enthusiasts who knew Les and Bob. Some at three score and ten have vivid
recollections of the early days of these men whose names occupy a niche
in the Fistic Hall of Fame.
When I visited Maitland to unveil the Darcy Memorial and spoke to a
gathering of about 5,000 who had come from all parts of the Commonwealth
to honor the memory of their idol, I thought I had met all of the
pugilistic celebrities of the past and present who had any part in
keeping boxing alive in that part of the world. But my subsequent trip
to Timaru uncovered still more.
Timaru is a small dot on the southwestern coast of the mainland in
the South Island of New Zealand. It is seldom in the itinerary of the
tourists, and receives little attention even from New Zealanders.
Yet this little city of only 23,000 inhabitants, in the sheep farm
district 100 miles from Christchurch and about 200 miles from Auckland,
can stand on its own as an historic athletic center. It has a unique
claim to fame in the sports field, having produced five of the world’s
greatest athletic performers.
Remember Jack Lovelock, the famous 1500-meter king to whom Hitler
presented an oak tree—part of the Olympic ceremonies at that time? Jack
brought it home to Timaru, presented it to the high school, and today
it stands 75 feet high in the school yard, as a memorial to this famed
middle distance runner who died in America.
Then there was the race horse, Phar Lap, known as the “Red Terror”; it
thrilled the turf world with its great performances before dying soon
after being shipped to America.
And Dick Arnst, the world-renowned sculler, had few equals. He was born
in Timaru and lived there all his life.
The little city that had less than 3,000 inhabitants when the Fitzsimmons
clan first settled there, also boasted of a great billiard player, Clark
McConachy. A master of the cue, he was one of the greatest in the game.
But Timaru bases its greatest claim to athletic fame on the first
man to win three world championships—Bob Fitzsimmons, holder of the
middleweight, heavyweight, and light heavyweight crowns. The city claims
Bob as its very own, although the British have always been free to take
credit for his accomplishments on the grounds that he was born in England.
The Timaru folk keep Ruby Robert’s name alive with stories about his
escapades and thrilling anecdotes about the strength of his dad, the
ability of his brother Jarrett as a mighty smithy, and the fighting
spirit of the entire family. The citizens—average country people such as
one meets in any farm land—are proud of the part their city has played in
international sports.
They take you to the street where Bob first learned the blacksmith trade,
point to a little camera shop now occupying what once was Fitzsimmons’
place of business; the alley adjoining where the horses were kept until
ready to be shod; the little passageway, a short street now occupied by
stores, where Bob made his start at fist tossing; the anvil on which
he worked, now owned by Joe Stewart, blacksmith to the Timaru Harbor
Board, and an old building where the sign that was displayed outside the
original Fitzsimmons’ horse shoeing establishment hangs with the legend,
“J. Fitzsimmons, Veterinary Shoeing Forge.”
Visiting the Fitzsimmons’ clan was a delight. So much has been written
about Bob and his birthplace—Elston, Cornwall, England—and so little
about his adopted city, where he worked as a blacksmith during his
boyhood years, and learned the rudiments of the trade in which his fists
were to gain for him an international reputation, that if my visit to
Timaru did nothing more than to put it back on the fistic map, I will be
delighted.
Bob’s picture hangs in almost every hotel lounge in Timaru. And you
can’t get to first base if you try to convince them that Ruby Robert was
a Cornishman and not a New Zealander. Mention of my itinerary to Kiwis
invariably brought forth the statement: “That’s where Fitzsimmons lived.
We’re proud of him.”
* * * * *
Ruby Robert’s first job, his relatives recalled, was in Reid’s and Grey’s
Foundry in Stafford Street North, a short distance from where the
Dominion Hotel now stands. Boxing had far greater appeal for him than
any other sport, and he took to it like a duck to water. One of the old
settlers I interviewed remarked:
“There’s many a time when Bob, left alone in the shop, would go down the
alley to have a little go with the gloves. He didn’t have much difficulty
getting some one to spar with him while another kept a lookout at the
blacksmith shop.”
“Did the family ever speak of Jem Mace who is credited with having taught
Bob the finer points of boxing?” I inquired of blind Jack Fitzsimmons.
(A steel splinter had penetrated his right eye while he was working as a
smithy.) He’d talk for hours about boxing and the prowess of his uncle if
he could get a listener.
“Yes,” he replied. “His sister Catherine had a vivid recollection of
Bob’s early days and often told us of the celebrities with whom Bob
associated. Mace, she told us, was Bob’s teacher and a mighty good one.
He had a night school where he taught boxing and Bob attended it after
working hours.”
Continuing after a short pause, Jack said, “She told us that Uncle Bob
began boxing at the age of fifteen, and our father said that Bob had
engaged in three bare-knuckle bouts with heavyweights when he scaled only
142 pounds. Father, you know, was Bob’s brother and he, like Bob, was
strong and vigorous. He had thin legs—a family trait, I believe; from the
waist down, they were similarly built.
“I recall Dad saying that it wasn’t long after Mace took charge of Uncle
Bob’s training that he was fighting all comers of any weight class in
South Canterbury. Bob’s fame spread, and stories of his prowess drifted
to Australia; at the age of twenty, he left Timaru for Sydney, where he
fought in matches arranged by the great Larry Foley.”
I was amazed at the boxing knowledge of Jack Fitzsimmons. Blindness
hadn’t affected his memory. He recalled dates and places which normally
require research in _The Ring Record Book_ for accuracy. I was shocked
upon my return to America to learn that Jack died shortly after I had
left for home.
Discussing Ruby Robert’s sense of humor, Jack Fitzsimmons remarked:
“Aunt Catherine told us that he grew up with plenty of it in his make-up.
And from what we learned from our father and read in _The Ring_ and
elsewhere, his antics in his training camps and in his social gatherings
portrayed the picture well. He was full of pranks and never was disturbed
when they were played on him, Dad said. It was his easy-going temperament
that enabled him to make friends wherever he went.”
Jack added, “You know when Uncle Bob was fighting in Australia there
was little difference between amateurism and professionalism. When Mace
arranged the affair in which Uncle Bob gained his first prestige as a
boxer, ten other boxers competed in the tournament and the rounds weren’t
limited as they are today when amateurs compete. A bout finished only
when one was knocked out, yet the Mace tournament was advertised as an
affair for amateurs.”
Wes Jack took out some mellowed newspaper clippings telling of Ruby
Robert’s visit to Timaru, following his retirement from boxing. In one,
Fitzsimmons tells of the time he won the New Zealand title.
“I didn’t have things easy,” he told his interviewer. “As a young man who
weighed at the time less than 125 pounds, I had to face tough opposition
with opponents far heavier. But I reached the top, although in so doing I
had to fight men of all sizes and weights.”
Discussing the blacksmith shop, a story related by Bob’s brother,
Jarrett, two of whose sons became heavyweight champions of New Zealand,
held my attention. Jarrett, who died in Timaru at an old age, telling his
sons about the power in the arms and shoulders of his brother, said:
“I’ve often been asked how brother attained his strength. I think it
came from fighting and subduing crazy horses brought into our blacksmith
shop. If there was anything Bob liked, it was to be assigned to shoeing a
brute. He would remark:
“‘It strengthens my arms and legs when I’m kicked across the shop and it
helps develop the sand in a man.’”
In _The Ring_ museum in Madison Square Garden there is a letter from
Fitzsimmons addressed to me. I had seen him in Chicago in 1914, at which
time I interviewed him, and when I mailed the article to him, he added to
his statement:
“The cave-men of the ring are extinct. Champions such as we had when I
was in my prime are gone, never again to return. The champions of the
future will be as children compared to the rough and ready battlers of
twenty or more years ago. Fighting, like all other sports, is reaching
out along lines of improvement. The men of today realize that boxing is
more important than is slugging.
“They are beginning to see the advantages of knowing how to block and
feint and those who still can retain their punch are the ones who will
reach the top. You’ll find as the years pass that fighting will become
more and more scientific and championships will change hands on points
and not on knockouts.”
Those were the words of one of the greatest champions of all time. He
foresaw many years ago the change that already has taken place.
BOOK
SIX
[Illustration]
[Illustration: 25]
BIRTH OF _THE RING_
With the February issue of 1957, _The Ring_, my boxing publication,
completed thirty-five years of service in the interest of the sport;
years of war, prosperity, gloom, and world turmoil. They were years
that included “The Golden Era” of boxing and a paralyzing depression;
and throughout the three decades, _The Ring_, which started with a
circulation of 2,500, carried on without interruption. From a small
magazine confined to the environs of New York it grew into a world
publication, published in America and in England with a total circulation
of over 200,000.
_The Ring_ made its wavering début on February 10, 1922, to combat
attacks against boxing. I operated out of a cubbyhole in the old Madison
Square Garden, in a little room donated by Tex Rickard. It was a one-man
job. I was editor, business manager, circulation manager, and general
handy man, though the stock was owned by four of us. About half a year
after the first issue was published, Eddie Borden, well known in boxing
circles, joined me as an assistant.
Between 1917 and 1920, when the Walker Law went into effect following the
demise of the Frawley Law, boxing in America was in a sad state. But the
Walker Law brought about a change, a promise of order in what had become
a corrupt racket.
Rickard had come East soon after the Walker Law was passed, and decided
to promote fights and other sports events in the old Garden and at the
Polo Grounds. He was so successful that he aroused the envy of crooked
politicians who found it more profitable to operate without state
supervision. They tried to put him out of business and to kill legalized
boxing. Those politicians formed an unholy alliance with reformers
against the new boxing bill. With the help of Rickard, I enlisted the
services of friends, most of them nationally known newspapermen, to fight
for the life of legalized boxing.
Rickard asked me what could be done to halt Governor Smith from killing
the sport. I suggested that we flood the Albany Senate and Assembly with
pamphlets outlining our reasons for opposing the bill which would have
halted boxing. He agreed. I received the support of every sports writer
in New York to help the cause.
Articles were written for the pamphlet by New York’s leading sports
editors and columnists: Bill McGeehan, Damon Runyon, Walter Trumbull,
George Daley, Wurra Wurra McLaughlin, Ned Brown, George Sands, Bat
Masterson, Bill McBeth, Harry Cross, Charles F. Mathison, Francis
Albertanti, Grantland Rice, George B. Underwood and myself. Copies were
sent to every member of the New York State Legislature.
With Senators Frawley and Walker fighting our battle in the Senate, and
Assemblyman Marty McCue, a former pugilist, doing the chores for us in
the Assembly, we fought a winning campaign. Governor Smith listened to
the plea and then made his historic decision, saving boxing for New York
State. He said that though he didn’t like boxing and had never attended
a show, he was highly impressed by the editorial comment of the sports
writers and those who had gone to Albany to attend the hearing. He vetoed
the measure of the reformers and boxing was saved.
Following that narrow escape, I decided that a publication devoted wholly
to the sport would be worth starting. I asked for Rickard’s help, but he
balked at spending any more money. I argued that if a pamphlet such as
we presented to the State Legislature and the Governor of New York could
do so much good for boxing, a magazine devoted to the sport, an organ to
give boxing an articulate mouthpiece, would be a venture worth tackling.
Rickard was not impressed. I was to be only too grateful for this later
on.
But I wasn’t licked. I. C. Brenner, of _Golfers’ Magazine_, had heard
of my plans, and he came to my rescue. He knew the magazine field
and offered to help launch a publication if someone would back it
financially. I became the backer.
I went to Frank A. Munsey, my employer, who had ditched the New York
_Press_ and had purchased the New York _Telegram_ to which I was shifted,
and I asked permission to bring out the publication. He gave me the green
light after I promised that the work would not interfere with my duties
as sports editor, and that I would keep the contents clean and do nothing
to hurt _The Telegram_.
With Brenner, I took as partners (without any financial aid from them)
Frank Coultry, treasurer of Madison Square Garden, and Ike Dorgan,
brother of the famous cartoonist, Tad. Ike was Rickard’s publicity chief.
I gave each of them equal shares at 25 per cent.
Three months later, Coultry and Brenner retired from the enterprise. They
didn’t think the magazine would be a success and sold their stock to Ike
Dorgan and me. But within a year, the magazine had jumped from 2,700 to
13,000 and from 24 pages to 38.
Thereafter there was a steady rise. From America’s leading newspapers and
magazines foremost writers were added to the staff. The appearance of the
book was improved.
In 1929, I bought out Dorgan’s stock and became the sole owner. I had
constant faith in the magazine and despite the depression, I decided
to take over the ownership and put everything I had into it. However,
trouble came when I lost my bankroll in the financial crash, and for
two years I accepted Bernarr MacFadden as my partner. In 1931 that
arrangement was abandoned, and since then I have carried on as publisher
and editor. With the help of an excellent staff, I have built the
publication to its present circulation of over 200,000 in the U.S. and
in England and aided by the good management of Nathaniel R. Loubet, my
son-in-law, we have modernized the format to meet current needs.
Rivals have come and rivals have gone, but _The Ring_ continues, steadily
improving, with a record of never having missed an issue since its
inception. We suffered losses during the war years, but never faltered.
The friends we made by shipping _The Ring_ gratis to all areas where our
men were fighting, more than offset those losses, for we gained good will
we couldn’t have purchased with money.
While many magazines were forced to discontinue during World War II, _The
Ring_ continued to serve its readers, those in hospitals and in training
camps, a service unequalled in the history of American publications.
Lectures with motion pictures of famous fights were given through _The
Ring_ in camps and hospitals, and no expense was spared to see that the
men received what they cherished most in reading matter—boxing news. In
addition, we organized _The Ring’s_ Servicemen’s Athletic Fund, which
purchased athletic paraphernalia for camps in all parts of the world.
One of the greatest achievements of _The Ring_ is the publication of its
annual record book (an international guide to boxing), and its annual
rating of boxers, a listing that is used by promoters and commissions in
pairing fighters.
Many years ago the late Walter Camp initiated the custom of designating
the outstanding football players of the year as the All-American or
best-players of the season. A flood of imitators adopted this idea and
today All-American football team selections are almost as numerous as the
players.
When Camp died, I thought of having some sort of honor roll of boxing
similar to his gridiron ratings. Looking around for a boxing figure of
equal prominence to make the selections, I chose Tex Rickard.
The fabulous Tex was in his heyday then, and following the announcement
that he was to make a selection of the world’s ranking boxers, his
ratings were awaited with tremendous interest.
The forerunner of the detailed and highly classified _Ring_ rankings of
today appeared in the February 1925 issue for the first time and caused
world-wide comment. Such ring immortals as Jack Dempsey, Benny Leonard,
Mickey Walker, Harry Greb, Gene Tunney and Pancho Villa were in action
at the time, and, of course, their names led all the rest in their
respective divisions.
Dempsey was naturally rated top heavyweight, with his perennial shadow,
Harry Wills, in the number two spot. Tunney was a light heavyweight in
those days and was ranked first in the 175-pound division. Young Willie
Stribling and Kid Norfolk were second and third, respectively.
The great Harry Greb headed the middleweights, and the man who was to
succeed him, Tiger Flowers, was in the runner-up spot. Mighty Mickey
Walker was welterweight kingpin, followed by Dave Shade, who was to
trail the Toy Bulldog throughout his career. The peerless Benny Leonard
was still showing his heels to a new generation of lightweights, his
old rivals having fallen by the wayside. Sid Terris and Sammy Mandell,
a couple of up-and-coming youngsters, had edged the oldsters out of the
second and third positions.
Kid Sullivan topped the junior lightweight division, a favorite of the
time, and Louis Kid Kaplan led the feathers. Cannonball Eddie Martin was
ranked best of the bantams, and Pancho Villa headed the popular flyweight
division as world champion.
Rickard continued to make his choices in the pages of _The Ring_ for some
years, but Tex, while a genuine connoisseur of heavyweight material, was
not always as painstaking in his examinations of the smaller fellows.
It was difficult to convince him that the selections in the lighter
divisions were just as important. The big lads were always closest to
Tex’s heart. That was where the money was. They were the raw material for
the promotional extravaganzas that had placed Rickard at the top of the
heap in his field.
After Rickard’s death in 1929, I had Jack Dempsey make the selections.
However, Jack suffered from the same shortcomings as his predecessor. He
knew all the answers so far as heavies were concerned, but was inclined
to overlook the lighter classes. He lasted only one year.
By this time _The Ring_ rankings had attained such a position that I
realized that their compilation required the knowledge of one whose
boxing interest and knowledge included all the divisions. The Matchmaker
of Madison Square Garden seemed an obvious choice because he had to be
fully informed concerning boxers in all classes all over the world. Tom
McArdle, then occupying that position in the Garden, fell heir to the
job, which he capably performed for the next few years.
As the interest in ratings grew, however, I decided on a staff
compilation, and in 1933 I inaugurated the present system of rating
boxers on the basis of a census of _Ring_ correspondents throughout the
world. Their decisions are looked upon as the official ranking in every
division by the European Boxing Union and the various boxing commissions.
The wide range of opinion to which the ratings are exposed has put the
name of many an obscure but talented lad before the public. A typical
example of this was Billy Conn, whose first real recognition by Mike
Jacobs came as a result of the high ranking he received in _The Ring_.
Conn’s was just one of many similar cases.
The year-end rankings also serve the important function of starting off
the new year in a flurry of comment and enthusiasm. Boxing has thus
received a much-needed stimulus and I’m proud to think that I inaugurated
the system.
[Illustration: 26]
MEET THE PRESS
Let me tell you about some of the outstanding sports writers in American
journalism. I am not going to attempt to list all the great reporters,
past and present, who have kept the achievements of our athletic heroes
in the headlines, because it would take far more space than can be
devoted to it here.
Of all the colorful writers from all parts of the world with whom I
worked, my first choice is Tad Dorgan, whose boxing cartoons were
unexcelled and whose coinage of words formed the pattern for later-day
sports writers. Tad held an amazing place in American journalism. He was
not only a great writer about fighters and an expert in the game, but
he was one of the most graphic cartoonists we have had on the west side
of the Atlantic. He was the John Leech of the modern school—now, alas,
modern no longer. In England the closest to him is Tom Webster, whom I
also esteem among my friends.
When Tad Dorgan died, a stout heart ceased to beat; he was a man who
had given pleasure and a laugh daily to hundreds of thousands of people
throughout the world. In the quarter of a century that I knew Tad, I can
recall at least fifty “nicknames” that he had originated to describe
fighters with certain peculiarities; and the names by which he called
them are to this day their identification in the fistic world. He was the
most accomplished coiner of the sports page phrase. He and Damon Runyon
and Bill McGeehan contributed more to the slang expressions that swept
the country from time to time than any other writers.
Battling Nelson, Tad dubbed “The Bat” and the “Durable Dane.” Billy
Petrolle in later years he called the “Fargo Express” because of his
speed, and the “Fargo Express” he remained throughout his fighting days.
Jem Driscoll, to Tad, was the “Will O’ The Wisp.” ...
Tad’s comic strips, his humorous, human interest cartoons and wisecracks
continue to retain the appeal they had years ago. Tad had a flavor and
the tang that no man in the boxing game has ever been able to duplicate.
As a boxing commentator Tad rated with the best: Bill Naughton, Bill
McGeehan, Ed Smith, Charley Van Loan, Hugh Fullerton, George Siler, Macon
McCormack, Bat Masterson, Charley Mathison, Sam Austin, George Touhey,
and others whose articles made them famous authorities on boxing in
America.
Tad was an intimate of every sportsman of note from the early nineties
to the day of his death. He was a good friend of James J. Corbett, John
L. Sullivan, Jim Jeffries, and Jack Johnson—the four aces in his list of
fistic celebrities. Jim Corbett once said that Tad, who was born in the
same district as Gentleman Jim, when only a lad showed all the symptoms
of becoming “the funniest man in the world.”
When Tad became famous as a cartoonist and a writer, he often referred to
Jim’s remark. Among Tad’s favorite sports writers were Hype Igoe, Bill
McGeehan, and Rube Goldberg, each a noted man in his profession.
“The gamest man I ever knew,” is what Gene Tunney called Tad, and Tunney
knew something of many kinds of courage. Tad was responsible for the
discovery of many young writers who later became stars in the sports
world. It was he who encouraged the famous Charles E. Van Loan, whose
books on sports are well known in England and in the United States. Van
Loan became one of the greatest baseball writers in America while working
on the San Francisco _Bulletin_ and later, when Van Loan accepted a post
in Denver, he discovered another youth—now known to the sports and movie
world as Damon Runyon.
Though Tad did not originate all the famous slang expressions credited to
him, he at least was responsible for popularizing them. Remember when “23
skidoo” was the rage? That was one of Tad’s expressions.