Chapter VII: Book SIX (5)

But I didn’t. For friendship’s sake, I decided on a ruse. I would agree to sign a contract but would not take a penny of Schmeling’s earnings nor share any of his manager’s portion of Max’s purses.

The following day I called Buelow and Max to my office and there, with brother Harold acting as attorney, an agreement was signed giving me a ten percent interest in all of Schmeling’s earnings for a period of six years. Buelow and Schmeling were elated. I took them to Rickard where a contract for the Monte fight was signed. In that contest, Monte was knocked out in the fifth round and the press raved over the excellent performance of his conqueror. His climb to fame had gotten under way.

Time passed and the wheel of circumstance spun around. Schmeling became a golden boy. He made good with a vengeance. He reaped a fortune.

Then Joe Jacobs, aided by Pete Reilly and Billy McCarney, his partners, a trio of international boxing managers, weaned Max away from Buelow with fabulous tales of what they could do for him.

Schmeling gave Jacobs a ten percent interest in him. But that was insufficient for what Jacobs was eager to get—a firm grip on Max’s future. He and his pals were seeking permanent property and so they approached me. Jacobs offered me $5000 for my share of the contract I held. I refused to consider it.

Jess McMahon came across with an offer of $10,000. Then Jimmy Johnston, who also was seeking to manage Schmeling, walked into my office one day and planted a certified check for $10,000 on my desk. “This is yours if you’ll give me the ten percent interest you have in Schmeling,” he said.

Each realized the value of a contract with the man who was destined to win the world heavyweight championship. I turned all offers down. My sole interest was to protect my friends Buelow and Schmeling. On all sides there were intrigues. Buelow was the target. They wanted to freeze him out. He held 33⅓ percent. I told him not to yield. Legally he was fully protected with his contract on file with the Boxing Commission and no matter what Schmeling would now do to break away and go with Jacobs, I was confident Buelow could collect his share.

The situation became tense. Threats were made against Buelow. But he had my whole-hearted support. Buelow now sued Max for breach of contract. I knew how hard he had worked to bring Max to the front and sympathized with him. After Schmeling defeated Paulino Uzcudun of Spain in fifteen rounds and gained a fortune for his fight with Jack Sharkey which he won on a foul in the Yankee Stadium, June 12, 1930, Schmeling agreed to settle matters with Buelow out of court. The suit was dropped with Arthur receiving $39,000.

In his American campaign Schmeling appeared in bouts with gross receipts amounting to almost four million dollars, yet Rickard saw him only once, in the bout with Monte on November 23, 1928. Two years later Tex died, and one of the greatest ring attractions was left for others to exploit.

As for me, I had a contract I never made use of. Had I exercised my rights, I would have collected close to $220,000 as my share of Max’s U.S. earnings. I never participated in the management of a fighter, though I did collect for services rendered at times as a scout for Rickard and his successor, Mike Jacobs, after I had left the New York _Telegram_ in 1929. Schmeling’s contract rests in my Garden Museum.

* * * * *

It pleases me to realize what a part I played in the development of international boxing and good will in sports.

Before lining up Schmeling for Rickard, I had been instrumental in bringing another foreigner to America who proved a tremendous attraction—Paulino Uzcudun. He had color, could sock, and was a fighter of tremendous strength. He was a man of considerable courage. Here is the story of Paulino—of how I discovered him in Europe and engineered the deal that brought him to America under Jack Curley’s guidance.

It was on December 1, 1925, in Rothenberg’s Kaiserdam Autohallen in Berlin, that my wife and I watched Paulino, the husky Basque, knock out Hans Breitenstraetter of Germany, champion of his country. I cabled to Rickard:

“Saw picturesque, hard-hitting Basque, Paulino, stop German champion. Looks fine prospect. Colorful. Managed by Descamps and Carpentier.”

The next morning I received Tex’s answer by cable: “See Descamps. Offer two round trip tickets terms and fights to be agreed upon.”

Then I witnessed one of the canniest pieces of press agentry in the business. Descamps was a manager of the old school. He knew Tex was on a spot. Descamps had a close friend in Jack Curley, American sports impresario who had promoted many world events, including the Jack Johnson-Jess Willard fight at Havana; and Descamps cabled Curley for advice. They were aware that Rickard would stake everything for a good heavyweight at this time and decided to hold out in order to obtain the best terms possible. In short, they were going to play their hand to the limit.

After receiving his reply from Curley, Descamps fixed his Latin eyes on me, and with the nonchalance of a Machiavelli he said:

“Tell Monsieur Rickard zat Paulino, he ess not ready for America. In a year perhaps. Who knows?”

Then Descamps turned on a publicity campaign that would have shocked old man Barnum. All over the big cities of Europe he plugged a mammoth build-up, telling of my offer on behalf of Rickard. However, in the case of Paulino this was not necessary since he was a colorful boxer with a huge box office appeal. Descamps advertised Paulino as a cross between a Roman gladiator and King Kong. In France, for example, he plastered the barns and billboards and men’s comfort stations with huge four-color posters showing the Basque, axe in hand, toppling over a tree. The legend read:

“Paulino Uzcudun, The Basque Woodchopper, Europe’s Greatest Heavyweight.” Then followed the modest subscript: “He can fell an ox with one blow.”

I have one of the posters in my Garden Museum collection.

There was nothing for me to do but to keep cool and wait for the publicity marathon to run itself out. But all the time I was in close touch with Rickard, keeping him informed of the progress I was making and of the activity of the man whose services he was not so eager to obtain.

I followed Paulino to Barcelona and watched him knock out Constant Barrick in six rounds. I went with Descamps and Carpentier to Paris, where Paulino dropped Horace Jones with three punches—then on to Germany, where he and Franz Diener, the heavyweight champion of the Fatherland, fought a vicious draw.

By now I was convinced that if Tex could get Descamps to change his mind, America would see a hard punching heavyweight who would fit in well with the plans of the Garden promoter. I kept after Descamps and, having received a cable from Rickard granting me permission to add to his previous offer, I felt confident I would land my catch.

But before I could close the deal, Descamps received word from Curley to come to America by way of the Azores and Havana; he would book one or two easy opponents for him in Cuba to add to the publicity. Thus, I engineered a deal with Descamps who left Madrid with his party on December 15, 1926. On New Year’s Day Paulino opened his campaign on the American side of the Big Pond with a knockout in one round of Martin O’Grady in Havana. Two weeks later he scored another one-round knockout, this time over Antonio Fiero.

Then the party sailed for Tampa where I met them and there Homer Smith was disposed of in the seventh round. With these preliminaries over, Descamps, Jack Curley, Paulino, and I left for New York to confer with Tex Rickard.

Paulino was the first of the stream of Europeans to bring new life to American pugilism; and I was responsible for starting the ball rolling. The arrival of Paulino and later others from Europe and Cuba enabled Rickard to reap a bumper crop in his Garden promotions.

Paulino held the spotlight for ten years. He started off in the United States by defeating Knute Hanson of Denmark and Tom Heeney of New Zealand on points and stopping Harry Wills in four rounds. He ended his days in Valencia, Spain, where he had been appointed Chief of Police by Franco, for whom he had been a chauffeur during the Spanish Civil War.

UNCLE MIKE JACOBS

When Tex Rickard passed away, his chief aide, Mike Jacobs, took over the reins as top boxing promoter. I knew Uncle Mike as few of the sports writers did. I am familiar with the many facets of his personality and witnessed many of his joys, sorrows, defeats, and triumphs. His defeats were few and far between. His joys were many. His success was phenomenal. His victories were numerous and impressive; I played a big part in them, both before and after he took over the Madison Square Garden promotion.

I saw him transform boxing into a gigantic industry, even greater than that which Rickard built in the Golden Era. During our thirty-five years of close association, I watched this product of the sidewalks of New York City become a captain of sports promotion. His success story is Horatio Alger stuff.

Those who deal with the legends of boxing promotion like to hark back to the days of Rickard. It invariably has been Tex of the Wild West, Tex of the Klondike and the Pampas. He built an empire, it’s true, but had it not been for the aid given him by Jacobs, I doubt that he would have gained the international prestige that made his name a byword in fistic circles.

A hard-headed business man, a cool and calm calculator who always had a sound reason for every move, Jacobs improved on Tex’s methods, though with less flamboyance. However, like Rickard, Jacobs lived in an aura of fistic glamour and romance.

I first met Mike when he had his little ticket office in the Hotel Normandie on Sixth Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street in New York City and I was a cub reporter covering the Red Light District for news and the Longacre A.C. fights. The latter, owned by colorful Billy Newman, was on Twenty-ninth Street and the corner of Sixth Avenue, the scene of many thrilling contests.

Jacobs achieved domination of boxing, which was Rickard’s dream but beyond his mental capabilities. Both Tex and Mike on many occasions conferred with me concerning important matches, and I had a big hand in starting negotiations for both of them in international bouts or championship contests. Often, long before his staff would arrive in his Garden offices to begin the day’s work, Mike completed his plans for major matches in _The Ring_ headquarters, where we met almost daily at seven-thirty in the morning.

Pursuing the Rickard-Jacobs comparison, as I had an opportunity to study the pair at close range, I found that Uncle Mike never made the glaring mistakes which stand out in Tex’s biography. When Jacobs vacated his throne because of illness, boxing lost a master manipulator. A big figure in the boxing game had passed out of the picture! Another big organization, such as Rickard had left behind, died. Another rich chapter in boxing history had been written.

Rickard had his Jack Dempsey; Jacobs had his Joe Louis. When the Manassa Mauler knocked out Jess Willard in three rounds at Toledo, Tex had the champion whose crowd appeal created the first of the million dollar gates and made it possible for the promoter to finance and build Madison Square Garden.

When Louis knocked out James J. Braddock in eight rounds at Chicago, Mike had the champion whose popularity brought back the million dollar gates, and made it possible for Jacobs to move into Madison Square Garden.

* * * * *

The similarity between Rickard’s relationship with Dempsey and Jacobs’ with Louis is striking. Jacobs was a successful promoter for the Hearst Milk Fund shows before he met Joe Louis. I had seen Louis in several of his amateur bouts in the West. I watched him in the National AAU championships in Boston and recognized a future world title holder. Then I saw him three times in professional fights in the Mid-West, and came back to New York raving about the young Negro whose clouting ability was a reminder of the early days of Dempsey. Several of my editorials about Louis attracted the attention of Damon Runyon.

I was working for Jacobs on a radio program and, following a broadcast, Runyon, one of Mike’s partners in the New York Hippodrome, cornered me and asked: “Just how good a fighter is Louis?”

Apparently my reply convinced him, because the following day he, Bill Farnsworth, and Ed Frayne—the Hearst stockholders in Mike’s Twentieth Century Sporting Club—got together with Jacobs and arranged a newspaper party for a trip to Detroit to see Louis in action against Natie Brown. But before embarking on the journey, Jacobs arranged a conference with Louis’ handlers, John Roxborough and Julian Black, at which, as things turned out, Mike signed Louis to an exclusive contract to fight under his control.

Louis was a budding heavyweight then. The night the deal was set, following his victory over Brown in ten rounds on March 28, 1935, a partnership was formed that was to endure to the mutual benefit of both, until Louis chose to dissolve it by announcing his retirement at Miami Beach on March 1, 1949.

On that night in Detroit when he took over, Jacobs made Louis and his managers two promises: his fights would always be on the level and he would make him the world heavyweight champion.

Mike kept both promises. He kept them although there was considerable prejudice rampant at the time, and despite the fact that Jack Johnson, the only other Negro to hold the world title, had been an unpopular champion. Jacobs never asked Louis to do anything other than get in the ring and fight his best. And as the world knows, that best was more than good enough.

* * * * *

Starting from his little ticket office, Jacobs later opened small quarters on West 49th Street in New York City opposite the Forrest Hotel, and eventually moved into spacious offices in Madison Square Garden after he became a millionaire.

The Carnival of Champions, held on September 23, 1937, at the Yankee Stadium lost money but Jacobs demonstrated that he controlled the fistic market by turning out a galaxy of stars to perform for him that night. The Garden directors were convinced and on October 27th of that year Jacobs moved into Madison Square Garden with Henry Armstrong topping his initial card.

Armstrong came out punching to knock out Petey Sarron in six rounds and win the featherweight crown, the first of his three titles. Here’s the story of how Armstrong got his chance and the part I played in arranging the fight.

Petey Sarron was in Johannesburg, South Africa, with Freddie Miller. On July 31, 1937, he had lost in ten rounds to Miller, from whom he previously had won the world championship. Then another bout was arranged for September 4 of that year—this time a twelve-round title bout—and Sarron retained the crown.

Petey and his manager, Jimmy Erwin of Texas, were anxious to get back to the States. They had been gone a long time and were homesick. Furthermore, they couldn’t get any lucrative bouts and cabled me asking if I could obtain a title contest with Armstrong, who at the time had become a national fistic hero because of his whirlwind style of fighting. After an exchange of cables, I was given the power of attorney to sign for Sarron, provided he could get a guarantee of $15,000 for a title defense.

I approached Mike and his Board of Directors. They were keenly interested and regarded this as an opportunity to start the ball rolling in the first Garden venture of the Twentieth Century Sporting Club with a championship mill. We arranged a conference the next day with Armstrong’s manager, Eddie Mead. Eddie and I were friends of long standing, and he was willing to have Armstrong fight for the crown, but he wanted more than the twelve-and-a-half per cent that Jacobs and his board of strategy (headed by his matchmaker, Al Weill) had offered.

After almost a week of haggling, I finally induced Jacobs to raise the ante and Mead accepted a fourteen-and-a-half per cent guarantee, with the announcement:

“I’m doing this only for Nat. He’s worked hard to put the match over and I’m convinced, as he is, that Sarron is ready to be taken. So I’ve accepted.”

Sarron, informed of the arrangements, accepted the deal I put across and started back to the States to defend his title.

Following the fight, Sarron and his manager visited my office and offered me ten per cent of Petey’s guarantee for having arranged the bout, but I turned it down. As on other occasions when I had an opportunity to cash in on deals I had engineered, I told them that I was not an agent in the true sense of the word. What I did for fighters was done in the interest of the sport.

But Petey, like Henry Armstrong on another occasion, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and the next day he returned with a beautiful gold belt containing thirteen panels. It was given to him by the Johannesburg Express after he whipped Miller. He asked me to accept it. I took the trophy, and since then have placed in each panel the name of every featherweight king from Sarron to Saddler. The belt now rests in _The Ring_ Museum.

As for Armstrong, shortly after he stopped Sarron to win the featherweight crown, he beat Barney Ross for the welterweight championship and outscored Lou Ambers to acquire the lightweight title. Thus, I was able to figure importantly in presenting him with the opportunity to become a triple champion, the only man in the history of boxing to hold three world titles simultaneously.

* * * * *

Before moving into the Garden, Jacobs took over the New York Hippodrome for fights, and I joined his publicity staff. One day, Damon Runyon approached me and asked me to a special conference with Farnsworth and Uncle Mike. It was an executive directors’ meeting and Uncle Mike spoke up:

“You know, Nat, we’ve been losing a lot of money in our boxing promotion here. We’ll have to let some of our help out.”

Before he could say any more, I realized what was coming and told him that so far as I was concerned, he could forget the $75 per week I was getting to act as radio contact man. He and Runyon were very pleased and thanked me profusely. Then a thought came to me.

“I’ve got a proposition, Mike,” I said. “How would you like to have a sponsor for your fights? I think I can arrange it.”

Runyon and Mike didn’t believe it could be done.

“Nobody will pay to have our fights put on the radio,” said Jacobs.

“I disagree with you,” I replied. Whereupon Jacobs, after a short conference with his colleagues, made me a proposition.

“We have arranged eighteen fights for the Hippodrome but might run twenty-six. If you can get a sponsor to buy the radio rights for $5,000 you can have ten per cent, and we’ll keep you on our staff and continue to pay your weekly salary of $75 so long as the broadcasts continue.”

“That’s too cheap,” I replied. “I’m sure I can get you twice as much.”

“If you can,” Jacobs quickly answered, “we’ll continue your salary and give you twelve-and-a-half per cent of the gross.”

I accepted and we shook hands on the deal. I left the office, and the next morning returned with a report that I had sold the broadcast rights to Adam Hats at $1,200 per fight for the first eighteen shows, and at $750 for each fight over that number, with the stipulation that my buddy, Sam Taub, be assigned the broadcasting job. Thus I had arranged for the first paid sponsorship of boxing bouts in the world. My report was greeted enthusiastically by Jacobs and the press.

Mike called in his partners and that afternoon Sol Strauss, his lawyer, drew up the contract which was brought to Elias Lustig of Adam Hats, and the deal was completed. Uncle Mike asked if I wanted a contract to bind his deal with me, but I told him I would take his word—no contract was required. However, as in other business deals between us, Mike reneged soon after the broadcasts got under way.

He was that way. He never went back on his word when it came to transactions he had made with fighters and managers, but in private affairs I found that he was far from the honorable gentleman the press so often made him out to be. For several weeks he paid me my salary but not a penny of my commission on the radio deal. And when I pressed the issue, he let out a roar such as only he could make when angered.

“You’re through,” he shouted. “The fights are drawing nothing here with radio. We don’t need you any more for publicity. We are scarcely pulling in enough to meet expenses.”

“O.K., Mike,” I replied. “But what about my Adam Hats commissions? You can’t back away from that.”

But he did. He had no scruples and was out to save what he owed me in an honorable business deal.

“There’s nothing due you on the Adam Hats contract,” he snapped. “I could have gotten that without your help.”

I was flabbergasted. Runyon was present and I asked him if he thought the deal I was getting was fair.

“Certainly not,” he answered. “You are entitled to every penny due on that contract.”

Damon fought my case but without success. So did the other two partners—Bill Farnsworth, sports editor of the New York _Journal_, and Ed Frayne, sports editor of the New York _American_—but Mike had his way and I left in a huff.

Mike and I were not on speaking terms for many months, but I wouldn’t sue because I had been his friend for three decades. On one occasion he encountered me in Childs Restaurant near the Hippodrome and sat down at my table.

“Nat, you and I have been friends for many years,” he said. “Why not continue?”

He held out his hand to bind our reconciliation, then took ten one hundred dollar bills and placed them before me on the table.

“Take these and let’s call it quits. There’s no reason for us being enemies,” he remarked.

“I don’t want your money, Mike. You went back on our agreement.” I shoved the bills toward him. “You probably need that money more than I do,” I said quietly as I left the table.

I took our break as one of those things that happen now and then between friends and decided to forget it and start anew. Although there was plenty of good in the make-up of this world-famous promoter, there was much that could be held against him. He wasn’t what I would call a man of honor. On the other hand, in all my business dealings with Rickard, I never once knew him to renege on a promise, though he did cross me on the Garden building proposition.

Despite his shortcomings, I liked Jacobs, I got a thrill out of his promotions and enjoyed his company on the many trips I took with him, strange as that may seem in light of our unhappy business relationship. Between what he owed me on the Adam Hats contract, and what was due me on the agreement we made on the Farr-Louis match, I figured Uncle Mike reneged on close to $30,000.

* * * * *

The story of how Tommy Farr got a chance at the heavyweight championship is the perfect example of the science of manipulation expertly applied. Mike’s shrewd chessboard play enabled him to outguess and outsmart his rivals by such a wide margin that, in the parlance of the sports world, it was “no contest.” What he did was well within the law, although his maneuvering did bring about court action. The results, however, were in Jacobs’ favor.

Farr was sitting pretty. He was the undisputed heavyweight king of the British Empire with victories over Walter Neusel, Max Baer, Bob Olin and Tommy Loughran. He had gained an international reputation and had reached the stage where the big money ordinarily starts flowing in. But this was not the case.

Tommy, a Welshman with a keen commercial sense, was becoming restless. He thought that his manager, Ted Broadribb, was not getting him his proper share of worldly goods and the British papers were harping on a possible break between the pair. Sports editorials commented on the fact that Broadribb was suing Tommy before the British Boxing Board of Control to compel him to live up to their agreement.

Broadribb and I were on friendly terms. He wrote to me about his troubles, asking if there was something I could do.

I wrote an editorial praising Farr as the best British heavyweight in a quarter of a century, and I told how Broadribb had brought him along in easy stages to the high position he now occupied in fistic circles.

The article pleased Farr immensely and he wrote me that his differences with Broadribb were not too great to iron out. He also asked if I would use whatever influence I had to get him a title bout in America.

His letter launched me on a plan that gave me great satisfaction after it had been consummated, for it developed into the greatest event in British pugilism since Charley Mitchell fought John L. Sullivan.

* * * * *

Let’s trace the episode from the start. Max Schmeling had been shunted to the sidelines to make room for Joe Louis to fight Jimmy Braddock for the world heavyweight title. Schmeling, realizing his position, decided not to remain in America for the outcome of the Chicago battle, but to return to Germany and seek the support of European countries in his claim for championship recognition.

He decided to do a little manipulating himself, and I couldn’t blame him. I supported his contention that he, not Louis, was entitled to get the first shot at Braddock’s crown, but Mike Jacobs was a great obstacle in his path. Mike had both Louis and Braddock under contract through a shady deal by which Braddock and his manager, Joe Gould, were to be handsomely rewarded for breaking their contract with Madison Square Garden to fight for Jacobs.

Schmeling was informed through the press that Jacobs was dickering for a fight between Louis and Farr in the event that Louis gained the title, something Jacobs regarded as a foregone conclusion.

Uncle Mike approached General Critchley and Syd Hulls, who were operating Wembley Stadium in London, and a deal was in the making whereby with Jacobs they would promote an international match for the world championship. Jacobs told me that he would take a party of seven New York reporters to cover the fight as his guests, and that I would be in charge. But he failed to consider the man whom he had thrust into the background when he arranged the Louis-Braddock fight.

Schmeling, confident that he could whip both Louis and Farr, got the jump on Jacobs by making a tentative agreement with Broadribb for a Farr-Schmeling bout. Ted said he would give his consent provided the bout was staged in London, and when Max agreed, Broadribb got in touch with General Critchley and Hulls and offered them the contest. Since the British promoters could do nothing without Farr, they decided to ignore Jacobs and deal with Broadribb and Schmeling instead.

I learned of the new deal and commented on it in my broadcast from Chicago over the NBC network, and the report caused considerable unrest in Jacobs’ camp. Mike found himself stymied. He tried to get Schmeling to return to America to fight Louis. He offered Max a title bout but Schmeling ignored the offer.

Max figured that with Farr on his side, he could dictate the terms to Jacobs for a fight with Louis. He regarded himself as the world’s outstanding heavyweight, since through the German government he had obtained the support of the British Board of Control and the French Boxing Federation.

Jacobs was furious but not yet defeated. In desperation he called the New York Commission on the telephone and requested that a cable be sent to Schmeling asking if he was prepared to accept an offer from Mike to fight Joe Louis in New York for the world title. Schmeling ignored this cable as he had the one from Jacobs.

His plans for a championship fight up in the air, Mike called upon me, knowing that I had made many trips to England and was well known there and on the continent.

“How close are you to Tommy Farr and his manager?” Jacobs asked me the day after Louis beat Braddock.

We were in the Morrison Hotel in Chicago, headquarters of the New York sport writers. It was eleven o’clock at night when Jacobs was informed of Schmeling’s deal with Critchley and Hulls, Jacobs’ supposed partners in the British venture, and he was naturally upset.

“I’m very friendly with both,” I told Mike, “especially with Broadribb. What’s wrong?”

“Schmeling hasn’t answered my cable, and I’ve got to act quickly. He’s trying to prevent the Louis-Farr fight which I have planned. Schmeling is determined to fight Farr and get European countries to recognize the bout as a world championship fight. See if you can reach Broadribb on the telephone and get a low-down on the situation. If you can get Farr to fight Louis for me, I’ll give you ten per cent of my profits,” Jacobs said.

I had received such promises from him before, and they really meant little to me. I was willing to help in order to get the bout in America and not because of Mike’s business proposition. I waited until one o’clock in the morning, and then put in a trans-Atlantic telephone call to Broadribb in London.

At four in the morning, while Trevor Wignall, British writer, was sitting in my room with me awaiting the call, so that he could obtain a beat for his paper, the phone rang. It was Broadribb calling.

“Hello, Ted,” I said. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m calling to get the low-down on the Farr-Schmeling fight. Have you signed? Mike Jacobs wants to give your man the chance that no British champion has had since Charley Mitchell’s days—an opportunity to fight here for the real world title. Will you accept?”

“Sorry, old man, but I can’t do it. What would they think of me if I should suddenly say that I don’t want the Schmeling fight after I’ve told them to go ahead and get the German for Tommy?”

“Ted,” I replied, “you knew right along that we were coming to London in a few weeks for a Farr-Louis match. Weren’t you told that?”

“I read it here in Wignall’s column, but didn’t know definitely. Had I been sure, you know that nothing would have stood in the way. It would have been different. That’s the one fight we want and we would grab it.”

“Well, Ted,” I answered, “it isn’t too late. You haven’t signed, and Schmeling is simply doing this in order to bolster his stock overseas. If he licks Farr he figures he’ll strengthen his claim to the title he thinks is his. Can’t you see that?”

“I can’t say any more,” concluded Broadribb. “Let the matter rest until tomorrow. Your proposition looks good to me but I must confer with Hulls and Tommy.”

With that he rang off and the first step in the negotiations that made English boxing history had been completed. We had set the stage for a heavyweight championship bout in which a British champion would come to American soil to fight for the title for the first time in thirty years.

I told Jacobs of our conversation. He had been down in the dumps, but was somewhat cheered by the progress I had made.

“I won’t let Schmeling cross me after what I was trying to arrange for him. He’ll either agree to fight Louis for the championship under my control in August or Farr will get the chance no matter what the cost. Call him again tomorrow.”

I did, and at midnight the second day I again put in a call for Broadribb, this time with Jacobs sitting at my side. To what he had already told me, Broadribb now added:

“I have been advised that the German Boxing Commission, the French Federation, and the British Boxing Board of Control have helped Schmeling by recognizing him, not Louis, as the champion, so that our fight will be for the title. How do I know that a Farr-Louis fight will be recognized as a world championship bout under such conditions?”

“Ridiculous,” I answered. “Ted, you’re too smart to be fooled that way. Louis is the champion, and if you defeat Louis you’ll have realized your ambitions. If you have already signed, then I won’t dicker with you any longer. I don’t want to be a party to a broken agreement. Though my sympathy is with Schmeling, who got a raw deal, we can’t get away from facts—Louis is the world titleholder.”

“I have no contract,” replied Broadribb. “Hull has an option on our services but unless he can get Schmeling and he meets the terms upon which the tentative arrangements have been made, there’ll be no fight with Schmeling.”

“What are the terms?” I asked Ted.

“He has offered Farr $30,000, and will advertise the bout for the championship and the fight must take place in London.”

“How would you like to get double that sum, Ted?” I asked.

“Do you mean that, Nat?” he inquired in surprise.

“Yes, Ted,” I said. “Mike Jacobs is sitting here with me, and Mike told me to offer you double any sum you’ve been offered, if you have not signed yet. If you have, he says to call everything off.”

Broadribb could scarcely speak. His voice quivered as he asked me to let the matter ride for another day.

“I’d like to say yes, Nat,” he told me, “but I’m honor-bound to protect Hulls and General Critchley, and unless they fail to do what they have promised, I’m afraid I’ll have to say no until after Farr beats Schmeling which I tell you he’ll surely do.”

“That’ll be too late, Ted,” I answered.

With that, we said good-night, and I waited for two more days before I again heard from Broadribb. This time he called me.

“Nat,” he said, “Hulls has violated our agreement. He was sworn to secrecy on the amount he was to pay Farr for Schmeling, but instead he has given out the story telling what Farr is to get, and that has riled Tommy. I don’t blame him. He’s raising havoc here, saying he’s worth every penny as much as the German, and not, as Hulls announced, half as much. I’ve told Hulls it’s all off. I’m ready to take on Louis for Mike if you say I should.”

Jacobs was again at my side, and I told him the news.

“Clinch the match!” he said. “You’ll share in my promotion.”

And I closed the fight for Mike. I informed Broadribb that we would give Farr $60,000 guarantee, four round trip tickets, and 25 per cent of the movie and radio rights. That news flabbergasted the British manager, who remarked:

“You mean that, Nat? That’s wonderful. Regard it as a deal. The bout is on. I’ll let you handle all matters for me. Tell Mr. Jacobs that he should cable the money for the tickets as soon as I notify him.”

Thus the bout for Farr was arranged. After Broadribb had given his consent, Jacobs wanted me to go to London with Sol Strauss, his lawyer, to sign for the fight, and also to aid Ted and Farr in getting out of the country, as court action was threatened by Syd Hulls and General Critchley. I told Mike I couldn’t make it. Sol Strauss went alone and brought back Farr, and because of that he took all of the credit for making the match. Neither he nor Jacobs would have gotten to first base with Farr, had it not been for me. Farr and Broadribb confirmed that when they arrived for the bout.

Farr, the day after Broadribb had agreed to accept on Tommy’s behalf, called me on the telephone and thanked me. He was overjoyed at the prospect of coming to America, and before we rang off, he said:

“Nat, I’ll lick Louis. I’ll be the next champion. You did me a good turn and I shall not forget it. I’m eagerly awaiting your coming with Mr. Strauss to sign the contract. There’s no chance of a slip-up, is there, Nat?”

I told him that I was not going to England and assured him there wasn’t a chance of a slip-up. Tommy added:

“The opposition here has a story from Germany which is plastered all over the papers, saying that I’m a fool for agreeing to go to America to fight Louis, because only New York, of all the States, has recognized the Negro as champion. The story says that all the commissions except New York have decided that Schmeling is the real titleholder because he had complied with his terms of the agreement for the Braddock fight and Braddock had run out on him.

“If that’s the case,” continued Tommy, “then I don’t want to fight Joe. It’s the champion that I want and whoever he is, Louis or Schmeling, he’s the chap I’m going to fight. Make certain that Louis holds the title before you have Strauss come over to sign me for the fight.”

“Rest easy, Tommy,” I replied. “That story is a phoney. I give you my assurance that every State in the country, New York included, accepts Louis and not Schmeling as the champion. They have placed Max as the leading contender but give the title to Joe. If you think I’m spoofing you, I’ll have a story cabled over by the National Boxing Association within two hours. Cable me when you see it in the papers. If it doesn’t come, then we’ll forget the fight here and you can close the Schmeling deal.”

I immediately called up the Rhode Island headquarters of Ed Foster, executive secretary of the National Boxing Association, and asked him to contact, at my expense, the various executive heads in each state in the N.B.A. as to whom they considered champion. Foster notified the Associated Press, United Press, and all of the other news services within an hour and a half that an executive telegram vote showed that every one of the thirty-one states in the N.B.A. supported Louis. This was cabled to Europe, by the various news agencies, and in about three hours from the time I had talked to Farr, I was on the telephone again, this time with Broadribb, who informed me that all the papers were carrying the correction.

That’s how the Farr-Louis match was clinched. Can you blame me for feeling proud of the fact that it was through my efforts that a British fighter had an opportunity that no Englishman had had since the Corbett-Mitchell fight in 1894?

* * * * *

The Schmeling forces accused me after that of having double-crossed Herr Max, with whom I was “supposedly” very friendly. That was not true. I had always been friendly toward Schmeling and still am, as a matter of fact, having recently visited him in Hamburg. No American writer had done as much as I had editorially to bolster his case before the public and to get him the chance at the title I believed he had earned. When I upset his plans by inducing Farr to come to America, I did so because Max had received ample opportunity to accept a fight with Louis for the championship, but had made no effort to accept. He apparently wanted to get universal recognition without fighting the man who had won the crown by stopping Braddock. He out-smarted himself by ignoring the cables offering him the match, and when he did decide to accept, it was too late, and only if he could receive the champion’s end of the purse, which he knew full well would be unacceptable to Louis and Jacobs.

I know that at one time Jacobs offered Schmeling thirty per cent of the gate, Louis to get the other thirty, but Max scoffed at the terms. Therefore, I can safely say that in this transaction there was nothing that violated the spirit of fair play, no conniving or underhanded dealing. Farr got the match only because Schmeling wouldn’t take it.

* * * * *

Conceded by only a handful of followers to have the semblance of a chance against the Brown Bomber, Farr on August 30, 1937 in the Yankee Stadium surprised all by harassing the champion with a continuous bombardment, something no one other than Schmeling had been able to do throughout Louis’ professional career.

Tommy fought the battle of all true-hearted, courageous Welshmen, but lost the verdict because of Louis’ superior boxing ability. It was the kind of fight that American sportsmen had been accustomed to see when such stalwarts as Jem Driscoll, Freddy Welsh, Jimmy Wilde, and Owen Moran appeared in this country.

As for Jacobs’ agreement with me, he forgot all about his promise after he had Farr signed. Not only did I not share in the profits, but I didn’t even collect what I had spent on trans-Atlantic telephone calls and cables, and on wires to and from the N.B.A. executives.

* * * * *

In many respects Mike Jacobs had a Jekyl and Hyde personality. He was cruel, inhuman at times to his help, particularly when things didn’t turn out the way he had hoped and planned; yet on other occasions, especially when he entertained at home, he couldn’t do enough to make his guests comfortable. I found him a complex character, to say the least. Though he lacked a formal education, he would come up with a knowledge of affairs that many a college professor might envy. A man of ideas, he knew publicity, fights, the stage, and people.

If you decided Mike was too ardent in his pursuit of money, you learned of his many contributions to charity. If you made up your mind that he was just a tough Broadwayite, a graduate of the streets of New York, you discovered after a short stay at his magnificent Rumson Estate—one of the show places of New Jersey—that he loved the country, was proud of his farming, was wild about flowers, and had furnished his home with the very best that money could buy.

Jacobs’ delight in horticultural pursuits and the furnishing of his home provided a striking index to his character. His sumptuous estate was located at Fair Haven, in the exclusive section of the Rumson colony of New Jersey. My brother Jack, who at the time was president of the National Auctioneers Association, had purchased the Shadow Lawn estate of Mr. Parsons, vice-president of the Woolworth Company.

The contents of this luxurious home were put on public auction, and Mike and I visited the estate to make some purchases. To my surprise, he outbid the professionals in buying the cream of its contents, including a forty-foot-long Persian rug worth $30,000, some huge Grecian statues, and several oil paintings. Mike asked me to bid with him against the professionals, and when the bidding was concluded, he had obtained the beautiful rug for $7,800.

“Know what I’m going to do with this?” he asked me. “I’m going to have enough cut off this rug to fit my living room, then I’m going to sell the rest. I’ll get back all I spent here.”

This he did, to the horror of the aesthetes. And when the new deal was completed, Mike had all he needed of the rug in his living room cost-free, while selling the remainder of it for $12,500.

The bathrooms of the Shadow Lawn estate had gold fixtures. Mike bought those to place in his home.

“What was good enough for that house is worth putting in mine,” he told me. “Nobody in Rumson will have anything on Uncle Mike.”

But he never made use of the fixtures. He disposed of them also at a huge profit without moving them. As a result of his shrewd bargaining, Jacobs fitted his home with the best that was in the Parson’s mansion without any cost to himself.

Almost everything Uncle Mike put his hands to seemed to turn to gold. Only a few of the ventures into which he entered failed to return a handsome profit.

When Farr came to America, Mike asked Tommy, Ted Broadribb, several British writers and myself to visit him at Fair Haven. Proudly he took us on a tour, showing us the rare gladioli with which he had won top prizes at the State Fair; beautiful peonies and thousands of the rarest type of American Beauty roses. Just as Mike began to explain how he grew these flowers and why he was so fond of farming, a bulldog belonging to a neighbor, to whom he rented a house, tore out across the garden of roses in pursuit of a cat.

The owner stopped to apologize to Mike.

“You keep that hound leashed or find yourself a new place to live. Those roses are far more important to me than your rent,” Jacobs shouted.

* * * * *

We were on our way to Chicago—Jacobs, Hype Igoe, Murray Lewin, Jimmy Dawson, Jack Miley and myself. Mike held court in his pullman drawing room. There were midnight sandwiches, drinks, card playing, and general conversation until about three o’clock in the morning, when the party broke up and we went to our separate compartments.

At six, there was a knock at my door. It was Mike.

“I’m surprised you’re sleeping so late,” he said. “We’ll pull into Chicago in about three hours. Come on, let’s have some coffee.”

I protested that I had only just gotten to bed.

“You left my room at three didn’t you? Well, it’s six now,” he roared.

I dressed and went to the diner with Mike. The chef was not ready for us, but Jacobs had no difficulty convincing him that it was in his interests to get that coffee up in a hurry, and he did.

Getting up early and going after his coffee was a regular habit with Jacobs. Two nights before the Louis-Braddock fight in Chicago he was jittery and couldn’t sleep. I remained with him until about four in the morning, when I finally broke away and got to my room. Scarcely had I undressed when the telephone rang.

“You’re not in bed yet, are you, Nat?” asked Mike. “Come down and we’ll have some breakfast.” I protested that I was sleepy and had three broadcasts that day and needed some rest.

“What’s the matter with you guys?” he shouted. “You sleep your years away.”

I yawned my way down into the coffee shop where Mike was sitting waiting for me, and we had our breakfast but no sleep.

* * * * *

Yes, a complex character was this many-sided guy off the Coney Island beats. And no matter what my grievances were against him, I always had a fond spot in my heart for him. It’s not likely that we’ll have his like again in the promotion field for many years.

BOOK

FOUR

DONNYBROOKS

The drama of American sport is superlative. Each branch has a thrilling story of its own, but for pulse-stirring interest, boxing is matchless. It is a game of contest and contact, of skill and stamina, of perseverance and grit—a battle between men. It has its romance, glamour, spectacular endings, and feats of unusual courage that make it an ever brilliant picture. They can all be listed under one title, “Fights I Cannot Forget,” and of these I shall select a few.

One of my favorite fighters, most of whose bouts I reported, was Leach Cross. Few fighters in my experience have had a more brilliant career or fought as many tough battles. He was one of the standard bearers of boxing in New York in both the club membership and Frawley Law days. Leach, more than any other exponent of fisticuffs, popularized the sport among the Jews in his city and created sectional rivalry that often resulted in neighborhood fights. Through Leachie, thousands of New Yorkers who might never have followed boxing, became ardent fans who were largely responsible for the success of club membership shows before the sport was legalized in New York. His success blazed the trail for Benny Leonard, Ruby Goldstein and Sid Terris, among others. Cross and I were neighborhood buddies. I admired him for his fighting qualities.

Of all of Leach’s fights, I pick that with Joe Bedell on March 16, 1911 at the old Clermont Avenue Rink in Brooklyn, as his best. I saw Cross in most of his fights, but never in one so fast and furious as the Bedell affair. Leach had Bedell down twice, but after the second knock-down he pulled a boner. Thinking he had his opponent ready for the kill, he tore in wide open and Bedell met his rush with a blow that came up from the floor and landed Cross on the canvas with a thud. The bell saved him.

After being carried to his corner, restoratives put Leach in condition to resume when the next round got under way. His fighting instinct alone enabled him to carry on through the eighth round, but in the ninth he went down again.

Hopelessly beaten as he came out for the final session, Cross feigned grogginess—his favorite stunt—and, though weak, he maneuvered his tormentor into position for the shot that brought victory. It was a powerful smash to the jaw. Bedell went down, face forward, and was counted out.

Another contest in which Cross participated thrilled me. It was St. Patrick’s Day, 1908, when Leach was scheduled to meet Frankie Madden at the Old Dry Dock Athletic Club at Tenth Street and Avenue D, one of the toughest sectors on the lower East Side of New York City. A huge stable and a very large lumber yard were located across the street.

Madden was a product of the same district as his manager, Bowery gangster Jack Sirocco.

That night, the house was packed with Irish and Italians, who overflowed into the aisles and jammed the exits. Hundreds were turned away—most of them Jewish supporters of Leach, who couldn’t buy an admission ticket that night or if they had one, couldn’t get into the club. Madden’s friends saw to that. I pushed my way into the club with the aid of Detective Martin Sheridan and my Police Reporter’s card.

Madden came into the ring with a huge shamrock sewed on his tights. The crowd went wild with cheers for their favorite son. Cross was booed heartily when he was introduced by Charley Harvey. It was obvious that—except for his seconds and a few of us who had arrived early—Leach had no friends present that night.

The fight got under way and for five rounds it was one of the most vicious, brutal battles I’d ever seen. In the fifth, Leach, coming out of a clinch, pressed the issue. He forced Madden towards the ropes and suddenly let go a right that came up almost from the floor. It struck Madden on the jaw and hurled him on top of the upper rope, where he was counted out.

Now here’s the climax. Someone had telephoned the police that there was a riot at the club between the Jews and the Irish. Three patrol wagons loaded with bluecoats drew up to the club. But instead of finding a riot, Inspector Russell arrived to see Leach raised on the shoulders of two husky Sons of Erin. They were surrounded by a wild shouting group of Irish and Italian fans paying their respects to Cross for the manner in which he had gained his victory.

It was a scene I’ll never forget! There was nothing for the cops to do except to order the club cleared.

Incidentally, it was the first time that any Jewish newspaper had published the fight results. The morning after the fight, the _Jewish Forward_ carried Leach Cross’s picture on the front page.

* * * * *