perspiration, but happy in the knowledge that I had defied the gangsters
who tried to have me fix that fight and that my presence had helped bring
in a gate of $36,700, a record.
Nine months later, the same promoter paid Jack Dempsey $5,000 and two
round trip tickets for himself and Ned Brown, his publicity man, to
come to Caracas to referee the fight between Chavez and Sixto Escobar,
of Puerto Rico. It was expected that the presence of the great Manassa
Mauler would add greatly to the figures grossed by Archibald and Chavez,
with me as referee, but the fight was a complete flop. The gate reached
only $18,432, and the promoter went in hock for plenty.
They couldn’t understand what had happened, but the answer was simple.
Dempsey reached Caracas a day before the fight, thus preventing the
promoter from publicizing his presence, whereas I was on the job a week
in advance, went on the air to help the show, appeared daily at the
training camps, and even wrote stories which were translated into Spanish.
* * * * *
The incident that caused me the most personal embarrassment occurred
during my visit to Havana during the winter of 1958. I had received an
invitation from the Cuban government through General Fernandez y Miranda,
head of the Cuban Sports Commission, to attend the dedication of the new
Havana stadium, the most beautiful and completely equipped arena I have
ever seen. I had visited General Miranda, President Batista and Ernesto
Azua, chairman of the Cuban Boxing Commission, a few weeks before to
arrange the program for the sports carnival scheduled for that week.
Unfortunately, my presence was commented upon in a six-page article
entitled “Unhappy Cuba’s Cockeyed Week” in the March 6 issue of _LIFE_
magazine. Among the many photos was one of General Miranda and me which
bore the caption “Slot king is Batista relative, Fernandez y Miranda,
here talking with boxing historian Nat Fleischer.” Needless to say, this
caused me considerable embarrassment as the article was an _exposé_ of
mobster activities in the Cuban capital. There was nothing in the story
to indicate that I had any connection with gambling in Havana, but the
intimation was there.
I was besieged by calls for days following the article’s appearance.
Friends and acquaintances joshed me continually about my association
with racketeers, and to each I had to explain that my appearance in
Havana was on behalf of sports and in no way connected with gambling.
Through my work as a journalist I have met many of the mobsters mentioned
in the _Life_ story, as most of them were New York’s top shots of the
Prohibition era. They are now firmly entrenched in the Nacional, Riviera
and Capri hotels running their investments into gigantic fortunes.
As for General Miranda, I know him only as a member of President
Batista’s cabinet in charge of physical education and sports. He has
frequently visited Madison Square Garden and _The Ring_ office and
is a most charming man. I wasn’t aware that he was “king of the slot
machines,” in Havana, but I do know that he is one of the six finest
shots in Central America, where he holds many records, not only for
shooting but for track and field and amateur boxing and wrestling.
It should be noted that through General Miranda’s efforts there is far
less juvenile delinquency in Havana than there is in New York. A little
more of the Cuban athletic spirit and enthusiasm for boxing, baseball,
basketball and swimming would undoubtedly be welcome in America’s largest
city.
The sports carnival itself was marred by a tragic opening day accident in
the Gran Premio, a 315 mile automobile race. Fidel Castro’s rebels had
kidnaped Fangio, Argentina’s great road champion, in the hopes that his
absence would prevent this major event from taking place, but the race
got underway after an hour-and-a-half postponement.
The objective of the rebels seemed to be attained a few minutes later,
however, when the car of Armando Garcia Cifuentas skidded on an oily
stretch and crashed into the crowd, leaving a toll of seven persons dead
and thirty-seven injured. The race ended in confusion.
That morning I was in the Nacional Hotel with Truman Gibson, Secretary of
the International Boxing Club, which sponsored the boxing show held two
days later, when the telephone rang and a voice asked:
“Is that Nat Fleischer, _The Ring_ editor?”
“Yes. Who is this please?”
Instead of answering the voice continued:
“You know what happened to Fangio?”
“Yes,” I replied. “What about it?”
“Well you also a big shot—you in boxing. You are helping Batista. Look
out.”
And with that statement, down went the receiver with a bang.
I laughed and Truman asked me what was so funny. I repeated the
conversation and added that someone is playing a prank.
“Prank, hell,” he quickly answered. “Watch your step. That guy means
business. You’ve had a big part in arranging the details for the show
here. I think you’ll find it safer in the Casino than in this lobby.”
I paid little attention to the threat, assuming, then, that it all was a
joke. Now I’m not so sure.
Nothing did happen. I attended the opening of the sports arena, where,
instead of the full house expected, less than 10,000 were present. Many
were secret service men, police from the security bureau, and men of
the armed forces, since the government, like the folks who might have
attended had the rebel scare not kept them away, had been warned that the
building would be bombed. As each spectator entered the arena, he was
searched for arms—not a very pleasant way to start an evening’s outing!
As for the main event, which had World Champion Joey Brown pitted against
Orlando Echevarria, champion of Cuba and Central America, it lasted less
than a round. The Cuban was counted out in two minutes and five seconds.
The rest of the program, which featured two Latin-American championships,
was exceptionally fine and thrilling.
[Illustration: 23]
A DREAM COME TRUE
As a youngster, I thought that traveling in the Orient was reserved for
books and dreams—or Marco Polo. Yet as a grown man I found myself in
the land of my dreams. I may say now that my childhood fancies did not
measure up to the dazzling reality: the violent contrasts of fabulous
wealth and unbelievable squalor; the customs so strange to me; the
glorious color of temples and palaces; the beautifully exotic land itself.
* * * * *
Early in 1954, I received a cable from Brigadier General Pichai
Kullavanijya inviting me to visit Bangkok as the guest of the Thailand
government for a world bantamweight championship fight that had
been arranged for May 2 between Jimmy Carruthers of Australia, the
titleholder, and Chamrern Songkitrat, Orient champion, a young Thai
sublieutenant of police. I accepted, and when I left for the scene of
action, it was my first flying trip around the world. I have since taken
several.
The trip was an eventful one but it was Thailand, more than any other
country I visited, that impressed me. Its beautiful temples; its
barefooted priests with their yellow loose robes, an umbrella in one hand
and a bag of food in the other; naked children roaming the roads; people
of many races crowding the colorful market places; three-wheeled vehicles
jamming the streets with their fares—they left an impression I shall
never forget. Hong Kong with its mixed races, its crowded thoroughfares,
its beautiful fragrant flower market, and its poverty; Tokyo with its
pretty kimono-dressed women; Manila with its reminder of the atrocities
that befell its inhabitants during the Japanese invasion; ancient Asia
Minor cities with their historic biblical shrines; the ruins of Athens;
Istanbul with its Byzantine architecture; beautiful Rome and Paris; busy
London, colorful Stockholm, Copenhagen, Antwerp, and Amsterdam—they all
hold the tourists’ interest, but not like Siam. I enjoyed my visit to
each, but Bangkok left the greatest impression.
Let me tell you about the stage setting for the two championship bouts
I saw there. In a scene unparalleled in ring history, a scene that was
reminiscent of the historic Dempsey-Tunney world heavyweight championship
bout in Philadelphia, a gathering of 59,760 persons paid 5,000,700
ticals, $227,304.90 in American money, to see Carruthers retain his
throne by a hairline margin and, following his victory, announce his
retirement. Unlike championship bouts in other countries, this one was
limited to twelve rounds. I arranged it so.
Those who witnessed the Dempsey-Tunney contest in Philadelphia can
imagine what we encountered in Bangkok by picturing a tropical storm
that started three days before the fight, drenched the spectators who
braved it, made a lake out of the ring, and flooded the muddy streets
over which thousands trekked to the National Stadium.
Bulbs from the overhead lighting system crashed to the canvas from time
to time, forcing temporary halts to the fight while a broom brigade I
had organized swept the glass and water from the ring. It was the first
championship fight staged in that country, and the sports-loving folk of
that little kingdom went all out to see it. As the guest of the Thailand
government I was appointed overseer of the affair, and in view of the
unbelievable conditions under which the contest was staged, I granted
permission for the boxers to enter the ring in their bare feet to lessen
the danger by making the footing more firm.
I had never seen anything like it before. Dignitaries from Thailand and
other nations, most of them dressed in their native garb; nobility from
many lands; fight fans who came to the scene by foot, bicycle, tricycle,
horse back, auto, train, and wagon—a reminder of the picturesque scenes
portrayed in stories of bare-knuckle fights in England—all headed for
the Stadium, the national sports arena. Traffic was so congested that it
took me more than an hour to cover less than a mile from the Government
Resident Palace, where I lived for a month, to the arena.
The mass of humanity, trudging through the streets unmindful of the
adverse conditions or the ruin of their colorful garments, was a picture
to behold: the varicolored holiday dress of the Siamese, Hindus,
Japanese, Chinese, and other Asiatics in contrast to the conventional
Western dress of the Australians and Americans, many of whom were from
our government agencies.
Between weighing-in time and the fight, thousands visited the Emerald
Buddha Temple where the scene was most impressive. Hundreds gathered
within its walls. We knelt in prayer with shoes parked outside—the
native custom. When I emerged, the rain was coming down so heavily that
I pleaded with Carruthers to have the fight postponed, but he wouldn’t
think of it.
“Let’s get it over with,” he said. “I’ll take my chances.”
Since I had the final decision, I held a confab with the principals and
the government officials, and it was decided that a postponement would be
dangerous: because of the housing shortage it would be impossible to care
for the many visitors. The bout went on. We called it “the Battle of the
Typhoon.”
I sat through the fight with my clothes soaked. In spite of an army
raincoat I had borrowed, the water flowed down my body, yet I enjoyed
the affair more than any I had ever witnessed. When the fight was over,
before we were able to get to the military car that had been assigned to
me, we walked almost knee-deep through a sea of mud for half a mile, and
when we got to the Resident Palace, my suit had shrunk to such an extent
that my valet found it necessary to slit the trousers to remove them. I
couldn’t use my shoes and coat again.
When the contest was over, Referee Bill Henneberry of Australia, the only
official, quietly raised the hand of Carruthers, “the winner and still
champion.”
It was a very close affair, and many in the vast arena booed the verdict.
Never having attended a fight in the Orient before, I was expecting a
riot momentarily. But fast thinking on the part of the defeated young
boxer turned what might have been a disaster into a wild ovation.
Chamrern quickly took the microphone from the announcer, held up his hand
for silence, and standing in mid-ring he said in his native tongue:
“My dear friends, I am proud to have been able to bring fame to
my country by being the first Thai boxer to contend for the world
bantamweight championship, and I am personally satisfied that the
decision was fair and beyond doubt. If I am not sorry, my friends and
countrymen, why are you?”
The sportsmanlike remark was greeted with thunderous applause, and
eventually restored decorum. At a banquet the following day, tendered in
honor of High Police Commissioner Delaney of New South Wales and myself,
General Phao Sriyanonda, Director General of the National Police and
later Thailand’s Prime Minister, presented Songkitrat with an advanced
rank in the Police Department, and to me he gave a handsome silver
cocktail set with other gifts of silver for my daughter.
* * * * *
A few months after Carruthers had announced his retirement, the Thailand
government again requested that I act on its behalf in arranging a bout
to obtain Carruthers’ successor. Since Songkitrat had already gone
twelve rounds with Carruthers, and Robert Cohen of France was recognized
throughout the world as the leading challenger, I brought the pair
together with the consent of the European Boxing Federation, the New York
Commission, and the National Boxing Association. The story of how that
bout was arranged is well worth telling.
With the crown vacant, the Thailand government contacted me while I
was in London and requested that I offer Cohen 10,000 pounds sterling
($28,000), tax free, with all expenses for himself and his managers,
if he would agree to meet Songkitrat for the title. Before starting
negotiations, as a member of the Advisory Board of the World Boxing
Championship Committee, I contacted its members and obtained their
consent. Then I did the same with the European Boxing Federation, the New
York Commission, and the National Boxing Association, and when I got the
green light from all, I flew to Paris to see Cohen’s manager. He asked me
to discuss the matter with his partner, Robert Diamond, in London.
With the guarantee agreement set, I drew up a contract which called for
the contest to be staged on September 19, 1954, in Bangkok, with Teddy
Waltham, secretary of the British Boxing Board of Control, as neutral
referee at a fee of one thousand dollars. A Thai official and myself
were to act as judges. With this set, and accompanied by Diamond, I went
to the Thailand Embassy in London, and there the Ambassador affixed his
signature on behalf of his government, Diamond signed for Cohen, and I
signed for the World Boxing Championship Committee, of which I am an
honorary member.
Thus for the first time in the history of boxing, an Ambassador signed a
contract for a boxing match. I was proud of my achievement and prouder
still of the manner in which the affair was handled.
Boxing received its greatest recognition in recent years when Their
Majesties King Bhumibol Adulyadej and Queen Sirkt, the Thai cabinet,
ambassadors and ministers from foreign countries, with high-ranking
officers from the Allied Forces stationed in the Far East, all sat in
a specially constructed grandstand to watch the fight—despite another
torrential rain that kept up until about half an hour before the bout
went on.
A gathering of 69,819 that paid $200,952.24 saw the Thai champion go down
to defeat.
As on my first visit, I was quartered in the spacious Resident Palace, a
lone occupant except for a valet, two maids, and a cook to look after my
comfort. I was given a military car and chauffeur and an English-speaking
Police Lieutenant aide, throughout my stay. Outside my residence, two
sentries were on duty day and night.
On the day of the fight, despite another heavy tropical rain storm, as
before, all roads leading to the battleground were jammed throughout the
day. People headed for the stadium on foot and in vehicles of various
sorts, and to take care of the heavy traffic, two thousand police and
members of the armed forces were brought in from the provinces to help
the Bangkok force. People from the bordering countries of Cambodia and
Laos crowded streets already full of Chinese, Hindus, Filipinos, and
Siamese.
Outside the stadium, hawkers were carrying huge rolls of cellophane and
plastic sheets, which they cut and sold in large strips to take the place
of rain coats. These street merchants reaped a harvest. Their merchandise
went like hot cakes at 15 bahts (50 cents) a strip. With these over their
heads and shoulders, the fans entered the arena and sat in varicolored
chairs—blue, white, brown, red, orange, and yellow—arranged in rows.
The day following the bout, General Phao gave a dinner in my honor at
which the French Ambassador and many government notables were present. At
this affair His Majesty awarded me the Fourth Class of the Most Exalted
Order of the White Elephant, the highest honor that may be conferred on a
foreigner. The white elephant is a sacred animal in the land of Buddha,
and Buddhism is Thailand’s national religion. It is sacrilegious to kill
a white elephant—the symbol of purity.
In addition, I received a silver and gold combination humidor and pipe
rack, built around the head of a tiger that had been shot by General
Phao, and a stuffed tropical bird whose gay plumage and song I had
admired in the palace garden the previous day. He also presented me with
a necklace and bracelets of beautiful Siamese silver for my daughter,
Joan.
* * * * *
I shall always recall the wonderful greeting I received on this second
visit to Bangkok. As our Pan-American plane approached the field, we
could see hundreds of children waving American and Thai banners, and as
the plane landed, a roar went up. It was as much a surprise to me as it
was to the others to hear Captain Max Webber announce:
“Will all passengers kindly remain seated while a guest of the Thai
government gets off the plane first.”
That guest, I soon learned, was me. As I stepped out of the plane,
General Pichai and General Mora, headed a large delegation of government
officials who had come to escort me. Applause and shouts of “Our Uncle
Nat is here,” made me feel very much at home.
I was swamped with garlands, each made up of fragrant flowers with red,
white, and blue ribbon holding them together. So heavy was the load
across my neck that I requested to be permitted to hold some. There was
a military escort of motorcycles and jeeps, followed by fifty cars and
buses, each flying the American and Thailand flags, and banners blazing
the words “Welcome Our Uncle Nat Back to Thailand.”
It was an amazing tribute to boxing since I was representing the sport.
At dinner that evening General Pichai asked if I would like to see
Siamese boxing. What a question! What baseball is to the Americans,
cricket and soccer to the British, and Sumo to the Japanese,
hand-and-feet fighting is to the Thai folk. It brings out the throngs
and has its idols of whom Songkitrat is one. Whether they win, lose, or
draw, these heroes are decorated with wreaths, receive beautiful gifts of
silver, and are showered with attention wherever they go.
It’s a sport in which the rules and regulations that govern international
boxing are tossed aside. The code which governs it prohibits gouging,
hair-pulling, and striking an opponent when he is down—otherwise
everything goes. The contestants use their feet, knees, and elbows as
offensive and defensive weapons, and once the action gets under way, fur
flies. The bouts are usually thrillers, with not a moment of inactivity.
The foreign visitor watching a Siamese boxing match is not so much
attracted by the hand-and-feet fighting as the opening ceremony that
often lasts from five to ten minutes. It is called “Ram.”
It is a peculiar combination of praying, limbering-up exercises, an
acknowledgement to the fans for their presence, and a salute to the
opponent, instead of the usual handshake to which we are accustomed.
The fighters first bow until their heads touch the ground. This is when
the prayer to Buddha is made. Then each fighter twists his head toward
his manager’s corner with another prayer, this time for the man who has
trained the fighter. Next comes a salaam to the crowd. Then with head
still bowed in reverence and with hand upraised towards heaven, the
fighters recite a prayer for victory. The final stage of the ceremony
is that in which the fighters prance around the ring like toe dancers
and shadowbox as they have been taught by their masters. They move their
hands in mystic waves, kicking their legs high, then each goes to the
other’s corner and bows to his opponent.
A band of six musicians plays during this ceremonial prelude, and
continues to play throughout the fight. The weird music is reminiscent
of medieval days; and the entire “Ram” rites, I was informed, may be
compared to the ceremonies attending the opening of athletic tournaments
in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.
With the conclusion of the ceremonies, the fighters are called to the
ring center where the action gets under way. Each has a white band on his
arm. It is known as the Holy Band or _mongkol_ in Thai language, and is
supposed to give strength and courage to the contestants. Beneath this
band is a small charm, a tiny Buddha statue, or a pebble from the holy
soil of a Buddha Temple.
The referee calls for time, and as soon as the fight gets under way, six
musicians begin their quaint music with two high-pitched guitars, two
oriental drums, and two flutes. This accompaniment is nerve-wracking to
an American. Those accustomed to it would regard a match dull without it.
The tempo speeds up as the bout progresses and the action in the ring
remains rhythmic as the boxers keep pace with the musicians.
The Siamese boys make our boxers look like novices as far as their
courage and ability to take punishment are concerned. They take a
shellacking, giving and receiving blows, and European rules would call
for quick disqualification.
[Illustration: 24]
THE FITZSIMMONS CLAN
The 1956 Olympic Games were over. My long stay in Melbourne, where I
had gone to report the international boxing competition, was completed.
Should I journey back to the States by way of the Far East, stopping off
in cities familiar to me through previous visits?
That was a decision I had to make quickly because of the heavy
transportation problem, and it didn’t take me long to do so.
I remembered a letter I had received from Timaru, New Zealand, from
Betsy McKenna of the Club Hotel, whose mother was the patroness of the
New Zealand Sports Association and whose father for many years was a
prominent sportsman in the South Island. Shortly before his death, his
daughter had invited me to visit Timaru if I went to the Olympic Games.
This decided me: I would take a trip to New Zealand where famous American
boxers had performed in the days of Eddie McGoorty, Jimmy Clabby, George
Chip, Jeff Smith, and Billy Papke. I would visit Auckland, Wellington,
Christchurch, and Timaru.
So on to Auckland I flew, a six-hour flight from Sydney; and from that
point in the North Island as my headquarters, I headed down south, my
final destination being Timaru, the home of many of the Fitzsimmons
family.
Everywhere I went, friendly hands greeted me. Radio recording was a
must in each of the cities where I stopped. I was on the air, on radio
and television, a total of twenty-nine times, including six special
recordings for the Government-controlled national radio—so great was the
interest there in international boxing.
Timaru was my objective because of the many entertaining hours I had
spent with Bob Fitzsimmons during his stage career. I was out to gather
material about the Fitzsimmons family, and I obtained what I was after.
Two of the greatest boxing figures made their start in the Southern
Hemisphere. Fitzsimmons in Timaru and Les Darcy in Maitland, New South
Wales. These fistic stars were idolized in their homelands. Mention the
name of Darcy or Freckled Bob in any pub, and you’ve started a discussion
that may last for hours.