scowling Dempsey after the famous “fourteen” count in their second
contest in Chicago, but he chose the way of refined courage, which
changes blind instinct to thought and calculation—and so he saved the day.
In Max Schmeling’s fight with Young Stribling, July 3, 1931, in
Cleveland, and his first with Joe Louis, June 19, 1936, I saw examples
of the calculating courage of a great fighter. In both, as indeed in all
of Schmeling’s important battles, he plodded along until the opportune
moment arrived. Then calculating courage transformed him into a fighting
fury, when he had to take as well as give punishment.
Packey McFarland, a boxer of consummate skill, was hurt on several
occasions but never to the extent that he was forced to display courage
to stick it out. He would never let anyone beat him up.
On the day after his fight with Matt Wells on April 26, 1912, in New
York City, I went to his dressing room. Both men had put up a wonderful
show, but Packey had received far more punishment than he normally took,
and I was surprised. I asked McFarland how he felt.
“Nat,” he said, “I’m a clever boxer. I feel I can hold my own against
anybody my weight, or ten pounds above my weight, but when the day comes
that my cleverness will no longer protect me, I’ll quit. I don’t believe
in what you writers term courage.”
“But Packey,” I countered, “you mean to tell me that if you were badly
hurt you’d toss in the sponge?”
“That’s exactly what I would do.”
“They would call you a coward,” I retorted. “If you showed a yellow
streak, you’d be through.”
Anger blazed in Packey’s eyes, but he controlled himself and spoke in his
ordinary quiet and cultivated tones.
“Yellow, eh?” he replied. “I know as well as you that no man in the
boxing game has a right to be there if he has a faint heart. It takes
a fellow with a lot of nerve to stand up and absorb punishment, but it
requires even more courage for a man to know when he has had enough and
to call a halt.
“That’s not a yellow streak in a fighter. I say that’s ordinary common
sense. When the going is good, keep firing. That’s my motto. But when you
find the odds are against you, then quit.”
This was the philosophy of one of America’s greatest boxers in a period
which surpassed all other eras in lightweights and welterweights. Nobody
ever doubted Packey’s courage, but that is how he had worked things out
for himself.
It was the logic of brain against the unreasoning instincts of brawn. I
admired Packey for the stand he took, and in later years, when he became
sponsor of the Catholic Youth Movement in the United States, he carried
the same philosophy into his classes.
[Illustration: 19]
RINGSIDE THRILLS
The walls of my office are covered with photographs of my heroes—sturdy
Jim Jeffries, lanky Bob Fitzsimmons, debonair Jim Corbett, happy-go-lucky
Jack Johnson, ponderous Jess Willard, the tiger of the roped square, Jack
Dempsey, cultured Gene Tunney, fiery Jack Sharkey, smiling Max Schmeling,
poker-faced Joe Louis and hard-hitting Rocky Marciano—a great array of
heavyweight champions. I find pleasure in discussing their careers. The
thrills I got watching these ringmen perform, come back to me as I sit
at my desk and study the faces on my walls. I have seen seconds lead men
into the morning glory of fame and fortune, and plunge others into the
midnight of a defeat from which they never came back. Those pictures tell
a story.
Among the thrilling contests listed in my diary, three in which the
great Benny Leonard was a contestant, stand out. Out of Chicago came
a left-hook artist, Charley White, whose high, intellectual brow hid
a slow-thinking brain. He was within four seconds of winning the
lightweight championship from Leonard on a hot afternoon, July 5, 1920,
at Benton Harbor, Michigan, but couldn’t make it. For four rounds Leonard
had out-punched and out-generalled Charley, the Chicago left-hook phenom,
skillfully posing him for the knockout. Then Benny got careless.
In the fifth, the left hook landed on Benny’s jaw with lightning rapidity
and the champion went flying through the ropes. The spectators howled
like Indians. White had shaken off the fog that usually enveloped his
brain, and from all appearances the title was within his grasp. But
Leonard got back into the ring at the count of six, and so flabbergasted
was his opponent that his brain seemed to go numb. It ceased to function
and Charley became just another fighter.
Leonard was quick to sense the situation and through the eighth round,
he jabbed, hooked and uppercut White at will. In the ninth, Charley was
downed on hands and knees but took only a short count. Once more he went
down and then Benny knocked him over the ropes. Back into the ring he
found Leonard waiting, poised for the “kill.” Though he again put Charley
down, it took a fifth knock-down to end the thriller.
Split seconds stood between the hard-hitting Chicago challenger and the
crown, but as in the case of Leonard when he fought Tendler, brains
triumphed over brawn. Had not Charley White “frozen” in that fifth round,
he would have been returned the champion. At least that was the consensus
among the newspapermen who watched Leonard pull through the round.
Leonard was an extraordinary fighter—an artist when it came to providing
thrills. Let’s take a look at his fight with Richie Mitchell, the
Milwaukee lightweight on January 14, 1921, in Madison Square Garden for
the benefit of Ann Morgan’s Devastated France Fund. Richie already had
been stopped by Leonard in seven rounds, but he was a good pugilist and
the return bout brought out a vast throng of society fans, among them
Governor Al Smith who was viewing his first ring battle. There must have
been a lot of ruined dresses that night, for before the proceedings were
over, frenzy broke out.
When the bell rang to start the fight, Benny, very cool and rather
contemptuous of Mitchell, walked straight out to meet him with a left to
the face and followed with a right aimed at the jaw. It missed the button
and struck the Milwaukee boy on the cheekbone, but it dropped him flat.
The referee started the count to a scene of excitement seldom surpassed
in my experience. The society fans went wild. Mitchell’s seconds bawled
at him to remain down and take his time.
Richie may have heard them, for he didn’t get up until “nine.” He was
groggy. His legs wobbled. He sought to embrace Leonard, but a short
left-hook to the chin, sent Richie down again.
And down he stayed until “nine.” When he got up, he reeled about in front
of me. I saw that he had a nasty cut under his left eye.
I saw Leonard leap forward again, bent on making a quick finish. He shot
a left to the jaw, followed by a right. The Milwaukee boy rocked like a
tree in a storm, then went down for the third time to a volley of rights
and lefts.
I got one of those reactions I often had when I saw a brave man taking
too much punishment. The big thrill suddenly faded into revulsion. For
with me there is no thrill without sport, and there can be no sport when
one man is hopelessly beaten.
Did I say beaten? The revulsion came too quickly. Richie Mitchell got
up again at “eight” and ran into another terrific bombardment of solid
smashes, hooks, and jabs; but still he wouldn’t go out. He actually
fought back, getting home a few lefts to Benny’s face. He showed heroic
courage, and courage will work miracles in the ring.
Leonard, brushing aside the lefts, waded in. Then suddenly he stood
still. I saw his whole body stiffen and sprang to my feet. Something was
happening—had happened!
Richie, almost out, had put all his strength into a left to Benny’s
stomach. The glove buried itself, forcing the champion’s head forward.
Like an arrow came Richie’s right, flush on Leonard’s jaw.
There was a sudden hush. The atmosphere was tense with utter
astonishment. Benny Leonard, the idol of New York, out on the canvas! It
was unbelievable! Then pandemonium broke out.
The count piled up as Benny struggled to get to his feet. I heard his
handlers yelling:
“Get up, Benny, get up!”
I heard Billy Gibson, Leonard’s manager, shout:
“Shake your head, Benny! Shake your head, Benny!”
I saw Leonard get up and nod to Gibson, as if to say he was all right.
And then we saw a superb exhibition of ringcraft. Benny feigned an
attack, and as he closed towards Mitchell, he grabbed his opponent
instead of striking and held on.
Richie got in a light left, for he, too, was in bad shape. Benny fiddled
about and kidded Richie into doing nothing until the bell rang. He had
out-smarted his opponent at the critical time and robbed him of a title
victory when it was there for the taking.
This was one of the greatest rounds that I had ever seen in the ring, but
it was only the beginning. The next session was a mill royal. Benny soon
got up to his tricks again but Richie had him groggy with a terrific
right to the jaw, and immediately afterwards Mitchell was almost out from
a bombardment to the head.
This sort of fighting went on for three more rounds.
In the sixth, Benny put over a right with such force that Mitchell fell
on his back. He was on his feet at “nine,” and went on the defensive,
with chin tucked into his shoulder and taking most of Leonard’s blows on
his arms. But he was a pitiful figure to behold. His lips were smashed
and bleeding and his eyes almost closed. Yet they fought on.
Richie went down again for “six” from body blows and with inhuman
courage, he again got up only to be floored for another long count. There
was Mitchell staggering about in a neutral corner, and there was Leonard
firing away in an effort to stretch his rival flat. He finally succeeded.
After another down Referee Haucap pushed Benny aside as the eight count
was completed, and called a halt to one of the greatest ring battles seen
in the old Garden under the regime of Tex Rickard.
* * * * *
I had the good fortune to see many such hair-raising contests. Let’s take
that between Ad Wolgast, lightweight king, and K. O. Brown, on February
8, 1911. After that scintillating bout, the Michigan Wildcat was sitting
in his dressing room when I entered, after having fought my way from
the ringside in the Philadelphia arena where they fought a sensational
ten-rounder. Had a decision been permitted—this was a no decision
contest—by my scoring Brown would have won the crown, for the sturdy
little New York Dutchman had given Wolgast a fine shellacking. For six
rounds he had Ad at his mercy while the throng cheered. He had Wolgast on
the brink of a knockout, but failed to take advantage of the situation
and lost his golden opportunity.
I was eager to learn why Wolgast, who had fought great battles with
Battling Nelson and was one of the toughest of all lightweights, had
permitted Brown to gain such a big advantage over him.
Ad sat in a chair as I entered, his head in his hands. His manager was
staring gloomily at the floor, his hands in his pockets and a cigar in
his mouth. Mingled with the smell of the cigar was the odor of liniment.
“Hello, Ad!” I said.
Wolgast looked up. He was a short, square fellow, under five feet four in
height, but with the shoulders of a middleweight. His fair hair, now lank
and dark with water from the spongings, indicated his German ancestry.
“Hello, Nat!” he responded mechanically.
“What was wrong with you, Ad?” I asked.
The manager looked at him as if he, too, would like an answer.
“That fellow Brown,” replied Wolgast, “he’s a southpaw. I can’t do
anything against them.”
“You’re not telling me that, Ad,” I said. “I figured that being a
southpaw, Brown would be easy going for you.”
Ad looked up. “Well, he wasn’t easy. You saw how it was. I tell you that
southpaw stance is a puzzler. I thought it would be easy, and I did do
some of my training with a southpaw sparring partner to make sure. But he
got me puzzled all right. I couldn’t get going, Nat.”
“How do you figure it out, Ad?” I asked.
“You never know from what angle those southpaws are going to hit. That
got me all tangled up. Then this Dutchman can punch so that he leaves a
dent wherever he lands. I’d rather fight two left-stance men in one ring
than one southpaw, and I’m well out of this mess. You can figure the rest
out for yourself, Nat.”
Ad was piqued. He had taken a bad lacing. One of his eyes was nearly
closed, and his lips looked as if they had been having an argument with
a mincing machine. Judging from the manager’s sober expression, it
wasn’t going to be a happy evening, so I wished Ad good luck and left
Philadelphia for home.
On my way back to New York, I got into an argument with some of the boys
about southpaws. Most of them said the obvious thing—the southpaws should
be easy meat for men who fought with the left arm and foot extended. But
Ad Wolgast’s experience made that opinion extremely doubtful.
“There has never been a southpaw champion yet,” said one of the boys.
“You’re wrong there, pal,” I interposed. “Bendigo was a southpaw. He won
the heavyweight championship of England by whipping Jem Burke just over a
hundred years ago.”
“Orthodox fighters have learned a bit since then, Nat.”
“Well, all I can say is that Ad Wolgast isn’t one of them,” I replied.
“And I’d like to see some of the other champs up against southpaws before
I make up my mind.”
Dissatisfied with his showing against Brown, Wolgast arranged another
engagement with the blond, hard-hitting Dutchman within a month, March 3.
“Dumb” Dan Morgan, K. O. Brown’s manager, had pressed for this second
contest after his man’s impressive exhibition in Philadelphia. Wolgast
had demanded a guarantee of ten thousand dollars—an enormous sum in those
days, and certainly enough to put an end to negotiations. But “Dumb” Dan
was so certain that K. O. Brown could put Wolgast to sleep within ten
rounds that he went into the match on a very short purse which enabled
Tom O’Rourke to meet Ad’s demands for the big guarantee.
The seating capacity of O’Rourke’s New York club was only twelve hundred,
but as soon as the match was signed, there was an enormous demand for
tickets. Tom put up his prices and charged five, ten, and fifteen dollars
for the seats, but even then there was a riot, and police reserves had
to be called out to deal with fans who fought to get in. The jam was so
great that the police had to rope off the entire block, clear it, and
then control the stream of fans right into the hall.
I have seen many wild gatherings at the scene of a big fight, but few to
surpass this one. Although we knew we were in for a thrill, we didn’t
quite figure on the sort of thrill we got. It was a savage bout from
start to finish. Both men absorbed tremendous punishment.
I had seldom seen such punching from lightweights. The two men fought
toe-to-toe and wouldn’t concede a foot. On several occasions the
lightweight crown tottered on Ad Wolgast’s head, as the ferocious
Dutchman, with his baffling southpaw stance, crashed home his dynamic
right on the champion’s cheeks, just missing the button.
Then apparently it began to dawn on K. O. Brown that the championship was
in his grasp, and that he would have to pay proper respect to Ad’s swings
if he was to get away with it. Here the Dutchman made a mistake—and it
cost him the world title.
In the eighth round, Brown landed a punch on Wolgast’s chin that had
the champion groggy. Ad went back on his heels, his eyes rolling. For a
moment he staggered forward with open mouth, and the Dutchman just missed
connecting with his deadly right. I saw him about to leap in, and then
check himself.
The crowd was yelling for him to finish Wolgast, but he stood fiddling
about, feinting. Meanwhile, the groggy champion was slowly recovering his
senses. What could have happened to Brown?
He told me afterwards that at that instant he suddenly remembered how
Cross shammed grogginess and then whipped over his terrific right and
that memory decided K. O. Brown to take no chances.
“Go in and finish him!” yelled “Dumb” Dan Morgan to Brown. “Finish him
now!”
I saw the Dutchman turn and shake his head to his manager.
“Just one more, K. O.” pleaded Dan.
Wolgast was helpless. He was reeling about the ring like a drunken man,
out on his feet. But Brown refused to believe it. And there was a world
championship at stake! My heart was in my mouth. But what of poor “Dumb”
Dan, who had steered the Dutchman to this supreme moment, and now, in the
very harbor of victory, Brown wouldn’t anchor!
Only one punch was needed to settle it, but the Dutchman continued to
fiddle his chances away. His southpaw stance had presented him with the
great opportunity, but he couldn’t take it.
For the next two rounds, Ad Wolgast, still groggy, managed to keep Brown
out by a strictly defensive fight. Even when he had partially recovered
his senses, he had no effective answer to his opponent’s style, and
finished the fight—a no-decision affair—a loser on points, in my opinion.
However, under the rules that governed boxing at that time, only a
knockout could rob him of his world title, and the Dutchman had failed to
deliver it.
There was an extraordinary scene in Brown’s corner after the fight.
Dan Morgan was frantic.
“Just one blow,” he howled. “Any kind of a punch and you would have
become the lightweight champion of the world!”
The Dutchman looked sheepish.
“Say something, you sap,” bawled Morgan. “You had the title in your hands
and you let it slip away. Why didn’t you go after him?”
“Aw, Mister Morgan, I didn’t know it,” said Brown. “I taut he vos kiddin’
me.”
K. O. Brown’s failure deferred the winning of a world title by a southpaw
for three years when I saw George Chip, middleweight champion of the
world knocked out in a huge fistic upset by Al McCoy in the Broadway
Club of Brooklyn, April 6, 1914. Three years later, November 14, 1917,
I saw McCoy dethroned in Brooklyn in another thriller by a tough Irish
middleweight, Mike O’Dowd. That bout went into the sixth round when a
terrific left split McCoy’s lips and a right to the jaw put Al away.
McCoy was an ordinary fighter, but he takes his place in the Hall of Fame
as the first southpaw to win a world crown in a gloves contest.
* * * * *
Every nation has had its quota of thrill providers in boxing—with the
Irish and the Jews, in my opinion, leading the field during the years
covered in my reminiscences.
Sitting in my offices was Jack McAuliffe, the first recognized American
lightweight champion who retired undefeated. He had paid me a visit about
three months prior to his death and asked for help on an article he was
writing on Irish fighters.
“Tell me, Jack, what is it the Irish have that carries such appeal for
the boxing enthusiasts?” I asked.
Jack wrinkled his brow and with one word gave me the answer: “Gameness.”
I thought he hit it on the head. One can’t discuss thrilling fights
of the past half-century without bringing in the names of dozens of
famous Irish battlers who fought to packed houses in New York in the
club membership days and later under the Walker Law. Who can forget the
performances of Harlem Tommy Murphy, Willie Lewis, Jack Britton, Mike
McTigue, Mickey Walker, Mike O’Dowd, Jimmy McLarnin, Tommy Loughran,
Philadelphia Jack O’Brien, Dave Shade and Jimmy Slattery? Some were
powerful hitters, others scientific boxers, and many combined both
hitting power and science to give us masterful exhibitions.
The many contests between Britton and Ted Kid Lewis, the bouts between
McLarnin and Barney Ross, the hair-raising bout between Billy Petrolle
and McLarnin, November 21, 1930, in Madison Square Garden, the battle
with Stanley Ketchel in which Philadelphia Jack O’Brien’s head rested in
the rosin pan as the final gong sounded on March 26, 1909, in the Fiss,
Doerr and Carroll Horse Mart ring—they were bouts one cannot forget.
And then there were the great battles in which Mickey Walker was a
contestant. His draw bout with Jack Sharkey, July 22, 1931, his knockout
at the hands of Max Schmeling in the Long Island Bowl, September 26,
1932, and his battles with Shade, McTigue and Harry Greb, all in 1925,
were performances that brought out the fighting spirit of the Irish to
its fullest extent.
McLarnin’s three contests with Barney Ross, May 28 and September 17,
1934, and May 28, 1935, the second of which was the only one the Irish
lad won, are unforgettable affairs. When Jimmy fought Petrolle, November
21, 1930, he displayed fighting courage that many thought was beyond
reason. I recall the smashed, bloody figure of Jimmy, reeling under the
terrific impact of Petrolle’s merciless wallops; yet as he stood in the
ring, bathed in his own gore, hardly strong enough to keep his hands up
in defense, he wouldn’t give in. Referee Haley, one of the best bantams
in the pre-commission days, moved over to Jimmy and begged him to quit.
“No, no, please don’t stop it. Don’t ask me to quit,” he pleaded. Weak,
but still defiant, he staggered through to the finish of the tenth round.
In their two subsequent contests, May 27 and August 30, 1931, McLarnin
avenged the defeat, winning both.
In the same ring in Madison Square Garden, January 6, 1928, I saw another
splendid Irish pugilist, Tommy Loughran of Philadelphia, go down in the
opening round from a bone-crushing right on the jaw delivered by Leo
Lomski of Oklahoma. Nobody expected Tommy to get to his feet before the
count could be completed. Yet he did! As the referee reached “nine,”
Loughran arose, reeled, and was all but out on his feet. One of Lomski’s
seconds yelled, “He’s out, Leo! Go get him! Get him now!”
Lomski rushed forth, and there followed two minutes of the rawest
melodrama. Tommy took a terrible shellacking but remained upright. He not
only finished the fight, but won on points. It was a memorable battle. A
salute to these great Irishmen for enriching the story of the ring!
Not all the thrills I received as a reporter came from boxing. Wrestling
had its share. It was truly a sport then, not the burlesque which it has
become in recent years. Those were the days of George Hackenschmidt,
Frank Gotch, the Zbyszko brothers, Stanislaus and Wladek, Ernest Roeber,
Gus Schoenlein, Ed Strangler Lewis, Jim Londos, Jim Browning, Joe Rogers,
Dr. Roller, and many others. I knew them all and covered the career of
each in my book _From Milo To Londos_. My association with Jack Curley,
the Tex Rickard of the mat sport under whose guidance the masters
performed around the country, brought me into close contact with these
world leaders.
I often dined with Curley, George Bothner, and William Muldoon, a
champion of the old school, and it was through my meetings with them
that I gained my knowledge of wrestling. Frequently I would sit at the
ringside of the old Madison Square Garden for two or more hours watching
the skillful maneuvering of the contestants. I recall vividly the longest
match I ever witnessed—that between Strangler Lewis and Stanislaus, the
elder Zbyszko. It got under way at ten o’clock and it was well past one
the following morning when we left the arena.
Unlike the burlesque of current matches, their technique was masterly.
I reported those wrestling affairs as I handled boxing—in detail—for
the public was fascinated at the time. Watching Fred Beall apply his
double-nelson; Jenkins his crotch and half-nelson; Lewis his famous
headlock; Zbyszko his lightning rushes; and Joe Stecher his scissors
hold, gave me as much of a thrill as I got out of viewing an exciting
bout between top pugilists.
[Illustration: 20]
LAUGHS AND ODDITIES
Often, though the contestants in a bout were of mediocre caliber or the
fight lacked thrills, some amusing incident developed that enlivened the
affair. There were many such over the years that I jotted down in my
diary.
It was in the spring of 1916. Billy Gibson, who managed three world
champions, was operating at the old Manhattan Opera House in New
York City, on West 34th Street. He matched Charley Weinert, Newark
heavyweight, not yet nineteen, with rugged veteran Andre Anderson in
a ten round bout. Despite his youth, Weinert already had established
himself with the nation’s front-line heavyweights. The Jersey youngster’s
speed and flashy boxing had carried him to victories over the likes of
Battling Levinsky, Jim Coffey, Tom McCarty, Porky Flynn, George (Boer)
Rodel, Gunboat Smith, and Jim Savage—all top men.