Chapter V: Book SIX (3)

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.

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.

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.”

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

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 possibilities of exploiting ice skating in America and broached the subject to me. He was the pioneer of the ice skating revues in America and to him goes the credit for inaugurating the ice extravaganzas that have since become part of our country’s winter sports schedule.

I was then sports editor of the New York _Telegram_, and Scanlon, knowing how close I was to Rickard, showed me plans for the building of a huge ice rink in New York and asked whether I thought he could obtain Rickard’s aid. I was for the project and thought Tex would be interested. There was only one ice rink in New York at the time, the St. Nicholas Rink, and that had outlived its usefulness.

Scanlon, discussing his plans, declared that if funds were available to build the rink, we could make the arena the ice sports center of America by getting contracts from Eastern colleges to use it for their hockey matches, as well as importing the Scandinavian, Swiss, and other famous European ice revues. With that in mind, I decided to lay Scanlon’s plans before Rickard and look for a location.

We were aware that Tex Rickard’s long lease on the old Garden would soon expire and that the New York Life Insurance Company would not grant a further lease of more than one year. Stories had appeared in the _Wall Street Journal_ to the effect that the insurance company was anxious to demolish the old structure and build a home to house its own people. Scanlon and I figured the time was ripe for quick action.

The Manhattan Railway Company, operating the street cars of New York along the main highways, was in bankruptcy proceedings, with Judge Julius Mayer in charge. Through Judge Mayer, I learned that any of the car barns, situated at Thirty-third Street and Fourth Avenue, Eighty-sixth Street and Madison Avenue, and Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue, could be purchased, provided we could obtain the bondholders’ consent.

With that information, I proceeded. I requested Scanlon to obtain two extra blueprints for his proposed structure. A few days later, he came to my office with the plans and the architect’s picture of what the proposed sports arena would look like.

The blueprint of the proposed structure was then published in the New York _Telegram_ with a story on the front page written by me. I pointed out that Rickard’s lease on the old Garden would soon expire and the building would be torn down within a few years; and to make certain that a substitute building to house sports in New York would be given the people, several sportsmen proposed to build a gigantic structure conveniently located near the theatrical district, the feature of which would be a skating rink and motion picture theatre.

The story created a bombshell in New York. Rickard was besieged for confirmation; but all he could confirm was that his lease would be renewed for only one year. He knew nothing about any sportsmen becoming interested in the erection of a structure to take the place of the famous old landmark. The story in the _Telegram_, he said, was news to him, but he was interested.

That was my ace. I was not only eager to get public reaction but also Rickard’s. I did not have long to wait. Rickard sent for Scanlon and me. Before meeting him, however, we made certain that we could obtain other backing in case Tex should turn a deaf ear to us.

New York City at the time had a man of wealth in the building business. His name was George Backer. He had just completed a large commercial building on Fifth Avenue near Thirtieth Street, then the largest in the city. Scanlon, McLean, and I got in touch with him.

It didn’t take us long to convince Mr. Backer that we had something worth while. He was quick to see the possibilities and promised us that if we could get Tex Rickard to organize a company to put up $2,250,000, he would back the venture with an equal amount. He told us to tell Rickard of his interest in the matter.

Before we left Backer, he told us to see Judge Mayer again and find out at what price the barn opposite the _Morning Telegraph_ on Eighth Avenue, between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Streets, could be purchased. He, like Scanlon and myself, favored that location because of its proximity to Broadway and the theatrical district, which, even then, was moving northward.

Backer gave us permission to work with his architects on the preliminary plans. They estimated that it would require about $4,500,000 to erect the building and buy the land, and that was the amount we set out to get, half from Backer and the remainder from the Rickard syndicate.

We were certain that with Mr. Backer behind it, the plan couldn’t fall through. With great faith in our eventual success, I arranged an appointment for Scanlon and myself to discuss the matter with Tex. The following day we went to his office in the Madison Square Garden tower, where the three of us, with Frank Coultry, Tex’s treasurer and Ike Dorgan, his publicity ace, went into conference.

We unloaded our plan to the group telling Tex that Backer would show good faith by putting up $500,000 to underwrite the undertaking and the remainder when Rickard’s share was posted. We also placed before Rickard the blue prints for the installation of an ice floor in the arena, the new invention of a Philadelphian who had already tried out such a plant successfully in the Philadelphia Arena. We convinced Rickard that with this new system, he could use the rink floor for ice hockey one night and within ten hours, have the floor ready for a fight, basketball, horse shows or for any other purpose.

He was keenly interested. He asked us to leave our plans with him and return in three days, which we did. With Rickard at our next meeting was Colonel John Hammond, a West Pointer, who later became vice-president of the Garden in charge of hockey promotion. Col. Hammond was an ardent ice fan, having been captain of the Cadets’ hockey team and he seemed impressed with the idea. Rickard was even more interested. We had brought the Philadelphia inventor with us and our backer’s legal adviser to give further details.

Going more deeply into the plans, we showed Rickard where he could use the new building for all kinds of sports events and exhibitions, in addition to having a meeting place, bigger and better than the old Garden. Our plans called for a motion picture theatre on the street level, with an arcade leading to the arena. We had a tentative agreement from the Keith’s Theatre to lease that portion if the building was erected. The present Garden has only a few changes from the plan Scanlon and I offered.

Rickard asked where we contemplated building if he decided to go in with us. We told him of our conference with Judge Mayer and his suggestion to call a bondholders’ meeting to get their consent. Judge Mayer also wanted us to show our good faith with a deposit of $25,000, and we had a certified check for that amount ready. We suggested that the best place would be the site of the car barns at Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue. Rickard assured us he would report to our syndicate in a few days, as he wanted more time to think it over and to discuss it with his financial backers. When we next met, however, we learned that he was not in favor of the project.