Chapter X: Book SIX (8)

With the guarantee agreement set, I drew up a contract which called for the contest to be staged on September 19, 1954, in Bangkok, with Teddy Waltham, secretary of the British Boxing Board of Control, as neutral referee at a fee of one thousand dollars. A Thai official and myself were to act as judges. With this set, and accompanied by Diamond, I went to the Thailand Embassy in London, and there the Ambassador affixed his signature on behalf of his government, Diamond signed for Cohen, and I signed for the World Boxing Championship Committee, of which I am an honorary member.

Thus for the first time in the history of boxing, an Ambassador signed a contract for a boxing match. I was proud of my achievement and prouder still of the manner in which the affair was handled.

Boxing received its greatest recognition in recent years when Their Majesties King Bhumibol Adulyadej and Queen Sirkt, the Thai cabinet, ambassadors and ministers from foreign countries, with high-ranking officers from the Allied Forces stationed in the Far East, all sat in a specially constructed grandstand to watch the fight—despite another torrential rain that kept up until about half an hour before the bout went on.

A gathering of 69,819 that paid $200,952.24 saw the Thai champion go down to defeat.

As on my first visit, I was quartered in the spacious Resident Palace, a lone occupant except for a valet, two maids, and a cook to look after my comfort. I was given a military car and chauffeur and an English-speaking Police Lieutenant aide, throughout my stay. Outside my residence, two sentries were on duty day and night.

On the day of the fight, despite another heavy tropical rain storm, as before, all roads leading to the battleground were jammed throughout the day. People headed for the stadium on foot and in vehicles of various sorts, and to take care of the heavy traffic, two thousand police and members of the armed forces were brought in from the provinces to help the Bangkok force. People from the bordering countries of Cambodia and Laos crowded streets already full of Chinese, Hindus, Filipinos, and Siamese.

Outside the stadium, hawkers were carrying huge rolls of cellophane and plastic sheets, which they cut and sold in large strips to take the place of rain coats. These street merchants reaped a harvest. Their merchandise went like hot cakes at 15 bahts (50 cents) a strip. With these over their heads and shoulders, the fans entered the arena and sat in varicolored chairs—blue, white, brown, red, orange, and yellow—arranged in rows.

The day following the bout, General Phao gave a dinner in my honor at which the French Ambassador and many government notables were present. At this affair His Majesty awarded me the Fourth Class of the Most Exalted Order of the White Elephant, the highest honor that may be conferred on a foreigner. The white elephant is a sacred animal in the land of Buddha, and Buddhism is Thailand’s national religion. It is sacrilegious to kill a white elephant—the symbol of purity.

In addition, I received a silver and gold combination humidor and pipe rack, built around the head of a tiger that had been shot by General Phao, and a stuffed tropical bird whose gay plumage and song I had admired in the palace garden the previous day. He also presented me with a necklace and bracelets of beautiful Siamese silver for my daughter, Joan.

* * * * *

I shall always recall the wonderful greeting I received on this second visit to Bangkok. As our Pan-American plane approached the field, we could see hundreds of children waving American and Thai banners, and as the plane landed, a roar went up. It was as much a surprise to me as it was to the others to hear Captain Max Webber announce:

“Will all passengers kindly remain seated while a guest of the Thai government gets off the plane first.”

That guest, I soon learned, was me. As I stepped out of the plane, General Pichai and General Mora, headed a large delegation of government officials who had come to escort me. Applause and shouts of “Our Uncle Nat is here,” made me feel very much at home.

I was swamped with garlands, each made up of fragrant flowers with red, white, and blue ribbon holding them together. So heavy was the load across my neck that I requested to be permitted to hold some. There was a military escort of motorcycles and jeeps, followed by fifty cars and buses, each flying the American and Thailand flags, and banners blazing the words “Welcome Our Uncle Nat Back to Thailand.”

It was an amazing tribute to boxing since I was representing the sport.

At dinner that evening General Pichai asked if I would like to see Siamese boxing. What a question! What baseball is to the Americans, cricket and soccer to the British, and Sumo to the Japanese, hand-and-feet fighting is to the Thai folk. It brings out the throngs and has its idols of whom Songkitrat is one. Whether they win, lose, or draw, these heroes are decorated with wreaths, receive beautiful gifts of silver, and are showered with attention wherever they go.

It’s a sport in which the rules and regulations that govern international boxing are tossed aside. The code which governs it prohibits gouging, hair-pulling, and striking an opponent when he is down—otherwise everything goes. The contestants use their feet, knees, and elbows as offensive and defensive weapons, and once the action gets under way, fur flies. The bouts are usually thrillers, with not a moment of inactivity.

The foreign visitor watching a Siamese boxing match is not so much attracted by the hand-and-feet fighting as the opening ceremony that often lasts from five to ten minutes. It is called “Ram.”

It is a peculiar combination of praying, limbering-up exercises, an acknowledgement to the fans for their presence, and a salute to the opponent, instead of the usual handshake to which we are accustomed. The fighters first bow until their heads touch the ground. This is when the prayer to Buddha is made. Then each fighter twists his head toward his manager’s corner with another prayer, this time for the man who has trained the fighter. Next comes a salaam to the crowd. Then with head still bowed in reverence and with hand upraised towards heaven, the fighters recite a prayer for victory. The final stage of the ceremony is that in which the fighters prance around the ring like toe dancers and shadowbox as they have been taught by their masters. They move their hands in mystic waves, kicking their legs high, then each goes to the other’s corner and bows to his opponent.

A band of six musicians plays during this ceremonial prelude, and continues to play throughout the fight. The weird music is reminiscent of medieval days; and the entire “Ram” rites, I was informed, may be compared to the ceremonies attending the opening of athletic tournaments in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

With the conclusion of the ceremonies, the fighters are called to the ring center where the action gets under way. Each has a white band on his arm. It is known as the Holy Band or _mongkol_ in Thai language, and is supposed to give strength and courage to the contestants. Beneath this band is a small charm, a tiny Buddha statue, or a pebble from the holy soil of a Buddha Temple.

The referee calls for time, and as soon as the fight gets under way, six musicians begin their quaint music with two high-pitched guitars, two oriental drums, and two flutes. This accompaniment is nerve-wracking to an American. Those accustomed to it would regard a match dull without it. The tempo speeds up as the bout progresses and the action in the ring remains rhythmic as the boxers keep pace with the musicians.

The Siamese boys make our boxers look like novices as far as their courage and ability to take punishment are concerned. They take a shellacking, giving and receiving blows, and European rules would call for quick disqualification.

THE FITZSIMMONS CLAN

The 1956 Olympic Games were over. My long stay in Melbourne, where I had gone to report the international boxing competition, was completed. Should I journey back to the States by way of the Far East, stopping off in cities familiar to me through previous visits?

That was a decision I had to make quickly because of the heavy transportation problem, and it didn’t take me long to do so.

I remembered a letter I had received from Timaru, New Zealand, from Betsy McKenna of the Club Hotel, whose mother was the patroness of the New Zealand Sports Association and whose father for many years was a prominent sportsman in the South Island. Shortly before his death, his daughter had invited me to visit Timaru if I went to the Olympic Games. This decided me: I would take a trip to New Zealand where famous American boxers had performed in the days of Eddie McGoorty, Jimmy Clabby, George Chip, Jeff Smith, and Billy Papke. I would visit Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch, and Timaru.

So on to Auckland I flew, a six-hour flight from Sydney; and from that point in the North Island as my headquarters, I headed down south, my final destination being Timaru, the home of many of the Fitzsimmons family.

Everywhere I went, friendly hands greeted me. Radio recording was a must in each of the cities where I stopped. I was on the air, on radio and television, a total of twenty-nine times, including six special recordings for the Government-controlled national radio—so great was the interest there in international boxing.

Timaru was my objective because of the many entertaining hours I had spent with Bob Fitzsimmons during his stage career. I was out to gather material about the Fitzsimmons family, and I obtained what I was after.

Two of the greatest boxing figures made their start in the Southern Hemisphere. Fitzsimmons in Timaru and Les Darcy in Maitland, New South Wales. These fistic stars were idolized in their homelands. Mention the name of Darcy or Freckled Bob in any pub, and you’ve started a discussion that may last for hours.

In my journeys through Australia and New Zealand, I met many sports enthusiasts who knew Les and Bob. Some at three score and ten have vivid recollections of the early days of these men whose names occupy a niche in the Fistic Hall of Fame.

When I visited Maitland to unveil the Darcy Memorial and spoke to a gathering of about 5,000 who had come from all parts of the Commonwealth to honor the memory of their idol, I thought I had met all of the pugilistic celebrities of the past and present who had any part in keeping boxing alive in that part of the world. But my subsequent trip to Timaru uncovered still more.

Timaru is a small dot on the southwestern coast of the mainland in the South Island of New Zealand. It is seldom in the itinerary of the tourists, and receives little attention even from New Zealanders.

Yet this little city of only 23,000 inhabitants, in the sheep farm district 100 miles from Christchurch and about 200 miles from Auckland, can stand on its own as an historic athletic center. It has a unique claim to fame in the sports field, having produced five of the world’s greatest athletic performers.

Remember Jack Lovelock, the famous 1500-meter king to whom Hitler presented an oak tree—part of the Olympic ceremonies at that time? Jack brought it home to Timaru, presented it to the high school, and today it stands 75 feet high in the school yard, as a memorial to this famed middle distance runner who died in America.

Then there was the race horse, Phar Lap, known as the “Red Terror”; it thrilled the turf world with its great performances before dying soon after being shipped to America.

And Dick Arnst, the world-renowned sculler, had few equals. He was born in Timaru and lived there all his life.

The little city that had less than 3,000 inhabitants when the Fitzsimmons clan first settled there, also boasted of a great billiard player, Clark McConachy. A master of the cue, he was one of the greatest in the game.

But Timaru bases its greatest claim to athletic fame on the first man to win three world championships—Bob Fitzsimmons, holder of the middleweight, heavyweight, and light heavyweight crowns. The city claims Bob as its very own, although the British have always been free to take credit for his accomplishments on the grounds that he was born in England.

The Timaru folk keep Ruby Robert’s name alive with stories about his escapades and thrilling anecdotes about the strength of his dad, the ability of his brother Jarrett as a mighty smithy, and the fighting spirit of the entire family. The citizens—average country people such as one meets in any farm land—are proud of the part their city has played in international sports.

They take you to the street where Bob first learned the blacksmith trade, point to a little camera shop now occupying what once was Fitzsimmons’ place of business; the alley adjoining where the horses were kept until ready to be shod; the little passageway, a short street now occupied by stores, where Bob made his start at fist tossing; the anvil on which he worked, now owned by Joe Stewart, blacksmith to the Timaru Harbor Board, and an old building where the sign that was displayed outside the original Fitzsimmons’ horse shoeing establishment hangs with the legend, “J. Fitzsimmons, Veterinary Shoeing Forge.”

Visiting the Fitzsimmons’ clan was a delight. So much has been written about Bob and his birthplace—Elston, Cornwall, England—and so little about his adopted city, where he worked as a blacksmith during his boyhood years, and learned the rudiments of the trade in which his fists were to gain for him an international reputation, that if my visit to Timaru did nothing more than to put it back on the fistic map, I will be delighted.

Bob’s picture hangs in almost every hotel lounge in Timaru. And you can’t get to first base if you try to convince them that Ruby Robert was a Cornishman and not a New Zealander. Mention of my itinerary to Kiwis invariably brought forth the statement: “That’s where Fitzsimmons lived. We’re proud of him.”

* * * * *

Ruby Robert’s first job, his relatives recalled, was in Reid’s and Grey’s Foundry in Stafford Street North, a short distance from where the Dominion Hotel now stands. Boxing had far greater appeal for him than any other sport, and he took to it like a duck to water. One of the old settlers I interviewed remarked:

“There’s many a time when Bob, left alone in the shop, would go down the alley to have a little go with the gloves. He didn’t have much difficulty getting some one to spar with him while another kept a lookout at the blacksmith shop.”

“Did the family ever speak of Jem Mace who is credited with having taught Bob the finer points of boxing?” I inquired of blind Jack Fitzsimmons. (A steel splinter had penetrated his right eye while he was working as a smithy.) He’d talk for hours about boxing and the prowess of his uncle if he could get a listener.

“Yes,” he replied. “His sister Catherine had a vivid recollection of Bob’s early days and often told us of the celebrities with whom Bob associated. Mace, she told us, was Bob’s teacher and a mighty good one. He had a night school where he taught boxing and Bob attended it after working hours.”

Continuing after a short pause, Jack said, “She told us that Uncle Bob began boxing at the age of fifteen, and our father said that Bob had engaged in three bare-knuckle bouts with heavyweights when he scaled only 142 pounds. Father, you know, was Bob’s brother and he, like Bob, was strong and vigorous. He had thin legs—a family trait, I believe; from the waist down, they were similarly built.

“I recall Dad saying that it wasn’t long after Mace took charge of Uncle Bob’s training that he was fighting all comers of any weight class in South Canterbury. Bob’s fame spread, and stories of his prowess drifted to Australia; at the age of twenty, he left Timaru for Sydney, where he fought in matches arranged by the great Larry Foley.”

I was amazed at the boxing knowledge of Jack Fitzsimmons. Blindness hadn’t affected his memory. He recalled dates and places which normally require research in _The Ring Record Book_ for accuracy. I was shocked upon my return to America to learn that Jack died shortly after I had left for home.

Discussing Ruby Robert’s sense of humor, Jack Fitzsimmons remarked:

“Aunt Catherine told us that he grew up with plenty of it in his make-up. And from what we learned from our father and read in _The Ring_ and elsewhere, his antics in his training camps and in his social gatherings portrayed the picture well. He was full of pranks and never was disturbed when they were played on him, Dad said. It was his easy-going temperament that enabled him to make friends wherever he went.”

Jack added, “You know when Uncle Bob was fighting in Australia there was little difference between amateurism and professionalism. When Mace arranged the affair in which Uncle Bob gained his first prestige as a boxer, ten other boxers competed in the tournament and the rounds weren’t limited as they are today when amateurs compete. A bout finished only when one was knocked out, yet the Mace tournament was advertised as an affair for amateurs.”

Wes Jack took out some mellowed newspaper clippings telling of Ruby Robert’s visit to Timaru, following his retirement from boxing. In one, Fitzsimmons tells of the time he won the New Zealand title.

“I didn’t have things easy,” he told his interviewer. “As a young man who weighed at the time less than 125 pounds, I had to face tough opposition with opponents far heavier. But I reached the top, although in so doing I had to fight men of all sizes and weights.”

Discussing the blacksmith shop, a story related by Bob’s brother, Jarrett, two of whose sons became heavyweight champions of New Zealand, held my attention. Jarrett, who died in Timaru at an old age, telling his sons about the power in the arms and shoulders of his brother, said:

“I’ve often been asked how brother attained his strength. I think it came from fighting and subduing crazy horses brought into our blacksmith shop. If there was anything Bob liked, it was to be assigned to shoeing a brute. He would remark:

“‘It strengthens my arms and legs when I’m kicked across the shop and it helps develop the sand in a man.’”

In _The Ring_ museum in Madison Square Garden there is a letter from Fitzsimmons addressed to me. I had seen him in Chicago in 1914, at which time I interviewed him, and when I mailed the article to him, he added to his statement:

“The cave-men of the ring are extinct. Champions such as we had when I was in my prime are gone, never again to return. The champions of the future will be as children compared to the rough and ready battlers of twenty or more years ago. Fighting, like all other sports, is reaching out along lines of improvement. The men of today realize that boxing is more important than is slugging.

“They are beginning to see the advantages of knowing how to block and feint and those who still can retain their punch are the ones who will reach the top. You’ll find as the years pass that fighting will become more and more scientific and championships will change hands on points and not on knockouts.”

Those were the words of one of the greatest champions of all time. He foresaw many years ago the change that already has taken place.

BOOK

SIX

BIRTH OF _THE RING_

With the February issue of 1957, _The Ring_, my boxing publication, completed thirty-five years of service in the interest of the sport; years of war, prosperity, gloom, and world turmoil. They were years that included “The Golden Era” of boxing and a paralyzing depression; and throughout the three decades, _The Ring_, which started with a circulation of 2,500, carried on without interruption. From a small magazine confined to the environs of New York it grew into a world publication, published in America and in England with a total circulation of over 200,000.

_The Ring_ made its wavering début on February 10, 1922, to combat attacks against boxing. I operated out of a cubbyhole in the old Madison Square Garden, in a little room donated by Tex Rickard. It was a one-man job. I was editor, business manager, circulation manager, and general handy man, though the stock was owned by four of us. About half a year after the first issue was published, Eddie Borden, well known in boxing circles, joined me as an assistant.

Between 1917 and 1920, when the Walker Law went into effect following the demise of the Frawley Law, boxing in America was in a sad state. But the Walker Law brought about a change, a promise of order in what had become a corrupt racket.

Rickard had come East soon after the Walker Law was passed, and decided to promote fights and other sports events in the old Garden and at the Polo Grounds. He was so successful that he aroused the envy of crooked politicians who found it more profitable to operate without state supervision. They tried to put him out of business and to kill legalized boxing. Those politicians formed an unholy alliance with reformers against the new boxing bill. With the help of Rickard, I enlisted the services of friends, most of them nationally known newspapermen, to fight for the life of legalized boxing.

Rickard asked me what could be done to halt Governor Smith from killing the sport. I suggested that we flood the Albany Senate and Assembly with pamphlets outlining our reasons for opposing the bill which would have halted boxing. He agreed. I received the support of every sports writer in New York to help the cause.

Articles were written for the pamphlet by New York’s leading sports editors and columnists: Bill McGeehan, Damon Runyon, Walter Trumbull, George Daley, Wurra Wurra McLaughlin, Ned Brown, George Sands, Bat Masterson, Bill McBeth, Harry Cross, Charles F. Mathison, Francis Albertanti, Grantland Rice, George B. Underwood and myself. Copies were sent to every member of the New York State Legislature.

With Senators Frawley and Walker fighting our battle in the Senate, and Assemblyman Marty McCue, a former pugilist, doing the chores for us in the Assembly, we fought a winning campaign. Governor Smith listened to the plea and then made his historic decision, saving boxing for New York State. He said that though he didn’t like boxing and had never attended a show, he was highly impressed by the editorial comment of the sports writers and those who had gone to Albany to attend the hearing. He vetoed the measure of the reformers and boxing was saved.

Following that narrow escape, I decided that a publication devoted wholly to the sport would be worth starting. I asked for Rickard’s help, but he balked at spending any more money. I argued that if a pamphlet such as we presented to the State Legislature and the Governor of New York could do so much good for boxing, a magazine devoted to the sport, an organ to give boxing an articulate mouthpiece, would be a venture worth tackling. Rickard was not impressed. I was to be only too grateful for this later on.

But I wasn’t licked. I. C. Brenner, of _Golfers’ Magazine_, had heard of my plans, and he came to my rescue. He knew the magazine field and offered to help launch a publication if someone would back it financially. I became the backer.

I went to Frank A. Munsey, my employer, who had ditched the New York _Press_ and had purchased the New York _Telegram_ to which I was shifted, and I asked permission to bring out the publication. He gave me the green light after I promised that the work would not interfere with my duties as sports editor, and that I would keep the contents clean and do nothing to hurt _The Telegram_.

With Brenner, I took as partners (without any financial aid from them) Frank Coultry, treasurer of Madison Square Garden, and Ike Dorgan, brother of the famous cartoonist, Tad. Ike was Rickard’s publicity chief. I gave each of them equal shares at 25 per cent.

Three months later, Coultry and Brenner retired from the enterprise. They didn’t think the magazine would be a success and sold their stock to Ike Dorgan and me. But within a year, the magazine had jumped from 2,700 to 13,000 and from 24 pages to 38.

Thereafter there was a steady rise. From America’s leading newspapers and magazines foremost writers were added to the staff. The appearance of the book was improved.

In 1929, I bought out Dorgan’s stock and became the sole owner. I had constant faith in the magazine and despite the depression, I decided to take over the ownership and put everything I had into it. However, trouble came when I lost my bankroll in the financial crash, and for two years I accepted Bernarr MacFadden as my partner. In 1931 that arrangement was abandoned, and since then I have carried on as publisher and editor. With the help of an excellent staff, I have built the publication to its present circulation of over 200,000 in the U.S. and in England and aided by the good management of Nathaniel R. Loubet, my son-in-law, we have modernized the format to meet current needs.

Rivals have come and rivals have gone, but _The Ring_ continues, steadily improving, with a record of never having missed an issue since its inception. We suffered losses during the war years, but never faltered. The friends we made by shipping _The Ring_ gratis to all areas where our men were fighting, more than offset those losses, for we gained good will we couldn’t have purchased with money.

While many magazines were forced to discontinue during World War II, _The Ring_ continued to serve its readers, those in hospitals and in training camps, a service unequalled in the history of American publications. Lectures with motion pictures of famous fights were given through _The Ring_ in camps and hospitals, and no expense was spared to see that the men received what they cherished most in reading matter—boxing news. In addition, we organized _The Ring’s_ Servicemen’s Athletic Fund, which purchased athletic paraphernalia for camps in all parts of the world.

One of the greatest achievements of _The Ring_ is the publication of its annual record book (an international guide to boxing), and its annual rating of boxers, a listing that is used by promoters and commissions in pairing fighters.

Many years ago the late Walter Camp initiated the custom of designating the outstanding football players of the year as the All-American or best-players of the season. A flood of imitators adopted this idea and today All-American football team selections are almost as numerous as the players.

When Camp died, I thought of having some sort of honor roll of boxing similar to his gridiron ratings. Looking around for a boxing figure of equal prominence to make the selections, I chose Tex Rickard.

The fabulous Tex was in his heyday then, and following the announcement that he was to make a selection of the world’s ranking boxers, his ratings were awaited with tremendous interest.

The forerunner of the detailed and highly classified _Ring_ rankings of today appeared in the February 1925 issue for the first time and caused world-wide comment. Such ring immortals as Jack Dempsey, Benny Leonard, Mickey Walker, Harry Greb, Gene Tunney and Pancho Villa were in action at the time, and, of course, their names led all the rest in their respective divisions.

Dempsey was naturally rated top heavyweight, with his perennial shadow, Harry Wills, in the number two spot. Tunney was a light heavyweight in those days and was ranked first in the 175-pound division. Young Willie Stribling and Kid Norfolk were second and third, respectively.

The great Harry Greb headed the middleweights, and the man who was to succeed him, Tiger Flowers, was in the runner-up spot. Mighty Mickey Walker was welterweight kingpin, followed by Dave Shade, who was to trail the Toy Bulldog throughout his career. The peerless Benny Leonard was still showing his heels to a new generation of lightweights, his old rivals having fallen by the wayside. Sid Terris and Sammy Mandell, a couple of up-and-coming youngsters, had edged the oldsters out of the second and third positions.

Kid Sullivan topped the junior lightweight division, a favorite of the time, and Louis Kid Kaplan led the feathers. Cannonball Eddie Martin was ranked best of the bantams, and Pancho Villa headed the popular flyweight division as world champion.

Rickard continued to make his choices in the pages of _The Ring_ for some years, but Tex, while a genuine connoisseur of heavyweight material, was not always as painstaking in his examinations of the smaller fellows. It was difficult to convince him that the selections in the lighter divisions were just as important. The big lads were always closest to Tex’s heart. That was where the money was. They were the raw material for the promotional extravaganzas that had placed Rickard at the top of the heap in his field.

After Rickard’s death in 1929, I had Jack Dempsey make the selections. However, Jack suffered from the same shortcomings as his predecessor. He knew all the answers so far as heavies were concerned, but was inclined to overlook the lighter classes. He lasted only one year.

By this time _The Ring_ rankings had attained such a position that I realized that their compilation required the knowledge of one whose boxing interest and knowledge included all the divisions. The Matchmaker of Madison Square Garden seemed an obvious choice because he had to be fully informed concerning boxers in all classes all over the world. Tom McArdle, then occupying that position in the Garden, fell heir to the job, which he capably performed for the next few years.

As the interest in ratings grew, however, I decided on a staff compilation, and in 1933 I inaugurated the present system of rating boxers on the basis of a census of _Ring_ correspondents throughout the world. Their decisions are looked upon as the official ranking in every division by the European Boxing Union and the various boxing commissions.

The wide range of opinion to which the ratings are exposed has put the name of many an obscure but talented lad before the public. A typical example of this was Billy Conn, whose first real recognition by Mike Jacobs came as a result of the high ranking he received in _The Ring_. Conn’s was just one of many similar cases.

The year-end rankings also serve the important function of starting off the new year in a flurry of comment and enthusiasm. Boxing has thus received a much-needed stimulus and I’m proud to think that I inaugurated the system.

MEET THE PRESS

Let me tell you about some of the outstanding sports writers in American journalism. I am not going to attempt to list all the great reporters, past and present, who have kept the achievements of our athletic heroes in the headlines, because it would take far more space than can be devoted to it here.

Of all the colorful writers from all parts of the world with whom I worked, my first choice is Tad Dorgan, whose boxing cartoons were unexcelled and whose coinage of words formed the pattern for later-day sports writers. Tad held an amazing place in American journalism. He was not only a great writer about fighters and an expert in the game, but he was one of the most graphic cartoonists we have had on the west side of the Atlantic. He was the John Leech of the modern school—now, alas, modern no longer. In England the closest to him is Tom Webster, whom I also esteem among my friends.

When Tad Dorgan died, a stout heart ceased to beat; he was a man who had given pleasure and a laugh daily to hundreds of thousands of people throughout the world. In the quarter of a century that I knew Tad, I can recall at least fifty “nicknames” that he had originated to describe fighters with certain peculiarities; and the names by which he called them are to this day their identification in the fistic world. He was the most accomplished coiner of the sports page phrase. He and Damon Runyon and Bill McGeehan contributed more to the slang expressions that swept the country from time to time than any other writers.

Battling Nelson, Tad dubbed “The Bat” and the “Durable Dane.” Billy Petrolle in later years he called the “Fargo Express” because of his speed, and the “Fargo Express” he remained throughout his fighting days. Jem Driscoll, to Tad, was the “Will O’ The Wisp.” ...

Tad’s comic strips, his humorous, human interest cartoons and wisecracks continue to retain the appeal they had years ago. Tad had a flavor and the tang that no man in the boxing game has ever been able to duplicate.

As a boxing commentator Tad rated with the best: Bill Naughton, Bill McGeehan, Ed Smith, Charley Van Loan, Hugh Fullerton, George Siler, Macon McCormack, Bat Masterson, Charley Mathison, Sam Austin, George Touhey, and others whose articles made them famous authorities on boxing in America.

Tad was an intimate of every sportsman of note from the early nineties to the day of his death. He was a good friend of James J. Corbett, John L. Sullivan, Jim Jeffries, and Jack Johnson—the four aces in his list of fistic celebrities. Jim Corbett once said that Tad, who was born in the same district as Gentleman Jim, when only a lad showed all the symptoms of becoming “the funniest man in the world.”

When Tad became famous as a cartoonist and a writer, he often referred to Jim’s remark. Among Tad’s favorite sports writers were Hype Igoe, Bill McGeehan, and Rube Goldberg, each a noted man in his profession.

“The gamest man I ever knew,” is what Gene Tunney called Tad, and Tunney knew something of many kinds of courage. Tad was responsible for the discovery of many young writers who later became stars in the sports world. It was he who encouraged the famous Charles E. Van Loan, whose books on sports are well known in England and in the United States. Van Loan became one of the greatest baseball writers in America while working on the San Francisco _Bulletin_ and later, when Van Loan accepted a post in Denver, he discovered another youth—now known to the sports and movie world as Damon Runyon.

Though Tad did not originate all the famous slang expressions credited to him, he at least was responsible for popularizing them. Remember when “23 skidoo” was the rage? That was one of Tad’s expressions.

It was he who named Jack Johnson “Lil Arthur” at the time that the giant Negro was in training for his fight with Jim Jeffries at Reno. Tad was the only fistic expert in Reno who picked Johnson to win by a knockout.

Joe Gans was dubbed “The Old Master” and Harry Wills, he called “Ol Har.” Pete Stone, one of the favorites in Stanley Ketchel’s camp when Hype Igoe was Ketchel’s manager, Tad nicknamed “Pete the Goat.” He called Jack Dempsey, “The Manassa Mauler” and “The Killer” and these “titles” have been identified with Dempsey ever since.

The stories about Tad are so numerous that it would take a volume to tell them. His escapades in “Jack’s,” a famous New York restaurant of pre-prohibition days, are frequently told in sports circles. The story of how two song writers picked up his expression, “Yes, we have no bananas” and made a million out of it, is an old one.

If making millions laugh every day qualifies a man to call himself an artist—and I know of no higher art—then Tad was an artist. I enjoyed his company and was proud to have been numbered among his friends. Not only did he bring laughter into the world with his “Silk Hat Harry,” “Judge Rummy,” “Indoor Sports” and other famous drawings, but created words that Webster never dreamed of.

Tad was the “Emperor of Prince Regent,” and “High Commissioner” of the sports gatherings in New York. He loved that bawdy life and he understood it as few others did. His greatness lay in his understanding of humanity. Shams never fooled him. He looked behind them, and saw human emotions—petty, silly, or noble. He loved Broadway and the sports world with a passionate intensity which he transmitted to others in the journalistic profession.

Several years before heart trouble made it impossible for him to attend fights, I saw him in Tex Rickard’s office and we discussed old times.

“I don’t go to as many fights as I used to,” he said. “It’s the same old thing—fight after fight; fouls, holding, referees interfering with the boys and poor decisions. I’m fed up on it, Nat. The boys rush in headlong and then slap their way through the bouts, round after round. They either have their eyes shut or their hands open.

“Remember the old Barnum saying, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute?’ The population is bigger now so that the sucker crop is much greater than in his day, but they’re still falling.”

We discussed Johnson, Jeffries, Tom Sharkey, Ketchel and a few others among the old time greats and compared them with the fighters of this era. Tad challenged me to name eight topnotchers who came to the front since 1916. I started but he cut me short.

“What’s the use?” he asked. “Even if you name fifteen, you won’t find four equal to those I’ve named. I like to talk about the stars of other days because they were the real masters. Their names will go on forever, just as those of the great actors, musicians, painters and writers—Dickens, Cruikshank, Leech, Shakespeare, Balzac, Dore, Kipling, O. Henry and Jack London. Birds like that will continue to be chatted about. They were the cream in their specialty as were Corbett, John L., Jeffries, Fitz, Ryan, Sharkey, Johnson, Choynski, Walcott, Gans, Dixon and Attell in theirs.”

We had attended a show a few nights before in the Garden at which about 16,000 persons had crowded the arena, but the main event was marred by repeated holding and waltzing and Tad, turning to me, remarked:

“Just because 16,000 fight fans saw that bout and only about 800 saw some of the ring classics of the past, some of the stirring contests we used to attend, doesn’t prove that the boxer of today is better than the fellows of twenty years ago. Where do they get off to compare these birds to men like George Kid Lavigne, Bat Nelson, Gans, Jack McAuliffe, Frank Erne, and many others of their brand I can name? A magazine writer today gets ten times what Dickens got fifty years ago, but that doesn’t mean anything so far as comparative ability goes. Half of the fans of today think that they’re seeing great fights, when as a matter of fact, they’re just being entertained by dubs.”

Tad knew his fights and fighters. He had the facts. The day before the Berlenbach-Delaney fight, I sat with Tad and we discussed the coming battle.

“Is a great left better than a great right hand?” he asked.

I thought for a moment and then replied that I thought the best fighters in recent years were those who possessed good, powerful lefts.

“Let’s see,” Tad answered. “Take a pencil and jot down these names.”

Both Tad and I got our pencils out and we started to name good fighters who could hit hard, and we found that the man with powerful lefts rated higher than those who had a good right. Tad remarked that Billy Delaney, the old-time trainer who handled three champions—Corbett, Jeffries, and Johnson—said that he wouldn’t handle a man who didn’t possess a good left. “The left,” according to Delaney, “is the best fighting hand because it is the natural hand for hitting purposes.”

Tad recalled Jack Johnson’s telling him that a fighter is never off balance or out of position after leading with the left, whereas he is all wet after the right is shot.

Among the fighters with great rights whom Tad named were John L. Sullivan, Peter Maher, Bert Keyes, Gunboat Smith, Joe Choynski, Aurelia Herrera, Georges Carpentier, Australian Billy Murphy, Willie Fitzgerald, Young Corbett, and Jack Delaney. Those with powerful hitting lefts were Stanley Ketchel, Bob Fitzsimmons, George Dixon, Dal Hawkins, Frankie Neil, Fred Fulton, Jim Corbett, Nonpareil Jack Dempsey, Paul Berlenbach, and Kid McCoy.

Tad’s favorite fighter was Gans, with Jack Johnson rating a close second. He thought that Dempsey was a great scrapper, but he told me on several occasions that Dempsey never saw the day when he could whip “Lil’ Artha.” He saw Dempsey at Toledo and watched Jack beat Billy Miske in Benton Harbor. That was the last fight he viewed from ringside. Thereafter, he listened to them on the radio.

He often remarked that the radio was a God-sent gift to him, and it undoubtedly prolonged his life. Always a great hand for forming likes and dislikes for figures in the sports world, he got to taking impressions from the radio and on many occasions his follow-up story and drawings on a great fight event which he didn’t see but to which he listened were amazingly accurate.

In covering a fight or other important sports event, Tad’s ability to cut loose with a flow of descriptive writing that spread the picture before the eye and the mind of the reader surpassed that of any other writer of his time. He was uncanny in the accuracy of his description.

I recall the first time the word “hard boiled egg,” was used in a sports story. The expression was coined by Tad following a heated discussion over the division of a fight purse, in which Harry Pollock and Dan McKettrick played leading parts. When an agreement could not be reached, Tad came forth with a cartoon depicting the wrangling and a caption beneath the cartoon of Pollock read:

“How a hard boiled egg looks when fighting for the dough.”

That expression became extremely popular in a short time and soon was used as a gag on the stage and in stories of crime to indicate a tough character. Still later he dropped part of the expression and simplified it to just plain “egg,” and thereafter that word took its place in English slang, meaning ordinary, useless, unfit.

There never lived a more ardent fight-fan than Jack London; as a matter of fact, Jack, though he never boxed in public, was a nifty hand with the gloves. The first time I met him was in Jack Cooper’s New York Gymnasium, the place where Mike Donovan, Theodore Roosevelt, and many other noted New Yorkers gathered. London was exercising with the mitts, and he surprised me with his skill. I asked him where he learned to spar.

“I was a pupil of the greatest teacher in the world,” he responded. “Old Professor Hard Experience drilled me. When I was a kid I traveled with a tough gang, and had to learn how to scrap, or get my block knocked off every day,” he said. “Then in my hobo days, riding on freights in box car pullmans, I was up against a still tougher game. A young fellow needs to know how to handle himself if he elects to carry on in the tramp life.

“But I picked up a lot of glove knowledge sparring with Battling Nelson when Bat was lightweight champion, with Jimmy Britt, Young Corbett, and other cracks. I always liked the game.”

London wrote some of the finest fight fiction ever published. He had the gift of making a reader actually see and feel what he described within the ring. Jack had some newspaper experience on San Francisco papers, but the reporter phase didn’t last long, as his talent for fiction soon transferred him to a more lucrative field.

Even after he became famous as a novelist, the newspapers and syndicates often paid him big money to act as ring correspondent for championship matches. It was while covering the Battling Nelson-Jimmy Britt match for the world’s lightweight championship in 1905 that London coined the phrase “abysmal brute,” applying it to Nelson’s seeming insensibility to punishment. The iron-jawed Dane took everything Britt could give him in the punching line, until he wore Jimmy down and kayoed him in the eighteenth round.

London greatly admired the clever Britt and wanted him to win, but it wasn’t in the cards for Jimmy to come out top-dog. Jack also was anxious to see Jeffries whip Johnson. He was engaged by a newspaper syndicate to cover the Jeffries-Johnson battle at Reno, Nevada, in 1910, and he was hurt as much as Jeffries when Johnson knocked the big Californian out. London was Jeff’s most ardent rooter.

* * * * *

Like Tad, Bill McGeehan, famous Sports Editor of the New York _Herald Tribune_, was a coiner of phrases. While Tad made friends through his cartoons, McGeehan gained an army of readers through his unique style of sports journalism. His sarcasm, often biting to the marrow, held the attention of his readers to the very end. He was a master of satire, and founded a school of sports writers in this vein which now numbers among its clan some of the best scribes in America—men like Westbrook Pegler of the _Chicago Tribune_ Service and Joe Williams of _The World-Telegram_. They, like McGeehan, are members of the school of sports debunking.

However, McGeehan’s coinage of sports epithets led the field, his phrases far outnumbering those of Tad. The fight game was McGeehan’s richest source, although his dubbing of Notre Dame football players as the “Fighting Irish” is probably the most memorable nickname he ever created. Among his most popular descriptions of boxing were “The Manly Art Of Modified Murder,” and “The Cauliflower Industry.” The “Scrambled Egg Brigade” he applied to fighters in general. In the area of particularization, one of his best-remembered tags is the one he hung on Primo Carnera: “The Tall Tower Of Gorgonzola.” “The Battle Of What Of It” he applied to any fight that he judged to be worthless.

“The Ex-Millionaires Hole,” was the name he gave to the Madison Square Garden Bowl, after the Depression depleted the fortunes of many of the directors of the Garden. “The Boy Bandit,” was his epithet for Jimmy Johnston, while “The Exploiter of Pachyderm,” was Jack Curley’s designation.

* * * * *

When boxing was attacked in the New York State Legislature in 1921, and it looked like the sport would receive its death blow from the Governor, McGeehan, Damon Runyon, Bill McBeth, George B. Underwood, Charles F. Mathison and I, went up to Albany to plead for the continuation of boxing. We were fortified with facts to prove the sport was conducted on as high a plane as any other.

McGeehan, known in our circle as “the Sheriff,” made the hit of the meeting when he spoke up:

“Prize fighting, Governor, is not a sport. It is a gigantic business. As a business, I dare say it is conducted as honestly as American politics or the average business, and I venture to say, a little more honestly than the stockmarket. Every profession has its crooks, its gamblers, its undesirables, even the profession of politics. Then why condemn boxing and whitewash all other business?

“Prize fights today are merely entertainments staged for the box office. The sporting element went out when the business became legal and respectable. If this legislature should kill boxing, it would do a gross injustice to hundreds of boys who are engaged in it as a profession; to managers who handle them; and to the promoters who hire them for the public’s entertainment. Such action will result in only one thing—boxing will go back to the bootlegging days.”

So impressed was the Governor with that statement that you could read his thoughts as he absorbed every word McGeehan uttered.

McGeehan was dubbed by his fellow writers as “the man with the fighting pen.” He waged war on crookedness in every branch of athletics, as do my good friends Dan Parker and Jimmy Cannon today.

Probably the best informed sports writers of my time, among those with whom I was well acquainted and with whom I worked, were Charles F. Mathison, my boxing critic on the _Press_, _Sun_, and _Telegram_, and the man who formulated the rules of boxing which became known as the Walker Law; Ed Smith of Chicago, and Arthur Lumley, who handled the _Illustrated News_ and was several times manager of John L. Sullivan. He also wrote for my _Ring_ magazine.

Mathison, who at one time was the editor of the Detroit _Free Press_ and also of the New York _Globe_ and the _Morning Telegraph_, had a vast acquaintance in the boxing world. He, like McGeehan, was a tough man for the crooked element in boxing. Neither showed any mercy. It was their vitriolic writings that did much to save the sport at a time when it was in danger of annihilation.

McGeehan was a very heavy drinker, and he frequently ran into trouble when he was assigned to cover a fight story of national importance. I recall his arrival the day before the Sharkey-Stribling fight in Miami Beach.

As I remarked in a previous chapter, Steve Hannigan, Sid Mercer, and I handled the publicity and hotel accommodations. I reserved rooms for the most prominent reporters from New York and other big cities, including the British visitors, in the George Washington Hotel, where my wife and I occupied a suite.

McGeehan reached Miami Beach with Don Skene, his protégé, and Graham McNamee, then America’s outstanding sports announcer, working for the National Broadcasting Company. Graham was to do the broadcasting. All three had imbibed too much, and I quickly realized that I had a job on my hands. McGeehan walked into press headquarters supported by Skene and Graham, and in a gruff, commanding tone he demanded to know where his room was. When I told him that he had a reservation in the Fisher Estate where Bill Carey was living, he shoved me aside and walked down the corridor. My wife Trudie had emerged from her room and as the door was open, Bill stopped in front of the room, walked in, opened the window and started to toss out our trunk and handbags. I rushed in as he was about to throw out my suit and remonstrated with him. But it did no good. He dispossessed us and took over. Within a short time, he and Don Skene were fast asleep, and my wife and I had to find new quarters.

On the day of the fight, McGeehan was nowhere to be found and Skene was so far gone that he couldn’t see the typewriter keys. After the contest, messages kept pouring into our headquarters asking for the New York _Tribune_ stories. To cover the absence of the reporters, Sid Mercer tackled McGeehan’s yarn, while I wrote one for Skene. We tried as closely as we could to imitate their style, a mighty tough task. After Mercer had filed McGeehan’s story, the editor sent the following message:

“What happened to McGeehan’s report? What we received was not written by him.”

* * * * *

Batting for a fellow writer was nothing new in the sports field in those days. My friend Warren Brown, in his excellent book, _Win, Lose or Draw_, confirmed that. He has a good yarn in that book on McGeehan.

“At Benton Harbor, Bill had particularly rough going the night before the Dempsey-Miske fight and on the day of the contest, he was almost as bad. He made his way by forced march to the press headquarters to finish his story. When he got there, the only typewriter available was one of those old-fashioned Olivers on which the type faces rose from left to right on slender ovals.

“As McGeehan thrust his fingers on the keyboard, coils of these type faces rose from both sides and met in the center in an appalling knot. Bill shuddered as he surveyed the scene, rose unsteadily, and made his way out of the place. He was next heard from when he arrived in the press box in the Cleveland Baseball Park two days later. His clothes and personal belongings were forwarded to him. His story on the fight reached his paper on time. It wasn’t pure McGeehan, but it got by!”