a dream that affected their careers. I believe in dreams as I do in the
Gospel, and my reason for this strong feeling is that almost every dream
I have had has come true.
“More than ten years ago, the night before my fight with Jim Jeffries on
Coney Island, I dreamed I was fighting a tough battle, and that I was
knocked out. When I got up in the morning I told my wife about the dream.
“‘Rose,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid it’s all over. I’m going to lose my
championship.’
“‘Don’t be silly, Bob,’ she said. ‘What makes you say such things?’
“I told her of the dream I had had the previous night.
“‘I shall lose all right, Rose. I’ve never known a dream of mine not to
come true.’
“You know what happened, Nat. I lost the championship to Big Jeff in the
eleventh round.”
And then Fitz went on to tell of several other dreams that had come true.
Like his old opponent, Jim Corbett, he also believed that horseshoes
brought good luck, and he told me that when he began his training
for the fight with Corbett at Carson City, he himself—for he was a
blacksmith—made a large horseshoe and placed it on the floor of his
dressing room.
“I made two horseshoes every week I was in training, Nat,” he said, “and
gave them away to newspapermen and my handlers. When I had made the
thirteenth horseshoe I decided to keep that for myself. One morning I was
out on the road. My wife was following me on horseback. Suddenly I got a
hunch. I stopped running and said to her:
“Rose, I’m going to stop Corbett in the thirteenth round. The horseshoe
has told me so.”
As a matter of historical record, Fitzsimmons knocked out Jim Corbett
with his famous solar plexus punch in the fourteenth round—only one round
beyond that which he had predicted.
* * * * *
A few years ago, I flew to San Francisco to attend the Ezzard
Charles-Joey Maxim fight. I met Tom Sharkey, and together with Rocky
Marciano and some sports writers, we went to San Quentin Prison to
entertain the inmates. Old Tom was in a reminiscent mood. He told us that
while he was preparing for his fight with Gus Ruhlin, Bob Fitzsimmons had
sent him two peacocks.
“When those birds arrived I nearly passed out, for I remember an old
woman once telling me in Ireland that the owner of a peacock never had
any good luck,” said the fighter who gave Jim Jeffries his toughest
battles. “I wanted to send those birds back to Fitz, but I loved him like
a brother and didn’t want to offend him. All through my training, I wept
thinking of the unlucky peacocks, and when I lost to Gus in the eleventh
round, I blamed it on those Jonah birds.”
* * * * *
Negro fighters are usually very superstitious. Tom O’Rourke, manager of
the original Joe Walcott, once told me that Joe refused to train unless
Tom presented him with a rabbit’s foot.
“No rabbit’s foot, no luck,” Joe would say.
I once asked Sam Langford if he believed in the jinx.
“Yes, sah,” replied Sambo, “my jinx is colored fighters, sure.”
The goal of his ambition was to annex the world title, but Jack Johnson
stood in his way, and Langford blamed his failure to become the champion
on members of his own race.
The Boston Tar Baby preferred to fight white men once a week to Negroes
once a month. His record shows that he was whipped by Dave Holly, Young
Peter Jackson, Joe Jeannette, Harry Wills, and Jack Johnson—all colored
boxers.
“White men are my meat,” he told me, “colored men are my hoodoo!”
* * * * *
Joe Humphreys, who at one time helped me to collect data for a life story
of Terry McGovern, in one of our many conversations told me, “Nat, there
was probably never a fighter who believed more in lucky omens than Terry.
I’ll never forget the day he fought Aurelia Herrera in San Francisco. He
climbed into the ring all smiles, greeted his friends at ringside and
then sat down to await the instructions of the referee.
“Suddenly, one of the spectators signalled to Sam Harris, Terry’s
manager, and pointed to McGovern’s left shoe. It was unlaced.
“This was one of Terry’s deepest superstitions. During the preliminary
work, between the time that McGovern entered the ring and went to the
middle for instructions, the trainers had purposely neglected to tie the
lace.
“When the referee motioned the fighters to the middle of the ring, Terry
took off the unlaced shoe, spat in it for good luck, put it on again, and
told one of his handlers to lace it.”
A mass of superstitious fears, the Brooklyn Terror also believed in the
“lucky kiss.” He was convinced that unless he received a good luck kiss
from his wife before a fight, he would be sure to lose.
* * * * *
Tiger Flowers, the Georgia Deacon, boxed in New York City quite
frequently during 1925 and 1926. The Deacon, who won the world
middleweight championship from Harry Greb, not only would kneel and pray,
but would carry a Bible into the ring and offer to the Almighty a few
words from this precious book. Unfortunately, an eye infection resulted
in gangrene, and Flowers died soon after becoming champion.
* * * * *
During the vaudeville tour of Jim Jeffries and Tom Sharkey, I listened
to Jeffries tell his audience that he regarded a twisted lace as a sign
of ill-fortune. Whenever he noticed that a lace was twisted, he made his
handlers remove the glove and relace it. He also said that he insisted
on having a certain seat at the training table in camp, and would never
permit a change to be made after the arrangements had been completed. A
change, he said, meant bad luck.
On my visit to Burbank to attend Jeffries’ seventy-fifth birthday, he
told me a story about a dirty penny which he found on the road in Asbury
Park while training for his fight with Fitzsimmons. Jeff and Tommy Ryan
were taking a run, and when they halted Jeff kicked aside a penny that
was in his path. The coin was covered with mud, and Jeff was loath to
touch it, fearing bad luck.
He asked Tommy to pick it up. But Ryan was also superstitious and
refused. Jeff then remarked:
“Tommy, I’ll pick it up. If it’s heads up, I’ll surely beat Fitz. If it’s
tails, I’m a sure goner.”
Heads it was, and Jeff told me that he was as happy as a lark that day.
And he, of course, won the battle.
* * * * *
And so it goes. Superstition is part of human nature. The world’s most
famous fighters have used rabbits’ feet, praying beads, lucky charms, the
lucky handshake, the wife’s or sweetheart’s handkerchief, and many other
talismans to bring them luck in the ring.
BOOK
FIVE
[Illustration]
[Illustration: 22]
ADVENTURES ABROAD
I was struck with the wanderlust at an early age. I liked traveling and
made up my mind in my youth that I would see the world, and I carried out
my plan successfully as I grew older. From the time I was fourteen to
the present day, the aggregate mileage I’ve covered would go many times
around the globe. Collecting material for sports stories, visiting places
of interest to better acquaint myself with world boxing conditions,
hunting for world boxing talent, and on occasions officiating as referee
in international bouts, both amateur and professional, enabled me to meet
the leading sportsmen and sports writers of our country, Canada, South
America, Europe, Asia, Australia, and New Zealand.
Prior to World War Two, I frequently acted as third man in the ring in
contests in Spain, Germany, Venezuela, Panama, Cuba, Canada, and Puerto
Rico. Including matches in the United States, I officiated in more than
1,000 boxing bouts, and probably refereed in more foreign countries than
any other American.
Most of my trips were taken by air, though in the days when I was Sports
Editor of New York dailies, I made many sea voyages, particularly to
Central and South America. In 1948 I flew close to 60,000 miles to
attend world boxing conferences, to see international contests and to
study boxing conditions. That year I made three flights to Europe, four
to various parts of Canada, three to Central America and one to South
America, in addition to many in our own country.
On one of the European trips I flew to London, Dublin, Glasgow, Paris,
Rome, Barcelona, Madrid, Brussels, Copenhagen, Stockholm, and Lisbon to
look over youthful boxing talent. Such long journeys were the rule rather
than the exception. Twice in 1951 and again during April, May, and part
of June of 1952, I journeyed almost as far on behalf of boxing. In 1954 I
flew around the world twice.
I was in Panama the year that the Canal was finished and opened for
navigation and the following year, 1912, I made another trip to spend a
vacation with the Duke family, owners of the Panama Railroad, the bank,
and practically every other worthwhile financial enterprise in that old
Spanish city, including the lottery. Two of the Duke boys were football
players at Fordham University, and that’s how I became acquainted with
them. I was still with the _Press_ at that time, and had taken a three
months’ leave of absence in order to gather material for special series
which I had decided to write on “Sports in the Caribbean.”
I received a letter of introduction to Major General Goethals, builder of
the Canal, from his West Point classmate, Irvin Wardman, Editor-in-Chief
and part owner of our paper. Upon my arrival in Panama, I stopped at the
Washington Hotel, where General Goethals was quartered. Presenting my
letter, I was ushered into the presence of an elderly and stately looking
Army man, kind but firm in tone. We spoke of Mr. Wardman and of New York,
and then he asked me if I would care to go on a tour of inspection of the
Gatun Lock and up the Chagres River.
I was delighted. The next morning we boarded a government motorboat, the
_General Christie_. In addition to General Goethals, our party consisted
of his Superintendent of Construction, several Army engineers and myself.
It wasn’t long after we started that we heard a thunderous roar. To our
right we saw a mountain of dirt drop into the Culebra Cut. A Japanese
ship, the _Maru Tamuiri_, was caught in the rush and became wedged in
between tons of earth and rocks.
I had my camera with me and with a newspaperman’s instinct, I clicked and
clicked and got a splendid set of photos of the great slide. It was a
break that comes once in a lifetime for a newspaperman.
There was no trip on the Chagres River that day. We returned to
headquarters from where General Goethals sent his report to Washington,
and I mailed a story to my Sunday magazine section and with it went the
plates with the pictures of the slide.
My photos and story reached the office of the New York _Press_ too late
and to hold off another week wouldn’t do. John Hennessey, our Managing
Editor, chanced to meet Carl Van Anda, the Editor of The New York
_Times_, at the Press Club and offered the material to him. He was elated
at the opportunity to obtain a first hand photo illustrated story from an
eyewitness and two months later, when I returned from Panama to resume my
work in New York, Mr. Hennessey explained why he had let the _Times_ use
the photos. After congratulating me, he told me that Mr. Van Anda wanted
to see me.
I got in touch with him immediately and received a warm greeting. He
thanked me, and as I was about to leave, he remarked:
“By the way, that must have been an expensive trip. What did it cost you?”
Imagine my surprise a few days later when I found a letter from him on
my desk containing a check with this message: “This is in payment for
the splendid pictures you sent from Panama.” That check paid for a good
portion of my long trip.
I’ve often told that story in discussing newspaper work with young boys
whom I broke into the sports writing field. I should like to add that
every office boy who worked for me is now an executive, or was one, on a
New York newspaper.
There was Robert Maher, one of my first copy boys, who became night
sports editor of the _Evening Sun_; Eddie Galiani, my New York _Telegram_
office and copy boy, who later became assistant racing editor of that
paper; Donald Pratt, another from the _Morning Sun_, whom I took under
my wing as a sports writer, is the Editor-in-Chief of the Fairchild
Newspapers, the largest chain of commercial journals in the country.
There were many others of whom I am proud to say got their start and
guidance in sports writing from me.
* * * * *
In 1911, the year previous to the Culebra Cut Slide, I spent two months
in Panama City and on one occasion, with one of the wealthy Duke boys to
guide the party, we went many miles up the Chagres River which enters
into the Canal. There on the banks of a settlement, I photographed
Indians standing on the beach and others in shell-like canoes. I was
amazed by their physical appearance! They had light hair, pinkish eyes
and white-spotted bodies.
About fifteen years later, New York newspapers carried big headlines of a
tribe of Albinos discovered along the Chagres River in Panama and several
were brought to New York to be exhibited at the Grand Central Palace.
I was confident that I had seen such creatures many years before in my
travels, but was joshed considerably until I decided to hunt through
some of my old pictures and located a photograph of three such Indians
posing for me. Perhaps those I had snapped were not from the same tribe
as those discovered by the New York Historical Society’s representatives,
but their features were identical. They were Albinos who lived about 50
miles up the Chagres River. Thus I lay claim to a “discovery,” though I
wasn’t aware of it until I read the story of the “find” by the Historical
Society.
* * * * *
It was in 1911 that I put on the first professional fight ever held in
Panama. I also staged one for a benefit conducted by the Panama _Herald_
in which I was the referee, and the boxers, with the exception of one
giant Negro, were all from American Army camps.
I saw my first cock-fight in Panama that year, and enjoyed the sport very
much—primarily because I had a good run of beginner’s luck and cleaned up
on the fights. I left the arena, a dilapidated shack, more than $200 the
richer and carried away with me a set of old time Spanish spurs which I
bought as a souvenir and still have on exhibition in my _Ring_ office.
I also had the chance there to spin the wheel for the first Panama
lottery, the winner of which was an undernourished, little old woman upon
whom Dame Fortune smiled that day to the extent of $20,000. A part ticket
I held, won third prize, and I collected $60.
* * * * *
Among the many exciting experiences I had during my tours in various
parts of the world as a referee or judge of important international
boxing matches, two stand out—my encounter with gunmen in Caracas,
Venezuela, and in San Juan, Puerto Rico. In April, 1939, I was on a
Central American tour and while in Puerto Rico, I was asked to officiate
in the world bantamweight championship match between Sixto Escobar and
Kayo Morgan. The bout was staged under conditions such as I never again
encountered.
At the time there was considerable dissension among the natives regarding
American rule. The Nationalist Party on several occasions tried to
assassinate the leading legislators and had gone so far as to incite
insurrections in Ponce where a number of persons, including the chief of
police, were killed. Four of the leaders were sentenced to the Atlanta
Penitentiary for long terms by the U.S. Government. Governor Winship, an
ardent boxing fan, had returned on the day of the fight from Washington,
where he held a conference with President Roosevelt on the Island’s
unrest.
Four boxes were reserved for him and his party at the Stadium and unusual
protection was arranged by Police Chief Orbeta because of reports that an
attempt would be made on the Governor’s life. The bout was delayed for
almost an hour due to the late arrival of the guests of honor, and then,
amid wild cheers from an overflow gathering, the contest got under way.
Seven rounds had been completed when a terrific downpour drenched us. The
tropical storm caused a stampede among the thousands of spectators who
sought shelter. Like all such torrential rains, the storm lasted only
a short time but was sufficient to give those seeking the lives of the
Governor and members of his cabinet a chance to carry out their work.
Within minutes after the cloudburst, the arena and an area within a mile
or more surrounding the stadium, were in total darkness. The electric
wires had been cut and during the blackout, while spectators were being
drenched, shots were fired. There was a flash from the top of one of
the walls surrounding the arena. The Secret Service guards immediately
crowded around Governor Winship and his party and a speedy exit was
made under heavy guard with torchlights guiding the way. Many persons
took refuge under the ring and hundreds crowded around it. The fighters,
managers Harry Baxter and Lou Brix, and I, couldn’t get out of the ring.
For almost three quarters of an hour we remained in total darkness
wondering what was in store for us. While the commotion continued,
mobsters broke down the gates of the stadium, and a mad rush was made
towards the ring. The bleachers were bulging from the sides, and the
grandstand and ringside seats were full to the limit when the fight had
started. When the rain stopped and the bout was resumed, fist fights
added to the confusion, as those who had paid ten dollars for their seats
battled with the hoodlums who had rushed the gates.
But the fight went on, and after eight more rounds, Escobar was awarded
the decision, thus holding on to his crown. Fortunately, Governor
Winship was unharmed. Those who tried to assassinate him had been keenly
disappointed, for if ever a stage was perfectly set for such an attempt
on the life of a notable, this was it.
In their escape, the guerillas left many blood stained handkerchiefs on
top of the wall enclosing the arena. On the inside of the stone wall,
blood indicated that more than one person had been on the job. The cuts
were sustained from jagged glass that had been fitted into the cement on
top of the fence by city officials as a protection against gate crashers.
It was indeed fortunate that no one was killed.
The day after the fight I wrote a story for _El Mundo_, the leading
paper in Puerto Rico, in which I covered the attempted assassination
thoroughly, including the findings of Harry Baxter, manager of Kayo
Morgan, and myself. The story created a sensation. The government denied
that any attempt had been made on the life of Governor Winship, and a
rival paper, which was supporting the rebels against the United States,
battered my brains out editorially. However, Chief of Police Orbeta
acknowledged the facts with a declaration to the press:
“The culprits who cut the electric wires in an attempt to kill our
Governor, will be caught and punished!”
* * * * *
Puerto Rico, like Cuba, was a second home for me for many years. Scarcely
a winter passed that I didn’t spend a month or more in those Islands
where I am as well known as in my native city. I refereed fights in
Havana and San Juan and often wrote boxing yarns for papers in those
cities.
In July, 1939, I was asked by the Venezuelan Commission to arrange the
fight between world featherweight champion, Joey Archibald, and Simon
Chavez, the Central American titleholder. The bout was to be held in the
bull ring at Caracas and I was to referee.
Jess Losada, one of Cuba’s leading radio commentators on sports and
a sports columnist, managed Chavez; and Al Weill, who in later years
was the matchmaker for the Twentieth Century Sporting Club and the
International Boxing Club, and handled several champions, including Rocky
Marciano, managed the featherweight king. Losada and Weill couldn’t get
together on terms for the Venezuelan fight, hence my aid was sought. I
was told to offer Weill $10,000 and two round trip tickets, plus the
privilege of 40 per cent of the gate. I was also to inform him that the
Boxing Commission would request me to act as guest referee. On those
terms Weill accepted.
I flew to Caracas a week before the fight. I stopped at the Hotel
Majestic, where Archibald and Weill’s representative, Sammy Richman, were
also staying.
The publicity was excellent and interest in the fight was keen. The day
before the bout, which took place on a Sunday afternoon, the bull ring
was sold out. The stage was set for the biggest gathering that had ever
seen a glove fight in Caracas and a record gate was assured.
That night, I was sitting in my room listening to a Spanish music program
on the radio. I had donned my pajamas because of the extreme heat. A call
came in from the desk clerk informing me that two men were eager to see
me. Although it was late, I told him to send them up to my room.
They introduced themselves as Miguel and Arturo Mendez, brothers who
had lived in Brooklyn prior to making Venezuela their home. They told
me they were bookmakers. The Spanish are heavy bettors on sports events
and thousands of _bolivas_, they said, had been wagered with them on the
fight. They themselves were betting heavily on Chavez to win.
“We know you well, Nat,” said Miguel, the taller and huskier of the pair,
“and we come to see if everything is all right.”
“In what respect?” I inquired.
“Simply that we don’t want to lose our money. Archibald is a big favorite
and we want to see that our man doesn’t lose. The Americans here have bet
a lot on him.”
“You want me to protect your money by giving the decision to Chavez? Is
that it?” I angrily asked.
“You guessed it right,” replied Miguel. “Are you with us? It will be well
worth your gamble.”
With that Miguel nodded to his brother, who took out a wad of bills from
his coat pocket and placed it on my bed.
I brushed the money to the floor and ordered the men out of the room.
“Not so quick,” snapped Arturo. “You’re making a big mistake. Think it
over,” he said, as he gathered up the money, and then taking a gun from
his pocket, twirled it close to me as a sign of what might happen if I
didn’t cooperate.
“We’ll go now but we’ll call you at ten tomorrow. We want our answer
then,” Miguel said as they left.
I reached for the telephone, got the chairman of the boxing commission
at the Caracas Country Club, and told him what had happened.
“I’m not going to referee,” I informed him. “I’m coming up to see you,
and I’ll return the $600 that was advanced to me for my flying fare.”
There were two other members of the boxing board with him when I arrived.
“You are the drawing card as much as your champion,” he said after
hearing my story. “You cannot turn us down. I will see that you have full
protection. A policeman will be with you all day tomorrow and you’ll have
plenty of protection at the arena.”
We then drove up to the promoter’s house and from there back to the Hotel
Majestic, where I repeated my story to Sammy Richman and Losada. I was
finally persuaded to change my mind and accept the assignment.
The next day at the arena, I was placed in a small room during the
preliminaries and was closely guarded by two armed soldiers. At a given
signal, I was ushered to the ringside and entered the ring as Chavez and
Archibald came down the aisles.
Gendarmes and soldiers encircled the ring at four-foot intervals
throughout the fight for my protection should the decision go contrary to
the wishes of the two former Brooklyn thugs, who had apparently learned
about sure-thing gambling during their stay in New York.
For four rounds Archibald battered Chavez all over the ring. I had
visions of what would happen after the fight and sweated it out, but
there was nothing I could do about it, since I was determined to give an
honest decision, come what might.
Early in the fifth round, Chavez caught Archibald with a right to the jaw
that staggered the American. He gave Archibald a sound beating throughout
the round and that was the turning point of the fight.
The high altitude had affected Joey to such an extent that he had shot
his bolt in those first four sessions, and thereafter he was at the mercy
of his opponent In the last two rounds, Archibald could scarcely raise
his arms and when the final gong sounded, I quickly lifted the hand of
Simon Chavez, the winner.
The scene that followed was something to remember. Chairs were broken by
partisan enthusiasts in the wild rush for the ringside. Hats were tossed
into the air. Wild shouts, as only the Spanish can screech and shout,
rent the air.