50 years at ringside

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50 Years At Ringside

Nat Fleischer

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Fleet Publishing Corporation, New York

Copyright 1958 By Nat Fleischer

All Rights Reserved

PROTECTED UNDER INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT CONVENTION AND THE PAN AMERICAN COPYRIGHT CONVENTION

Library Of Congress Catalog Card Number: 58-8780

Printed In The United States Of America

Foreword

If the readers of this autobiography of one of the standout sports reporters of the half century, and a pre-eminent authority on boxing in particular, get half the thrills I enjoyed while going over the advance proofs, it will take its place with the most successful efforts of its kind.

Here we have the eye witness accounts of the Pepys of the ring scene these last fifty years.

This is a story which nobody has produced in the past, and certainly is not going to duplicate in the future.

It is the life story of a man who lived through increasingly exciting eras of the nation’s history, and the nation’s sports annals. The conditions which obtained through those eventful decades will not come again. The man who banged his typewriter through these crowding years will not come again upon a similar sequence in the sports kaleidoscope.

Here are behind-the-scenes pictures, the inside stories of so many developments which have waited, until now, for my lifetime friend Nat Fleischer to reveal them.

Here are pathos, comedy, and intrigue; the seamy, sombre stories, and the funny ones as well. Ring heroes of the past come to life in these pages to reveal themselves in the full panoply of their championship stature, or in the meaner habiliments of the character on the fringe.

It is a fine book, and I thank Nat for having written it.

Dan Daniel

To Trudie

Table Of Contents

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Foreword

Book One

1. THE DRAMA OF SPORT 3 2. MY BOYHOOD YEARS 7 3. MY WORK AS A REPORTER 13 4. AN INTERVIEW WITH ROOSEVELT 19 5. I FIGHT TO BE A SOLDIER 25 6. OLD NEW YORK 29 7. THE UNDERWORLD IN BOXING 45

Book Two

8. AN AMAZING AMATEUR 55 9. THE MICHIGAN ASSASSIN 63 10. JACK JOHNSON 75 11. A BLACK OMEN 82 12. BOXING’S HARLEQUIN 90

Book Three

13. A STORY OF INTRIGUE 99 14. DESTINY’S PARTNERSHIP 108 15. A SCOUT FOR TEX RICKARD 125 16. UNCLE MIKE JACOBS 138

Book Four

17. DONNYBROOKS 163 18. FIGHTING COURAGE 171 19. RINGSIDE THRILLS 176 20. LAUGHS AND ODDITIES 188 21. CHAMPS AND CHUMPS 199

Book Five

22. ADVENTURES ABROAD 211 23. A DREAM COMES TRUE 225 24. THE FITZSIMMONS CLAN 235

Book Six

25. Birth Of _The Ring_ 245 26. Meet The Press 252 27. A Summing Up 273

Book

One

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The Drama Of Sport

I am a sports romanticist. For me, the annals of the ring are unparalleled in their appeal. The saga of what has been called the “Sour Science” achieves peaks of interest and excitement that are found in no other recreation or entertainment.

That boxing has this unmatched position is not to be wondered at. A contact sport in its simplest form, it is an individual battle which tests the courage, skill and stamina of two men.

Each era has its own heroes. Boxing styles keep changing. The demands of the public change as the years roll along. New faces gain popular acclaim and heighten popular controversy, and the interest in the sport gains new momentum as these colorful characters make the headlines.

Since controversy is the life blood of the sport, it is easy to see why stories about boxing and the non-combatants closely associated with its promotion, management, matchmaking, and supervision, offer a special appeal to the reader.

There is romance in boxing. There is a spectacular glamor to the fight parade as it rolls along through the years: the explosive violence that was Jack Dempsey winning the heavyweight championship by a knockout over the behemoth, Jess Willard; Dempsey punched out of the ring and coming back to stop Luis Firpo in the wildest four minutes ever seen in boxing’s violent history; Joe Louis getting his quick, lethal revenge on Max Schmeling; Ezzard Charles achieving a once-in-a-lifetime peak to go fifteen close rounds with slugging Rocky Marciano—these moments brighten the pages of boxing history.

Not all the thrills are to be found in the padded ring. The side show often furnishes the laughs, pathos, color, and the drama that make boxing what it is; but the anecdotes that have the greatest appeal are those of the champions.

The intimate side of the ring’s title holders, the behind the scenes tales of the wizards of the roped square, the hair-raising experiences, both in and out of the ring—these are the human interest stories that make boxing a world sport.

Five decades of sports writing furnish the backbone of this book, material I’ve gathered from my diary of more than half a century of reporting and collecting.

During my many years of association with sports, I’ve studied the likes and dislikes of champions; their eccentricities and fighting qualities, as they compare with those great fighters of another era. It is part, I suppose, of the capacity for hero worship that is more or less inherent in us all.

I’ve found champions in boxing a different breed from the average person who engages in sports as a recreation. When I asked a newly crowned champion how he felt when he finally reached the heights, “No different,” was usually the answer I would get. Anticipation always exceeds realization.

I recall an interview with Freddy Welsh after he had won the world lightweight crown; “Somehow, now that I’ve won the championship, it doesn’t look so big,” he told me.

I was present at a dinner at which Gene Tunney, retired undefeated heavyweight king, and I were the guest speakers, and when I asked Gene the same question, he answered:

“In human endeavor, the most important thing is not so much the realization of the goal; the effort of the chase is worth more to the hunter than the actual capture. I cherish the crown. But my greatest thrills came not in winning it but in my climb to the top. Now that the goal has been reached, it is just another incident in my boxing career.”

There is no rosy road to success. But once it has been obtained, the hero worship begins. In boxing there are those whose names typify crashing power; others whose cleverness and defensive skill place them in the category of great ringmen. Still others are remembered for their intriguing personalities, their humor, wisecracks, and _color_.

In these pages you will find the human side of these vivid personalities; first hand information on fights and fighters that is authoritative; the elements in boxing that made ring history; the never-to-be-forgotten incidents that make boxing the fascinating sport it is.

* * * * *

My work as a journalist has brought me in contact with sportsmen the world over. I have interviewed presidents and kings, promoters, managers, and fistic celebrities from the four corners of the globe. I have received _La Medaile d’honneur d’or de education physique et des sports_ from France; the _Constantine Ordine Militare de San Georgie di Antioche_ and the _Commandatore della Stella al Merito Sportivo_ from Italy; and the Order of the White Elephant from King Bhumibol Adulyadej of Thailand for my work on behalf of international boxing.

I have been on intimate terms with every heavyweight champion since James J. Corbett. When Corbett died, I wrote thirty articles on his career for the King Features Syndicate. To my headquarters, facing the main entrance of Madison Square Garden, have often come Jack Dempsey, Gene Tunney, Jack Sharkey, Joe Louis, Jimmy Braddock, and many other great names of the past and present. Their photographs look down on me from the walls of my office and jog up my memory as the fleeting scenes of the days that have gone into the record books press for my attention.

Although there aren’t as many great fighters around today as in the past, they are the best we can now muster and we must be content with them. As a class, the boxers today are more wholesome, more eager for the good things of life than those of the old days who often spent their substance and their genius with the prodigal hand of the waster.

I have seen almost every heavyweight championship bout in the past half century, and most of those in other divisions—bouts that reach across a stretch of many exciting years—years of prosperity, war, depression, and change in boxing technique. They are years that saw the legalization of boxing throughout the world, the promotional extravaganzas of the great Tex Rickard and the million dollar gates, the reign of two of the greatest heavyweights of all time, Jack Dempsey and Joe Louis, and the rise and fall of Mike Jacob’s empire.

I entered the field of journalism as a sports writer during the transition period of boxing—the repeal of the Horton Law abolishing the sport, the beginning of the club membership era, and the subsequent adoption of legalized boxing throughout the world. It is satisfying to be a part of the new era, but a nostalgic treat to be able to look back on the old.

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My Boyhood Years

I became interested in boxing the day I learned how to make a fist.

I began to show interest in journalism when I contributed to the monthly magazine at Public School No. 15 in Lower Manhattan. Later I became its editor.

As a youngster, I loved athletics of all kinds. I played baseball, basketball, rode a bike with sufficient skill to do tricks on it, boxed and wrestled. And right here I want to pay tribute to the Boys’ Club, the Brace Memorial School, and Christodora House, which all through the years have done so much for the youngsters of the East Side of New York where I was born, November 3, 1887.

At the Brace Memorial School and the Boys’ Club, I learned to appreciate the value of organized, supervised athletics. It was one thing to exercise in the streets and yet another to become involved in the closely regulated activities of a club.

The Public Schools Athletic League provided another fine influence on boys like myself. For years, school sport in New York was run on a haphazard, catch-as-catch-can basis. Then came the P.S.A.L., in which General George W. Wingate and Dr. Luther Halsey Gulick were the moving spirits, and school sports became organized, supervised, regulated.

The P.S.A.L.’s first big track meet was held in Madison Square Garden, and there I competed in my first important race and won the 220-yard dash. It was there, too, that I first heard the roar of the crowd. I have been listening to it ever since.

* * * * *

My parents came to America in 1868. They brought a large family into the world. Among nine who survived, five of us have passed our seventieth birthday. Grandfather died at the age of 102 and grandmother, 101, and dad was close to 80 when he passed away. So you see the Fleischer family comes from hardy stock.

Brother Mark and I were the family athletes. I was thirteen when I entered Townsend Harris Hall, the preparatory school for City College. There, and at college, I continued my interest in sports and won many prizes.

My experiences during adolescence paved the way for my future career. In 1899, for example, I saw my first professional fight, a contest in which Terry McGovern was pitted against Pedlar Palmer, British champion. I’ve lived that fight over and over again. For me, that was the thrill of thrills: to be twelve years old and present at one of the most talked-about bouts in American pugilism!

My home was but a few doors away from the Brace Memorial School for newsboys, an organization opposite St. Bridget’s Church on the corner of Avenue A and Eighth Street. I did chores after school hours for Superintendent Walter Grosvenor and Grove Dale, athletic director. The walls of Dale’s room were decorated with photographs of famous athletes, and McGovern was among his favorites.

I had completed dusting when Dale, pointing to McGovern, remarked: “There’s a great little fighter. I’m going to see him box for the championship tomorrow. Mr. Grosvenor was to accompany me, but he can’t make it. If you can get permission from your ma, I’ll take you along.”

I was delighted at the invitation, but needless to say, I didn’t ask my mother, knowing her answer would be “no.” Instead I rushed out of the building, waited a while, then returned to tell Dale that permission had been granted.

The impression that fight left with me patterned my future. Henceforth, I became a collector of the fight pictures distributed by various cigarette companies, and to this day, I have more than 5,000 in my attic. They cover almost every fighter of note among the greats of the past.

A fortnight later, I joined a boxing class organized by Dale, and in a short time I was the captain and star of his outfit, as well as president of the Oregon Athletic Club, which he sponsored. We not only boxed, but had an excellent baseball and basketball team. I was catcher and first baseman of the ball club and participated in the club’s other activities.

As a boxer, I scaled only 122 pounds, but was fairly clever and could hit well. Leach Cross, later one of the toughest lightweights in the professional field, was my age. He was one of the neighborhood’s best scrappers, a lad who would put up his fists at the least provocation, and on many occasions we crossed each other’s path and settled matters without the aid of gloves.

I remember a baseball game in which Leach and I were on opposite sides and he resented the manner in which I tagged him out at the plate, preventing his team from tieing the score. He rushed at me and in a jiffy we were rolling all over the grass. Mr. Dale separated us and suggested that we settle our differences with the gloves. We agreed and what a shellacking I took! In later years when I became a reporter, I took keen delight in watching Leach do to others what he had done to me.

As captain of the Oregon Athletic Club, I accepted a request of Mrs. Oliver Harriman and Mrs. Jay Gould, sponsors of the Boys’ Club, to have our team meet the Boys’ Club members as part of the inaugural program arranged for the opening night of their new gymnasium. The second bout on the program was between Joe Gordon and me. Gordon scaled ten pounds more than I did, and I refused to go on until I was told that the rounds would be cut to two minutes each, and we would box only two rounds.

I walked into the ring with chest out, proud as a peacock as I received the plaudits of the gathering. However, the show ended within a few minutes. We sparred, and in seconds, the lights went out for me. I was knocked cold. I recall, as I regained consciousness, seeing Mrs. Harriman rubbing my forehead and Mrs. Gould patting my hand, yet I didn’t know what was wrong. I couldn’t understand what the fuss was about, until I learned from Leach Cross that my opponent, Gordon, was a ringer, a “pro” fighting under an assumed name. The incident almost caused a ban on boxing at the club.

* * * * *

Though I was only five feet two inches tall, I was a good sprinter and broad jumper at City College. In a meet with Rutgers, I cleared 19 feet 8 inches for a winning leap, and in a triangular meet with Pratt Institute and New York University, I did two inches better.

In 1904 I had become a City College correspondent for the _Morning and Sunday World_ and the New York _Press_ and two years later I was accepted by the _Press_ as a cub reporter on part time service, doing general reporting and copyreading under the supervision of both the sports and city editors.

When I graduated from college in 1908 with a Bachelor of Science degree, I was assigned to work under James R. Price in the sports department. He was one of the best teachers I could have wished for. He primed me for the sports editor’s post which I later held on several New York dailies for a quarter of a century. I also had the fine guidance of three experts: Ernie Lanigan in baseball, George B. Underwood in track and field and general sports, and Charles F. Mathison in boxing. A year later we were joined by another baseball expert, Frederick G. Lieb.

Although I liked my work, I had a strong hankering for commercial chemistry and matriculated in a postgraduate course at New York University. My hours on _The Press_ were long. I seldom reached home before one in the morning, yet for three months I spent my mornings at the University, bending over Bunsen burners, retorts and vials. One morning, exhausted, after a long tour at the paper, I mixed several chemicals that caused an explosion that blew me out of N.Y.U. I was asked to pack up and quit. So ended my budding career as a chemist.

I still was undecided about continuing as a reporter, and since I had passed an examination to teach in the New York schools, I accepted an assignment as an instructor in a sixth grade class of girls in Public School No. 7 on the lower East Side of Manhattan. I worked there until school closed at three, then reported to _The Press_, where I seldom left before eleven in the evening. It was a gruelling grind I had mapped out for myself, and two months before summer vacation I handed in my resignation to Dr. Kottman, the school principal.

I also held a license to teach during the summer in the playgrounds, and for two summers I was a supervisor of athletics in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn, a tough neighborhood where my boxing knowledge came in handy. During that time I organized the first Fourth of July schoolboy track and field meet under the supervision of the Public Schools Athletic League. This later became an annual event for many years under the direction of the Park Playgrounds’ Board.

* * * * *

I have passed through three depressions and have a vivid recollection of each. Though I was only six years old when the nation’s businessmen went into mourning during the crash in President Grover Cleveland’s administration, I recall how my brothers and I sold newspapers to make both ends meet. However, despite hard times, six of us graduated from college.

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My Work As A Reporter

April 14, 1912.

That’s a date I shall always remember.

It was the day on which I received my baptism of fire as a big time reporter. It was the day of the sinking of the _Titanic_, then the world’s largest ship. The mishap to that gigantic craft which was hit by an iceberg and went down in mid-ocean with many world celebrities aboard was largely responsible for my promotion to the executive post of sports editor.

Ever hear of the “dog-watch?” If you have any friends in the newspaper field, they’ll tell you that it is a term used to designate the desk men who remain on the job after the early edition goes to press. They must handle any startling news that might arise, news of sufficient importance to necessitate revamping the front page and setting new material for the late editions, or in cases of extreme emergency, to get out a special extra. To the “dog-watch” I owe much.

On that April night I took over the sports desk of the New York _Press_, filling in for Jim Price, the editor. I was there alone. My desk was full of proofs and I was busily engaged in reading them when Alexander Stoddard, who filled in as night editor, interrupted me.

Mr. Stoddard that evening was in charge of the news department and he, like me, was sitting in on the “dog-watch” when the biggest news item of the year broke through the Associated Press. The news was carried in envelopes to the city editor every twenty minutes by an Associated Press messenger. It was the last delivered envelope that stirred things around the “Press” building to a pitch of excitement that I’ve never since seen duplicated in my newspaper career.

The message carried in that delivery read: “Flash—Titanic Strikes Iceberg in North Atlantic—Report All Safe!”

That flash brought about action in our newspaper office that set an all time record. Alex Stoddard, James Scott, chief of the composing room, and I immediately got everything in motion for what was probably the quickest edition ever put out in New York.

Our first edition was closed. The paper was about to go to press. The New York _World_, the New York _Herald_, and the New York _Tribune_ all had a half hour earlier edition than _The Press_ so when that flash came through, these papers were already on the street while _The Press_ alone still had a chance to make the news in its first edition. We had the jump on everybody, and Alex Stoddard made the best of it with the speed and cooperation that only experienced newspaper hands can give. The morgue was next to the sports department. Stoddard ordered me to locate a copy of the passenger list of the maiden voyage of the gigantic and magnificent _Titanic_, a list that had been furnished by the Associated Press before sailing time. He called the composing room to acquaint Scott with the big news and Scott, at Stoddard’s command, had page one ripped apart as the paper was about to be put “to sleep.”

The superintendent of the press room was told to clear the presses for a quick extra, and all hands were alerted.

The Circulation Manager was apprised of the news and he in turn called in all available men in the delivery room, had his wagons lined up for the emergency, collected newsboys from Park Row, then the journalistic center of the city, and the stage was set, so far as the mechanical departments were concerned, for the biggest scoop of the era.

While this was going on, another Associated Press envelope was delivered which read:

“Cape Race, Newfoundland—Sunday night April 14—at 10:25 tonight the White Star _Titanic_ called ‘C.Q.D.’ to the Marconi Wireless Station here and reported having struck an iceberg. Immediate assistance was requested. So far no report on condition of passengers.”

With that as a lead and the names of the passengers, I helped to get out a front page story of one of the greatest disasters of our time.

I didn’t think human hands could work so rapidly! Within half an hour our papers were in circulation along lower Broadway and around the Brooklyn Bridge. Newsboys ran pell-mell along the thoroughfares shouting their wares. The Press delivery wagons were speeding up Broadway to Herald Square and Times Square, the two busiest sections of the city for early morning life, and there our extra was out a good twenty minutes before any other paper could publish the news of the disaster in a make-over edition.

For days after that feat, the New York _Press_ was the talk of the newspaper world. Of course, we were fortunate in going to press a little later than the other papers, but the big thing in our scoop was the fact that the “dog-watch” was on the alert.

When the _Titanic_ sailed on her maiden voyage, the largest ship afloat at the time, she carried a notable list of passengers. Among the 1,517 passengers who went down were Nathan Strauss and his wife; Captain Archibald Butt, aide to President Theodore Roosevelt; John Jacob Astor; William Stead of the _Review of Reviews_, a London magazine editor who wrote the sensational book, _If Christ Came to Chicago_, and Charles Frohman, America’s greatest theatrical producer.

When the _Carpathia_, which had rescued most of the 690 survivors, arrived in New York, the commotion about the dock was much like that occasioned on the arrival of a hospital ship during the First World War. Thousands flocked to the _Carpathia_ pier, but only newspapermen and officials were permitted inside the police lines, I among them.

Lady Duff Gordon of London, was among those saved. As she was good copy, most of the reporters were assigned to interview her in her suite at the Murray Hill Hotel.

The room was crowded with newspapermen when she recounted her story of thrilling rescues, episodes of heroism among passengers and crew; pathetic scenes in a sea strewn with dead, maimed, and shrieking men, women, and children.

I have had many memorable moments in my newspaper career but the assignment from John Hennessey, the Managing Editor, to work with the veteran members of our staff on the sinking of the _Titanic_ gave me my greatest reportorial thrill.

* * * * *

I had a guarantee of only $10 per week as my take home pay when I started my journalist career, but following the _Titanic_ disaster, my minimum was raised to $45 per week plus whatever I could make at space rates above that sum. In those days many of us were paid in that manner. During my first two years as a cub reporter, I often sat around for ten hours with little to do other than a few rewrite stories and frequently finished a week with $15 or less in my pay envelope.

The raise I received elated me. It was the biggest money I had earned as a reporter. It wasn’t long, however, before I became Sunday editor of the Automobile section and Scholastic sports editor in addition to writing feature articles and covering general sports events.

When _The Press_ was merged with the _Morning Sun_ and Jim Price resigned as sports editor, Frank A. Munsey, the new owner, appointed Joe Millard to take charge, with me as his assistant. Millard had been covering racing and was a heavy drinker, and he didn’t last long. I took his place within a few months after the merger. I served under Mr. Munsey on every paper which he purchased in New York. I was his sports editor on the _Sun Press_, _The Morning Herald_, _The Morning Sun_, _The Mail-Telegram_ and _The Evening Telegram_.

As Sports Editor I gathered around me a staff of experts that made _The Telegram_ outstanding for its sports coverage. In addition to Underwood, Mathison, and Lieb, I had Dan Daniel, Francis Albertanti, Peter Bernaugh, Hughey Mulhare, Harry King, Nan O’Reilly, Howard Valentine, Al Copeland, and James K. McGuinness—experts every one of them, each capable of reporting any branch of sports.

For thirteen years I was Frank A. Munsey’s top man in the sports department. Every time he junked a newspaper by amalgamating it with another, he placed me in charge. The break came in 1929 when the Scripps-Howard interests bought the New York _Telegram_. I had been in Europe on a two-month feature assignment on the reconstruction era in Central Europe following the war and knew nothing of the loss of my position, until I was informed by ship news reporters at Sandy Hook upon my arrival home. Roy Howard ousted me to make way for Joe Williams, a Cleveland sports writer from the Scripps-Howard organization.

I pondered for several weeks over my future and finally decided that I would devote all my time to _The Ring Magazine_ which I had organized in 1922. I also continued as American correspondent for several British and French newspapers, posts I still retain.

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An Interview With Roosevelt

“Like father, like son,” is an adage as old as the hills, but it is very often true. I was in San Juan, Puerto Rico, in 1932 to referee a fight and paid a visit to the Governor, Theodore Roosevelt, son of the great “Teddy.” Years ago, when I was a reporter, I made the acquaintance of the grand old warrior of the Roosevelt family, and meeting his son in San Juan, I was deeply impressed by the resemblance of the offspring to the sire.

Teddy Jr. was a chip off the old block. The smile, the handshake, and the energy put into his work as Governor were not the only reminders of his illustrious dad. His love for sports was another. Teddy Jr., like his father, was an expert at squash tennis and racquets and a boxing enthusiast.

A few days after young Governor Roosevelt was inaugurated at San Juan, I watched him box Frank O’Ben, the Island’s leading instructor, at the latter’s well-equipped gymnasium.

His father, President Theodore Roosevelt was a remarkable man: politician, ranchman, soldier, hunter, and all-around athlete. The Roosevelt boys were brought up on an athletic diet and each was taught the art of self-defense at school. Boxing was always one of Teddy’s favorite hobbies.

I recall the day in 1908 that the American Olympic team returned triumphantly from London, where little Johnny Hayes, our marathon runner, gained international fame in his race with Dorando Pietri, the Italian who collapsed at the finish. I met the homecoming team at Sandy Hook and accompanied the victorious brigade back to New York City.

The hero, of course, was Hayes. When the ship reached quarantine, we received word that President Roosevelt had invited the entire Olympic contingent to spend the following day at his Oyster Bay Estate where he would officially welcome each of the members.

Out to Oyster Bay the little army traveled, and when we reached President Roosevelt’s estate, we were met by the Roosevelt family, government officials, and a large delegation of home town folk. It was heart warming.

I learned much about Theodore Roosevelt, the athlete that day. Beaming with delight, he shook the hand of every member of the returning team. Then he told us how he had become so interested in athletics. In his youth he was referred to as a chicken-livered kid because his delicate health did not permit him to play in vigorous games with other lads. He didn’t like being kept in the background, however, and had no scruples about letting his parents know it.

“I made my health what it is today,” he said. “When I found that physically I was not the equal of other boys, I was determined to make myself fit.”

Here he was, receiving America’s foremost athletes, the young men upon whom the youth of the land looked with envy and admiration, and he immediately realized the opportunity to bring home a point to hundreds of thousands of American children.

“When a boy,” he continued, “I was sent to Moosehead Lake to rid myself of asthma. I was brought up by a maiden aunt who decided that the change of air would help my ailment and also help to build me up. While en route, I became acquainted with three lads who took a keen delight in teasing me. They called me ‘Sissy’ and other names I didn’t like, and my pride was hurt. I made up my mind that I would learn how to defend myself against such attacks, and that’s how I came to take up boxing.

“On my return home, I told father what had happened. He laughed it off but consented to have Tom Long, a former fighter, teach me the manly art. When I was in the third year at school, I became the lightweight champion. Then I took up wrestling, another sport I liked, and by the time I matriculated in college, I was pretty good at both.”

He told of the day he stopped by the Harvard gymnasium for some recreation and exercise, and one of the members of the Harvard boxing team invited him to spar. Roosevelt admitted he was quick to oblige. They donned the gloves, stepped to the center of the ring, and as Roosevelt put forth his right hand for the customary boxing handshake, he received a powerful blow to the jaw. The punch staggered him, and according to the President, he was flabbergasted at the unsportsmanlike display.

“The students were quick to note the discourteous act,” he said, “and cries of ‘shame’ and ‘foul’ filled the air. Much to the discomfiture of my opponent, I held my hand out until he complied with the courtesy of the ring, and then I proceeded to hand him a business-like shellacking.

“I taught that fellow something,” continued the President. “I taught him that boxing was a sport for sportsmen in which the rules of fair play must be observed, and he and I were the greatest of pals throughout the remainder of our college days.”

* * * * *

Roosevelt, when Police Commissioner of New York, followed boxing with a keen interest. When the police attempted raids in the old club membership days, he urged them to be lenient. Often he had them stand at the ringside to guard the contestants until the fight was over before he would permit them to interfere and make the arrest.

Back in 1916, when I was sports editor of the New York _Press_, I went out to Oyster Bay to get an interview with the retired United States President. At the time, the boxing game was being threatened by certain disgruntled politicians and blue law agitators, and things looked black for the sport. The flame against boxing had become so widespread that it seemed as if nothing could extinguish it, and I thought that a talk with Roosevelt would be timely.

I remembered my interview with him years before, and I recalled how ardent a fight enthusiast he was. So I figured that a story from him on the good points about boxing would help our cause. Here is his statement as I published it:

“When I became a member of the New York State Legislature, there was considerable commotion up at Albany by a faction that was opposed to boxing. I took up the issue with them. Like my father, who believed that a fair, stand-up fight would do a boy a lot of good, I arose to defend boxing. I surprised, even shocked, many mothers when I said that ‘the boy that won’t fight is not worth his salt. He is either a coward or constitutionally weak. I have taught my boys to take their own part and fight their way whenever they must. Cowardice is not in their make-up. I do not know for which I should punish my boys quicker—for cruelty or flinching. Both are abominable.’

“I have never been able to sympathize with the outcry against boxing. The only objection I have to prize fighting, is when there is talk of fake or crookedness, and such talk is common. Where there is smoke, there is fire and I figure that such gossip is never entirely unfounded.

“Outside of that, I regard boxing, professional and amateur, as a vigorous, healthful sport that develops courage, keenness of mind, quickness of eye, and a spirit of combativeness that fits every boy who engages in it for the daily tasks that confront him.

“It is not half so brutalizing or demoralizing as many forms of big business, and certain legal work that is often carried on to help such business.

“I have often thought that if we had more boys’ clubs where the manly art was taught, we would have fewer youthful criminals, the street corner type of hoodlum, and would breed a better class of young American citizens—the future voters. Boxing develops elements of character that are difficult to obtain in other sports—fairness, the spirit of give-and-take, courage, and alertness.

“It is only the bully who always wants to give and to avoid the taking. If boxing were taught in every public and secondary school and in college, this nation would soon find itself rid of the bullies and would develop in our youth a spirit of manhood, a spirit that teaches fairness to our fellow men. We would be rid of street corner rowdies and cowards, and make our boys a better, sturdier, healthier lot.”

In Washington, President Roosevelt frequently boxed with Professor Mike Donovan of the New York Gymnasium and Steve O’Donnell, another former fighter. When, after a long lapse, Harvard, of which Roosevelt was an alumnus, decided to restore boxing as an inter-collegiate sport, Roosevelt was instrumental in obtaining for his friend O’Donnell the post of boxing instructor. After the appointment, O’Donnell received a letter from Roosevelt which he permitted me to publish in the _Morning Sun_. Here is the letter which is now in my museum:

“Dear Steve:

You know of my interest in boxing since I often put on the gloves with Mike Donovan, Jack Cooper, and you. I had to abandon the sport after an eye injury, sustained in a sparring match with a young Captain of Artillery who cross-countered me on the eye, and blinded me. Fortunately it was the left eye but had it been the right, I never would have been able to go shooting—my hobby.

When I was in the legislature and was working very hard with little chance to get outdoors, all the exercises I had were in boxing and wrestling. I was extremely fond of both and still am.

Naturally through my enjoyment of boxing I grew to know a good many fighters and to most of those, I grew genuinely attached. I have as a result never been able to sympathize with the outcry against the sport. I have always regarded it and still do, as a fine, healthy, manly form of entertainment and have never thought of it as brutalizing. Of course matches can be conducted under conditions that will make them brutalizing, but this is just as true of football and other highly strenuous contact sports.

Bob Fitzsimmons was a good friend of mine. I admired him as a pugilist. For a long time I enjoyed his friendship and that of John L. Sullivan. There never was a better prize fighter than the “Boston Strong Boy.” When he was in his prime, no finer fighter ever stepped into a ring.

When I went to Africa to hunt wild game, Sullivan presented me with a gold mounted rabbit’s foot. I carried it through my African hunting trip and it certainly brought me plenty of luck. I believe that boxing should form a major part of the athletic recreation of our Army and Navy and should be included in the physical education program of every college.

I congratulate Harvard on its acceptance of boxing as an inter-collegiate sport and you on your appointment as Harvard’s boxing coach.”

Theodore Roosevelt

[Illustration: 5]

I Fight To Be A Soldier

Back in 1914, when the Mexicans were raiding the Texas Border and it looked as if Uncle Sam would have to take a firm hand in subduing Pancho Villa and his gang of marauders, Major General Leonard Wood, commanding the Second Army Corps at Governors’ Island in New York Harbor, at the suggestion of several New York newspapermen, decided to drill members of the Fourth Estate in soldiering. The reporters who had organized a Newspapermen’s Military Corps, with the object of mastering the Manual of Arms, received permission from the State Armory Board to use the drill floor of the Seventy-First Regiment Armory, where twice a week they assembled for instruction.

On Monday evenings, from five to six o’clock, they were taught how to drill by regular army officers, while on Thursdays they attended lectures on maneuvers and the use of arms. I was among the organizers, our aim being to get the jump on others in the event war was declared, so that we could be mustered into service as junior officers. For a time it was a novelty for the people in the vicinity of the armory to see the scribblers, tall and small, lean and fat, shouldering muskets and drilling through the busy business thoroughfare of midtown New York.

Then came General Pershing’s campaign against Villa, and that, with the outbreak of war in Europe, intensified the uneasiness of our country. There followed an order for the New York regiments to leave for the Mexican border and many of the members of the Newspapermen’s Military Corps accompanied the boys, better fitted to serve in the campaign, than they ordinarily would have been.

Those who didn’t go continued their drills in New York with Major General Leonard Wood in charge, and Major Brown and Captain Hall, both of Governors’ Island, as our instructors. And when the United States joined the Allies in 1917, it was the Newspapermen’s Military Corps that became the nucleus of the famous Plattsburg Citizens’ Training Camp. Among the first graduates were the writers who for two years had been drilling under General Wood and his aides while working as reporters or desk men on New York papers.

I was the smallest member of the original group, only 5 feet, 3 inches at the time, and when I filed my application for Plattsburg, though I had had considerable military training and was a good drill master, I was turned down because of my height. I protested vigorously and even went so far as to place my complaint before General Wood and Captain Hall, but was informed that nothing could be done for me.

Then came the draft. Time for enlistment was short. I was thirty-one years old. I was eager to serve because I was not a raw novice, and I realized that men of experience were now needed. I tried to enlist in the Regular Army but I was turned down here too. I then offered my services to the Marine Corps, but the same old remarks greeted me—“Sorry, you’re under-sized.” The Navy likewise turned me down. I decided that there must be something radically wrong when a government will turn thumbs down on men it could use in an emergency but whom the officials deemed too short.

Even the draft boards were instructed not to accept anyone who was not at least 5 feet 4 inches tall, and it was then that I got busy. I went to see my Congressman and my United States Senator. I told each of my military training and my experiences with the officials in our military service.

I suggested that the Army, Navy, and Marine Corps could make good use of almost anyone, regardless of size, and that those who were unfit physically to shoulder a gun could be utilized in general camp work, thus relieving other servicemen for the tougher task of fighting. My suggestion was seconded by my boss, Keats Speed, Editor of _The Sun_. I was called before a military board in Washington to state my case and within a week, I received a notice directing the military authorities to lessen the minimum height for enlistments to 5 feet, 3 inches.

Within two months, when further enlistments were halted and the draft went into effect full force, the order called for a minimum of 5 feet 2 inches, and still later, in order to give the service the fullest man power possible, every physically fit man, regardless of his size, was ordered accepted for service.

Thus I felt I played an important part in bringing down barriers that were keeping from the Army men who were eager and willing to serve. I have in my collection the editorial in _The Sun_ based on my argument in Washington.

* * * * *

I served through the war as an instructor at the School for Sergeants at Camp Greenleaf, Chattanooga, Tennessee, and when I was mustered out of service I reported back for duty as sports editor of the _Morning Sun_.

At home “a big surprise” awaited me. Wherever I’ve traveled, I’ve browsed about in search of boxing books, photographs of famous fighters, old watches—particularly those that belonged to famous fighters or sportsmen—stamps, and cigarette pictures of baseball players and boxers. My boxing library contains more than 1500 books, many of them rare volumes on fistiana and wrestling, some dating back 300 years. When I left for camp in 1918, I filled my room with my collection. I also packed away many old trophies: gloves worn by John L. Sullivan, spiked shoes worn by Sullivan and Corbett in their battle at New Orleans, John L’s diamond studded cane, the colors of Jack McAuliffe, Jack Dempsey and George Dixon, among many other relics I treasured.

When I returned home, honorably discharged by the Army, my sister, with whom I lived following the death of my mother, smilingly greeted me.

“I’m happy you’re home again,” she said. “I have a big surprise for you. Look in your room.”

I did, and what a shock I received! It was almost empty. She had gotten rid of all my publications and many of the relics, including a valuable set of Pierce Egan’s _Boxiana_ in the original boards.

“I knew you’d like a clean room. I called in a junkman and let him have what Mother so often called ‘your junk!’”

That “junk” meant a fortune to me, but there was nothing I could do but try to redeem some of the property. Fortunately the books had been sold to a second hand dealer and I salvaged them, but at an exceedingly high price.

[Illustration: 6]

Old New York

Unlike us poor mortals, cities die and are reborn. Who of you whose locks are graying around the temples, visiting the place of your birth, would recognize it as the city of your boyhood days? Only here and there have the world’s largest cities retained their ancient sameness.

I knew New York when it was far different from the town it is today, and in it I passed the happiest days of my life. We old-timers realize this more poignantly as we grow older and look back.

Thinking of the high cost of living today, I recall Dolan’s restaurant, the most noted among the many coffee and cake places spread in that busy downtown section of New York. Dolan’s was in the old Potter Building on Park Row, the gathering place for the humble and the big shots in the field of journalism. Ham and beans was the most delicious dish. The most called-for item on the menu, it could be obtained for only ten cents with an additional five cents for a cup of java. One could have his choice of ham or corned beef, and with it went bread and butter on the side.

And the sinker! For ten cents one could have his coffee and biscuits soaked in warm butter. We called this the sinker dish, much like the coffee and doughnuts we get today. Within minutes after a paper was put to press—usually about eleven o’clock at night—a rush was made for Dolan’s. Office boys, compositors, printers’ devils, editors, and reporters—they all made a bee-line for the beanery. The place was known as a newspaperman’s institution. Scarcely an editor in Park Row’s newspaper environ wasn’t a habitué of this famous eating place.

And then there was Perry’s “drug store” where one could get drinks at all times of the day or night. That was situated in the old World Building and was an exceedingly popular drinking emporium. The literary geniuses of Park Row were its patrons.

This old New York has long passed. Its heart is still beating, the same streets remain, many of its old buildings are still standing, scores of persons whose acquaintance I made when I was a cub reporter, continue to enjoy its pleasures—but it is not the same city in which I grew up.

The Old Madison Square Garden, the very heart of New York, is gone, and figuratively speaking, that was New York to us. You could ask a New Yorker how to get to the Museum of Natural History, the Aquarium, City Hall, the Metropolitan Opera House, and other noted buildings, and he would hesitate, but he could direct you to Madison Square Garden on 26th Street and Madison Avenue without difficulty. After telling you the easiest way to reach it, he’d probably wind up by asking you, “What’s going on there tonight?”

The Old Garden is gone, but in its place is a new one, the building I call home during business hours, and like the one which Stanford White designed, it is the rendezvous of both fans and athletes from all over the world.

Whatever was of New York, or for New York, was staged in the old Garden just as now it is staged in the “House that Tex Built” on Eighth Avenue between 49th and 50th Streets. I could write the story of our times with the Garden as my only backdrop, for so much of New York’s business, political, social, and sporting history was made between its walls. There the world’s greatest statesmen have addressed huge audiences and the rafters reverberated with the soaring, ringing phrases of orator and demagogue. The world’s greatest song birds were heard in the arena.

During the First World War, it was the stamping ground of thousands of patriotic Americans who flocked there to listen to war talks and to aid in charity for the war wounded. Many noted French, Belgian, and British war heroes gathered under its roof from the hectic period of 1917 to the signing of the armistice.

The Garden was one of the triumphs of its architect, Stanford White. Originally built to house the horse show, it soon became a show place for every conceivable kind of event, but particularly sports. The Arion Ball and the French Ball were fixtures there—annual festive affairs of a Bohemia that is no longer seen in New York.

But the shows were the big thing in the old Garden: horse, cat, chicken, automobile, motor boat, airship and sporting goods shows; wild west rodeos; boxing and wrestling matches; walking, running and cycling races (especially the six-day bike races); and biggest of all annually—the circus. Every winter saw expositions that drew thousands to the Garden. Its history was truly the history of New York over half a century.

Madison Square Garden and its neighborhood will always have a special place in American literature, for in its environs, in a park across the street, O. Henry sat and listened as the “Voice of the City” gave up its tales to him.

With the old Garden gone, the memories that live the longest and most vividly are those of its great sporting events—affairs I frequently reported.

It was there that William A. Brady, who managed Jim Corbett and Jim Jeffries, and later became one of the world’s leading theatrical producers, staged many thrilling events. Smiling Bill Kennedy, the rotund Pat Powers, debonair and handsome Harry Pollock, dapper and energetic Jimmy Johnston, astute Billy Gibson, and colorful Tex Rickard and his partner, John Ringling—each had a hand in making the Garden the show place of New York.

The great John L. Sullivan leads the array of fistic talent that paraded before the public in the old Madison Square Garden arena. Other celebrated ringmen of the past who made history within its walls included James J. Corbett, Charley Mitchell, Mike Donovan, Tom Sharkey, Peter Maher, Kid McCoy, Bob Fitzsimmons, Joe Gans, George Dixon, Sam Langford, Billy Plimmer, Kid McPartland, Battling Nelson, Joe Jeannette, Willie Lewis, Freddie Welsh, Willie Ritchie, Leach Cross, Jack Dempsey, Benny Leonard, Johnny Dundee, Midget Smith, Bill Brennan, Frank Moran, Bombardier Billy Wells, Al Palzer, Jim Coffey, Joe Lynch, Pete Herman, Johnny Buff, Gene Tunney, Battling Siki, Paul Berlenbach, Richie Mitchell, Young Jack Sharkey, Harry Greb and Tiger Flowers. Since the old bare-knuckle days, there was scarcely a ring idol who didn’t at some time in his career take part in a Garden fight. The same was true of the wrestlers. The only ones I failed to see were those who fought before my time.

And amid a whirr of whirling wheels, there were little Bobby Michaels, the Welsh Rarebit; Major Taylor, Harry Elks, Cannonball Eddie Bald, Plugger Bill Martin, Al Shock, Tom Butler, Fred Titus, Teddy Hale and a host of others of the go-it-alone years, when the cyclists rode six days and nights, made their marks in the bike-riding world. I spent many hours watching them circle the Garden track. Later these stars gave way to Walter Rutt, Bobby Walthour, Joe Fogler, Jackie Clarke, Menus and Johnny Bedell, Floyd McFarland, Eddie Root, Al Goulett, Al Grenda, and Brocco—among others.

As the Garden was the temple of cycling when New York was wrapped in the throes of the cycle craze, so it was earlier when the six day go-as-you-please pedestrian races were all the rage. Those who starred in that field were Dan O’Leary, Jim Alberts, Gus Guerrero, Pete Hegelman, Littlewood, Roswell, and Weston. Such races would be wasted on half empty arenas today, but they played to full houses when I reported them.

In the field of marathoners, as an old-timer, I recall the running of Tom Longboat, Alf Shrubb, Johnny Hayes, Paul Akoose, Fred Meadows, St. Yves, Gusta Ljungstrom, Sammy Mellor, and Dorando Pietri.

Remember Dorando, the man who lost the marathon to Hayes in London in the summer of 1908, when he collapsed at the finish line? Well Dorando made a pot of gold by that fall. He came to America and later, after piling up a little fortune, established himself as a baker and confectioner in Italy. I recall the wild scenes in the Italian quarters of New York when Tex Rickard paraded him as a publicity stunt.

The Garden was the scene of many other foot races besides marathons, and I was on the scene for most of them.

Will we of the old school ever forget the memorable match race between Lon Myers and the great Englishman, W. G. George? Who of us who reported the race, will ever forget the great ‘600’ between John B. Taylor, the famous Negro athlete of the University of Pennsylvania (and forerunner of the corps of Negro athletes who now dominate middle distance running in this country), and Harry Hillman, later coach of Dartmouth College.

The stirring finishes of Mel Sheppard, Abel Kiviat, George Bonhag, Harvey Cohn, John Paul Jones, Ted Meredith, Arthur Duffy, John Drew, John Daly, Paul Pilgrim, Howard Valentine and John Joyce still set an oldtimer’s heart to pulsing faster.

And the discus throwing of Martin Sheridan and Bob Edgren; the hammer throwing of Pat McDonald, Bill Coe, Ralph Rose, Bob Edgren, and Matt McGrath—And so many, yes, hundreds of other limber-legged, winged-footed, mighty sons of track and field who made the old Garden famous!

For forty-four years the old Garden catered to all classes and all types, millionaire and stevedore, banker and clerk. But time in its march has covered many leagues. New York outgrew the old Garden and then a bigger, more modern, up-to-date structure took its place as a monument to Tex Rickard, who, in the last days of the old building, made the lovely statue of Lady Diana atop the Stanford White Tower proud of her surroundings.

Before Tex Rickard took the helm, the old Garden was a haven for the crooks. Pickpockets flourished there, and the safety of the patrons at a bicycle race or a fight was entirely a matter of luck. Rickard changed all that by ousting the objectionable characters and making the Garden what it is today—an arena where men, women, and children may go without fear of being molested.

I recall a six-day bicycle race in 1909. It was bitter cold and the rowdies, gangsters, and hoodlums of New York flocked to the arena to keep warm. They could then obtain a gallery seat for fifty cents and remain from the time the show opened until it closed—if they could last that long.

Complaints were pouring into Police Headquarters as pickpockets plied their trade with impunity. Several overcoats were stolen, and certain patrons of the arena were waylaid and robbed in the basement. I was assigned to Police Headquarters for the evening and learned that Martin Sheridan, the best all-round athlete the police force ever had, would conduct a raiding party on the nimble-fingered gentry at the Garden starting at eleven o’clock. Sheridan was at the head of a Broadway pickpocket squad at the time, and he was to take with him six of the best detectives on the force.

At seven that evening, Sheridan asked me out to dinner. We dined with two of his squad and my colleague, George B. Underwood, of the New York _Press_, and at ten o’clock we started for the Garden. Into Harry Stevens’ bar we went, that being the rendezvous for the police who were to do the raiding, and while waiting for the late comers, Sheridan invited us all to a drink.

It was pay day at Police Headquarters and pay day on our paper, and when all hands were served, I asked for the bill. Martin would have none of that. He not only insisted on footing it but ordered another round of beer and then came the pay-off.

It was time to get going. The raid would soon be in order, and Officer Sheridan was anxious to get his men stationed. He asked for the account, placed his hand in his pocket to pay it, and then he let loose!

“Holly Gee, they picked my pocket! They took my pay envelope!”

Officer Sheridan was the only one who didn’t enjoy the joke. He pleaded with me not to make mention of the theft in my story, and then he got busy. He made up for his lost bank roll by making every gangster in that arena pay a share of the loss. A battered, bleeding, frightful looking lot of pickpockets, hold-up guys, and confidence men were taken down in the basement, and to the tune of a rubber hose or black jack, they were given unmerciful beatings. There were no more coats stolen or pockets picked at the bike races that week.

It was on the occasion of the last go-as-you-please fun in the Garden, a year later, that less than a hundred persons braved the howling wind to see the opening race. The big arena looked like a deserted barn. Almost all those present came on Annie Oakleys, as we called free passes in those days. The half frozen newspapermen covering the race were seated at a long table near the entrance and were busy grinding out their copy and trying to dispel the gloom that hung over the place. Suddenly Tim Hurst, who managed the Garden, was observed beckoning wildly from the other end of the hall.

“Come here,” roared Tim, “Quick! Quick! Come here!”

Thinking a murder had been committed, we scrambled from our chairs and rushed down to where Tim was standing.

“Look! Look!” he excitedly said, pointing to the box office. “See that sucker and his gal buying a ticket!”

We all laughed, but that sucker gave us a good story a few minutes later. Sitting in a box above the track, he placed his heavy, fur-lined coat on a chair behind him, while his girl placed her squirrel coat over the rail. The pair looked like aristocratic kids out on a slumming tour. Within ten minutes after entering their box, the man’s coat was stolen right under his nose. He demanded action from Tim Hurst, a fighter of the old school—but Tim paid no attention.

“Who told you to come here?” shouted Tim in his well-known way. “Why didn’t you stay where you belong? You got just what was coming to you for going out slumming.”

The “sucker” hauled off and caught Tim with a beautiful right on the whiskers and down went the Garden promoter right into the lap of Big Jim Mitchell, the hammer thrower, who was then writing for the _Morning Sun_. The offended patron happened to be Arthur Pelkey, the man who two years later caused the accidental death of Luther McCarty in a “white hope” match in Calgary, Canada. He had never met Tim Hurst and Tim had never laid eyes on Arthur, but after the blow was struck, some of the scribes recognized the fighter and a handshake ended further arguments. Pelkey recovered his coat a few hours later when the culprit who stole it was found sleeping on it in the basement.

Johnny Broderick, successor to Sheridan as head detective in the old Garden, told me many times that before Tex Rickard’s regime, probably half of the rogues gallery could be located between dusk and dawn at a six-day race. Overcoat stealing was so common as to pass without comment. During those races, members of the homicide squad were assigned to patrol the Garden in pairs, and many fugitives from justice were picked up.

* * * * *

Of course, as I fondly recollect the early Garden days, not all my interesting sports experiences as a reporter in the big city took place there. For example, I was very much involved in the development of distance swimming in the New York area.

Sitting around in the office of the New York _Press_ one night, after the first edition had gone to press, the conversation turned to the diving exploits of the shapely Australian, Annette Kellerman, who at the time was hitting the headlines with her wonderful performances.

From diving we passed on to swimming, and then to distance swimming. We spoke of the great Capt. Matthew Webb, the Englishman who was the first to swim the Channel. Webb had tried to swim from the Battery in New York to Sandy Hook, a distance comparable to the Channel crossing, and had failed. I decided that night that I was going to find an American who could make that Sandy Hook swim.

The first candidate for the job was Louis Durborrow, a Philadelphia bank clerk who had earned himself a formidable distance swimming reputation in the Delaware River. Louis quickly accepted the suggestion that he attempt the New York Harbor crossing.

I organized the effort, and at dawn on a warm, sunny, Sunday morning, Louis jumped off the dock at the Battery and headed for the Hook with Dan Daniel and myself following in a hired fishing boat.

The treacherous currents proved to be too much for Durborrow, however, and he was forced to quit. Some weeks later, he failed again. Then he tried to swim from the Hook to the Battery, but this, too, ended in failure for the bank clerk. On each occasion, Daniel and I were the only reporters who accompanied the swimmer.

After Durborrow, I shifted to other swimmers. In addition to promoting Sandy Hook attempts, I organized swims from East 23rd Street to Coney Island, as well as Hudson River marathon feats. It was fun to get up at dawn and go out in a small boat for the day. But it was no fun to return to the newspaper office after dark, with the desk heaving with the waves and the typewriter doing all sorts of tricks.

Here’s the odd feature of the Hook effort. The New York _Tribune_ picked up my idea and promoted an open swim. I believe twenty-six started and as many as three made the distance. Fighting against the tide, without any rivals, Durborrow and others had failed. But with many swimmers involved in a race against each other, the feat was accomplished.

Many of my biggest assignments were covered with Dan Daniel, whose friendship I have always cherished. He was working for the _Herald_ at that time, but in later years, when I was sports editor of the New York _Telegram_, I persuaded him to quit and join my staff. He is now baseball editor of that paper.

* * * * *

Late in September, 1913, I called him on the ’phone.

* * * * *

“Dan, Rose Pitinoff of Boston and a woman companion are going to make an attempt tomorrow morning to swim from the Bellevue Hospital pier at 26th Street and East River through the Narrows to Coney Island. I’m going to accompany them in a motorboat. See if you can get the assignment from your paper and come along,” I said.

Miss Pitinoff had already made two fruitless attempts to swim from the Battery to Coney Island, but now she hoped to make it over another route. Dan and I had accompanied her on her previous swims and I soon received a message from him that we would be together again on this one.

The next morning at dawn all hands appeared, but to our surprise, there was no place where Rose and her friend could undress and prepare themselves for the trip. We tried to gain access to the Nurses Home of the hospital, but without success. Then we went to that section used as a morgue, and there, without asking permission, the girls quickly put on bathing suits. However, on all such long distance swims—this one was 26 miles—the body had to be well protected with a heavy coat of vaseline to keep out the cold.

It was a cold night and Dan and I were none too comfortable as we stored hot coffee and sandwiches on the motorboat and waited for the girls to start on their journey. Soon word came to us that the swimmers required help. They had tried to enlist two nurses to rub the petroleum over their bodies but were turned down. Since we had to leave with the tide going out, I decided on the next step. I went into the building, removed my coat, rolled my shirt sleeves and began plastering Miss Pitinoff’s body with the jelly while Dan did the same for her friend.

To this day I don’t know how the police got word of this, but before our job had been completed, two cops appeared out of nowhere and threatened to arrest all for “indecent exposure” and “unlawful trespassing.”

We had a tough time explaining our mission and proving to the police that the girls were out to engage in an athletic feat, and that Dan and I were assigned to report the stunt. However, we finally managed to convince them, and a few minutes after five in the morning, the swim got underway. Although the attempt was unsuccessful, Miss Pitinoff came within a half mile of reaching her goal, a considerable improvement over her previous showings on the shorter Battery route.

* * * * *

In my young days as a reporter, I often walked home after hours from the New York _Press_ building on Spruce and Nassau Streets to Harlem, a distance of five miles. My pal, Daniel, always accompanied me on these jaunts, weather permitting. We’d meet almost nightly after the first edition went to press and walk from the _Press_ down to the Battery and then up Broadway to 110th Street.

It was during these after-hours walks that we frequently encountered situations that made the front pages of our papers. Fires, burglaries, raids on gambling joints, and even murders, figured in our stories. I vividly recall several that almost cost my life.

It was on one of those late evening excursions that we heard the shrill blasts of police whistles—not an unusual occurrence—as we reached Lenox Avenue and 114th Street. We had been walking for about two hours, and it was close to three of a warm August night in 1911.

“Let’s go, Dan,” I shouted, scenting a good story, and down the street I ran towards the sound of action. A little more cautious than I, Dan hesitated while I entered a building into which the cops had raced. It was pitch dark except for a flashlight carried by Officer Jerry O’Connor, a friendly patrolman who covered the beat. He and Officer Egon Erickson, high jump champion of the Mott Haven Athletic Club, were chasing an armed hold-up thug. The police went after their man with drawn guns and with me at their heels.

I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. As I reached the upper story of the building, I heard the door of the roof slam, indicating that the police were trying to locate their man there. I was about to follow when I was nearly hurled over the balustrade by the thief himself, who had avoided the cops by hiding behind the door.

“There he is,” I yelled, grasping the rail to regain my equilibrium as the gunman started down the stairs. Seconds later, I found myself in the grasp of Officer O’Connor, who had his gun pointed toward me.

“Not me, O’Connor,” I shouted. “I’m Nat, the reporter. He’s running to the street,” I added, pointing downward.

The officer flashed his light on me and down we went with Erickson following.

The culprit, accused of armed robbery, was caught and handcuffed. Then both cops admonished me in no uncertain terms for the chances I had taken in following them into the unlit building.

“You could have been killed,” said Erickson. “Don’t ever do that again. Let us tackle these gangsters.”

There was Dan, standing on the corner of Lenox Avenue and 114th Street, laughing and waiting for me to have some coffee with him.

“One of these days, you’re going to get it,” he said. “When are you going to quit chasing burglars and following cops up dark alleys?”

* * * * *

About a fortnight later, we were on another of our long walks, but this time we changed our course and headed up Broadway into Sixth Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street, close by the Hotel Normandie. Many Greeks lived in that vicinity, and on the corner was a social club, more correctly referred to by the police as a gambling joint.

A shrill cry from a woman put us on the alert. She ran from the building followed by a man brandishing a knife. He tripped as he ran across the street but quickly recovered and raced back into the saloon from which he had emerged.

I followed him and saw a murder committed. Unable to catch the woman, he put the knife into the heart of the man with whom she had been drinking.

I quickly stepped out of the confusion that followed, but was sufficiently close to hear him say, “She’ll never have him. He’s through.”

The murderer was arrested almost immediately, and the police insisted on my accompanying them to the precinct house on Twenty-eighth Street as a witness. When the trial was held, I was subpoenaed by the District Attorney and for four days I reported. But the District Attorney decided not to call me to the stand.

Things were going bad for Walter Zyhariat, the murderer, when I decided to talk up. I approached the District Attorney and demanded to be placed on the stand.

“We don’t need your testimony,” he said. “It will hurt instead of help our case.”

Someone reported that conversation to the lawyer for the defense, who, when the trial was resumed for his summation, requested that the court permit him to reopen the case on the grounds that he had some new evidence.

“Permission granted,” said Judge Foster. “Swear in the witness.”

I was called to the stand. I was first asked if I had been subpoenaed by the prosecution.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you know of any reason why you were not called to the stand?” was the next question.

I repeated what the District Attorney had said to me, and the lawyer for the defense then took up the questioning. I told what I had seen after which the lawyer asked:

“When he ran out of the saloon and went after his wife, was there anything you observed that would help the court determine his condition?”

“He was dishevelled,” I replied. “His eyes were popping out of his head. To me he looked like one who had suddenly gone mad, and so I reported in my story.”

“I object,” shouted the District Attorney. “He is unqualified to determine the condition of this person. I request that his remarks be stricken from the record.”

I looked at Judge Foster. He seemed impressed with what I had said.

“As a newspaper reporter, the witness is a man of keen observation. His testimony should be heard,” he said.

When the case was given to the jury, Judge Foster harped for some length on my testimony and a verdict of manslaughter, carrying a twenty years’ sentence, instead of “murder in the first degree,” saved the defendant from the electric chair.

* * * * *

In those days I could both sprint and run distances without tiring too easily, and this athletic ability came in handy on nights when I had to report track meets and get my copy in early. In the days of which I write, telegraph service wasn’t used with any frequency. As I worked on a morning newspaper, my story had to be in the office before eleven o’clock. Press time was midnight.

One night, both Dan and I were covering the Military Athletic League track and field championships at the Seventh Regiment Armory. After George Bonhag, of the New York A.C., had romped home a winner in the two-mile, Daniel and I decided it was time to head for our respective papers.

The Third Avenue Elevated station was only two blocks to the east of the Armory and five to the south, and as there wasn’t a taxi in sight, we decided to run to the station in an effort to make our deadlines. I led the way, and undoubtedly must have been feeling fine for we ran and ran at a lively clip until Dan suddenly halted and breathlessly shouted after me:

“What’s wrong, Nat? Where’s the durned El?”

We got our bearings and discovered that instead of traveling east and then south, we were racing down Park Avenue and had reached Seventy-ninth Street, far off our course, and more than a mile from the armory. We set off again, this time in the right direction, and just made the second editions of the _Press_ and _Herald_, respectively. But on our way to the newspaper offices, we wondered why we hadn’t competed in the two-mile run that evening. We might have beaten Bonhag.

[Illustration: 7]

The Underworld In Boxing

Prohibition failed to keep the average citizen from having a drink when he wanted one, and no attempt by the authorities proved successful in keeping the average New York fan away from boxing entertainment. But the demise of the Horton Law in 1900 deprived the game of its legal standing so far as shows catering to the general public were concerned.

Even as the speakeasy provided a welcome substitute for the vanished saloon through the hectic period that preceded Repeal, so a haven of refuge was furnished the patrons of padded fist slugfests by the adoption of what was known as the club membership plan.

The fight game was a racket then and truly could be referred to as the sport of rogues. Although there were some honest promoters in New York when I covered the sports beat in those days, boxing as a whole was ruled by ruffians, gangsters, and politicians. The many fixed fights that soured the public on the sport were engineered by politicians with headquarters in Tammany Hall, which then, as in the days of John Morrissey and Bill Poole, had tremendous influence over the game. They told the police what to do and how to do it. They made the odds, brought about the fixes, and collected their bets.

Hoodlums used to keep pugilists in line. We still have plenty of that today but the damage is done differently. Whereas in the “good old days” it was an up-and-above board game with the unsavory element, today it is all done through undercover agencies.

Politicians and police turned their eyes to avoid “seeing” what was going on years ago, but in this era, city, state, and Federal investigations keep hounding the criminal element in an effort to keep boxing clean.

When the Eighteenth Amendment was repealed, that didn’t end the tie between the mobsters and the fight racket. To this day racketeers continue to infest the sport. Frankie Carbo furnishes an example of the continuing influence of underworld figures in boxing.

They not only muscled in on boxers in the old days, but on the prosperous clubs as well. It was a case of take it or leave it with them. There was no middle channel. They often stole fighters outright, and it was worth one’s life to defy them. Practically every big city’s fight clubs had bootlegger’s dough financing the operation. The Dutch Schultz and Owney Madden gangs held sway in New York, the Boo Boo Hoff mobsters in Pennsylvania and the Al Capone gunmen in Illinois.

I knew them all. As a reporter it was my business to associate with all classes, and I often found myself in the company of these criminals. I dined and wined with them. I often traveled to fights with them.

I recall the bout down in Miami between young Stribling and Jack Sharkey, following the death of Tex Rickard. The late Steve Hannigan, one of our nation’s leading purveyors of publicity, and I handled the fight for the Madison Square Garden Corporation.

About a week before the affair, Damon Runyon told me that Al Capone, then living in a “palace” on Hibiscus Island, had extended an invitation through Runyon for the New York sports writers to visit his home and enjoy a buffet dinner. I was asked to furnish the names of all who would accept and to make arrangements with one of Capone’s henchmen.

We had more than 450 newspapermen down for that fight and of the group, I selected 62 to join in what promised to be an adventurous evening. And so it turned out.

When our cars reached the entrance to Capone’s gate, Al’s bodyguards directed us to drive to a designated field, where each car was searched. The occupants were given the once over, too. Some of us were even frisked. There was exceedingly careful screening of each guest; after all, Capone had a price on his head.

Then we were all escorted by bodyguards to the main room of the spacious home and each was introduced to the famous gangster. Though these were prohibition times, bottles of champagne popped. The finest bottled beer was piled on the tables, all from Capone’s private stock, safely hidden on the premises and guarded by “specials.”

Capone asked some of the writers, among them Sid Mercer, Murray Lewin, Westbrook Pegler, Paul Gallico, Francis Albertanti, Runyon and myself, to inspect his special cache of liquor in an underground room. We left the women in our party engaged in conversation in the living room, though some donned bathing suits for a swim in the outdoor pool, which, like other parts of the Capone estate, was closely guarded from behind the shrubbery. No one was permitted to go out of bounds—that is, near the shrubbery where guards, well armed, patrolled the area, so fearful was Capone of an attack by his enemies.

When we returned to the dining room for refreshments, one of the women who had gulped down too much of Capone’s vintage champagne, collapsed, and in falling from the couch, dislodged one of the cushions. Immediately there was a dive for the couch by two of Capone’s henchmen, not to help the woman, whose name I won’t mention, but to cover two sawed-off shot guns and several loaded weapons which had been hidden under the huge cushion.

We were seeing things! Capone’s brother, who found the situation embarrassing, explained that the weapons were there merely for safe keeping. They were souvenirs, he said. Of what? Probably the Moran massacre in Chicago.

The unfortunate girl was carried to the upper floor powder room, where she was placed in the care of one of the maids.

During the commotion, someone had stolen a diamond ring from Mrs. Capone’s boudoir and the story of that theft, through a slip of the tongue by Capone, became the newspapermen’s property shortly before we left.

Westbrook Pegler, then writing for the Chicago _Tribune_ syndicate, had gotten wind of the loss and rushed off to file a story. Joe Williams, of the Scripps Howard Syndicate, and Paul Gallico, writing for the New York _Daily News_, did the same.

Capone was furious. He pointed the finger of guilt at us, intimating that someone in our party had entered his wife’s bedroom and stolen the ring. When he learned that several newspapermen had left to write the story about the theft, his tone grew threatening.

In his story the next day, Pegler described the party and remarked, “While Capone was entertaining the scribes, one of his henchmen was busy robbing his master’s home.”

Capone then came forth with an emphatic denial that a theft of any kind had taken place. He tried to cover it up with a statement that the ring had been found in the powder room where it had been all the time, but a day before the fight, he confided to Runyon and me that it had not been recovered. Al told us that he was certain one of the guests had taken it.

It was a party I shall never forget. There were gunmen to the right and gunmen to the left, most of them veterans of the many Chicago massacres which Capone had engineered during prohibition days.

It was during the Frawley Law period that I exposed gangsterism in boxing, and it almost cost me my job on the New York _Press_. The famous Rosenthal murder case had broken. Police Lieutenant Charles Becker and the four gunmen—Dago Frank, Whitey Lewis, Gyp the Blood, and Lefty Louis—were all awaiting trial for the crime.

The murderers were East Side gangsters allied with the big gambling interests. They needed considerable money to obtain proper legal talent. They had to have ready cash, and the usual extortion methods practiced by criminals were put into use. East Side boxers and fight promoters were assigned to canvass the district for a collection. Small merchants within a designated area were each to be asked for a contribution of one hundred dollars and the more thrifty ones were to be taxed a flat one hundred and fifty. Secrecy was necessary.

I was assigned to cover a fight at the Roman Athletic Club where Frankie Madden, a popular lightweight, was one of the principals in the main event. The house was packed. Many of New York’s most notorious gamblers and criminals were among those present, including Spanish John. As I entered the club, I was accosted by Kid Twist, a well known East Side gangster, who asked me for a contribution. It was then that I got an inkling of what was going on.

The story of the “hold-up” appealed to me far more than the fight that night, and I decided to dig in for material. I was fortunate in meeting Izzy Einstein, who, during the prohibition era, was the team mate of Moe Smith, Uncle Sam’s star snooper and raider of illicit liquor joints. From him I learned that at a special meeting attended by friends of the Rosenthal gunmen, it was decided to obtain a fund of fifty thousand dollars for legal fees through “donations,” voluntary or otherwise.

Three days later I went to the Dry Dock Club where I gathered sufficient evidence to enable me to publish my story. It created a sensation. The headline read: “Gangsters In Extortion Plot. East Side Criminals Force Merchants to Contribute For Defense of Rosenthal Gunmen.”

In the story I used the name of a prominent sports figure, and the day following its publication he brought suit for libel against the paper. I was called into the office of the managing editor, John Hennessey, who asked if I had sufficient facts to back up my story. He told me that unless I could stop the suit, I would lose my job.

The person I named as the leader didn’t have too enviable a record and it was my job to get the goods on him. So I went out gunning. I had learned that a few of the merchants who already had paid into the fund had received a card to prevent them from being molested. If I could obtain such a card, that evidence would be all I needed, and that’s what I went after.

I had been told of a hoodlum who had done the collecting, and who, upon reading the story, had left the city for a safer place. He’d selected Kingston, New York, as his hideaway. I went after him, and with the aid of a bribe, I got my evidence.

With that card in my possession, I returned to New York and handed the ticket over to Mr. Hennessey. Now well fortified, he called in our legal department, and within a few days, the suit was dropped, and my job was saved. The ticket bore the signature of the person who had filed the libel suit.

Thus I exposed a link between crime and boxing. One of the clubs, used as headquarters for the collection of the fund, went out of business a few weeks after my story broke, and the high-powered legal talent that the gangsters had hoped to hire with the extortion fund, had to be dismissed. But there was enough money collected to enable the mob to hire Judge Otto Wahle to act as chief counsel for the quartet. Yet even with this excellent jurist in their corner, the murderers of Rosenthal were convicted and executed in Sing Sing.

The case was by far the most prominent of that era in which gamblers and thugs were so deeply involved in New York’s boxing affairs; but in perspective, it was just another story in the long history of crime, politics, and the fight game.

Book

Two

[Illustration]

[Illustration: 8]

An Amazing Amateur

When United States Senator W. Warren Barbour of New Jersey died at his Washington home a few years ago at the age of fifty-five, an outstanding figure in the Senate and the political life of his State passed away. He was a unique personality among Congressmen because here was a man who, had he belonged in a humble social station, might possibly have fought for, and won, the blue ribbon of the professional prize ring—the heavyweight crown.

The Horatio Alger fiction tradition always had its hero starting from the ranks of the Submerged Tenth, overcoming all obstacles, winning golden spurs in commerce by dint of courage, pious living, and determination. Never, of course, by the boxing route.

When Alger was writing his all-American-brave-youth-yarns, prize fighting was an illegal game, and its principals were entirely beyond the pale of politeness. Later we had the Frank Merriwell stories, also with an “up-from-the-depths” motif, but permitting heroes to win fame and dollars as stars of baseball, football, and other athletic pastimes. That meant that the literary bars were being let down a trifle; and in the due course of time, magazine editors began featuring the exploits of two-fisted lads successfully wooing Dame Fortune with the aid of padded gloves.

Today it’s a far different sport atmosphere from the time when W. Warren Barbour, one of the cleverest, hardest-hitting amateurs that ever answered the sound of a gong, was being importuned by fight promoters to turn professional and meet the great Negro boxer, Jack Johnson, for the world heavyweight championship. Barbour might have done so had he not been born the son of Colonel William Barbour, wealthy New York thread merchant.

In 1910 I saw Barbour win the amateur heavyweight crown in Boston. Boxing, while it had attained semi-legal status, was still not a career likely to be followed by the son of a multimillionaire of high social standing. Had Warren been poor in this world’s goods, he would have been a sure-fire pickup for some astute manager hoping to steer him to the professional championship goal. And that was exactly what the young athlete would have liked. It was also what several of America’s leading promoters were eager to see, because of Barbour’s popularity and knowledge of ring science.

However, the Alger-Merriwell build-up didn’t apply in his case. There was no social climbing needed, no struggle necessary to score success in a quest for the almighty dollar; he was already sitting on top of the world.

Yet he told me in an interview at a Princeton football game that, if he had been left to himself, nothing would have pleased him more than to have entered the professional ring. I heard Warren Barbour repeat that during a fistic gabfest with Phocian Howard, publisher of racing sheets, while en route to the Dempsey-Willard battle at Toledo on July 4, 1919. Tex Rickard had selected the ex-amateur heavyweight champ to act as official timekeeper for that historic event.

That was the only time he associated himself with the professional game. Parental opposition was the real cause for his refusal to listen to the siren songs of the fight promoters who wanted to capitalize on his scientific skill and punching power. Perhaps it was just as well, for Jack Johnson was then in his prime, and no matter how good an amateur may be, it is always a considerable risk to pit him against an experienced pro, even one of second rate standing. And Johnson was not only a first-rater, but stood head-and-shoulders over all his pugilistic contemporaries.

Only twice in boxing history was an amateur champ given a shot at a title in his first professional engagement. That was in 1892 when Jack Skelly, of Brooklyn, head of the amateur featherweight class, took on George Dixon, acknowledged the world’s king of professional feathers; and when Peter Rademacher, U.S. Olympic champion, in his first pro bout, tackled Floyd Patterson in a battle for the heavyweight crown. In each case the amateur was knocked out.

The handicap was far too much for Skelly, good clever kid though he was, and Dixon kayoed him in the eighth round. Rademacher was stopped in the sixth.

However, it will always remain a pleasing possibility that Warren Barbour might have fared better than Jack Skelly or Peter in an invasion of the pro ring, for he possessed every asset of an excellent professional. When he won the amateur heavyweight title in Boston on April 12, 1910, by a clean knockout, Barbour was a trim athlete, over six feet and one-half inches tall; he scaled 204 pounds in fighting togs and could jab, block, counter, and duck blows far better than most of our top professionals today. He was far superior to Rademacher as an all-round pugilist.

Such men as referee Charley White and Jim Corbett, former world heavyweight champion, believed him good enough to fight Johnson, and were not alone among experts in thinking so. In my book, he was the greatest amateur boxer I had ever seen, even better than Floyd Patterson or Billy Rodenbach of New York, whose rating was extremely high in A.A.U. boxing circles.

While Barbour was training in Jack Cooper’s New York gymnasium, he asked to have some big men about his own heft brought along to spar with him. Cooper complied by sending for his friend Jim Corbett. I was sitting with Cooper watching some workouts, when Barbour made the request. Corbett was admiring Warren’s style when our talk was interrupted by Cooper. Jim stripped for a turn with the gloves and was happy to get such a sparmate. But having heard that the aspiring youngster was somewhat of a walloper, Corbett was cautious at the start. Then he let himself out, and after a couple of rounds Corbett said frankly that Barbour was a wonderful heavyweight prospect both as a puncher and a scientist.

“Your future as a professional is bright if you’ll go for it,” Corbett told Barbour. Then turning to me, Jim added, “I’d like to manage him.”

Young Barbour’s reputation spread far beyond the walls of Cooper’s gym, where he continued to take daily workouts with pros and amateurs. A few weeks after the Corbett session, another former world’s heavyweight champion, Jim Jeffries, who was at the time training in the gym, tried him out there. Cooper, who often sparred with President Theodore Roosevelt in Washington, knew Barbour’s father well. He broached the subject of professionalism to him several times, but Warren’s dad wouldn’t think of such a move. He was purely an amateur at heart, a big financial supporter of amateur athletics.

Jeffries, just back from a European trip, was soon to meet Johnson at Reno in the fateful battle which resulted so disastrously for the white man’s comeback stunt. Jeffries put in a week at Cooper’s place in New York City, loosening up a bit before starting a theatrical tour prior to going into regular training for Johnson.

The Californian sparred several times with Barbour and was so impressed by the latter’s skill that Jeffries asked him to join his training camp on the Pacific Coast. The youth did not accept the invitation, but Jeff’s candid endorsement of Warren’s prowess naturally boomed his pugilistic stock higher than ever, and resulted in Charley White, “Old Eagle Eye,” dropping into the gym to look him over.

Nationally famous as a referee and second, White was recognized universally as a keen, unerring judge of fistic material. When Charley first watched Barbour spar, he found it difficult to believe that the young fellow was not boxing for a living. His finished style, footwork, and ability to take a hard punch and deliver one, struck the veteran as being professional.

It was on Cooper’s advice that Barbour decided to enter the amateur tournament in Boston. Jack got Charley White to handle the big chap as chief second. The newspapers there already had printed several stories about the New York lad. My friend “Doc” Almy of _The Boston Post_ dubbed him the “Millionaire Kid” and the moniker stuck. I represented my newspaper and spent four days with Barbour in the Hub.

Mechanics Building was packed to capacity on the opening night of the tournament, with some seven thousand ardent fans anxious to see the much publicized New Yorker in action. On that occasion Barbour and Emory Payne drew byes. Kendall Salisbury of Massachusetts whipped the Canadian champion, and Joe Burke, of the same state, stopped Mullins of New York.

On the second night, Burke and Payne came together. This was a fast slugging match which terminated in the second frame, when Burke, a bull-rushing Celt, hung a terrific right on his opponent’s jaw. Then Barbour ducked under the ropes to face New England’s champ, Kendall Salisbury.

Somehow a sobriquet such as “Millionaire Kid” doesn’t make for popularity with a fight mob. Barbour hadn’t desired any ring alias of the kind, and wasn’t feeling any too grateful to Almy, who had conferred it on him. The crowd expected Salisbury to score an easy victory, and indulged in many rough jests and catcalls touching on the Manhattan boy’s possible ancestry and financial status. However, Warren kept his temper and only grinned. He wasn’t the type that’s easily flustered, anyway.

“Keep this chap at long range and box him, don’t slug,” White told him.

Barbour did just what he was told. His long left was perpetually in Salisbury’s face, which was badly cut up before the second round was over. Barbour jabbed his opponent to a near-standstill without sustaining any damage himself and was awarded the decision.

But the big test for Barbour was yet to come. After fifteen minutes rest, he stepped into the ring with Burke, the wild Irishman of established kayo fame in the A.A.U.

“Box this bird just like you did Salisbury till I tell you to cut loose,” said White. “When he tears in, sidestep and make him miss.”

Again Barbour followed instructions to the letter. He stepped nimbly to the left as Burke rushed, swinging a futile right. His left counters kept Burke’s head bobbing back incessantly, and try as he might, the Celt could not get to close quarters with his elusive antagonist.

But in the second round, Barbour failed to evade a buzzing right that nailed him flush on the chin and dropped him. In falling he caught Burke around the waist and pulled him down with him. Burke was up first, and Warren’s father and brother, watching from front row seats, must have felt more than a trifle anxious.

Their misgivings were short-lived. Barbour, in response to a signal from White, had merely rested on one knee for a few seconds until his head cleared. It is at a time like this that a boxer shows if he has the real fighting instinct—the ability to keep cool under fire. That is every bit as essential to ring success as the ability to give and take it. There was nothing lacking in Barbour’s fighting make-up.

When he regained his feet, Burke tore in madly. He was met by a jab that set him back to the ropes. Then the bell rang, just as a stinging left hook to the jaw made the Irishman’s knees buckle. Back in the corner White gave Barbour this advice in exultant tones:

“You’ve got him loaded on your little red wagon now, boy. Go in an’ take him with both mitts!”

The gong sent Barbour leaping forward like a springing leopard. Burke, always game, met him half-way, and they went into a furious mixup. Right and left the gloves whizzed, but the Celt was continually being beaten to the punch. Barbour’s left crashed on his chin and down went Burke.

Up he staggered and ran into a short right that dropped him again. He arose weak and groggy. Barbour stabbed him off with a straight left, measured his man, and tagged a terrific right uppercut flush on the chin. Burke keeled over and fell face downward on the canvas. He was through for the night, nor did he regain consciousness for nearly ten minutes.

The “Millionaire Kid” made good. The jeers that marked his first entry into the ring had changed to a storm of frantic applause which shook the building.

The echoes of those wild cheers had not died away before Colonel William Barbour leaped through the ropes to congratulate his son. Later that night the proud father threw a party for the visiting New Yorkers at the Hotel Touraine, where there was much feasting and merriment, with Charley White, sage old fox of the squared circle, as master of ceremonies.

The “Old Fox” tried hard enough to get Pa Barbour to let his son turn pro, but no amount of persuasion could turn the trick.

[Illustration: 9]

The Michigan Assassin

One of the greatest fighters of my time was the middleweight Stanley Ketchel.

Talk to the veterans who followed the career of this fighting man during the height of his glory and they’ll tell you that Stanley Ketchel was the finest in his division. Unfortunately, I didn’t see him when he fought his memorable battles with Billy Papke and Joe Thomas, but I did cover most of his thrilling Eastern contests, and from what I saw in the two years in which he made the East his headquarters, I rate Ketchel the greatest middleweight of all time.

Stanley was an unusual individual, wild and untamed one second, lovable the next; treacherous at times, and most amiable on other occasions. His frank, open eyes were soft, yet the moment he climbed through the ropes in pursuit of his prey, those eyes became the eyes of a killer. He always breathed through his nostrils and fought with his mouth tightly shut, a slight grin of contempt on his lips.

Ketchel scorned the word retreat. Yet once his mission was over, and he either flattened his opponent or won the verdict, he was just one of the mob—a man full of fun and mischief. The memory of this spectacular ring gladiator has never faded. Those who saw him flash across the pugilistic firmament spoke of him with unwavering loyalty and admiration. The greatest praise that can be lavished upon a promising middleweight contender today by a sports critic is to rate him as another Stanley Ketchel.

Few among the thousands of fistic heroes I’ve seen were more colorful than Ketchel. A demon of the roped square, he made his opponents think that all the furies in Hades had been turned loose on them. He got his punches away from all angles. If he missed an opponent with one hand, he would nail him with the other. He was as game as a bulldog and as tough as a bronco.

His most prominent traits, I would say, were his generosity outside the ring and his utter relentlessness inside of it, his egotism and eternal confidence and faith in himself, his fearlessness and superb courage. Outside the ring he was the soul of generosity. He was a mark for the panhandlers, much like Jack Dempsey in that respect. However, he was also a jokester whose greatest joy was playing pranks on unsuspecting camp visitors who came to idolize him.

When he was in New York, he would do his training in Woodlawn, not far from the entrance to the Woodlawn Cemetery. The adjoining territory at that time was wild, with tall grass, huge trees, and few houses within a radius of several miles. It was one of the undeveloped portions of the city, an ideal location for training.

It was there that Ketchel took delight in luring sparring mates and other camp hangers-on for his well known snipe hunts. Usually, he would first make certain that he had the confidence of those he intended to lure into the woods by joking, story-telling, and card playing. Then, when he spotted his man, invariably the most talkative of the lot, he would nod and wink to the boys and politely ask them to accompany him to the training table where arrangements for the hunt were made.

“How would you like to join me in a snipe hunt, tomorrow?” the champ would ask. “Snipe are game birds, exciting to catch.”

What a silly query! The honor of supping with the great Michigan Assassin was glory in itself, but to stalk the woods in Ketchel’s company at night for the elusive snipe, that was an experience to be cherished.

The next day, dinner over, the great hunt was on. We of the fourth estate would gather at the Inn to see the fun. A lone miner’s lantern was the only means of finding the trail through the woods. The victim was provided with a potato sack. Into this sack Ketchel and the scouts proposed to drive the wary snipes.

A snipe potpie was to be the culmination of the hunt, and the victim was told that he must not permit the snipe to pass him on the trail once Ketchel and his aides started off for the birds. “A snipe,” said Stanley, “would never change his course after starting down the trail.”

The snipe trail was found after a long skin-scratching jaunt through the briars, with a number of newspapermen trailing the leaders to add more realism to the affair.

“Now you remain here and keep the mouth of the bag open right in the middle of the path,” said Ketchel to the poor victim. “The snipe will see the hole and run right into it. You just can’t miss them. From the chirping that is now going on in the brush, there should be several dozen of them on the loose tonight. Mind you now, stay on guard, keep the bag wide open and keep your eyes open. Be on the alert!”

Ketchel would then pick up the lantern and accompanied by the scribes, hit the trail back to camp, leaving the snipe-snarer holding the bag.

We’d return to Woodlawn Inn by a roundabout way and there Ketchel would start a card game lasting until midnight. Then, in a sympathetic tone, he’d remark that it was about time that the poor dupe in the woods was relieved of his burden. But instead of going back to him, his training staff would laugh it off and retire for the night, letting the chap in the wilds find his own way out of his predicament.

The sniper would come to the inn during the wee small hours of the morning and find it closed for the night. Those gloomy darkened windows seemed to laugh down at him to tell him that he had been kidded. Usually Ketchel and his companions would never hear from the hunter again; that was one sure way of eliminating the pest from the camp. Occasionally, however, there would be some persistent fellow who would come back the next day and seek out the great middleweight.

In the latter case, the victim would lament his ill-fortune, only to get a bawling out from Stanley for apparently “disobeying” his orders; Ketchel would tell him that because of his negligence in not doing what he was told, the hunters lost all the snipe. And that evening, immediately following dinner, out on the trail again would go the fighter and his pals to give the pest another little “ride.”

* * * * *

I first came to know Ketchel when he was introduced to me by Hype Igoe, then his manager as well as a famed cartoonist and boxing scribe for the New York _World_. I cherished the friendship that developed from that introduction and requested assignments to cover Ketchel’s fights in New York, Philadelphia, and Boston, including one of the most thrilling contests I’ve ever seen.

In my years of covering the fight beat I’ve witnessed many exciting bouts, but not many offered such a variety of bitter, tornadic milling, rapid footwork and cleverness, as the fight between Ketchel and the celebrated light-heavyweight, Philadelphia Jack O’Brien.

This classic battle was fought in an era when referees didn’t interfere as they do today, and when officials were more hard-hearted because they didn’t have to depend on boxing commissions for an assignment. It took place in the ring at Fiss, Doerr, and Carroll’s Horse Mart on East Twenty-fourth Street, near Lexington Avenue, in New York City. I went to report the fight, expecting O’Brien to be defeated rather easily, since he had fourteen years of ring activity behind him and had reached the age of thirty-one. Gloriously handsome and courageous, his opponent was a virile, young, bone-crushing puncher whose hitting power and relentlessly savage attack had earned him the _nom-de-guerre_ of “Michigan Assassin.” Nevertheless, I came away singing the praises of O’Brien, for his display of bulldog courage, consummate ringcraft, iron nerve, and Arctic coolness in time of crisis made him the hero of the evening.

The fight was so thrilling, it sputtered and sparked with moments so tense that I could feel my heart beating in my throat from start to finish. O’Brien, with his old fighting head and heart, withstood the wolflike rushes of a slashing, ripping, tearing young opponent. Cunningly hiding his hurts, he bluffed Ketchel time and again into doing things he should have avoided.

During the first seven rounds, O’Brien stood off most of Ketchel’s machine gun volleys by clever boxing. Many of the blows landed, but most of the damage was done by O’Brien. Ketchel believed he could whip anybody, regardless of weight, but he had never faced such astounding adroitness as was displayed by O’Brien that night. Philadelphia Jack chopped his opponent’s face up with powerful jabs for seven rounds until it was a blanket of blood.

In the middle of the seventh round, Ketchel slowly dropped his powerful arms at his sides and, to our astonishment, took a deep breath as if preparing for a new life. Then came the unexpected. He went after his man and drove him from corner to corner. O’Brien, who was obviously slowing down, called upon all his skill, and yet he could not prevent Ketchel from reaching his body with cruel drives to the chest and heart. Just before the bell sounded, a right opened a deep gash over O’Brien’s eye. He took his punishment like a stoic, but every time he struck home an effective blow, Stanley would snort and snarl like a wounded animal and redouble his efforts.

Throughout the eighth round, Jack tried every strategy of the ring game to postpone what seemed the inevitable end. At times he clinched and stalled, only to pull himself together and fight back viciously. But nothing could stop Ketchel. He kept coming on, bloody as a slaughterhouse killer.

As the ninth round opened up, he drove a terrific belt to the pit of O’Brien’s stomach. Gasping for breath, Jack collapsed against the ropes. Few expected him to get to his feet, but he did. He immediately went into a clinch to save himself from a knockout. We all expected the worst, and we were not disappointed.

Like a shark on the blood scent, Ketchel went after his opponent as the final round started. O’Brien, spent, exhausted, his body wracked with the pain of the last two sessions, gamely tried to put his usual spring in his steps as he faced the final assault. But the Michigan Assassin would give him no rest. Swinging left and right to the jaw, he dropped Jack for a short count. It was obvious from the look of pain on his face that O’Brien was being hurt dreadfully every time Ketchel landed a punch. Each blow seemed to rattle every bone in his body.

It was apparent that Ketchel had been told he would have to score a knockout to win and he went after it. Every time he lashed out, O’Brien’s blood was spattered around the ringside. Again he put Jack down with a powerful stomach punch, and again the aging battler struggled to his feet before the referee could count him out.

There were only twelve seconds to go and unless Ketchel could score with a kayo wallop, he’d lose the newspaper decision so far as the majority of the writers were concerned.

He leaped forward. The seconds were waning. We all figured it was too late now for Stanley to make it. The bell would surely save Philadelphia Jack, despite those knock-downs.

Eight seconds were left and then—the roof was blown off the arena as Ketchel drove both hands to the body and quickly followed with a swing to the jaw. The blow was so powerful it lifted Jack off-balance and sent him toppling back and down. His head bumped into the resin box in his own corner, which his handlers had forgotten to remove during the excitement of the previous round. As Jack’s head went into the resin box, the impact was sufficient to send him into unconsciousness. He was as inert as a stone. The bell clanged when referee Tim Hurst had reached the count of four and a brave battler was dragged to his chair.

Did he win? Did he lose by a knockout?

Confusion? Loads of it. The clock showed that O’Brien had been saved, since only four seconds had been counted when the fight ended. But the writers and spectators didn’t depend on that timepiece to settle such an all-important matter when thousands of dollars had been wagered on a kayo. As decisions were against the law in those days, additional interest was added to the arguments, pro and con, regarding the final status of the fight.

The arguments continued well into the night and the sports desks of the various papers were flooded with calls. When the consensus in the morning and evening newspapers showed that the reporters present had declared O’Brien the winner by a shade, there was hell to pay from those who figured they had been unjustly deprived of their winnings. They simply couldn’t understand how the decision could be given to a man who had finished a fight stretched out on the canvas with his head resting in a pan.

Never have I seen the duplicate of that classic ring battle—a no-decision affair in which it seemed that everybody wanted a verdict rendered.

* * * * *

A few months before Ketchel was shot to death, I journeyed to Boston with Tad Dorgan, Wilson Mizner, Hype Igoe, Judge Kelly and George B. Underwood to see him fight Porky Flynn. The bout took place on May 17, 1910. Flynn wasn’t much of an opponent, although he outweighed the champion, but Stanley was offered a sizeable purse and accepted the match.

Flynn didn’t last any longer than expected, going down before Ketchel’s terrible fists in the third round. But before the men had entered the ring, Stanley had become involved in a discussion with a wealthy Boston sport who was backing Flynn. The Bostonian sneered at Ketchel’s ego after hearing the champion boast of what he intended to do to the local entry. Stanley got mad.

“Now look here, you pretend to be a sport, don’t you?” he snapped. “Well, I’ll just bet you a thousand dollars, even money, or any odds you want, that I’ll knock Flynn out inside of four rounds. There’s a chance for you to back your opinion.”

It looked like easy money to the sport and he accepted the bet. After Ketchel had knocked Flynn out in the third round, he went over to the loser’s corner, grabbed up the bucket of water and dashed the entire contents over the prostrate fighter. Then, turning to Porky’s backer sitting at the ringside, Ketchel shouted derisively:

“There’s your man! Fork over that thousand.”

* * * * *

Ten days later Ketchel defeated the Gas House pride, Willie Lewis, at the National Sporting Club in New York City. Both men conformed to championship weight requirements, Stanley tipping the beam at 156 and Lewis at 154. Despite his defeat at the hands of Papke, Lewis had an opinion—almost an obsession—that he could whip Ketchel. He freely predicted that one of his wallops to the jaw would transfer the middleweight title, though the bout was scheduled as a no-decision affair.

The sporting public didn’t share Willie’s confidence in himself. The night of the fight there was a huge gathering in the Club, but the crowd came more to see Stanley in action than with the thought that they would see the championship change hands.

Ketchel appeared drawn and tired as he entered the ring, while Lewis seemed to be in the pink of condition. The bout was scheduled for ten rounds and Tom O’Rourke was the referee.

The first round was very tame, each man trying to feel the other out. Willie was plainly scared of Ketchel’s smashing right and the crowd yelled for action.

In the second, after Lewis had put three punches to the head, the champion decided it was time to open up. The men mixed it for a few seconds and then suddenly Stanley’s famous sleep prescription—that terrible right swing—was applied to Willie’s jaw at the point where it would do most good. Lewis went down as if he had been shot and was unable to move a muscle for more than two minutes. When he finally revived sufficiently to be helped from the ring, he cried like a baby.

After the fight, Ketchel went to his dressing room and hurriedly slipped his trousers and sweater on over his fighting togs. Then, along with Toby, the hunchback who always accompanied him, “Pete the Goat,” his chief handler, and several newspapermen, he jumped into his big red auto and whirled down to Luchow’s Restaurant on East Fourteenth Street, a popular eating place of the period. There he bought a keg of imported beer and several cases of champagne, and then the whole party, including Igoe, Underwood and myself, started for the champion’s training quarters at Woodlawn.

We drove up through Central Park and continued on up Seventh Avenue. There was a fire in the neighborhood that night and the fire lines were extended across the thoroughfare. That didn’t stop Ketchel. He slammed through the lines. A motorcycle policeman speedily went into action, but Ketchel’s car had covered seven blocks before the bluecoat caught up with us. A rough session followed.

When Stanley tried to get the car in motion again, the cop threatened him. We were expecting a free-for-all when Underwood and I flashed our police cards and explained to the officer that Ketchel had just stopped Willie Lewis and was eager to get back to his training quarters at Woodlawn.

“I know Ketchel,” the cop said rather gruffly. “What are you trying to put over on me?”

It required considerable proof before the officer would be convinced, but when he was, instead of arresting us for violating the fire laws, he paved the way for Ketchel’s party for about a mile, and then, with a hearty handshake, bid Stanley good night.

Arriving at the Inn some time after midnight, the champion aroused the occupants and set up the drinks and a fine supper. He even sent “Pete the Goat” and Toby clear up to Yonkers to drag the bartender out of bed and down to the Inn to help the celebration by playing the violin. Unfortunately, the bartender could play only two tunes—“The Wearing O’ The Green” and “Where The River Shannon Flows”—and these he repeated over and over again.

* * * * *

Ketchel was superstitious and believed in signs. If someone threw a hat on his bed or opened an umbrella in the camp quarters, he’d throw a fit. He invariably made it a point to shake hands with all his seconds before the bell sounded to start a fight, and “Pete the Goat” was always the last one whose hand he’d grasp. Old timers will remember little Toby. Stanley wouldn’t go into the ring unless Toby was in the building and somewhere near his corner.

Although a man of whims, Ketchel made friends easily. He was bashful to an extraordinary degree—almost, at times, to the point of timidity. In conversation with newly arrived writers or visitors to his camp, he would speak in monosyllables, but once he became thoroughly acquainted, he was one of the gang. The transformation was almost electric.

He never wasted time on press agents, nor did he make any reservations as to the color, weight or reputation of his opponents. He was ever ready to meet all comers, yet his lazy, easy-going way of pulling away from a punch, and the fact that his handsome features were unmarred to the end of his days, was proof that his opponents didn’t hit him as often as they appeared to.

Stories have been written about Ketchel’s lack of nerve. I wish that the fellow who started that canard could have been in his camp on the day or night before a fight, for this ordinarily good-natured and frolicsome man would become as sour and crabbed as a wounded grizzly bear. All of us took great pains to keep out of his way, for he would have a fit of temper at the least provocation.

All stone and ice and concentration when he entered the ring, Ketchel was as cross as a sick old woman in the few hours leading up to fight time. Nevertheless, I always enjoyed his company. He was a great fighter—the greatest middleweight I have ever seen in ring action—and his untimely death by gunfire at the hands of Walter Dipley at the age of twenty-four was a heavy loss to boxing.

[Illustration: 10]

Jack Johnson

The year was 1910.

Jack Johnson had defeated James J. Jeffries to retain the world heavyweight championship. The cry for a “white hope” to dethrone the Negro king was now greater than ever.

Jack Johnson remained for a short time in Reno, where I saw him stop Jeffries, and then went on to Chicago, where he was the center of a wild reception. I was told to stay with Johnson until his arrival in New York, where the police feared a race riot would make things very uncomfortable for all concerned.

I shall never forget the sight that greeted us in New York: Thousands of Negroes crowded the streets, parading, shouting, shooting off fireworks, and carrying on in hilarious fashion. They were celebrating a Roman holiday. It seemed to the police that the Negroes were hell bent for trouble and they took every precaution to prevent it. There were some fist fights, but the anticipated disorder on a large scale was missing in contrast to the street riots which Johnson’s triumph over Jeffries caused in other cities.

When I arrived in Buffalo on the Jack Johnson Special, a throng surrounded the car where Johnson was standing on the platform. A backfire from an automobile brought speedy action by the police who had mistaken the backfire for gunfire. We all made a dive into the club car, and when we learned what had actually taken place, Johnson, with his broad grin, returned to the platform to greet the cheering gathering. It was so unlike what we had expected!

From Birmingham down to the Grand Central Station, it was one grand ovation after another at each station stop. When we reached New York, the crowd was so dense the police had difficulty clearing a path for the homecoming party to get to the cars.

The reception that Johnson received at the station was nothing compared to the gigantic ovation that awaited him in Herald Square when he reached Baron Wilkes’ Hotel, a rendezvous for the colored sports folk of the big city. Thousands blocked the square. It was with the greatest effort that the conquering hero of the Negro race was finally able to make an entrance into his hotel headquarters where his wife, Ruth Cameron, was living.

Many white folk crowded the banquet room and no one was molested. It was a good natured gathering for the most part.

Johnson and I were good friends. He had promised me an exclusive interview, and he asked me to accompany him to his suite. There, when asked to comment on the stories that his victory had stimulated race riots throughout the country, he remarked:

“Nat, why should they bring in the black race against the white race in athletics? I licked Tommy Burns fairly. I did the same in my fight with Jeffries. My battle with Jeffries was not a contest between a black man and a white man, but between two boxers who were out to establish their right to the heavyweight championship of the world, a right I claimed and Jeffries disputed. I beat him and now the matter is settled.”

The interview was suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Johnson’s emergence from the bathroom. She had been preparing for the evening’s celebration and, having no idea that Jack was entertaining a guest in the living room, was completely nude.

Thinking that her husband, who was rumored to be having difficulties with his white wife, had purposely brought a white man into the room to embarrass her, she let loose with a violent tirade. Jack tried to explain, but was cut short when his wife, her eyes blazing menacingly, raised a chair. Discretion being the better part of valor, this seemed to both of us the propitious moment to leave.

The chair caught Jack in the center of the back as we raced down the stairs with her curses flooding after us. I never did finish that interview, though I was fortunate to have gathered sufficient data during our long trip home from Chicago to write the story.

* * * * *

Johnson was one of the brainiest fighters I have ever known. He knew boxing and was always able to give reasons for his opinions. I remember sitting with him in his Reno hotel after the Jeffries fight and asking him the reason for Jeff’s downfall.

“Well, it’s like this, Nat,” he said, standing up and throwing himself into fighting pose to demonstrate. “I think it was the blow that closed Jeff’s left eye that started him on his downfall.

“You see, I led and drew him out like this. He thought I would come back with my right hand, but I crossed over and shot a strong uppercut to his chin with my left—like this. I think that’s good ring strategy, although I say it myself, and it certainly won the fight for me and lost it for Jeff.”

When Jack was fighting his way to the top, he had to struggle against a field that contained some of the greatest names in the history of the heavyweight division. The period between 1905 and 1910 produced four great colored fighters: Jack Johnson, Sam Langford, Joe Jeannette and Sam McVey. There really wasn’t a white man who could be classed with this dusky quartet, and that was the real reason why Jim Jeffries retired.

The toughest opponents Jack faced in his rise to the championship were men of his own color. Among those whom he had to conquer were Hank Griffin, Denver Ed Martin, McVey, Langford, and Jeannette—each as tough as ebony, clever, and crushing punchers.

Some of the most thrilling contests I witnessed during the past half century were between Negroes. There was a lot of jealousy among the Negro heavyweights, for each believed himself to be the best in the world.

Johnson defeated Sam McVey three times, each contest being over the twenty-round route. He clashed with Joe Jeannette six times, boxing four no-decision bouts, losing once on a foul, and beating Joe over fifteen rounds.

Johnson and Sam Langford met but once in the ring, and that famous mill, like the Tunney-Dempsey fight in Chicago, and the Firpo-Dempsey clash, has come up for discussion time and again.

They fought at Chelsea, Massachusetts, and Jack was declared the winner after fifteen rounds. Langford’s supporters claimed that Sam almost had Jack out, but Jack’s adherents said that Langford took the worst beating of his career.

Joe Woodman, Sambo’s manager, stated after the fight that Langford floored Johnson with a right uppercut, but if you wanted to get Jack’s goat, you had only to repeat that statement in his presence.

Jack Johnson often came to see me, and I sometimes pulled his leg about the Langford fight until he was ready to tear the roof down. Once after I had kidded him, he turned on me almost in tears.

“Listen, Nat, please don’t say that,” he pleaded. “Say anything you want about me. Call me a quitter. Call me the worst fighter you’ve ever seen, but please don’t say that Langford dropped me or even gave me a tough fight.”

Dad Phillips, my father-in-law, an octogenarian whose knowledge of boxing I’d pit against that of any man, was in my office and he listened attentively to Johnson’s plea. When Jack had finished, Dad, who had seen the fight, agreed with Johnson. His version of the battle as he related it to me made Johnson quite happy. Here’s what Dad said:

“Jack Johnson decisively defeated Sam Langford. He was complete master of the situation. Jack so far outclassed Langford that for a time, until he purposely eased up on his onslaughts, the fight was one-sided.

“Langford was dropped twice for counts of nine, and he would have been out the first time if referee Martin Flaherty had not slowed up the count. At the end of the fight Sam had to be taken to a hospital.

“As for Langford dropping Johnson, that’s absurd. Why, he couldn’t land on Jack.”

A few days later I cornered Joe Woodman, who handled Sam in that fight.

“Look here, Joe,” I said, “whatever you did years ago when Langford was in need of publicity is okay with me. But now that Sam is out of the picture, I’d appreciate the low-down on that knock-down which you said that Sam scored over Jack.”

“It’s true, all right, Nat,” was all Joe would say.

Several weeks passed and Woodman again came into my office to introduce to me a new heavyweight, who shuffled uneasily as he listened to the following conversation.

“Nat,” said Joe Woodman, “I’d very much appreciate it if you would run a story and picture of this lad. He’s a good boy, but needs some publicity.”

“Gladly,” I replied, “but on one condition, Joe—that you tell me here and now the true story of that alleged knock-down in the Johnson-Langford fight. I’ve been flooded with letters about it, and Dad Phillips, who saw the fight, tells me you’re all wrong about it. Now you’ve got to tell me the truth if you want any help from me.”

Joe chuckled.

“You’ve got me, Nat,” he replied, “Langford never dropped Johnson. But I was anxious to fix up another fight between the two and knowing Jack’s pride, I invented the story of that knock-down to goad him into the ring against Sam again.”

“Although it never happened, all the newspapermen believed it. They just never took the trouble to investigate. That knock-down was just a publicity gimmick.”

So, here was the truth at last! Shrewd Joe Woodman not only disposed of Langford’s alleged knock-down, but ended the canard that had upset Jack Johnson whenever the topic was discussed.

* * * * *

Had I followed the advice of Johnson when I was making my choice in the first fight between Max Schmeling and Joe Louis, I would have picked the winner. Johnson, during the trips he made with me to Louis’s camp, repeatedly called my attention and that of other scribes to the fighting flaws that could easily cause the downfall of the rising young heavyweight sensation when he faced such a sharp, powerful hitter as Schmeling. On several occasions he stripped for action in my office, and before friendly newspapermen, he went through maneuvers to prove his contention.

Johnson pointed out that Joe had his body slightly twisted when he faced an opponent so that if he missed his left, he was wide open for a counter punch. “He’s always off balance,” said Jack. “I’ve seen him hit frequently this way by sucker blows. A clever boxer who hits like the German can knock Louis down and might even knock him out. To avoid this, Louis has got to change his stance.”

I published a story in _The Ring_ giving Johnson’s views, and so did Hype Igoe in the New York _Journal_. And to add spice to my daily radio program on boxing, I took Johnson to station WNEW the following evening and there he repeated his opinion about Louis’s faults and gave his opinion of the way a clever, hard-hitting right-hand sharpshooter could stop the Brown Bomber.

What happened in the Louis-Schmeling first fight is ring history. Jack Johnson was vindicated. His preview of that contest was so accurate as to be almost uncanny, for every mistake Louis made was called in advance by Johnson on my sports program and in my office before newspapermen.

[Illustration: 11]

A Black Omen

Jack Johnson was in trouble with the United States Government. He had been indicted for violation of the Mann Act and had fled to Europe to avoid incarceration.

The search was on for a “white hope” to relieve Johnson of his heavyweight crown. From every part of the world big, husky, burly men were brought to America in the hope that they would meet the requirements and bring back the championship to the Caucasian race. Some of these had a knowledge of boxing, while others, drawn mostly from farms, lumber camps, and crowded cities, were at least willing to give it a try.

The best of a select gathering was Luther McCarty, but he died tragically while boxing Arthur Pelkey in Calgary, Canada. The one outstanding remaining heavyweight was Big Jess Willard, who was known as the Pottowatomie Giant. Brawny and powerful, this six-foot five-inch cowboy had defeated Gunboat Smith and Boer Rodel, had knocked out Bull Young, who had died shortly after from his punishment, and had fought no-decision bouts with Pelkey, Carl Morris and McCarty.

Jack Curley, a famous promoter and manager, backed by Harry Frazee, a theatrical producer, conceived the idea to pit Willard against Johnson. He was confident that Big Jess could wrest the title from the Negro and after considerable difficulties with the laws of Mexico, our country and Cuba, he finally succeeded in overcoming all obstacles, and the contest was booked for the Marianao Race Track near Havana, Cuba.

I was about to take my annual vacation. From 1909 through 1914, I had visited the Pearl of the Antilles nine times. I loved to visit the Island, had many friends there, and invariably paid my expenses by writing baseball and boxing articles for _El Mundo_. Naturally, I was delighted to learn that the heavyweight championship would be decided there. I had no trouble convincing Jim Price, sports editor of my paper, that the assignment to cover the battle belonged to me.

I left New York a fortnight before Willard and his trainer, Tex O’Rourke arrived, and set myself up at the Palace Hotel which Johnson made his Havana headquarters. Jack and I had been friends for many years. He was an arrogant man, but I liked him despite the many bad marks he had against him. However, I felt that the easy life he had led, his carousing in France and Argentina, had softened him and that Willard, if in condition, should emerge a winner.

“You’ll have to work like a beaver to get into physical condition, Jack, Willard is no slouch,” I told him.

He laughed this off. He hadn’t done any training for a long time, and he figured he didn’t have to do much for Willard.

What happened later proved the fallacy of his contention. He lost the title, but there is more to the story of that defeat than Johnson s overconfidence or lack of training. There was the Black Omen.

They called Johnson the Black Colossus. He stood astride the boxing world and sliced the opposition to ribbons. With the exception of Jack Dempsey, he gave me more thrills than any fighter I saw in half a century at the ringside. In fact, I rank the burly Negro as the best heavyweight of all time. Just look at the procession of top heavyweights he whipped—Jack O’Brien, Tony Ross, Al Kaufman, Jim Flynn, Frank Moran, and James Jeffries, among others.

But when the leading “white hope,” Willard, was booked as his opponent, I felt confident that here was the man who would upset the applecart. Not that he was a great fighter by any means; but because wine and women had taken their toll and had left the Galveston Giant at the mercy of the first Caucasian heavyweight who could condition himself to last more than fifteen rounds. No matter how poorly primed Jack was to face top opposition at the time, he still was good enough to make a “monkey” out of any of the “white hopes” for at least fifteen frames. His mastery of ring science, his ability to block, counter, and feint, are still unexcelled.

The initial odds were four to one on Johnson. But when the Cubans watched him at his training camp, the odds took a tumble.

So when Tex O’Rourke, Willard and his retinue reached Cuba, I decided to spend most of my time with Jess. He was the big story. The public in America was more interested in him. They wanted to know how he shaped up for the big test, what his mental attitude was, his general demeanor, and the progress he was making. It was my job to see that our readers received the information, and it was while out with Jess and O’Rourke that I got a scoop that hit the headlines.

Willard was a mountain of a man, 6 feet 5 inches tall and 260 pounds in weight. Yet he had two failings—his right fist lacked snap, and his legs, though well proportioned for his massive body, tired too quickly.

For weeks his trainer had made the challenger run miles every day over the roughest going he could find. By the time Willard reached Havana his legs had been greatly strengthened and his wind was perfect. He was bronzed as an Indian and supremely confident. In terms of endurance, he was a match for any man alive.

Yet two days before the fight, I saw a dramatic, sickening change in him. He became morose and restless. O’Rourke put down Jess’s ugly mood to prefight nerves—a condition that frequently is found in pugilists when the time for their combat approaches.

Then fate stepped in in the form of a black duck, and the brave, gale-tossed bird won the world title for Jess!

On the morning of the fight, Willard, O’Rourke, and I were strolling along the Malecon, the Havana thoroughfare bordering on the ocean. We stopped by the sea wall and Jess looked gloomily across the waves.

O’Rourke’s face was lined with despair. I knew what was bothering the trainer. Only a few hours to the battle for the world crown, and here was the challenger behaving like a sulky child!

Suddenly a spot appeared in the distant sky. It proved to be a black duck, flying from the direction of the Florida coast, many miles away. It had lost its way and was seeking a place to rest.

Bravely it flew against a half gale with huge seas pounding below. Twice, with wearily flapping wings, it sank to the waves. Each time it made a frantic effort to rise again.

Spent and almost exhausted, the bird cleared the breakwater, grazed the huge sea wall, flew about 50 feet upward, then like a stone, fell almost at Jess’s feet.

Gently the giant picked up the gallant, feathered fighter. Tenderly, like a mother nursing her ailing child, he held the duck to his breast. But in a few seconds the bird’s heart stopped beating. It had made its landfall, and had perished in the attempt.

Jess stood there, silent and motionless, stroking the sea-drenched feathers, as though his caresses would restore the bird to life.

He looked at O’Rourke and said softly, “See how black and glossy his feathers are, Tex? Too bad he had to hand in his check just as he reached the end of the trail. What a game bird!”

Sunk in moody thought, Willard went on stroking the dead bird. As we watched in amazement, we saw him change. His eyes brightened, his broad back straightened. He turned to O’Rourke, slapped him on the back and grinned.

And with the old brightness back, he cried, “I’ll knock Johnson cuckoo. Tonight I’ll be the world heavyweight champion. This bird has shown me something.”

He wrapped up the duck in a newspaper to take it back to his hotel.

“Sure you’re going to win, Jess,” agreed the trainer. “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along. What made you think otherwise?”

“Sure I’m going to win,” Willard repeated.

“Could there be a better omen for me than this poor bird? That duck flew a long way—right from Florida. He flopped at my feet. And this is how I now see it. The fight’s going to be a long one and a hard one for Johnson. But at the end the champion is going to drop at my feet just like this black duck did.”

And so, with head held high, with springy confident steps, and carrying the bird under his arm, Jess walked back to the hotel, where he had the gallant battler buried in the garden.

* * * * *

The sun came down with blistering, blinding heat as Johnson and Willard stepped into the Havana Racetrack Arena that day.

Jess had his instructions. O’Rourke’s plan of campaign had been drawn up weeks before. He knew that Johnson was banking on an early knockout, so he told Willard to play safe for the first eight rounds and let the Negro carry the fight to him. After that it was up to Jess to try to wear Johnson down.

Tex figured that by the fifteenth round Johnson would have shot his bolt. Then Jess could open up and carry the battle to the tiring champion.

The gong went. Johnson slid lithely from his seat and attacked with the ferocity of a hungry tiger. Bobbing and weaving before the huge Willard, the whites of Jack’s eyes showed as he looked for an opening.

Twice he threw shuddering left hooks, but Jess was fighting according to instructions and caught the blows on his arms, slowly backing away all the time.

Jack feinted with a left and crossed with a right, and the punch smashed home on his rival’s jaw. Jess quivered for a moment, then backed up. He stabbed long lefts, but Johnson brushed these aside and continued his attack. The bell rang, and Jess had weathered the opening round.

From the second round onward, Johnson cut loose with cold, savage fury that punished Jess despite his strategy. Willard’s defense was good, but he didn’t do too much on the attack until well past half the fight. He was following O’Rourke’s instructions to let Johnson wear himself out.

Several times it appeared that Johnson would score a knockout as the giant Negro kept tossing his punches accurately and to vital points. Near the end of the seventh round, a shattering blow to the jaw sent Jess to his corner in a noticeably unsteady condition.

He quickly recovered, but Johnson, still sensing an early kill, went after his man with added fury in the eighth round. Savagely mauled, Jess fought on, though his face was gory and his body red. Yet his heart, like that of the black duck that had flown from the Florida coast upheld him. Like that black duck, he aimed toward his goal.

Johnson tried hard for the knockout through the next few rounds, but without success. After the sixteenth, the pattern of the fight began to change. Jack started to slow down, while Jess kept climbing—again, like the duck reaching for heights after striking the heavy sea waves.

From the eighteenth round on, I felt certain that Johnson knew his title had gone. It was then that Willard went on the offensive.

In the twentieth round, O’Rourke told Jess to go in for the kill.

“You’ve got him licked,” the trainer urged. “He’s tiring. Keep at him. Don’t give him any rest.”

The tables were now completely turned. Willard bore down on the champion, battering him with both hands. But Johnson’s defense was superb. Even when he was at the end of his tether, and Jess couldn’t miss, he continued to make a fight of it.

In the twenty-sixth round, Johnson dropped his guard momentarily, and Jess shot a right-hander under the heart. Johnson winced. His mouth opened, his arms twitched upwards convulsively, and he started sinking to the canvas when a left to the jaw hurried him on his losing fall.

There was no need for the second blow. The right-hander to the heart had done the job. Jess was the new heavyweight champion of the world—the first white man to hold the title for nearly seven years.

And it was at that moment, as Johnson took the count, that one of the greatest controversies in the fight game began.

Months afterwards, Johnson said that he had faked the fight because he had been promised that if he lost the title to Willard the charge against him of transporting a woman across the state lines for immoral purposes would be dropped. The photo of him lying on the canvas with his arms over his face seemed to support this explanation, and many persons jumped to the conclusion that he was shielding his eyes from the sun! But the truth is that Johnson made the statement to alibi himself.

I have six photographs of that knockout and in each Johnson’s eyes are exposed to the full glare of the sun.

When a fight is “arranged,” the man who is taking the dive doesn’t fight for twenty-six rounds and break his rival’s ribs and jaw in the bargain, as Johnson had done to Willard!

I saw O’Rourke back in the dressing room. The trainer was all smiles. “Nat,” he said, “that black duck turned the trick. It won the title for Jess.”

[Illustration: 12]

Boxing’S Harlequin

Before he paid us the doubtful compliment of becoming our guest in the middle 1920’s, Louis Phal—to give Battling Siki his real name—made France too hot to hold him.

They put the singular Senegalese in a set-up against Georges Carpentier in a Paris ring, and he ruined all the schemes of the wise guys by knocking the Orchid Kid cold, after treating the horrified spectators to an exhibition of jungle frenzy.

Then, with the light-heavyweight crown on his fuzzy head, he became the pugilistic King Kong of the Paris boulevards, fighting and brawling on the sidewalks of that city until the gendarmes warned him that if he didn’t mend his ways he’d be lynched.

He had been brought from his native Senegal as a servant by a Caucasian woman of high degree, who probably thought him amusing, for he was a quaint black fellow with an extreme sense of humor.

The trouble was that neither the gendarmes nor the citizens of Paris, especially women, could appreciate his jokes. And there was a sigh of relief when Mike McTigue took the light-heavyweight title from him after a fight in Dublin on St. Patrick’s Day.

The decision was a questionable one, but nobody bothered about that; Mike put up a marvellous defensive fight against the black barbarian, who, at one point in the proceedings, turned away from McTigue and threatened to jump out of the ring and murder Georges Carpentier, who was sitting at the ringside taunting the Senegalese.

Siki entered the United States quietly. Most fight fans didn’t know much about him, except that he could hit hard and take a lot of punishment. He was a fighter of the dock variety, and when he rolled his eyes he looked terrifying.

He was as black as coal and had a thick ruffle of kinky black hair on his head. The American “sports” forgot all about his European reputation and gave him a good hand. They enjoyed his style and his antics, and he in turn enjoyed the attention he received in the States.

I had heard many strange stories about the Singular Senegalese, as he was nicknamed. I learned that he drank like a fish and was an ugly customer when in his cups. I was told, before he reached America, that he wore evening dress all through the day and paraded the streets with a monkey on his shoulder. When he arrived in New York, I decided to meet him personally and find out all I could for myself.

All the rumors were confirmed to my satisfaction the afternoon I came upon this extraordinary man directing traffic with his cane in the middle of 42nd Street and Broadway.

He was dressed in formal evening clothes, with a flowing French cape lined with purple satin. He wore bright red gloves and gray suede shoes.

A laughing crowd surrounded him. Soon the police officer, none other than big Pat McDonald, the Olympic hammer thrower, came along to inquire the cause of the traffic hold-up and the reason for the gathering. As he approached the fantastic Negro, Siki took off his high silk topper, bowed in ceremonial French style, and extended his big hand in greeting.

Pat McDonald had a sense of humor. He lifted his cap, bowed in return, and took Siki’s outstretched hand. At that moment a monkey leaped from under the Senegalese’s cape to the head of the officer.

There was a shriek from the crowd as McDonald almost collapsed. But he quickly recovered himself and caught Siki by the collar, bustling him away. After that, I no longer doubted the stories of his pranks.

* * * * *

Siki was matched to fight Paul Berlenbach. I went to the weigh-in and decided that Paul would win—if he could keep his nerve. Paul was a great fighter and was not likely to be intimidated by this imitation King Kong.

Just after the weigh-in, I ran into Siki outside his apartment. He was giving the monkey an airing and was in a playful mood. He sauntered up and down the avenue, followed by a large crowd, strutting like a peacock.

Suddenly he turned and said something to the monkey in French. It leaped instantly on the back of a woman in the crowd. With a shriek, the woman fainted. Siki stood grinning like an ape, but the crowd began to murmur angrily. A man out of the gathering ran towards him. The Senegalese backed away, but just at that moment a policeman came along. When he saw the cause of the trouble he whipped out his blackjack.

“What are you doing with that scarecrow around here?” he demanded of Siki. “You come along with me. You’re taking too many liberties.”

The officer asked the woman, who had now recovered, if she would press a charge of disorderly conduct against the Negro. Before she could decide, Siki shouted excitedly, “Eet is not my fault, gendarme, eef my monkee, he likes charming ladees!”

Everybody laughed, including the policeman, and the incident was closed without further trouble.

But that night I sat at the ringside and saw the primitive Siki take a terrible beating from Paul Berlenbach. For nine rounds he was a punching-bag for the skillful, hard-hitting German-American.

Heavens, how Siki took it! From the first round he rolled his eyes and snorted as if trying to terrify “Punching Paul”; but before the seventh session the Senegalese had taken so much punishment that his eyes rolled in agony. It was really a horrible exhibition of boxing, for Siki had only the crudest idea of defense, and was helpless against the crushing avalanche of blows which Berlenbach rained upon him.

In the eighth round Paul worked the Negro against the ropes just in front of me, and bombarded him with paralyzing rights and lefts to the head. As blow after blow smashed home, rocking Siki on his heels, I began to wonder what had happened to the human fury that had battered Carpentier into insensibility. Now the roles were reversed.

I have seldom seen more tigerish energy than Paul packed into his work that night. Perhaps Siki was only half-human. At any rate, he took it until the middle of the tenth round, when Berlenbach, punching with lightning speed, shot home a bone-crushing right to the jaw.

Siki fell forward on his face, as if a bullet had struck him, and was counted out. That was his last fight in the ring. Siki nearly succeeded in driving his manager, the genial Papa Levy, insane, with his antics. There’s an extraordinary story connected with the Senegalese’s fight with Battling Norfolk, in Memphis, Tennessee, a bout which I witnessed.

Siki and Levy arrived in the southern city four days before the contest. There was nobody to meet them at the station, and no announcement of their arrival was made in the newspapers.

“Why my name no in zee papers?” asked Siki after scanning the local sheets.

Levy explained that in Memphis there was no publicity for colored performers, owing to the Southern prejudice against Negroes.

Siki became unruly. He was like a wild man. At that time, the song, “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” was all the rage, and it gave Siki an idea.

He bought an enormous bunch of bananas, walked through the streets singing the song, and tossing the fruit to the passersby. He could sing quite well and attracted considerable attention. Within a few minutes a crowd was following him. Two mounted policemen approached him. One yanked Siki by the collar and hauled him to the police station. Siki made the front pages, which he apparently set out to do—and filled the fight arena the next day.

Back in New York he was soon up to his old tricks, squirting water from a handgun at people on the streets, throwing handfuls of money to crowds, and scattering bags of peanuts among the masses on Broadway.

The police warned him, but he answered, “Nobody hurt Siki. All lika Siki. Siki him have good heart. Siki help everybody.”

One night he was picked up almost at the point of death in one of the toughest districts in New York. He had been stabbed. He was taken to the French Hospital, and a young reporter called the next morning to get a story. Siki leaped out of bed and, clad only in his pajamas, slung the reporter over his shoulder and ran out into the street.

Hailing a taxi, he dropped the reporter into the gutter and drove home.

Soon he was up to his usual tricks again, but his enemies were closing in. One night he walked into a night club drunk, and began to smash it up. The next morning he was found in the street with an ice-pick driven into his chest. The police arrested his assailant, but Siki refused to press the charge.

His time was short now; the curtain was about to ring down. On a winter’s night, when gales of icy wind whipped the narrow canyons of Hell’s Kitchen, two men lurked in the shadows. It was just past midnight, and the street was deserted by all who valued their lives.

Siki entered the street muffled in a heavy overcoat. He was unsteady on his feet and sang snatches of songs. Suddenly two automatics barked, and the Senegalese pitched forward—dead. They found him the next morning where he had fallen, and within an hour he made the front pages of the newspapers for the last time.

Book

Three

[Illustration]

[Illustration: 13]

A Story Of Intrigue

Hundreds of thousands of persons annually visit Madison Square Garden, America’s famous sports center, without ever giving a thought to the story behind the building. It is a story of intrigue in which those who conceived the idea and started the negotiations for the gigantic structure were pushed into the background by the world’s greatest promoter, Tex Rickard.

Once Rickard had all the necessary data placed in his lap, he maneuvered those whose brain child it was right out of the picture and proceeded on his own. Today the new Madison Square Garden is known in every nook and corner of the world where sports are followed as the “House that Tex Built,” but if proper credit were given to those who planned it and negotiated for its erection.... Well, here’s the story.

It was the year 1923. America had developed one of the great skaters in the history of the country. His name was Bobby McLean.

Bobby had come from the Mid-West, where he had cleaned up in racing competition. At the invitation of the Swedish government, he went abroad to take part in international races at Stockholm, and later in other parts of Europe. He gained fame and fortune abroad. His name had headlined the sports pages both in Europe and America.

I was in Stockholm at the time and became acquainted with his manager, Dinty Scanlon, an energetic promoter who, in later years, induced Sonja Henie to come to America, and who for several years was her manager. Scanlon saw the possibi