dusty arena where Benny Leonard later won the world lightweight title
from Freddy Welsh. Young Sammy was a brother of the Sammy who had fought
such top men as Terry McGovern, Young Corbett, and Joe Gans and had
campaigned mostly in the Quaker City.
Cross had never seen Young Sammy in action until they had climbed into
the ring, and you can imagine Leach’s surprise when he noticed that his
opponent wore glasses. I never knew another boxer to appear in the ring
with such heavy lenses. They were a quarter of an inch thick. Smith had
a habit of placing his head close to that of his opponent when he was
called to the center for instructions, squinting through his glasses as
though trying to study his man. He did this to Cross as Referee Dan Tone
reviewed the rules. Leach laughed out loud as he pointed to Sammy and his
cheaters, and, turning to brother Sam, his manager, he remarked as he
went back to his corner:
“Can you imagine giving me a blind opponent! If he can’t see me with
those headlights on, how does he hope to see me when he takes ’em off?”
The gong sounded. Off came Sammy’s glasses and a rushing tearing-in,
two-fisted fighter tossed punches from all sides effectively. Cross in
later years met better men than Smith, but I doubt that he took more
punishment than Young Sammy meted out that night. When the final gong
ended the fray, Leach told brother Sam:
“I hate to think what he might have done if he had perfect eyesight!”
* * * * *
The reason for Cross’s popularity was that he always gave the fans a run
for their money. Though he never won a title, he was of championship
caliber throughout his career. Most people flocked to the New York
clubs hoping to see him knocked out, but they would invariably go home
disappointed. Until Benny Leonard came along, Cross was New York’s most
sensational battler. He was the cause of many Donnybrooks in New York
clubs.
It was something of a coincidence that Leach Cross began to slip the very
night that Benny Leonard started his climb to fistic fame. That was on
December 17, 1915, when Leach and Benny fought on the same card—Leonard
against Joe Mandot and Cross against Ad Wolgast. Because of a law
stipulating that the windup fight had to start no later than ten o’clock,
Leach’s fight with Wolgast went on first. Wolgast was pretty well shot
at the time and Cross stopped him in the second round. Ad’s legs were
leaden, and it was obvious that he had passed his peak.
Immediately after the fight Leach raced to his dressing room, and within
ten minutes he came to the press box and sat with me to watch the
Leonard-Mandot bout. Benny stopped Mandot that night in the seventh round
and Leach raved about the boxing and hitting qualities of his successor.
He watched him with more admiration than envy, but I could read his
feelings in his expression, knowing as he did then that a young East
Sider had come along to crowd him out of the picture.
Cross was a great club fighter, and in his heyday that meant a lot. One
who could sell tickets to his friends could be sure of considerable
work, and there wasn’t a better salesman than Leach himself. He was the
forerunner of a wave of Ghetto gladiators whose followers were legion,
and who packed the Sharkey Club, Brown’s Gymnasium, the Fairmont A.C.,
the Manhattan Casino, Empire A.C., the Dry Dock and Roman Athletic Clubs,
Atlantic Gardens, and the Longacre Club. Each fighter had a distinct
local following, and often the rivalry between East Siders and West
Siders gave the minions of the law severe headaches. The fans often
engaged in fist fights after the club battle.
Many of the bouts I reported in New York had such endings. Another that I
cannot forget, was that between Benny Leonard and Frankie Conifrey, who
were billed for a ten-rounder at the Star A.C. in Harlem in 1916. At the
time, Benny had not yet won the title, but he was a promising boy who
had gained considerable publicity. He was the pride of the Ghetto and
Conifrey was the pride of the Harlem Irish. The rivalry between the Jews
and Irish was terrific in New York fight circles, and there was no let-up
in neighborhood brawls. Frankie was a hard hitter and a clever boxer, but
he met his master in Leonard.
In the sixth round, Benny had Conifrey reeling, and Frankie’s brother
leaped into the ring to halt the fight. Then the fun began. Conifrey’s
enraged followers, who had big bets on the outcome, tossed chairs,
bottles, and newspapers over the rail towards the ring. Some of these
papers, in which beer bottles were wrapped, came hurtling towards the
press box, and we newspapermen ducked for safety wherever we could find
protection.
The Conifrey mob then surged down to the ringside looking for Leonard
rooters, and the riot was on in full force. Spectators scrambled for
safety, but no matter which way they turned, there were Conifrey’s
followers holding the fort.
It wasn’t until the cops came racing into the arena that the fighting
ceased. Bloody noses and split lips were the fashion of the evening, and
many a broken head had to be stitched at the Harlem Hospital following
that melee.
Johnny Kewpie Ertle of St. Paul, claimant of the world bantam crown, and
Mike Gibbons were spectators, and as they ducked out of the arena, I
heard Ertle remark:
“Hell, Mike, if this is the way things are done in New York, let’s get
back to St. Paul. I don’t want to fight here.”
* * * * *
It was at the Howard Athletic Club in New York City in 1912 that I saw
a reminder of the old bare-knuckle days. It was the greatest all-out
Donnybrook ever staged outside Ireland. The three McGoverns—the famous
Terry, and his brothers Hughie and Phil—engaged the three Leons—Casper,
Jack, and Benny—in a family affair.
In this sensational bout, Phil McGovern was fighting Benny Leon. Terry
and Hugh McGovern were handling Phil in his corner, while Casper and Jack
were looking after Benny.
It was a marvelous scrap, and eventually Benny knocked Phil flat with a
right cross. Terry McGovern, tricky as ever, reached for the arm of the
timekeeper to prevent him from counting Phil out. Casper Leon took in the
situation in a flash and rushed toward Terry.
The audience stood on its feet yelling as these two ex-monarchs of the
ring tore into each other. Before anybody knew what was happening, Hughie
McGovern had dashed over to Terry’s aid and encountered Jack Leon en
route.
In an instant the crowd forgot all about the fight between Phil and
Benny. The timekeeper made no attempt to count; it was hopeless. The
spectators were in for an unexpected scrap of a kind that hadn’t been
seen for years.
To deafening cheers, the battling brothers went at it like infuriated
terriers. The fighting blood of the Jews and the Irish was at the boiling
point—and it was streaming down the faces of the contestants. Some of
the spectators, unable to contain themselves, dashed into the fray, and
then a full-dress riot began.
It raged for the best part of half an hour and was quelled when Captain
Reynolds and his police reserves rushed to the scene. These reserves knew
their job. They were accustomed to being called out to subdue the riotous
McGoverns, who spent the greater part of their time beating up the New
York bluecoats!
[Illustration: 18]
FIGHTING COURAGE
I’ve traveled the world—by road, rail, sea, and air—in pursuit of stories
of boxers and boxing. The five continents have been my hunting ground.
I don’t know how many thousands of miles I have traveled nor how many
thousands of fights I have seen, but I do know that I wouldn’t exchange
the memories of that wonderful half-century in the fight game for all the
gold and diamonds in the world.
The great names flash through my mind like a dazzling star-studded
parade: Jack Johnson, Tunney, Dempsey, Corbett, Willard, Attell,
Driscoll, Leonard, Langford—down through the years to Louis, Marciano,
and Floyd Patterson.
I’ve known them all—in triumph and adversity, in poverty and luxury, in
victory and defeat. Champions have wept on my shoulder and confessed
their troubles to me. World-famous promoters have sought my advice.
Managers of great, and not so great, fighters have burdened me with their
worries. That’s all been in the game, the greatest game in the world—the
fight game.
For fifty years it has been the love of my life. I have criticized it,
praised it, and lashed out at its shortcomings, but I have always been
faithful to it. It is humanity personified, for it brings out all the
qualities and failings which are in the make-up of man. The greatest of
these qualities is courage.
I have seen and wondered at all sorts of courage: raw and refined, blind
and calculating, true and false. When I think of it, my mind is filled
with the memories of great fights, with the full-throated roars of vast
crowds. The incredible case of Luis Firpo, mentioned in an earlier
chapter, is the best example of my belief that a fighter can lack almost
everything and yet get somewhere in the boxing game if he isn’t a coward.
But there are different kinds of courage. My mind goes back to my early
days as a sports reporter, to the amazing Joe Grim. He had neither boxing
skill nor punching power, yet he set himself up as a target for the most
terrific heavyweight hitters of his time. And he was never knocked out.
I remember when he was pitted against the mighty Bob Fitzsimmons, one of
the most murderous punchers of all time. Before the gong sounded for the
fight to start, Grim walked to the ropes and shouted to the crowd in a
loud voice, “I’m Joe Grim. I fear no man on earth.”
And he proved it. Throughout the six-round bout, Grim stood his ground in
the middle of the ring, taking all the punishment Fitz could give him.
Seldom in my ringside career have I seen a man take such a battering
and stay on his feet. Fitz unleashed every punch he knew. He grew tired
of using Grim as a punching bag; of seeing that swaying figure still
standing up under the hurricane of blows.
At the end of the fight—the referee gave “No Decision”—Grim was still
defiant. He staggered to the ropes and mumbled, “I’m Joe Grim. I fear no
man on earth!”
And the crowd rose to its feet and roared its approval of the man who
refused to bend the knee to the mighty Fitzsimmons.
But was it real courage that enabled Grim to take such punishment?
Sometimes I think not. I think perhaps madness or conceit might better
describe the driving force behind such a display.
Of similar stuff was the courage of world middleweight champion Mickey
Walker, the Toy Bulldog. The memory of the way he stood up to heavyweight
Max Schmeling will stay with me as long as I live.
They met in the Long Island Bowl, September 26, 1932. Mickey, six inches
shorter than the German, was giving away nearly twenty-five pounds in
weight. He boasted that he would take on any fighter at any weight, and
he faced up bravely but in vain to the giant Max, then one of the hardest
hitters in the world.
The Schmeling onslaught began with the first round. Punch after punch
connected with Walker’s face and body until he was almost battered to
a pulp. Yet he stood up gamely enough, taking terrible punishment and
risking permanent injury.
The sight of that reeling Mickey being smashed to senselessness was too
much for his manager, Jack Kearns. The towel was thrown into the ring in
the eighth round and Mickey was almost carried to his dressing room.
Here again was a case of unreasoning courage, of gameness carried to the
point of stupidity.
* * * * *
There’s the other side of the picture. Some of the cleverest fighters
of the last half-century confessed to me that rather than take further
punishment in a losing battle, they preferred taking the count. And who
shall blame them when they have seen the products of this misplaced
courage—the punch-drunk derelicts who hang around the gymnasiums, their
eyes as vacant as their minds? But the fact remains that courage,
whether blind or logical, is a must in the make-up of the successful
boxer. Sometimes courage ebbs and has to be revived.
I can never forget the raw courage of Babe Risko in his fight with Jock
McAvoy, December 20, 1935, in Madison Square Garden. This courage forced
him to take terrible punishment, although he knew he hadn’t a chance to
turn the tide. Six times the American had gone down from the trip-hammer
blows of the British middleweight before Babe was counted out with still
half a minute to go of the opening round. All I can say is that the boxer
with a fighting heart can never be persuaded that he has had enough.
But let’s take an example of refined courage—the kind displayed by
Gene Tunney when he met Jack Dempsey in their first bout in the
Sesquicentennial Stadium of Philadelphia. The pale-faced ex-marine showed
remarkable coolness as he walked into the lair of the tiger-man to face
blows that had battered the strongest into insensibility.