Chapter IV: Book SIX (2)

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.

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

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.

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.