Chapter IX: Book SIX (7)

Willie returned the compliment in the second session by putting the Sailor down for nine. It was a peach of a blow—a left hook that lifted Burke clean off his feet.

Then came the fantastic third round. Both men were mixing in the middle of the ring, with Lewis having a shade the better of the milling. They stood toe-to-toe, hammering away at each other with lefts and rights to the body and jaw, when suddenly Burke started a right hook.

Willie tried to beat him to the punch with a similar blow. Both wallops landed good and true—both men staggered—and then, to the roar of the crowd, both slumped to the canvas.

Referee Billy Joh was amazed. For a moment he didn’t know what to do. Shouts came from all over the house. In both corners the handlers were wild with excitement, yelling their heads off. Then Billy jumped between the fighters, and with head down, started to count.

It was an extraordinary situation. Burke, who had landed on his face, was trying to turn on his side, but Lewis, in falling, had toppled in such a position that part of his body was resting on the Sailor’s knees, and this prevented him from getting to his feet.

The count went on; “three ... four ...” Then Lewis started to wriggle, partly releasing Burke “... five ...” Willie was scrambling to his feet. “... six ...”

The gong went for the end of the round and saved the situation. Eventually Lewis put Burke out for keeps in the sixth round, but the thrill of that third session had drained the spectators of interest.

As soon as the fight was over, I went to the dressing room and had a talk with Billy Joh. I was anxious to know what would have happened, if neither man had been able to get up and the gong had not sounded.

“I was puzzled for a moment, Nat,” said Billy, “but I soon remembered we are fighting no-decision bouts. For the sake of records, I should have continued the count and the man who got to his feet first would have been the winner.”

* * * * *

Two of the strangest knock-downs I have ever seen took place at the same Fairmont Club, one between Boyo Driscoll and Biz Mackey and the other between Soldier Kearns and “One Round” Davis, both in 1911.

In the fight between Kearns and Davis, the latter was handing a whale of a beating to Kearns and apparently had victory well in hand. But Kearns stepped in and like lightning shot up a magnificent uppercut which turned Davis over in a back somersault.

A cry rose from the crowd as Davis finished the somersault on the back of his neck, his head bent under him and his toes resting on the floor.

“Good heavens!” said a voice near me. “That must have broken his neck!”

The referee began to count, and Davis still maintained his dangerous and grotesque position.

“Pick him up!” the crowd roared. “His neck’s broken!”

And it looked as if a tragedy had happened. I saw Kearns step forward to help his fallen opponent, but his handlers shouted for him to keep still. Davis didn’t move, and the count went pitilessly on.

As soon as he had ticked off “ten,” the referee rushed in and raised Davis from the canvas. He was still out and his head swung helplessly on his shoulders. His handlers ran into the ring to cries of “Get a doctor!” They carried him to his corner, where a few minutes later he was revived.

Half-an-hour later, I was talking to him. He was still slightly dazed, but so far as I could see, really none the worse for his experience. How he escaped severe injury to his neck was a mystery to me.

Billy Joh refereed the Boyo Driscoll-Biz Mackey fight and was forced to count over both men at the same time. This extraordinary affair began when the boys were close to the ropes, hammering away at each other’s body.

Billy Joh stepped in and separated them. As he did so, the fighters went for each other with everything they had. Both landed with a right to the jaw simultaneously. Driscoll went spinning toward one side of the ring and Mackey toward the other. They were stretched out flat while spectators howled with delight. Mackey was up at “Seven,” swaying like a drunken man. At “nine” Driscoll stumbled to his feet. Each staggered about the ring unable to do any fighting. It was extraordinarily comic. Laughter rocked the house as the men groped blindly to find each other. When eventually their gloves met, they fell into a clinch and remained that way without doing anything to each other until the gong sounded.

* * * * *

Many things that look queer to spectators are no joke to the fighters, but I must confess that I have often sat at ringside and enjoyed some of the antics. Some years ago two husky lightweights, Hugh Ross of Kentucky and Tom Kelly of New York were pitted against each other in a ten-round bout. When the final gong sounded, Ross was all in, on the verge of collapsing. As he fell into his chair, grasping the ropes, he turned to his second:

“What round was I knocked out in?” he inquired.

Seconds later the announcer was hailing Ross the winner, but the groggy fighter didn’t realize it. In the dressing room he couldn’t be convinced that he hadn’t been kayoed. He thought his handlers were spoofing.

CHAMPS AND CHUMPS

Every profession has its quotas of goofs and bulge-heads. Boxing leads them all in quality and quantity of whims, fancies, peculiarities, and idiosyncrasies. The history of the champs and chumps of fistiana is a saga of trickery, superstition, and practical jokes that would fill a good-sized public library.

Since the gaslight days when fighters wore skin tights and fought bare-knuckled for a hundred rounds, performers of the roped square—an amazing collection of grotesque personalities—have used tricks that would confound a Hindu fakir, and followed fetishes that would stymie a practitioner of Voodoo.

Of the fighters I have known intimately, Leonard, Johnson, and Young Corbett ruled the roost when it came to making disconcerting remarks that enabled them to regain their equilibrium while they were palming off the hot stuff on their opponent. Philadelphia’s Lew Tendler wasn’t quite certain that he had knocked champion Benny Leonard bow-legged in the eighth round of their fight at Boyle’s Thirty Acres in Jersey City, July 27, 1922, and forgot to put across the finishing touches when Benny, smiling, said to him:

“You hit pretty hard, Lew. Why don’t you hurt me?”

Tendler, uncertain how to take the remark, permitted Leonard to hold on and to talk until it was too late to put over a haymaker. Leonard was as happy as a lark when he pranced to his corner with the knowledge that he had hoodwinked Tendler into missing an opportunity for a knockout.

Leonard had another favorite ruse that he’d use whenever he faced a tough opponent, as in the meeting with Richie Mitchell in the old Garden. Benny, while taking the referee’s instructions, turned to his rival and remarked:

“Now, boy, let’s make it a real fight. Those fans want to see action. But if I knock you down, don’t get up too soon. Take nine, you may need it.”

Of course, he usually spoke so that the ringside scribes could hear what he had said, and that added to the discomfiture of his opponent. Benny’s remarks paid good dividends.

* * * * *

Harlem Tommy Murphy would cut loose with a line of gab every time he dropped an opponent. A talkative fellow, Harlem Tommy would upbraid his man for not doing well, and then, after he had dropped him for the count, he would remark:

“Sorry, old top. Give my regards to the folks when you get home.”

Former world bantamweight champion Johnny Coulon, came to pay me a visit when I was in Chicago recently. We discussed some of his fights, especially the one in which he beat Frankie Burns in New Orleans in a twenty-round bout, February 28, 1912. Coulon asked me if I recalled how he kidded Burns out of a possible knockout in the fourteenth round, when Frankie had caught the champion with a corking right to the chin.

Coulon was tossed back on his heels. It looked as if he would tumble to the canvas, but he caught himself in time, grasped the left arm of his opponent, backed Burns against the ropes and then, while trying to clear his head, said:

“Why, Frankie, you’re a sap. You have a good punch but you don’t know how to toss it. Watch me!” Instead of taking advantage of the position he held by virtue of that stunning wallop, Burns tore himself away from Johnny’s grip and covered up while maneuvering himself out of range of Coulon’s right. While he retreated, the champion fully regained his faculties and, following Burns, actually caught him with a powerful right to the chin that almost dropped the challenger.

Burns never knew that he had been duped. But it wasn’t the first time Coulon had come up with this stunt when stunned.

* * * * *

Fighters are probably the most superstitious of all athletes. In many years of experience with their ways, I have come across some extraordinary cases of ring superstition. Few boxers I have met are free from it.

One of them was Gene Tunney. He dismissed luck as a factor in the fight game, although he had plenty of it—for example the “long count” he was given in his contest with Jack Dempsey at Chicago. But Gene affected to despise everything that savored of superstition.

“It’s up to me,” he would say coolly.

Incidents that would have driven most fighters into a state of superstitious fear had no effect on Gene, and his almost inhuman calm sometimes had a bad influence on his opponents. He never batted an eyelash. He was cool, collected, a study in perfect composure. No fighter in recent years, with the exception of Loughran, approached Tunney’s ring demeanor.

Dempsey, on the other hand, was like Jeffries in that he was so nervous that he twitched and tossed, moved his feet to and fro in the resin, worked his hands over the upper strand of the ring, and could scarcely await the call to battle. He was pulling at the leash every moment he waited for the bell.

Dempsey had his full share of superstition. He always went into the ring with a dirty old maroon sweater thrown across his shoulders. Once I asked him about it.

“That sweater, Nat,” he said, “has been with me ever since I began fighting. I bought it in St. Louis out of my first ring earnings, and I have never been beaten while wearing it. Once I left it off and lost the decision.”

Jack handed the tattered garment to me for inspection. It was certainly an odd fetish for one of the best-dressed boxers of modern times.

“You may laugh at me, Nat,” he went on, “but that old sweater brought me luck against Fred Fulton, Carl Morris, Bill Brennan, and Georges Carpentier, and I’m sticking to it—to the last thread.”

I didn’t laugh, because I have often thought that fighters in the heat of battle get a clearer insight into the nature of things than most of us.

Just before Dempsey left his dressing room for his memorable fight with Luis Firpo, “Doc” Kearns decided that Dempsey was so invincible that he no longer needed his lucky garment.

I was at the ringside and saw Jack climb into his corner. He was wearing a brand-new white sweater with which he’d entered the ring.

“Here, Doc, take this,” he said. “I don’t want to see it again. For my next bout give me that old sweater you wouldn’t let me wear tonight. That Firpo fellow nearly put me out because I didn’t wear that sweater.”

* * * * *

Many Catholic fighters cross themselves before the first gong. Johnny Summers, star British boxer, among others, always took a rosary into the ring.

When Harry Wills, the ebony-skinned New York heavyweight, fought Jack Sharkey, both fighters were asked to say a few words to the radio audience before the bout started. Sharkey obliged by shouting into the microphone:

“I’ll whip Wills tonight. I’ll knock the bozo out!”

“Harry, will you say something?” asked the announcer.

“Sorry,” replied Wills, “I’m superstitious. I never say anything before a fight. It brings me bad luck.”

But when the fight was over and Wills had been declared the loser on a foul, he rushed to the mike and cut loose with a barrage against referee Patsy Haley, who had disqualified him.

* * * * *

Bob Fitzsimmons was very superstitious.

“Nat,” he said, “I’ve often heard people ridicule others who told them of a dream that affected their careers. I believe in dreams as I do in the Gospel, and my reason for this strong feeling is that almost every dream I have had has come true.

“More than ten years ago, the night before my fight with Jim Jeffries on Coney Island, I dreamed I was fighting a tough battle, and that I was knocked out. When I got up in the morning I told my wife about the dream.

“‘Rose,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid it’s all over. I’m going to lose my championship.’

“‘Don’t be silly, Bob,’ she said. ‘What makes you say such things?’

“I told her of the dream I had had the previous night.

“‘I shall lose all right, Rose. I’ve never known a dream of mine not to come true.’

“You know what happened, Nat. I lost the championship to Big Jeff in the eleventh round.”

And then Fitz went on to tell of several other dreams that had come true.

Like his old opponent, Jim Corbett, he also believed that horseshoes brought good luck, and he told me that when he began his training for the fight with Corbett at Carson City, he himself—for he was a blacksmith—made a large horseshoe and placed it on the floor of his dressing room.

“I made two horseshoes every week I was in training, Nat,” he said, “and gave them away to newspapermen and my handlers. When I had made the thirteenth horseshoe I decided to keep that for myself. One morning I was out on the road. My wife was following me on horseback. Suddenly I got a hunch. I stopped running and said to her:

“Rose, I’m going to stop Corbett in the thirteenth round. The horseshoe has told me so.”

As a matter of historical record, Fitzsimmons knocked out Jim Corbett with his famous solar plexus punch in the fourteenth round—only one round beyond that which he had predicted.

* * * * *

A few years ago, I flew to San Francisco to attend the Ezzard Charles-Joey Maxim fight. I met Tom Sharkey, and together with Rocky Marciano and some sports writers, we went to San Quentin Prison to entertain the inmates. Old Tom was in a reminiscent mood. He told us that while he was preparing for his fight with Gus Ruhlin, Bob Fitzsimmons had sent him two peacocks.

“When those birds arrived I nearly passed out, for I remember an old woman once telling me in Ireland that the owner of a peacock never had any good luck,” said the fighter who gave Jim Jeffries his toughest battles. “I wanted to send those birds back to Fitz, but I loved him like a brother and didn’t want to offend him. All through my training, I wept thinking of the unlucky peacocks, and when I lost to Gus in the eleventh round, I blamed it on those Jonah birds.”

* * * * *

Negro fighters are usually very superstitious. Tom O’Rourke, manager of the original Joe Walcott, once told me that Joe refused to train unless Tom presented him with a rabbit’s foot.

“No rabbit’s foot, no luck,” Joe would say.

I once asked Sam Langford if he believed in the jinx.

“Yes, sah,” replied Sambo, “my jinx is colored fighters, sure.”

The goal of his ambition was to annex the world title, but Jack Johnson stood in his way, and Langford blamed his failure to become the champion on members of his own race.

The Boston Tar Baby preferred to fight white men once a week to Negroes once a month. His record shows that he was whipped by Dave Holly, Young Peter Jackson, Joe Jeannette, Harry Wills, and Jack Johnson—all colored boxers.

“White men are my meat,” he told me, “colored men are my hoodoo!”

* * * * *

Joe Humphreys, who at one time helped me to collect data for a life story of Terry McGovern, in one of our many conversations told me, “Nat, there was probably never a fighter who believed more in lucky omens than Terry. I’ll never forget the day he fought Aurelia Herrera in San Francisco. He climbed into the ring all smiles, greeted his friends at ringside and then sat down to await the instructions of the referee.

“Suddenly, one of the spectators signalled to Sam Harris, Terry’s manager, and pointed to McGovern’s left shoe. It was unlaced.

“This was one of Terry’s deepest superstitions. During the preliminary work, between the time that McGovern entered the ring and went to the middle for instructions, the trainers had purposely neglected to tie the lace.

“When the referee motioned the fighters to the middle of the ring, Terry took off the unlaced shoe, spat in it for good luck, put it on again, and told one of his handlers to lace it.”

A mass of superstitious fears, the Brooklyn Terror also believed in the “lucky kiss.” He was convinced that unless he received a good luck kiss from his wife before a fight, he would be sure to lose.

* * * * *

Tiger Flowers, the Georgia Deacon, boxed in New York City quite frequently during 1925 and 1926. The Deacon, who won the world middleweight championship from Harry Greb, not only would kneel and pray, but would carry a Bible into the ring and offer to the Almighty a few words from this precious book. Unfortunately, an eye infection resulted in gangrene, and Flowers died soon after becoming champion.

* * * * *

During the vaudeville tour of Jim Jeffries and Tom Sharkey, I listened to Jeffries tell his audience that he regarded a twisted lace as a sign of ill-fortune. Whenever he noticed that a lace was twisted, he made his handlers remove the glove and relace it. He also said that he insisted on having a certain seat at the training table in camp, and would never permit a change to be made after the arrangements had been completed. A change, he said, meant bad luck.

On my visit to Burbank to attend Jeffries’ seventy-fifth birthday, he told me a story about a dirty penny which he found on the road in Asbury Park while training for his fight with Fitzsimmons. Jeff and Tommy Ryan were taking a run, and when they halted Jeff kicked aside a penny that was in his path. The coin was covered with mud, and Jeff was loath to touch it, fearing bad luck.

He asked Tommy to pick it up. But Ryan was also superstitious and refused. Jeff then remarked:

“Tommy, I’ll pick it up. If it’s heads up, I’ll surely beat Fitz. If it’s tails, I’m a sure goner.”

Heads it was, and Jeff told me that he was as happy as a lark that day.

And he, of course, won the battle.

* * * * *

And so it goes. Superstition is part of human nature. The world’s most famous fighters have used rabbits’ feet, praying beads, lucky charms, the lucky handshake, the wife’s or sweetheart’s handkerchief, and many other talismans to bring them luck in the ring.

BOOK

FIVE

ADVENTURES ABROAD

I was struck with the wanderlust at an early age. I liked traveling and made up my mind in my youth that I would see the world, and I carried out my plan successfully as I grew older. From the time I was fourteen to the present day, the aggregate mileage I’ve covered would go many times around the globe. Collecting material for sports stories, visiting places of interest to better acquaint myself with world boxing conditions, hunting for world boxing talent, and on occasions officiating as referee in international bouts, both amateur and professional, enabled me to meet the leading sportsmen and sports writers of our country, Canada, South America, Europe, Asia, Australia, and New Zealand.

Prior to World War Two, I frequently acted as third man in the ring in contests in Spain, Germany, Venezuela, Panama, Cuba, Canada, and Puerto Rico. Including matches in the United States, I officiated in more than 1,000 boxing bouts, and probably refereed in more foreign countries than any other American.

Most of my trips were taken by air, though in the days when I was Sports Editor of New York dailies, I made many sea voyages, particularly to Central and South America. In 1948 I flew close to 60,000 miles to attend world boxing conferences, to see international contests and to study boxing conditions. That year I made three flights to Europe, four to various parts of Canada, three to Central America and one to South America, in addition to many in our own country.

On one of the European trips I flew to London, Dublin, Glasgow, Paris, Rome, Barcelona, Madrid, Brussels, Copenhagen, Stockholm, and Lisbon to look over youthful boxing talent. Such long journeys were the rule rather than the exception. Twice in 1951 and again during April, May, and part of June of 1952, I journeyed almost as far on behalf of boxing. In 1954 I flew around the world twice.

I was in Panama the year that the Canal was finished and opened for navigation and the following year, 1912, I made another trip to spend a vacation with the Duke family, owners of the Panama Railroad, the bank, and practically every other worthwhile financial enterprise in that old Spanish city, including the lottery. Two of the Duke boys were football players at Fordham University, and that’s how I became acquainted with them. I was still with the _Press_ at that time, and had taken a three months’ leave of absence in order to gather material for special series which I had decided to write on “Sports in the Caribbean.”

I received a letter of introduction to Major General Goethals, builder of the Canal, from his West Point classmate, Irvin Wardman, Editor-in-Chief and part owner of our paper. Upon my arrival in Panama, I stopped at the Washington Hotel, where General Goethals was quartered. Presenting my letter, I was ushered into the presence of an elderly and stately looking Army man, kind but firm in tone. We spoke of Mr. Wardman and of New York, and then he asked me if I would care to go on a tour of inspection of the Gatun Lock and up the Chagres River.

I was delighted. The next morning we boarded a government motorboat, the _General Christie_. In addition to General Goethals, our party consisted of his Superintendent of Construction, several Army engineers and myself. It wasn’t long after we started that we heard a thunderous roar. To our right we saw a mountain of dirt drop into the Culebra Cut. A Japanese ship, the _Maru Tamuiri_, was caught in the rush and became wedged in between tons of earth and rocks.

I had my camera with me and with a newspaperman’s instinct, I clicked and clicked and got a splendid set of photos of the great slide. It was a break that comes once in a lifetime for a newspaperman.

There was no trip on the Chagres River that day. We returned to headquarters from where General Goethals sent his report to Washington, and I mailed a story to my Sunday magazine section and with it went the plates with the pictures of the slide.

My photos and story reached the office of the New York _Press_ too late and to hold off another week wouldn’t do. John Hennessey, our Managing Editor, chanced to meet Carl Van Anda, the Editor of The New York _Times_, at the Press Club and offered the material to him. He was elated at the opportunity to obtain a first hand photo illustrated story from an eyewitness and two months later, when I returned from Panama to resume my work in New York, Mr. Hennessey explained why he had let the _Times_ use the photos. After congratulating me, he told me that Mr. Van Anda wanted to see me.

I got in touch with him immediately and received a warm greeting. He thanked me, and as I was about to leave, he remarked:

“By the way, that must have been an expensive trip. What did it cost you?”

Imagine my surprise a few days later when I found a letter from him on my desk containing a check with this message: “This is in payment for the splendid pictures you sent from Panama.” That check paid for a good portion of my long trip.

I’ve often told that story in discussing newspaper work with young boys whom I broke into the sports writing field. I should like to add that every office boy who worked for me is now an executive, or was one, on a New York newspaper.

There was Robert Maher, one of my first copy boys, who became night sports editor of the _Evening Sun_; Eddie Galiani, my New York _Telegram_ office and copy boy, who later became assistant racing editor of that paper; Donald Pratt, another from the _Morning Sun_, whom I took under my wing as a sports writer, is the Editor-in-Chief of the Fairchild Newspapers, the largest chain of commercial journals in the country. There were many others of whom I am proud to say got their start and guidance in sports writing from me.

* * * * *

In 1911, the year previous to the Culebra Cut Slide, I spent two months in Panama City and on one occasion, with one of the wealthy Duke boys to guide the party, we went many miles up the Chagres River which enters into the Canal. There on the banks of a settlement, I photographed Indians standing on the beach and others in shell-like canoes. I was amazed by their physical appearance! They had light hair, pinkish eyes and white-spotted bodies.

About fifteen years later, New York newspapers carried big headlines of a tribe of Albinos discovered along the Chagres River in Panama and several were brought to New York to be exhibited at the Grand Central Palace. I was confident that I had seen such creatures many years before in my travels, but was joshed considerably until I decided to hunt through some of my old pictures and located a photograph of three such Indians posing for me. Perhaps those I had snapped were not from the same tribe as those discovered by the New York Historical Society’s representatives, but their features were identical. They were Albinos who lived about 50 miles up the Chagres River. Thus I lay claim to a “discovery,” though I wasn’t aware of it until I read the story of the “find” by the Historical Society.

* * * * *

It was in 1911 that I put on the first professional fight ever held in Panama. I also staged one for a benefit conducted by the Panama _Herald_ in which I was the referee, and the boxers, with the exception of one giant Negro, were all from American Army camps.

I saw my first cock-fight in Panama that year, and enjoyed the sport very much—primarily because I had a good run of beginner’s luck and cleaned up on the fights. I left the arena, a dilapidated shack, more than $200 the richer and carried away with me a set of old time Spanish spurs which I bought as a souvenir and still have on exhibition in my _Ring_ office.

I also had the chance there to spin the wheel for the first Panama lottery, the winner of which was an undernourished, little old woman upon whom Dame Fortune smiled that day to the extent of $20,000. A part ticket I held, won third prize, and I collected $60.

* * * * *

Among the many exciting experiences I had during my tours in various parts of the world as a referee or judge of important international boxing matches, two stand out—my encounter with gunmen in Caracas, Venezuela, and in San Juan, Puerto Rico. In April, 1939, I was on a Central American tour and while in Puerto Rico, I was asked to officiate in the world bantamweight championship match between Sixto Escobar and Kayo Morgan. The bout was staged under conditions such as I never again encountered.

At the time there was considerable dissension among the natives regarding American rule. The Nationalist Party on several occasions tried to assassinate the leading legislators and had gone so far as to incite insurrections in Ponce where a number of persons, including the chief of police, were killed. Four of the leaders were sentenced to the Atlanta Penitentiary for long terms by the U.S. Government. Governor Winship, an ardent boxing fan, had returned on the day of the fight from Washington, where he held a conference with President Roosevelt on the Island’s unrest.

Four boxes were reserved for him and his party at the Stadium and unusual protection was arranged by Police Chief Orbeta because of reports that an attempt would be made on the Governor’s life. The bout was delayed for almost an hour due to the late arrival of the guests of honor, and then, amid wild cheers from an overflow gathering, the contest got under way.

Seven rounds had been completed when a terrific downpour drenched us. The tropical storm caused a stampede among the thousands of spectators who sought shelter. Like all such torrential rains, the storm lasted only a short time but was sufficient to give those seeking the lives of the Governor and members of his cabinet a chance to carry out their work.

Within minutes after the cloudburst, the arena and an area within a mile or more surrounding the stadium, were in total darkness. The electric wires had been cut and during the blackout, while spectators were being drenched, shots were fired. There was a flash from the top of one of the walls surrounding the arena. The Secret Service guards immediately crowded around Governor Winship and his party and a speedy exit was made under heavy guard with torchlights guiding the way. Many persons took refuge under the ring and hundreds crowded around it. The fighters, managers Harry Baxter and Lou Brix, and I, couldn’t get out of the ring.

For almost three quarters of an hour we remained in total darkness wondering what was in store for us. While the commotion continued, mobsters broke down the gates of the stadium, and a mad rush was made towards the ring. The bleachers were bulging from the sides, and the grandstand and ringside seats were full to the limit when the fight had started. When the rain stopped and the bout was resumed, fist fights added to the confusion, as those who had paid ten dollars for their seats battled with the hoodlums who had rushed the gates.

But the fight went on, and after eight more rounds, Escobar was awarded the decision, thus holding on to his crown. Fortunately, Governor Winship was unharmed. Those who tried to assassinate him had been keenly disappointed, for if ever a stage was perfectly set for such an attempt on the life of a notable, this was it.

In their escape, the guerillas left many blood stained handkerchiefs on top of the wall enclosing the arena. On the inside of the stone wall, blood indicated that more than one person had been on the job. The cuts were sustained from jagged glass that had been fitted into the cement on top of the fence by city officials as a protection against gate crashers. It was indeed fortunate that no one was killed.

The day after the fight I wrote a story for _El Mundo_, the leading paper in Puerto Rico, in which I covered the attempted assassination thoroughly, including the findings of Harry Baxter, manager of Kayo Morgan, and myself. The story created a sensation. The government denied that any attempt had been made on the life of Governor Winship, and a rival paper, which was supporting the rebels against the United States, battered my brains out editorially. However, Chief of Police Orbeta acknowledged the facts with a declaration to the press:

“The culprits who cut the electric wires in an attempt to kill our Governor, will be caught and punished!”

* * * * *

Puerto Rico, like Cuba, was a second home for me for many years. Scarcely a winter passed that I didn’t spend a month or more in those Islands where I am as well known as in my native city. I refereed fights in Havana and San Juan and often wrote boxing yarns for papers in those cities.

In July, 1939, I was asked by the Venezuelan Commission to arrange the fight between world featherweight champion, Joey Archibald, and Simon Chavez, the Central American titleholder. The bout was to be held in the bull ring at Caracas and I was to referee.

Jess Losada, one of Cuba’s leading radio commentators on sports and a sports columnist, managed Chavez; and Al Weill, who in later years was the matchmaker for the Twentieth Century Sporting Club and the International Boxing Club, and handled several champions, including Rocky Marciano, managed the featherweight king. Losada and Weill couldn’t get together on terms for the Venezuelan fight, hence my aid was sought. I was told to offer Weill $10,000 and two round trip tickets, plus the privilege of 40 per cent of the gate. I was also to inform him that the Boxing Commission would request me to act as guest referee. On those terms Weill accepted.

I flew to Caracas a week before the fight. I stopped at the Hotel Majestic, where Archibald and Weill’s representative, Sammy Richman, were also staying.

The publicity was excellent and interest in the fight was keen. The day before the bout, which took place on a Sunday afternoon, the bull ring was sold out. The stage was set for the biggest gathering that had ever seen a glove fight in Caracas and a record gate was assured.

That night, I was sitting in my room listening to a Spanish music program on the radio. I had donned my pajamas because of the extreme heat. A call came in from the desk clerk informing me that two men were eager to see me. Although it was late, I told him to send them up to my room.

They introduced themselves as Miguel and Arturo Mendez, brothers who had lived in Brooklyn prior to making Venezuela their home. They told me they were bookmakers. The Spanish are heavy bettors on sports events and thousands of _bolivas_, they said, had been wagered with them on the fight. They themselves were betting heavily on Chavez to win.

“We know you well, Nat,” said Miguel, the taller and huskier of the pair, “and we come to see if everything is all right.”

“In what respect?” I inquired.

“Simply that we don’t want to lose our money. Archibald is a big favorite and we want to see that our man doesn’t lose. The Americans here have bet a lot on him.”

“You want me to protect your money by giving the decision to Chavez? Is that it?” I angrily asked.

“You guessed it right,” replied Miguel. “Are you with us? It will be well worth your gamble.”

With that Miguel nodded to his brother, who took out a wad of bills from his coat pocket and placed it on my bed.

I brushed the money to the floor and ordered the men out of the room.

“Not so quick,” snapped Arturo. “You’re making a big mistake. Think it over,” he said, as he gathered up the money, and then taking a gun from his pocket, twirled it close to me as a sign of what might happen if I didn’t cooperate.

“We’ll go now but we’ll call you at ten tomorrow. We want our answer then,” Miguel said as they left.

I reached for the telephone, got the chairman of the boxing commission at the Caracas Country Club, and told him what had happened.

“I’m not going to referee,” I informed him. “I’m coming up to see you, and I’ll return the $600 that was advanced to me for my flying fare.”

There were two other members of the boxing board with him when I arrived.

“You are the drawing card as much as your champion,” he said after hearing my story. “You cannot turn us down. I will see that you have full protection. A policeman will be with you all day tomorrow and you’ll have plenty of protection at the arena.”

We then drove up to the promoter’s house and from there back to the Hotel Majestic, where I repeated my story to Sammy Richman and Losada. I was finally persuaded to change my mind and accept the assignment.

The next day at the arena, I was placed in a small room during the preliminaries and was closely guarded by two armed soldiers. At a given signal, I was ushered to the ringside and entered the ring as Chavez and Archibald came down the aisles.

Gendarmes and soldiers encircled the ring at four-foot intervals throughout the fight for my protection should the decision go contrary to the wishes of the two former Brooklyn thugs, who had apparently learned about sure-thing gambling during their stay in New York.

For four rounds Archibald battered Chavez all over the ring. I had visions of what would happen after the fight and sweated it out, but there was nothing I could do about it, since I was determined to give an honest decision, come what might.

Early in the fifth round, Chavez caught Archibald with a right to the jaw that staggered the American. He gave Archibald a sound beating throughout the round and that was the turning point of the fight.

The high altitude had affected Joey to such an extent that he had shot his bolt in those first four sessions, and thereafter he was at the mercy of his opponent In the last two rounds, Archibald could scarcely raise his arms and when the final gong sounded, I quickly lifted the hand of Simon Chavez, the winner.

The scene that followed was something to remember. Chairs were broken by partisan enthusiasts in the wild rush for the ringside. Hats were tossed into the air. Wild shouts, as only the Spanish can screech and shout, rent the air.

And there I was, resting against the ring post, my uniform wet from perspiration, but happy in the knowledge that I had defied the gangsters who tried to have me fix that fight and that my presence had helped bring in a gate of $36,700, a record.

Nine months later, the same promoter paid Jack Dempsey $5,000 and two round trip tickets for himself and Ned Brown, his publicity man, to come to Caracas to referee the fight between Chavez and Sixto Escobar, of Puerto Rico. It was expected that the presence of the great Manassa Mauler would add greatly to the figures grossed by Archibald and Chavez, with me as referee, but the fight was a complete flop. The gate reached only $18,432, and the promoter went in hock for plenty.

They couldn’t understand what had happened, but the answer was simple. Dempsey reached Caracas a day before the fight, thus preventing the promoter from publicizing his presence, whereas I was on the job a week in advance, went on the air to help the show, appeared daily at the training camps, and even wrote stories which were translated into Spanish.

* * * * *

The incident that caused me the most personal embarrassment occurred during my visit to Havana during the winter of 1958. I had received an invitation from the Cuban government through General Fernandez y Miranda, head of the Cuban Sports Commission, to attend the dedication of the new Havana stadium, the most beautiful and completely equipped arena I have ever seen. I had visited General Miranda, President Batista and Ernesto Azua, chairman of the Cuban Boxing Commission, a few weeks before to arrange the program for the sports carnival scheduled for that week.

Unfortunately, my presence was commented upon in a six-page article entitled “Unhappy Cuba’s Cockeyed Week” in the March 6 issue of _LIFE_ magazine. Among the many photos was one of General Miranda and me which bore the caption “Slot king is Batista relative, Fernandez y Miranda, here talking with boxing historian Nat Fleischer.” Needless to say, this caused me considerable embarrassment as the article was an _exposé_ of mobster activities in the Cuban capital. There was nothing in the story to indicate that I had any connection with gambling in Havana, but the intimation was there.

I was besieged by calls for days following the article’s appearance. Friends and acquaintances joshed me continually about my association with racketeers, and to each I had to explain that my appearance in Havana was on behalf of sports and in no way connected with gambling. Through my work as a journalist I have met many of the mobsters mentioned in the _Life_ story, as most of them were New York’s top shots of the Prohibition era. They are now firmly entrenched in the Nacional, Riviera and Capri hotels running their investments into gigantic fortunes.

As for General Miranda, I know him only as a member of President Batista’s cabinet in charge of physical education and sports. He has frequently visited Madison Square Garden and _The Ring_ office and is a most charming man. I wasn’t aware that he was “king of the slot machines,” in Havana, but I do know that he is one of the six finest shots in Central America, where he holds many records, not only for shooting but for track and field and amateur boxing and wrestling.

It should be noted that through General Miranda’s efforts there is far less juvenile delinquency in Havana than there is in New York. A little more of the Cuban athletic spirit and enthusiasm for boxing, baseball, basketball and swimming would undoubtedly be welcome in America’s largest city.

The sports carnival itself was marred by a tragic opening day accident in the Gran Premio, a 315 mile automobile race. Fidel Castro’s rebels had kidnaped Fangio, Argentina’s great road champion, in the hopes that his absence would prevent this major event from taking place, but the race got underway after an hour-and-a-half postponement.

The objective of the rebels seemed to be attained a few minutes later, however, when the car of Armando Garcia Cifuentas skidded on an oily stretch and crashed into the crowd, leaving a toll of seven persons dead and thirty-seven injured. The race ended in confusion.

That morning I was in the Nacional Hotel with Truman Gibson, Secretary of the International Boxing Club, which sponsored the boxing show held two days later, when the telephone rang and a voice asked:

“Is that Nat Fleischer, _The Ring_ editor?”

“Yes. Who is this please?”

Instead of answering the voice continued:

“You know what happened to Fangio?”

“Yes,” I replied. “What about it?”

“Well you also a big shot—you in boxing. You are helping Batista. Look out.”

And with that statement, down went the receiver with a bang.

I laughed and Truman asked me what was so funny. I repeated the conversation and added that someone is playing a prank.

“Prank, hell,” he quickly answered. “Watch your step. That guy means business. You’ve had a big part in arranging the details for the show here. I think you’ll find it safer in the Casino than in this lobby.”

I paid little attention to the threat, assuming, then, that it all was a joke. Now I’m not so sure.

Nothing did happen. I attended the opening of the sports arena, where, instead of the full house expected, less than 10,000 were present. Many were secret service men, police from the security bureau, and men of the armed forces, since the government, like the folks who might have attended had the rebel scare not kept them away, had been warned that the building would be bombed. As each spectator entered the arena, he was searched for arms—not a very pleasant way to start an evening’s outing!

As for the main event, which had World Champion Joey Brown pitted against Orlando Echevarria, champion of Cuba and Central America, it lasted less than a round. The Cuban was counted out in two minutes and five seconds. The rest of the program, which featured two Latin-American championships, was exceptionally fine and thrilling.

A DREAM COME TRUE

As a youngster, I thought that traveling in the Orient was reserved for books and dreams—or Marco Polo. Yet as a grown man I found myself in the land of my dreams. I may say now that my childhood fancies did not measure up to the dazzling reality: the violent contrasts of fabulous wealth and unbelievable squalor; the customs so strange to me; the glorious color of temples and palaces; the beautifully exotic land itself.

* * * * *

Early in 1954, I received a cable from Brigadier General Pichai Kullavanijya inviting me to visit Bangkok as the guest of the Thailand government for a world bantamweight championship fight that had been arranged for May 2 between Jimmy Carruthers of Australia, the titleholder, and Chamrern Songkitrat, Orient champion, a young Thai sublieutenant of police. I accepted, and when I left for the scene of action, it was my first flying trip around the world. I have since taken several.

The trip was an eventful one but it was Thailand, more than any other country I visited, that impressed me. Its beautiful temples; its barefooted priests with their yellow loose robes, an umbrella in one hand and a bag of food in the other; naked children roaming the roads; people of many races crowding the colorful market places; three-wheeled vehicles jamming the streets with their fares—they left an impression I shall never forget. Hong Kong with its mixed races, its crowded thoroughfares, its beautiful fragrant flower market, and its poverty; Tokyo with its pretty kimono-dressed women; Manila with its reminder of the atrocities that befell its inhabitants during the Japanese invasion; ancient Asia Minor cities with their historic biblical shrines; the ruins of Athens; Istanbul with its Byzantine architecture; beautiful Rome and Paris; busy London, colorful Stockholm, Copenhagen, Antwerp, and Amsterdam—they all hold the tourists’ interest, but not like Siam. I enjoyed my visit to each, but Bangkok left the greatest impression.

Let me tell you about the stage setting for the two championship bouts I saw there. In a scene unparalleled in ring history, a scene that was reminiscent of the historic Dempsey-Tunney world heavyweight championship bout in Philadelphia, a gathering of 59,760 persons paid 5,000,700 ticals, $227,304.90 in American money, to see Carruthers retain his throne by a hairline margin and, following his victory, announce his retirement. Unlike championship bouts in other countries, this one was limited to twelve rounds. I arranged it so.

Those who witnessed the Dempsey-Tunney contest in Philadelphia can imagine what we encountered in Bangkok by picturing a tropical storm that started three days before the fight, drenched the spectators who braved it, made a lake out of the ring, and flooded the muddy streets over which thousands trekked to the National Stadium.

Bulbs from the overhead lighting system crashed to the canvas from time to time, forcing temporary halts to the fight while a broom brigade I had organized swept the glass and water from the ring. It was the first championship fight staged in that country, and the sports-loving folk of that little kingdom went all out to see it. As the guest of the Thailand government I was appointed overseer of the affair, and in view of the unbelievable conditions under which the contest was staged, I granted permission for the boxers to enter the ring in their bare feet to lessen the danger by making the footing more firm.

I had never seen anything like it before. Dignitaries from Thailand and other nations, most of them dressed in their native garb; nobility from many lands; fight fans who came to the scene by foot, bicycle, tricycle, horse back, auto, train, and wagon—a reminder of the picturesque scenes portrayed in stories of bare-knuckle fights in England—all headed for the Stadium, the national sports arena. Traffic was so congested that it took me more than an hour to cover less than a mile from the Government Resident Palace, where I lived for a month, to the arena.

The mass of humanity, trudging through the streets unmindful of the adverse conditions or the ruin of their colorful garments, was a picture to behold: the varicolored holiday dress of the Siamese, Hindus, Japanese, Chinese, and other Asiatics in contrast to the conventional Western dress of the Australians and Americans, many of whom were from our government agencies.

Between weighing-in time and the fight, thousands visited the Emerald Buddha Temple where the scene was most impressive. Hundreds gathered within its walls. We knelt in prayer with shoes parked outside—the native custom. When I emerged, the rain was coming down so heavily that I pleaded with Carruthers to have the fight postponed, but he wouldn’t think of it.

“Let’s get it over with,” he said. “I’ll take my chances.”

Since I had the final decision, I held a confab with the principals and the government officials, and it was decided that a postponement would be dangerous: because of the housing shortage it would be impossible to care for the many visitors. The bout went on. We called it “the Battle of the Typhoon.”

I sat through the fight with my clothes soaked. In spite of an army raincoat I had borrowed, the water flowed down my body, yet I enjoyed the affair more than any I had ever witnessed. When the fight was over, before we were able to get to the military car that had been assigned to me, we walked almost knee-deep through a sea of mud for half a mile, and when we got to the Resident Palace, my suit had shrunk to such an extent that my valet found it necessary to slit the trousers to remove them. I couldn’t use my shoes and coat again.

When the contest was over, Referee Bill Henneberry of Australia, the only official, quietly raised the hand of Carruthers, “the winner and still champion.”

It was a very close affair, and many in the vast arena booed the verdict. Never having attended a fight in the Orient before, I was expecting a riot momentarily. But fast thinking on the part of the defeated young boxer turned what might have been a disaster into a wild ovation.

Chamrern quickly took the microphone from the announcer, held up his hand for silence, and standing in mid-ring he said in his native tongue:

“My dear friends, I am proud to have been able to bring fame to my country by being the first Thai boxer to contend for the world bantamweight championship, and I am personally satisfied that the decision was fair and beyond doubt. If I am not sorry, my friends and countrymen, why are you?”

The sportsmanlike remark was greeted with thunderous applause, and eventually restored decorum. At a banquet the following day, tendered in honor of High Police Commissioner Delaney of New South Wales and myself, General Phao Sriyanonda, Director General of the National Police and later Thailand’s Prime Minister, presented Songkitrat with an advanced rank in the Police Department, and to me he gave a handsome silver cocktail set with other gifts of silver for my daughter.

* * * * *

A few months after Carruthers had announced his retirement, the Thailand government again requested that I act on its behalf in arranging a bout to obtain Carruthers’ successor. Since Songkitrat had already gone twelve rounds with Carruthers, and Robert Cohen of France was recognized throughout the world as the leading challenger, I brought the pair together with the consent of the European Boxing Federation, the New York Commission, and the National Boxing Association. The story of how that bout was arranged is well worth telling.

With the crown vacant, the Thailand government contacted me while I was in London and requested that I offer Cohen 10,000 pounds sterling ($28,000), tax free, with all expenses for himself and his managers, if he would agree to meet Songkitrat for the title. Before starting negotiations, as a member of the Advisory Board of the World Boxing Championship Committee, I contacted its members and obtained their consent. Then I did the same with the European Boxing Federation, the New York Commission, and the National Boxing Association, and when I got the green light from all, I flew to Paris to see Cohen’s manager. He asked me to discuss the matter with his partner, Robert Diamond, in London.