Chapter VI: Book SIX (4)

“It’s too costly, Nat,” he said. “I spoke to John Ringling and others who might become interested, and they say it’s a foolish move. It would be a total loss. The location is no good, and the plan for an ice rink is out of the question. We couldn’t operate both fights and hockey; and, besides, we haven’t the teams here.”

In an effort to induce Rickard to change his mind, Scanlon told Tex that Judge Mayer could probably get the barn site for $2,200,000, and I added that I was confident we could obtain it for less with cold cash.

Rickard indicated it was too risky and Col. Hammond backed him on that. We couldn’t budge Tex, and thus our bubble burst. We thought he was the only sportsman to whom such a proposition could appeal, and when he refused to accept our offer, both on a percentage basis and on a stock partnership, Scanlon and I gave up.

Behold our astonishment when three months later we learned through a news item delivered to the papers by Ike Dorgan, Rickard’s publicist, that Tex, with Colonel Hammond, had organized a Wall Street Company for the purchase of the Fiftieth Street car barns, and that a huge arena, a new Madison Square Garden, would be built there, featuring an ice plant for hockey and ice reviews! When I heard that Colonel Hammond was associated with Rickard and would be in charge of the hockey and ice department, in addition to being the representative of the Wall Street group that would back the project, I was furious.

Scanlon and I went to Rickard and accused him to his face of double-crossing us. Scanlon told Tex that we were the originators of the new Garden arena plans and that he had stolen our idea, based on the blue prints submitted to him. We demanded that we be taken into the project and threatened to bring suit if we were not, but Rickard laughed us off.

Well, within a year, the new Garden was built. Mike Jacobs, who later succeeded Rickard as the country’s foremost promoter and to whom Dinty and I had also broached the subject, was thoroughly conversant with the details and asked us not to bring suit as we had contemplated. Mike had become one of Rickard’s financial advisers. He found that Tex required more money than his backers were willing to put up, and it was through his efforts that additional funds were obtained to assure the completion of the structure.

Despite Mike’s pressures, Scanlon was still bitter about Rickard’s maneuver, and had not George Backer died shortly after Tex’s announcement, Tex would have had a half million dollar suit on his hands. The only change made in the plans Tex finally used was the elimination of the motion picture theatre and the erection of stores, instead.

Thus the new Garden came into being through the foresight of a great lover of ice sports, Dinty Scanlon, whose eagerness to find a place in New York where his champion Bobby McLean could exhibit his skill, was responsible for the design as he and I worked it out.

Although the idea and the original plans were ours, credit for the final erection of the Garden belongs to Mike Jacobs. It was he who persuaded Judge Mayer to get the bondholders to sell the car barns at Fiftieth Street for $2,500,000 and it was he who urged Rickard not to accept the Eighty-sixth Street or Thirty-fourth Street sites, which Judge Mayer was more anxious to dispose of and which Tex was willing to take in order to avoid the Scanlon suit.

I recall being present at a meeting when Rickard told Mike that the Wall Street combine to which he had appealed was favorably impressed with the Thirty-fourth Street and Madison Avenue site because of its nearness to the old Garden.

“That’s where those fellers are wrong,” said Mike, “I agree with Nat and Scanlon that the Eighth Avenue car barns would be the best location. The trend for amusements is to the midtown section. It will soon be the heart of the theatrical district. Everything is moving up towards Fiftieth Street.”

Thus did this man of foresight visualize New York’s future. The job of negotiating for the land was turned over to Jacobs. According to fable, the Garden was financed by a group of 600 millionaires, each of whom contributed the sum of $1,000. The fact is that $5,600,000 was required for the building and the car barns, and Jacobs manipulated the deal whereby Rickard obtained the funds. After giving Rickard his first $25,000 to turn over to Judge Mayer to show good faith in the proposed purchase, Mike negotiated a bank loan for Tex for an additional $100,000 to start the ball rolling. It was not until then that a six-man syndicate headed by banker Richard F. Hoyt, came in, with the rest of the money.

As for the 600 millionaires, they each put up $1,000 at a later date to become life members of the Garden Club. In return for their money, they also were given stock.

Mike Jacobs, as Rickard’s agent, was handsomely rewarded for his loan and his very important part in the negotiations. He told me his prize totalled $117,000. It was only after the property had been bought that it became known that Rickard had been working on a “shoestring” and that had it not been for Jacobs, he would never have been able to put over the deal.

As for Scanlon, the man who originated the idea and who with me, had the first plans for the new Garden drawn up, I don’t know whether he ever got any money from Rickard, but I received from Tex the sum of $2,500 and some stock, in settlement for my claim against him—small amount, to be sure, but being friendly with Tex, I decided not to press the issue.

That’s the story of how the present Garden came to be, a story of intrigue that made Tex Rickard and Mike Jacobs millionaires.

DESTINY’S PARTNERSHIP

As surely as there is a tide in the affairs of men, there are men marked out by fate to be carried by that tide to fame and fortune. All the forces of destiny seem to conspire to give them the breaks. Such a man was Tex Rickard.

George L. “Tex” Rickard, boxing’s man of destiny, died on January 6, 1929, at the age of fifty-eight. I knew him intimately for a quarter of a century. I wrote the story of his life and acted in a confidential capacity for him on many occasions. I have no hesitation in saying that he was one man in a hundred million marked out by fate.

President of Madison Square Garden, acknowledged king of the boxing world, Tex Rickard lived long enough to put the fight game on the big financial map and to make himself and many other people millionaires.

The Grim Reaper claimed him just as he was about to retire and, for the first time in his career, enjoy himself by taking things easy.

I said good-by to him the day before he left New York for Miami, where he died following an operation for appendicitis.

For a man of his years he looked youthful. The dark eyes were as keen as ever and the expressive lips just as ready to curl into a smile or to be compressed into a hard, fighting line.

With his hat tilted on the back of his head, he looked at me and said in his usual quick manner and with his Texan cowboy drawl:

“Nat, one big promotion, and I’m through.”

I smiled. “I’ve heard all that before, Tex.”

“This is straight. I’ve taken boxing from a thousand bucks to two million. One more big promotion, then I quit.”

“You couldn’t quit if you tried, Tex,” I replied.

To see Rickard towards the end of his life, king of the gilded age of boxing, one might have thought that he had been just lucky. Well, Tex had plenty of luck, and he needed it. But one must look into his personality and his career to understand the secret of his success.

He was the last of the picturesque men of vision and daring: Western cowboy, gold-hunter, gambler, promoter: a man whose personality had as much color as a rainbow.

“Nat, never lose your guts,” Tex once said to me after I had suffered a heavy financial loss. “If you do, you’re finished. Better shoot yourself and get out of it.”

That stern creed was the rock on which Tex Rickard built his fame and fortune. But fate looked after him. For example, he left Goldfield, Nevada, in 1910 to sell copper properties to a big prospector.

“I’m not interested in your copper,” the prospector said, according to Rickard, “but if you’ll promote a fight between Jack Johnson and Jim Jeffries out here at Reno, I’ll back you.”

Every sports promoter in America was bidding for that fight but nobody had enough faith in the match to offer Jeffries what he wanted to come out of retirement. Tex staggered the fight world by offering $101,000, and he got the fight.

I recall a scene in Naegeli’s Hotel in Hoboken, New Jersey, when Rickard appeared with several of his backers to clinch the fight. Tex walked into the hotel, waited for all hands to be seated, then opened the eyes of both Johnson and Jeffries by placing $20,000 in gold on the table. That gold settled the argument and got him the fight, for while other bidders for the bout were talking big, Rickard showed his good faith with money.

Previous to the meeting in Hoboken, all the bidders and the principals had congregated in the Albany Hotel in New York City to discuss plans for the match. Almost every sports writer in New York, and many from cities as far west as California, were among those present. When the principals arrived to talk business, Police Commissioner Baker announced that he would be forced to arrest everyone if a contract for the fight were signed on the premises, for such a procedure would be against the law. That’s why the scene was shifted to Naegeli’s Hotel in New Jersey.

Rickard made ring history with the match, for not only did he referee, but he drew gate receipts amounting to $270,755, high figures for the period.

The result of the Reno fight convinced Tex that there was more money in the fight game than in mining, and thereafter most of his time was devoted to pugilism. When he decided to devote all his time to boxing promotion, the gilded era got under way.

* * * * *

When Rickard came to New York, boxing was at a low ebb. He had successfully promoted shows in the West and when he took over the Garden, he saw no reason why his success should not continue.

I recall a dinner party he tossed for New York journalists at the Biltmore Hotel. Free loaders crashed the gate in large numbers, but that didn’t disturb Rickard. He sat back as the boys made speeches in which some questioned his ability to make money on weekly boxing shows at the Garden, while paying rent amounting to $52,000 a year. At that time, as I have mentioned previously, the Garden was only occasionally rented out for events other than boxing.

Tex said nothing. He leaned back and smiled as he puffed his Perfecto. He saw things in the future that the scribes were blind to. At that time boxers were wearing bathhouse suits and ordinary street shoes in the ring. Barbers, ham actors, bum politicians and stick-up guys occupied front row seats that should have been used by the press. Holders of ringside seats were pushed about, laughed out of their rightful chairs by rowdies and gangsters. The aisles were filled with loafers and gate crashers, blocking the view of people who had paid good money to see the fights.

That’s how boxing was run in New York before Tex took over—not only in the Garden, but in all the other clubs. But he had seen boxing staged on a different level by Jim Coffroth in California and he decided to do the same thing on the East coast. Law and order prevailed at Coffroth’s promotions and people were seated properly. Coffroth had a fine organization and he ran his affairs in a decent manner, without delays and without mob ruling.

Rickard remembered all those things when he came to New York and he lived to see the Garden take over where Coffroth had left off. He lived to see ushers in bright uniforms give each patron the seat the check called for. He saw women by the thousands at his shows.

At Reno, at the time of the Jeffries-Johnson fight, I recall how Tex fooled the scribes with his “telephone booths.” A few days before the fight, the newspapermen went out to look the grounds over at Tex’s invitation. Over the entrance to the arena and right back of the last raised seat, about twenty-five feet from the ground, they noticed a row of covered boxes that looked like telephone booths. Tad Dorgan, grabbing Tex by the arm, pointed to the boxes and asked what they were for. Tex, a cigar in his mouth, and with his usual poker face, replied:

“I put those in for the convenience of the newspapermen who want to phone after the fight.”

No one thought of investigating. We accepted Tex’s explanation and the next day’s reports from the camp mentioned the item. But on the day of the fight we noticed that the booths were covered with curtains and upon checking further, found that Mrs. Rickard, Mrs. Jeffries, and other women, were seated in those “telephone booths,” all hidden from public view. That was the first effort Tex made to have women enjoy boxing without being molested.

* * * * *

Following the Reno battle, Rickard hit the trail southward. He went to Argentina, where he bought a ranch and raised cattle for export. Just about the time he decided to get back to the States, a young Colorado hobo-miner was making his way East after a few successful fights with unknowns like himself. His name was William Harrison Dempsey, and he was destined to become the perfect partner of the vast Rickard promotion enterprise.

Hanging on the wall in my office today is a wrinkled right-hand boxing glove. On the back of it, stretching almost from the curled finger-tip to the wrist, is a dry, dark-brown stain. This glove is a souvenir of the three most furious rounds of fighting I have ever seen, and the stain was made by the blood of one of the bravest men who ever stepped into a roped square.

Jack Dempsey wore those gloves to win the heavyweight championship of the world. He was, in my opinion, the most colorful fighter of the twentieth century. The blood stains came from Jess Willard on that unforgettable afternoon at Toledo, Ohio, July 4, 1919, under a blazing sun that caused the thermometer to register 101 in the shade.

Fate must have smiled when Tex first clapped eyes on this young genius of the ring, with his dark, indrawn brows and curly black hair, for it was Rickard’s opinion that the gigantic Willard couldn’t be licked.

Even when Dempsey knocked out the huge Fred Fulton in eighteen seconds, Tex couldn’t see that destiny had presented him with a fighter who, perhaps alone of all pugilists, could carry his daring and ambitious schemes to success.

The Dempsey-Willard bout decided matters, although it was not a startling affair financially. I was in Toledo some days before the fight sizing up the chances of the men. Willard I knew to be a good, though not a brilliant champion. He was so contemptuous of his smaller opponent that he hadn’t troubled to get himself into proper condition.

I went around to see him one morning at ten o’clock and found that he was still in bed. I mentioned the matter to Tex.

“I know, Nat,” he replied. “He’s taking Dempsey too lightly. Thinks he’s got a cinch. I wish someone could make him see this fight more seriously.”

Dempsey, the product of barefisted brawls in mining camps and hobo jungles throughout the West, had a string of knockouts to his credit, but he had never stacked up against so huge an opponent as Big Jess. Still, Rickard’s opinion of Willard was shared by all in the challenger’s camp. Jack had worked hard to get himself into condition. I shall never forget the wonderful physical appearance he presented, with his flashing dark eyes and skin tanned to the color of a hazel nut. He looked fit to fight the world the day he entered the Toledo ring for that title bout.

All signs pointed one way, and the black stars of defeat began to cluster over the head of Willard, even before he climbed into the ring. But he didn’t seem to notice them. Ironically, his chief concern was that he might land himself in serious trouble by fatally injuring his youthful opponent.

The night before the fight, I favored Dempsey, figuring that if the battle went any distance, condition must tell. And that is how it was with me when I took my seat by the ringside under a scorching sun which made me sick with heat.

There were nearly twenty thousand people in the arena and the possibility of seeing the world heavyweight title change hands was too much for their nerves. They kept up a steady roar for an hour before the battle, and when the men entered the ring, a cyclone of shouts and yelling was unleashed.

The first thing that struck me was Dempsey’s apparent nervousness. His perfectly trained body, I thought, was capable of standing the severest test, but what about his nerves?

Here was an unknown factor.

He sat in his corner, elbows on his knees and head down, scowling at the canvas. He was unshaven, and his growth of dark facial hair added to his tough appearance.

Friends at the ringside shouted good luck to him, but he took no notice of them. He even seemed to resent the presence of his manager, Jack Kearns, who was talking to him earnestly.

Contrasted with this dark, berry-brown man, Jess Willard looked like a high, blond animal. His face was tanned, but the skin of his body was as white as a woman’s. He looked arrogantly confident as he waved to friends, a superior smile on his lips.

Ollie Pecord, the referee, called the men to the middle of the ring for instructions. Willard moved towards him with a long, sure stride. Dempsey, on the other hand, broke into a nervous run. I watched the scowl on his face deepen as Pecord was talking. Jack’s eyes never left the ground.

Willard stood easily, listening, and occasionally throwing a contemptuous glance towards his young challenger. He towered over Dempsey, yet I could see that he was soft in comparison with the muscular, steel-hard man from Manassa.

Back in their corners, the men got ready for the bell. Dempsey’s nervousness seemed to increase with every passing second. He fidgeted and shuffled his feet, as if unable to restrain the movement of his limbs. Little did I dream that he was about to give the greatest exhibition of fighting fury ever seen in an American ring.

The entire arena and ring were flooded with white-hot light. The heat was terrific and most of the spectators had stripped to their shirts. I was grumbling to the man next to me about the scorching I was getting, when the gong sounded for the opening round. I didn’t notice the heat after that.

Dempsey leaped from his corner like a tiger, facing the champion almost in his own corner. He feinted with his right and shot a left to Willard’s ribs. It connected with the noise of a wooden hammer, bringing a roar from the crowd.

“By heavens, he can hit!” roared Bill McGeehan, famous New York scribe sitting near me.

Seven times in that first round Willard was dropped to the canvas by the smashing blows of his challenger. Dempsey presented a figure of murderous fighting energy as he stood over his fallen opponent after every knock-down. He was quivering and snorting like a wild animal and his scowl was terrifying. Never had I seen human nature stripped so bare of civilized pretense.

When Jess went down for the seventh time, Ollie Pecord started counting. The gong sounded ending the round when he reached seven, but Pecord had not heard it through the din and he lifted the arm of Dempsey in token of victory by a knockout in the first session.

Pandemonium reigned. Dempsey leaped from the ring and was on his way to the dressing room when the error was noted, and he was called back.

Willard seemed unaware of what was going on. He had been dragged to his corner where he sat with broken jaw, his eyes glassy and bloodshot, and the claret flowing from nose and mouth. Yet, to the astonishment of all, the Kansas Giant got to his feet to face additional punishment in the second round.

I have never seen a fighter so badly battered. There were groans from the gathering. This was not a boxing match, but a slaughter, and when the challenger began to pick out Willard’s terribly damaged eyes for further attack, boos greeted him. Once Willard fought back, but it was a futile attempt to stem the tide.

The spectacle of Willard, his face battered beyond recognition, standing defenseless before this human tiger, didn’t accord with ideas of true sport. Yet the fight went on!

The final act of this savage, brutal affair, was yet to be fought. I watched Willard stagger to his corner. He was all in. He lacked the strength to stand up and had to be assisted to the stool. The spectators pleaded for the closure but Ollie Pecord, a referee of the old school, would have none of that. He would not stop a fight so long as the champion was able to come to scratch.

I despair to give an impression of Willard when he came up for the third round—his last. He was almost blind and despite the ministrations of his handlers, who worked furiously to aid him, his face was one mash from forehead to chin. He hadn’t a chance in the world and as I looked at him with a feeling of pity, I blamed his seconds for not tossing in the sponge.

Blind fighting instinct alone dictated Willard’s move forward as Dempsey leaped toward him when the third round got under way. This time Jess shot up his right to protect himself, and it caught Dempsey under the chin and jarred him. It sent his head back with a jerk—the only effective punch the champion had landed in the fight.

There was a roar for the underdog. Everybody jumped up. The excitement made me catch my breath.

But Dempsey recovered quickly, spurred to a fighting fury by the uppercut that almost downed him. The black scowl had been replaced by a terrible tigerish smile. He started pounding away at Jess’s body and jaw and when the round ended, both the challenger and the champion were exhausted.

No words can depict Willard’s pitiful plight. He was half-dragged, half carried to his corner, where he was planted on his stool in a state of collapse. Ike O’Neil, his chief second, tried to revive him, but his beaten body could not respond. Realizing his condition, Jess told referee Pecord he could not continue.

Thus one of the greatest heavyweight championship bouts I have ever seen came to an end, and the bloodstained right-hand glove that hangs on the wall of my office recalls every thrilling detail of it. This was Jack Dempsey’s high spot. I think it was also Jess Willard’s. To him goes an honor hardly less than that of his conqueror, despite the battering he took.

* * * * *

Were Dempsey’s gloves loaded?

That question has been discussed time and again in magazine and newspaper articles by persons incapable of giving a proper answer except through hearsay or from comments made by persons supposedly “in the know.” I watched the crumbling of the Pottowatomie Giant and after the terrific shellacking that Willard took, I heard many remarks that no human could deal out so much punishment with padded mitts unless there was something hidden in his gloves. Even to this day, one reads about “loaded gloves,” and how plaster of Paris on Dempsey’s bandages cut Jess’ face to ribbons.

I was at the fight. I watched Dempsey in training. I saw Jimmy Deforest, his trainer, tape Jack’s hands. I watched every move of the men in Jack’s quarters. I think I can clear the atmosphere once and for all time with an accurate version of what happened.

Jack Dempsey had no loaded gloves, nor did he use plaster of Paris over his bandages. I make this assertion despite the recent statement by Jack Kearns, Dempsey’s manager in that contest, that he had sprinkled plaster of Paris powder over the bandages on Jack’s hands and then poured on alcohol to form a plaster cast. I watched the proceedings and the only person who had anything to do with the taping job was Deforest, who, after he had taped the hands, poured some water over the bandages to keep Jack’s hands cool. Of course, any solution poured over bandages will harden them, but that’s all that took place.

Deforest became riled when the loaded gloves stories began to appear. I recall a press conference he had with several reporters, including myself, at which he angrily remarked:

“I regard the stories that I put plaster of Paris on Jack’s bandages as plain libel. I’m tired of hearing people talk about such nonsense. It’s pure trash. These rumors affect my reputation for honesty and fair dealing. I did apply some water over the bandages when Jack complained about the extreme heat, and that was all. I did not apply any foreign substance to them. I used a hard adhesive tape. This certainly was not irregular. It was not against the rules. It was the same kind of tape I always used when I bandaged Kid McCoy’s hands.”

Deforest’s statement should settle all further arguments. It was not until the recent fall-out between Kearns and Dempsey over the proposed movie of Jack’s life (in which Kearns plays no part) that the latter gave this new version of the bandaging of Dempsey’s hands. Kearns has always denied the plaster of Paris yarn over the years, only to change the story in the past few months.

* * * * *

It was during the training camp period for the Toledo fight that Rickard first expressed to me his thinking for bouts to come. He had invited the Connecticut sportsman, Joe Mulvihill, the Mad Hatter of Danbury, to accompany us on a visit to Dempsey’s camp, and on the way, Mulvihill had remarked, “One of these days, Tex, we’ll have a million dollar gate.”

Tex laughed and kidded him, but after Mulvihill had gone back to the hotel with several newspapermen, Rickard turned to me and said, “That ain’t a dream, Nat.”

I could see that he was visualizing things, though he didn’t do much talking. He was keeping his plans to himself, but he did say to me: “What we need is one big international heavyweight championship and you’ll see the biggest crowd that ever attended a boxing match in this country.”

It wasn’t long after Dempsey won the title that I went overseas as Rickard’s agent to seek the man that Tex wanted so badly for that million dollar gate. He soon signed French war hero Georges Carpentier, for a fight with Dempsey, and from the moment that the contract was made it looked as if Rickard’s dream would come true.

I was Tex’s confidant in several of his boxing deals and I spent many hours with him about this time. Shortly after the Carpentier-Dempsey bout was made, orders started to pour into Tex’s office. Mike Jacobs, later Rickard’s successor as monarch of the fight game, was in control of the ticket sales, and he turned most of the tickets over to the agencies.

The demand for ducats was so big that Tex could take nothing but cash or certified checks. Without putting down a cent of his own money, he constructed the huge arena in Jersey City known as Boyle’s Thirty Acres and still had enough to pay Dempsey and Carpentier their guarantees a week before they entered the ring.

But it was a tremendous gamble, for if anything had happened to the fighters, Tex would have had to beat it out of the United States. He had little money of his own at the time and it would have been impossible for him to make a 100 per cent refund if the fight had been called off.

Tex worried over this huge outlay when he started the promotion and bemoaned the fact that he had planned the arena with 60,000 seats. However, once the money started coming in, he knew he was clear as long as nothing happened to the fighters. I recall meeting with him and Mike Jacobs on an interview for a Sunday yarn. Asked for a rundown on the seating arrangements and the ticket sale, Tex hesitated, then replied:

“I have 60,000 seats. I was worrying how we could get that many folks to come to the show, but Mike and I are now trying to see how many more seats we can put into the arena. We’re being flooded with requests. But I don’t want to say nothin’ about that in the paper, Nat. I’ll give you a good story, but it’s for the speculators who are grabbin’ all the ringside seats.”

With that he told me how he put one over on them. He released a story to the effect that because of the run on his ticket offices, he had received permission from the Jersey City authorities to extend the arena stands and to add 30,000 seats to its capacity. The ringside seats, he informed the press, had been sold out during the first ten days, and to take care of the many requests that were piling up at his headquarters, other ringside sections were being built.

The specs fell for that story and another wild rush was made for the ringside seats, the choicest of which Rickard had already allotted Uncle Mike because of the financial aid Jacobs had given to launch the promotion.

When, at the last moment, the speculators found themselves stuck with many unsold ducats, Tex and Mike laughed.

“Let them worry, it’s their headache now,” was Rickard’s comment.

Rickard’s good angel smiled again and the take amounted to $1,789,238, the first million dollar gate in the history of pugilism!

* * * * *

I met with Tex in his office after the Carpentier-Dempsey fight and got the story of his promotion plans for the future. He was dreaming of more big bouts and kept talking about another million dollar gate.

“Colorful fighters are what I need,” he said. “There’s one coming up from Argentina and my people tell me he’s a big, husky fella from the Pampas who kin fight.”

He was referring, of course, to Luis Angel Firpo. When he reached New York and was brought to the Madison Square Garden tower where Rickard had his quarters, I could see by the gleam in Tex’s eyes that he was exceedingly pleased with the appearance of this man who would come to be known as the Wild Bull of the Pampas and was planning another coup.

During the years that Jack Dempsey laboriously climbed the pugilistic ladder, and even after his feet were firmly set on the top rung, many questioned his claim to greatness. It was generally conceded that he was a dynamic hitter, a fact that could not be disputed in view of his quick victories over so many opponents, but fistic critics doubted his ability to withstand punishment. It remained for Luis Angel Firpo to sweep away all such doubts.

Firpo had only a vague idea of the finer points of pugilism, but because of his Herculean strength, iron nerves, and almost limitless courage, he was able to retire from the ring after three years with a million dollars to show for his effort.

The Dempsey-Firpo fight was one of the biggest sensations of the modern ring. It was an unqualified success from every point of view. Tex took over a million dollars from the public and finally established himself as the greatest promoter boxing had ever seen. It was never generally known, however, that this memorable bout was within an ace of being called off only hours before ring time. I am one of the few people who can tell the whole story of just how close Rickard came to financial ruin that September day in 1923.

Dr. William A. Walker, chief of the medical staff of the New York Medical Commission, was at the weigh-in to examine the rivals. William Muldoon, Chairman of the Commission, objected to the presence of newspapermen in the room, but after considerable persuasion, he permitted Jimmy Dawson of the New York _Times_, Dan Lyons of the New York _Globe_, and myself to remain. Dr. Walker, while placing the stethoscope over Firpo’s chest, accidentally bumped into the challenger’s left arm. Instinctively, Luis threw the arm upwards. Not a sound came from his lips.

Thinking this a queer reaction, the doctor ran his fingers over every part of the arm, squeezing it here and there as he tested for a fracture. Firpo was smiling as Doc Walker’s probing fingers reached his elbow, but under the smile there were lines of pain.

Boxing Commissioner Muldoon, one of the greatest physical culture experts I have ever known, was watching the examination closely. “There’s something wrong with that arm,” he remarked. He called Rickard over.

“What’s the trouble?” inquired Tex.

Walker tapped Firpo’s elbow. “This.”

Rickard turned pale. He had staked a fortune on the fight. He stood there, clenching his jaws so that the muscles stood out. Despair was in his eyes. His face grew even grimmer as he heard Doc Walker say to Muldoon: “Firpo seems to have a dislocated fracture of the left arm.”

Firpo, who spoke no English, apparently grasped what was going on, for he burst into a torrent of Spanish. The interpreter explained that the Wild Bull had kept his injury secret because he didn’t think it serious and didn’t want the fight called off. The doctor then asked the interpreter to explain to Luis that to fight in his condition was dangerous and against the law. The challenger laughed and said he was all right. Muldoon thought otherwise. He was seething with rage.

“Why weren’t we told about this?” he demanded. “What the devil do you mean by keeping us in the dark about this?”

Firpo waved his arms violently. He didn’t want to be called a quitter, he said. And then he screeched in Spanish, “I can beat Dempsey. It is nothing.”

Then, as though to prove it, this man of iron courage raised his left arm and brought his fist down upon the table. The doctor was horrified, for he knew, more than the rest of us, how terrible the agony of that gesture must have been. But Firpo, with gritted teeth and a wild look in his eyes, smiled.

Rickard and Muldoon looked on in amazement. Neither could understand the Wild Bull’s confidence in himself. Then Tex’s hard shell of calm left him. The poker face fell off like a mask, showing his features distorted with rage. Tapping his walking stick on the floor—always a sign that he had lost his temper—he swore at Firpo in Spanish, threatening him with God knows what.

Muldoon, who had remained calm while sizing up the situation, laid a restraining hand on Rickard, saying “Tex, you’ve had a bad break, and I feel like taking the hide out of this fellow myself. We can’t get a substitute and if the fight isn’t staged, there’ll be a riot and you’ll lose a fortune. But I’ll see what we can do. From my examination, I think it’s a simple dislocation without a break. I’m sure I can handle it.”

Walker had another probe at the left arm and agreed with the Commissioner. Muldoon asked Firpo to put out his left arm and when he did, suddenly jerked it forward, snapping the bone back into position.

That, to me, was the moment when Luis proved his absolute gameness. Despite the suffering, he didn’t utter a sound, but the beads of perspiration on his forehead showed the torture he was going through.

Firpo, with the arm tightly bandaged, remained in the doctor’s care for the next three hours. The swelling was reduced, but when it came time for Luis to go into the ring, I knew that he was in agony with every movement of his arm. Only his fighting heart carried him through. Nine out of ten men would have quit, but Firpo hurled himself into battle against Dempsey, the most ferocious scrapper of the age.

Dempsey floored this magnificent fighting man seven times in the first round and twice more in the second before he was declared the victor. But believe it or not, the fist of that dislocated arm landed the punch which sent Jack tumbling through the ropes on to the typewriters of the working press.

Firpo’s gameness paid off. The gate was nearly $1,200,000, the fans were satisfied, and Tex Rickard had been saved from ruin. Dr. Walker told me after the bout that this was the greatest example of courage he had ever come across in all his many years of association with fighters.

A SCOUT FOR TEX RICKARD

After Dempsey had disposed of Firpo, Rickard suddenly woke up to the panicking fact that there wasn’t a colorful, international fighter anywhere who could be tossed in against Dempsey to keep the million dollar pot boiling. He had gotten accustomed to big crowds and big gates. Now that Dempsey had ploughed through Carpentier and Firpo, and these international bouts had drawn seven figure gates, Tex was through with small fry. With American soil unable to turn up big enough drawing cards, he decided to have Europe scouted.

One day Rickard phoned to the New York _Telegram_ and asked if I could meet him that afternoon in the Garden. I did. My diary shows that it was on October 14, 1923.

“Goin’ to Europe this winter?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “very soon in fact. I have my passage booked for next week. The paper wants me to do some articles on Germany. They’re making amazing strides in athletics, particularly in amateur boxing.”

“How’d you like to scout for me?” Tex asked. “Look over the field, and if you see anyone you think I might be interested in, cable me.”

I agreed. Scouting wouldn’t interfere with my newspaper assignment.

My duties as outlined by Tex were to locate heavyweights of promise, particularly good European prospects who in due course could be pitted against our stars in top contests. He wanted men who could stand up in his million dollar program. Annually I spent from six to eight weeks abroad during my vacation and since only part of this period was paid for by the newspaper, I was on my own so far as the scouting was concerned. It didn’t interfere with my newspaper work.

On October 22, our wedding anniversary, my wife Trudie and I sailed for Germany. I didn’t believe I could find any good boxing material on my first trip for Rickard, but I decided to study the field thoroughly and make contacts. I saw plenty of ring activity throughout Germany, but nothing that impressed me—not a professional worth discussing with Rickard.

Fred Walker, Managing Editor of the New York _Telegram_ asked me to write a series for our special Sunday Section on “Reconstruction in the Fatherland,” and in that series I wrote:

“Of one thing I am convinced—Germany is rapidly developing a nation of athletes, with boxing holding the attention of youth more so than any other sport. Germany is a nation to watch. Boxing is gaining a firm hold in the Fatherland.”

The following year, after I had returned from a two-week trip to Central America, wife and I again left for Central Europe for another series of articles. Our trip called for a tour of Germany, France and Italy. This time I was confident I could locate at least one prospect and I promised Rickard I would have someone for him, but again I failed.

I did, however, make the acquaintance of the best international referee in Europe, Arthur Buelow, and of Prof. Joseph Pilates, a physical culture instructor now the owner of a studio a stone’s throw away from Madison Square Garden. Both were behind the movement to develop boxing talent in Germany and were doing a fine job. Buelow, prior to the war, had taught the sport and had officiated in many international bouts as third man in the ring, and Pilates was an instructor of boxing and physical training in the Berlin Police Department and on the Isle of Wight where he had been a military prisoner during World War I. They steered me on the right path.

Pugilism, they said, was sweeping the country like a jitterbug craze, and I found it to be so. Wherever I went, boys were engaged in club competition. Every village had an amateur club where boxing was on the daily program. From among the victors in the various district organizations, came the national champions, and with conditions as they were at the time, being a title holder meant a lot to the champion. Here boxing was being practiced on the largest scale I have ever seen.

The leading promoter was Walter Rothenberg who operated in Berlin and in Hamburg. He staged the championship matches and occasionally, as an added attraction, had one or two professional bouts on the program in which several of the contestants were boxers who had been in America prior to the war, among them Jack Stanley, Jack Taylor and Paul Sampson, boxers I had seen in action in New York City and in Hoboken, New Jersey.

The energy of the boys, their drive and enthusiasm, made a great impression on me. I was confident that out of this vast army of amateurs there would spring at least one heavyweight who would make ring history. Wherever the American flag flies, there the seeds of our national pastimes—baseball and boxing—are sown and so I found it in Germany in the years following World War I.

Buelow and Pilates had written to me about a young, handsome boy, a powerful hitter and scientific boxer, who, after cleaning up in the amateur field, had now reached top rating among the professionals. They suggested that it would be worth while on my next visit to Germany, to see this boy in action. His name was Max Schmeling. Now on my third journey to Germany, I had decided to make the acquaintance of Max.

* * * * *

One night in mid-August, 1926, accompanied by Buelow, Pilates and several newspapermen, I left Berlin for the town of Bernau, about thirty miles away, to see the finals of an amateur tournament and a couple of pro fights. Tracking over hills and a rocky valley, we reached a country roadhouse. There I was told we would soon see some good boxing matches.

The place was jammed. To get to the meeting house we had to pass through subterranean passageways that had been in use during the war as shelters. Inside the building, situated in the far end of a spacious hall, was a ring about 10 feet long and 8 feet wide. It was set on a platform about 3 feet off the floor. It had no mat covering nor any ring posts. The ropes—three strands—were attached to pulleys fastened to the walls.

The spectators, more than a thousand, kept themselves in good humor guzzling beer from German mugs and eating sausages and sauerkraut. Men, women and children crowded the place. Some women dandled nursing babies, others played with dachshunds. It was the strangest gathering I had ever seen at a fight.

Shouts and applause greeted every knock-down of which there were many. The people had the kind of naive enthusiasm you see in the old engravings and paintings, such as Hogarth’s _Southwark Fair_. The huge hall where all this took place was used both as a dining room and a meeting place for the townsfolk, but on this occasion it was turned into a boxing arena. My presence was expected due to advance announcements and after an introduction by the Mayor, and a few words of greeting by me, I was escorted to my seat.

In the midst of the sprawling country scene, a voice bellowed in my ear: “Herr Nat. Herr Nat. There’s the boy you want to see. That’s Schmeling. If you haven’t heard about him yet, you will pretty soon.”

The man who introduced us was Walter Rothenberg, the promoter.

Schmeling was a smiling, handsome youngster, six feet of gangling brawn, a perfect specimen of physical fitness despite the poor living conditions in Germany at the time. He was not present to box that night. He had come to see his friend Otto Herse, later the champion’s sparmate and German lightweight champion, engage in a three round contest. All the amateurs received an equivalent in U.S. currency of two dollars for expenses with an additional two for each winner. This was given them in lieu of prizes since the lads were hungry; food was scarce and those in control informed me that the money was distributed to give the boys an opportunity to purchase food. That’s really what brought out so many competitors. It was like handing out a meal ticket to each.

Buelow, standing at my side as I spoke to Schmeling, said that in the decade following the war, he had not come across a finer boxer nor harder hitter. He raved about Max’s boxing talent.

“Schmeling,” he said, “has everything a boxer needs to reach the top.” He had taught Max the rudiments of boxing, watched him clean up the amateur field and had then taken over his management when he turned professional in 1924.

I asked Buelow how long Max had been fighting.

“Two years as an amateur and two as a professional,” he replied. When Max became a pro, his advancement was rapid. In 1926 he fought two draws for the light heavyweight title with the champion, Max Diekmann, won it the following year and a few months later carried off the German heavyweight crown.

“He’s growing fast, Nat,” said Buelow. “I think he will be a heavyweight in another year. If you can bring him to America, you will be delivering to Mr. Rickard the next world heavyweight champion, and I will let you share in his management.”

At this stage, Schmeling scaled 171 pounds. I liked Buelow, who spoke English and I promised to do what I could, but informed him that I had never managed a boxer and had no intentions of accepting such a post now.

I realized that Buelow was one of the best judges of boxers in Europe and my curiosity was aroused after he had spoken in such glowing terms of Max. I was eager to see Schmeling in action against a top pugilist before trying to sell him to Rickard.

Eleven days after my arrival in Germany, August 24, I had my chance. It was the second drawn battle between Schmeling and Diekmann for the light heavyweight crown. I saw a powerful hitter and expert boxer perform. Though he failed to win the title, the evidence of his fine boxing assets were on view that night. I liked his general work.

I sent a message to Rickard that I thought I had found the man for whom he was hunting. I realized as did Buelow that Schmeling would soon outgrow the light heavy ranks and be ready to tackle men in the higher division. I cabled Rickard: “Have discovered an excellent fighter. Suggest cable round trip tickets for him and manager. Willing to come to America if guaranteed three fights minimum purse $10,000.”

Tex answered: “Can guarantee only one fight with option. Will pay full expenses. You advance trip tickets.”

That didn’t appeal to me nor to Buelow. I wasn’t the promoter and didn’t cherish the idea of advancing fares. Rickard’s gambling spirit, I thought, apparently had deserted him. I cabled back: “You’re making mistake. Schmeling is the goods. Can’t miss. Looks like coming heavyweight champion.”

But Rickard was adamant. He turned down the terms with this cable: “Too much involved financially for the risk. Have him pay own fare. I’ll refund after signing contract.”

But Max and Buelow had no money. Both were keenly disappointed. I engaged passage for New York and asked the fighter and manager not to make any arrangements for a trip abroad until they again heard from me. They agreed. In the meantime, in order to keep Schmeling busy, Buelow pitted him against the top fighters of Germany and several from France. After winning the light heavyweight crown from Hein Domgoergen in Leipzig, he won a ten-rounder from Gypsy Daniels of England but met with a severe setback when he was knocked out by Daniels in the opening round of a return bout. Rickard seemed to have lost all interest in the German following that disastrous affair.

But I did not. I still had faith in Schmeling and so told Tex. I pleaded Max’s cause but without success. In the meantime Ishmael Pace, successful Buenos Aires promoter, cabled Buelow to bring Max to South America. Buelow, true to his promise, held off pending final word from me regarding the negotiations with Rickard.

A few weeks passed, when to my surprise, I received a message asking that I meet Max and Arthur at a Hoboken pier. They had scraped enough together to make the trip across the Atlantic without Rickard’s help, so confident were both that the fighter could make good.

But there was still another hurdle to jump. In his fight with Diener, Max had hurt his hand. He was very much in need of financial aid and was undecided whether to endanger his future by accepting one fight or to wait until the break had mended. I urged the latter course and sent him to Dr. Fralick, a bone specialist. Then I took him to the Garden to introduce him to Rickard and his matchmaker. Tex studied the handsome boy carefully. He took a liking to the German lad and agreed to sign him for a fight with Joe Monte, a ten round match.

But now we faced more difficulties. Max had heard reports abroad of poor decisions in America and sought protection. He insisted that he would fight only if I agreed to become his co-manager with Buelow. Of course I refused. He and Buelow came to my office the following day and pleaded with me.

“If you don’t accept,” said Buelow, “Max will go home. He doesn’t want to box here if you don’t help me handle his affairs. He is afraid that the breaks will be against him if he hasn’t an American to see that he is fairly treated.”

I tried to convince Max and Arthur that decisions in America were as fair as anywhere in the world and that he needn’t fear a “raw deal,” but I couldn’t convince Schmeling. Then I hit upon a bright idea.

I called in John (Ike) Dorgan, my partner in _The Ring_ magazine which I started several years before.

“Ike,” I said, “I want you to meet the next world heavyweight champion, Max Schmeling, and his manager, Arthur Buelow. They want me to take a managerial interest in Max, but you know I don’t go in for that. How about you taking over as his American representative. There’s 10 percent in it for you and no cost to yourself.”

Dorgan was an excellent publicist. Previously I had turned over to him Charley White of Chicago when White was one of the nation’s leading lightweights. White had dropped his manager and had asked me to take over. Well, Dorgan had reaped a fortune with White and I figured he could make as much or more by representing Schmeling. But to my amazement, Ike laughed my suggestion off, turning away thousands of dollars as later developments proved.

“Why don’t you go away, Nat,” he said. “Haven’t you given me enough headaches with one German?”

He was referring to Ted Sandwina, son of the strongest woman on earth, who, with her husband, had come to America for a tour with the Barnum and Bailey circus. Sandwina was a pretty good heavyweight but because of several injuries, he flopped as an attraction in New York. I had met the family in Europe and had suggested that they bring Ted to America for a campaign and I had him sign with Dorgan.

When Ike refused to take over, Schmeling was prepared to go back home. I tried once more. I approached Jess McMahon, matchmaker for Rickard, and asked Jess’ advice.

“Turn him loose if he feels that way about our officials,” said McMahon.