classic boxing bits and pieces scrapbook

dougm1970

this is a copy of a thread i have running on a couple of forums...some of the lads who post here will know me from some of them places....i'll post this here too, i'll let it run for a wee while and see if it gets any interest.

what i am going to post here is stuff that doesnt fit anywhere else (as a response to posts etc)....and saves filling the place up with separate threads and bugging people.
there may not be much here that some posters here may not have seen before, but maybe one or two things might be interesting.
basically, it is bits and pieces i have gathered up over the years, either by saving things to disc i have found (as i have been caught out many times returning to a site to read an article and the site would be gone, so i am in the habit of saving things that interest me), or scans from the boxing books and magazines which i have on my shelf here.

i also post a lot of this in a facebook page i have set up - http://www.facebook.com/classicboxingsociety

thats it really


there's no theme to this apart from classic-era boxing, so it'll be a bit of a mish-mash.

dougm1970

"Shortly before noon three men got out of a taxi and scuttled under the marquee of the Washington Coliseum to avoid the rain. One of them was 'Young Joe Walcott' (real name Harvey McCullough and no relation to the former heavyweight champion), who did not carry about him the fine flush of youth. With a ducktail haircut, dark glasses, padded-shoulder sports coat and tight, black pants, Young Joe might have been an aging rock 'n' roll singer. He chewed on a toothpick, turning his lumpy face up to sneak a look at the blue-letter marquee. If he expected to see his name he was disappointed, TONIGHT, it read, giving him no hint of fame, SUGAR RAY ROBINSON. HOLLY MIMS IN COFEATURE.

Walcott's advisers, a fat man in a gold coat and a fatter one whose suit looked fresh from an ashcan, trooped into the office to inquire about the weigh-in. A myopic lady in a print dress knew nothing. At the arena's main gate a lone ticket attendant told them to go around to the stage door at the rear of the building. They walked rapidly through the rain, the man in the gold coat holding a protective newspaper over his head. Rain dripped down Young Joe's seamed face, but he did not mind. Just one more indignity to bear in a life of cheeseburgers and long bus rides. After much door-banging a crotchety old man with a red face appeared to disclaim knowledge of any fight, whereupon he slammed the door. The trio made the long trek back to the front of the arena, Young Joe volunteering his only spontaneous remark of the day: "Man, I'm gonna walk all my weight off."

This time the entourage was admitted, after more confusion, to a gloomy, battleship-gray room in the depths of the Coliseum. A young, officious man took Walcott's pulse, poked him in the ribs and asked an embarrassing question: "The papers say you have a 6-10-2 record. That right?"

The pugilist looked uncertainly at his two handlers. The gold coat shrugged in the manner of a lawyer whose client is caught with hot goods. With a laconic "uh-huh" Walcott pleaded guilty. He was guided into an adjoining room to be fingerprinted. They are not very trusting in Washington. Half a dozen prelim fighters were going through the same ritual. None of them bothered to look up at Walcott.

Sugar Ray arrived a good half hour late. He walked in easily, wearing dark slacks and a paisley-print sport shirt, his eyes harboring the cloudy look of a man just aroused from deep slumber. Everybody hi-Sugared and howdy-Rayed as Robinson sidestepped an old-fashioned set of scales on rollers, shucked his shirt and dropped onto a straight-back chair.

He seemed uncertain whether he should speak to Robinson or ignore him, as Sugar was ignoring him. Young Walcott weighed 156 but looked smaller. When the ex-champ mounted the scales - in shorts, undershirt and sneakers - there was a moment of consternation. Sugar Ray muttered under his breath, stripped to the skin and still came in 10 ounces over the 160-pound limit. More mumbles. Gainford said, "Lemme see, Ray." His thumb performed a certain magic on the scales. "Hunnert and sixty on the nose," he proclaimed. Nobody disputed him.

There was a surprisingly good crowd that night - nearly 4,000 paying from $2 to $7 per seat-had rocked the arena when Robinson appeared 15 minutes late, bobbing and dancing in the white robe with "Sugar Ray" etched on it in apricot hues, ignored the cheers. By contrast, Walcott had paused on the ring apron to stare in disbelief at a tiny knot of fans applauding him. His next act was to misstep into the rosin box, turning it over.

At the bell Walcott seemed confused. Before he could get himself untracked Sugar Ray had hammered several quick lefts on his nose. Robinson rocked Walcott with a right uppercut and a moment later nailed him with a straight right that had Young Joe retreating. Robinson returned to his corner untouched by human hands.

In the second and third rounds Robinson jabbed and followed through, just as his mother had told him to do. The crowd applauded Robinson's showmanship, and it was easy to feel you were watching the Sugar Ray of old.

Round four brought Walcott a painful lesson in the art of infighting. Sugar's hands worked at his opponent's torso and under the chin. At ringside, in a white sequined dress, Millie Bruce came out of her chair, yelling: "Come on, baby. Come on, love." When Robinson paused to pull up his trunks Young Joe thought he saw his chance. He tried a long, looping right and immediately got tangled in his own shoelaces. Exposed, vulnerable, he struggled frantically for balance. Sugar Ray feinted a punch that could have sent everybody home to early supper, but he did not throw it. He dropped his arms, laughed aloud and tugged again at his shorts.

It was more of the same in the fifth. Robinson boxed Walcott off-balance three times and reprieved him three times. Once, when Walcott moved forward, Robinson chortled aloud, embraced him in the middle of the ring, then wheeled and mashed poor Walcott's sore nose with a stinging left.

But maybe Sugar hadn't been all that sweet. The exertion was taking something out of him. Suddenly, between the fifth and sixth rounds, he looked old.

At first the crowd thought he was resting for the final big push. There were cries of "O.K., Ray, now's the time," "Put 'im away, Sugar Boy." But the old combination one-two-three now misfired. So did some long right hands. Punches that earlier rocked against Young Joe's chin now slipped harmlessly over his shoulders.

It was hot under the ring lights. Sugar Ray grasped through the seventh, sweating buckets. Walcott hit him in the face a number of times, his first meaningful blows of the fight. In the eighth he did it again, and now Young Joe was looking tough. Robinson wasn't grinning anymore. There were scattered boos at the bell.

In the ninth Walcott pounded Robinson in the body, and though Sugar had chopped home a few blows of his own they lacked power. When the two pawed and clutched a moment later in the center of the ring a voice from the $2 seats yelled, "Waltz me around again, Sugar," and too many people laughed.

Many in the crowd were already heading for the exits before the end of the 10th, in which nothing happened except that Young Joe sent in a few more futile body blows. At the finish there was a roll of boos. Sugar Ray, tarnished but the obvious winner, accepted the victory calmly. All three judges favored him heavily. But the cheers were mostly for Walcott as he swaggered from the ring, proud, apparently, that he had not been knocked out.

Sucking a soft-drink bottle in his dressing room, Robinson thanked the writers who came by to see him. The old conceit, the old lip, the old arrogance were there, if his reflexes and the punch were not. No, he hadn't been hurt - but that boy was tough, no doubt about it. No, the heat hadn't bothered him too much. No, he hadn't really been looking for a knockout. He would be sharper for the champion Giardello if he went the distance a few more times. Nobody was counting, but Robinson had gone the distance three of his last four times out.

The newsmen rushed off to meet their deadlines. The last curious fans faded away in the halls. Houselights dimmed over the empty arena. His manager Gainford gathered up Robinson's fight paraphernalia, methodically stuffing a small bag.

From the shower, standing under a sting of spray, Sugar Ray called, "Hey, George! What was that cat's name I fought tonight?" "

(by Larry L. King)

dougm1970

In one of his sober moments, Mickey Walker had made Doc Kearns promise they would take a trip to Ireland. His father's people had come from Roscommon, his mother's from Kerry, and his mail bag was always full of letters from people claiming to be cousins or related in some way, warm, friendly letters, and Mickey wanted to meet them. So Doc gave Walter Friedman a roll of bills and told him to book the trip to the Emerald Isle.

Friedman was a Broadway character labeled 'Good-Time Charley' by Damon Runyon. Friedman didn't know anybody in Ireland, but he did know a cute little French actress with whom he had been keeping company in London, and she was returning to Paris the next day. Problem solved. He bought a bunch of tickets for Paris and took them to Kearns. Doc was just as happy about the new destination. He didn't know anybody in Ireland either.

Mickey had been in Paris a couple of days before he realized that he wasn't in Ireland, and that the people were speaking French, not Gaelic. By that time he didn't seem to care. He was having too good a time.

(by John Jarrett)

dougm1970

In a six-month stretch between 1943 and 1944, Jake LaMotta and Fritzie Zivic fought four times. Three of the four bouts ended in disputed split decisions, and three of the four bouts occurred in the hometowns of each fighter. LaMotta went 3-1 against Zivic, but it wasn't that simple.

The first Jake LaMotta vs. Fritzie Zivic bout occurred on June 10, 1943 in Zivic's hometown of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. LaMotta was a major force in the middleweight division. At the time, LaMotta was a month shy of his twenty-second birthday. The Bronx Bull was already 1-2 against Sugar Ray Robinson, and was a veteran of over forty professional fights. He was young, hungry and eager for a title shot.

In stark contrast, Zivic was considered a grizzled, fading, thirty-year-old former welterweight champion. Zivic was one of the most active fighters in boxing history. Fritzie had participated in an eye-popping 170 bouts when he and LaMotta first met. Leading up to the bout, Zivic had lost four of his last seven contests.

Regardless of Zivic's latest showings, he hadn't lost in his hometown since dropping a decision to Charley Burley in 1939. Nevertheless, some of Zivic's most ardent supporters were predicting doom for the quotable, carefree, and peripatetic former champion. Even Zivic's Ph.D. in butting, thumbing and heeling wouldn't be able to overcome natural wear and tear and LaMotta's strength and stamina.

As it turned out, Zivic proved the skeptics wrong, but not without unexpected controversy. Weighing 151 to LaMotta's 155, Zivic was too smart and experienced for the young contender. He outboxed the charging LaMotta before the hometown fans, and seemed to win an easy ten round decision. Zivic's biographer, Timpav, describes the action and controversy surrounding LaMotta vs. Zivic 1 in his book 'Champ: Fritzie Zivic: The Life and Times of the Croat Comet'.

At the start of the seventh, Zivic appeared to have the decision in his lap. LaMotta must have sensed it too, for he started rushing in that frame, and continued the same tactics in the 8th. Zivic, unruffled, took the 9th round with ease, and coasted to an apparent victory.

LaMotta staged a last-round rally to win that stanza, but his face was splattered in blood flowing from gashes over both eyes.

When the decision was announced, the crowd went wild. It just didn't make sense to the fans who just saw the Crafty Croat fight one of the most brilliant battles in his long career.

Even LaMotta was amazed when the result was announced.

Referee Al Graybar tallied six rounds for LaMotta, four for Zivic; Judge Kid Stinger had six for LaMotta, two for Zivic and two even; and Judge George Martzo scored it six for Zivic, three for LaMotta, and one even."

Fans reportedly booed the decision for a full twenty minutes. Along with several top writers, Timpav reported that Barney Ross and LaMotta's pilot, Mike Capriano, thought Zivic won comfortably. The decision was so bad that when the rematch was ordered, new officials were appointed to oversee the action.

Zivic won the fifteen round rematch on July 12, 1943. The bout was a bloody, ebb and flow war, but it was also close and controversial. Zivic was effective in the middle rounds after taking a beating from LaMotta in the first round. LaMotta ultimately took charge and shut Zivic out in the championship rounds. The scorecards read: 8-5-2, 8-7, 5-7-3.

This time, most observers thought LaMotta won. Timpav reported that an eerie stench loomed over both decisions. In fact, part of the requirement for LaMotta vs. Zivic 3 entailed that the bout wouldn't take place in Pittsburgh.

The rubber match occurred on November 12, 1943 at Madison Square Garden. LaMotta weighed 161 to Zivic's 149. LaMotta was a 3-1 favorite.

LaMotta was the hometown fighter, but Zivic was extraordinarily popular in NYC. The 23,190 fans who witnessed Zivic's welterweight title defense stoppage of Henry Armstrong on January 17, 1941 remains a Madison Square Garden attendance record.

As LaMotta would discover, being the hometown fighter isn't all it's cracked up to be. For starters, Zivic successfully bargained for five-ounce gloves with hopes of cutting LaMotta to shreds. Timpav describes the action and controversy.

For the first five rounds it was a pip of a brawl, with Zivic apparently ahead on points. The Croat Comet cut Jake's eye in the 4th, but LaMotta never backtracked. Fritzie got his foe to straighten up out of his familiar crouches with telling hooks and uppercuts in the early rounds.

Starting with the 6th, Jake's punishing punches began to slow Zivic down. A cut was opened over Fritz's eye in the 7th. The 8th, 9th and 10th rounds had LaMotta in control all the way. He showed his good form in the 9th, when he stormed over Zivic from all angles. They were still slugging it out hard at the final bell.

Jake took the decision, but it wasn't unanimous. Referee Eddie Joseph voted for LaMotta, 6-4, as did Judge Marty Monroe. But the third official, Judge Jack Goodwin, gave 7 to Zivic and 3 to Jake.

Much to the chagrin of LaMotta, his hometown fans reportedly rooted for Zivic during the entire bout, and loudly booed the split decision victory in his favor.

LaMotta and Zivic would fight once more on January 14, 1944. For the first time, the bout occurred at a neutral venue: Olympia Stadium in Detroit. By the same token, for the first time, the bout ended without controversy. LaMotta dominated Fritzie over ten rounds despite being penalized for low blows in the second and fourth round. The scorecards read: 8-2, 8-2, 6-3-1.

Their combined careers totaled nearly 340 bouts and over 2,600 rounds of ring activity. Despite the depth and veracity of their skill and will, neither could escape the tangled and intricate web of the hometown decision.

(by Greg Smith)

dougm1970

21st September 1948

Lee Oma vs Bruce Woodcock - Haringey Stadium, London.

In New York they thought Oma should win, but they'd had the word and bet Woodcock. Oma said he 'didn't feel too good' the day before the contest and those with good boxing dialect knew what that meant. He certainly didn't look too good a few flurries into the fourth round. Woodcock caught Oma with a right hand blow and the American swayed and took a little time to lie on the canvas and roll from side to side. There was no ovation, only pennies thrown into the ring by the disgruntled crowd. A crackerjack headline in the next day's 'Daily Mirror' above Peter Wilson's report read "OMA! AROMA! COMA!", which led to a commotion and Lee Oma's purse being held by the British Boxing Board of Control.

(By Douglas Thompson)

dougm1970

An 1865 'Contest Of Courage'

................................

Two half-naked men stalked each other around a sand-floored ring under the flicker of lamplight. Savage blows had smashed the larger man's face into a rubbery red pulp. Bruises dotted his ribs and his arms were knobby with welts. The smaller man's fists were lifted menacingly, although he was near exhaustion, his eyes glazed and every breath a gulp. The skin of his chest and belly was patched with wet blood.

Suddenly the larger man stepped in and landed three quick punches. His opponent slipped to the floor but managed to rise as his seconds hurried to his aid. There was sudden, brisk activity in each corner. A moment later the referee stepped to the center of the ring and, with arms raised overhead, shouted: "The fight is over. It's a draw. All bets are off."

Thus ended what may well have been one of the longest and most brutal fights in American ring history, a bare-fisted match that went an incredible 185 rounds.

The setting was appropriate for such a grueling display of courage and stamina�Virginia City, the roistering gold camp of what was then the Montana Territory. The date was January 2, 1865.

Con Orem was the smaller of the principals, son of an Ohio blacksmith, veteran professional fighter at 29, keeper of the Champion saloon in Virginia City, himself a teetotaler. His opponent was Hugh O'Neil, 34, native of County Antrim, Ireland, a muscular, whisky-drinking barroom brawler and sometime miner.

For days before the battle, Virginia City buzzed with excitement. Everyone knew that Orem weighed only 138 pounds in fighting trim, the size of a small welterweight. O'Neil was a full-fledged heavyweight at 190 pounds. Because of the 52-pound weight differential, O'Neil was a 3-to-1 favorite.

Orem's backers counted on his heart and experience. A quick, wiry bantam rooster of a man, he had fought in various parts of the East and claimed the unofficial championship of the Rocky Mountains. Also, Con Orem was a fanatic about physical conditioning.

The fight was held at J. A. Nelson's Leviathan Hall, "erected with a special view to the development of muscular talent." A lean-to was added to accommodate an overflow crowd that was predominantly male, although "the fair sex was not unrepresented." Tickets, priced at $10 for reserved seats and $5 in the pit, were on sale "at all respectable saloons."

Nelson himself was referee. The crowd gathered early. Shortly after 1:30 p.m. Nelson called the contestants together and went over the London Prize Ring rules with them. These rules provided for a finish fight and allowed a combination of boxing and wrestling. Fighters were permitted to seize their opponents and throw them down. A knockdown ended the round. The person floored had 30 seconds to "come to the scratch," that is, to toe a mark in the center of the ring and renew the contest.

The bout's first real action came in the third round. An unidentified reporter for the Montana Post later wrote: "After a little sparring, Con sent a right-handed, straight shooter heavily into Hugh's ribs a little below the arm pit, receiving a counter from Hugh, somewhat short, in a corresponding location. Con slipped to his knees, but jumping up let fly his left on Hugh's knowledge box. Hugh returned the compliment heavily with his left just below the shoulder, knocking Con, who was retiring, off his feet. First knockdown for Hugh. Loud cheers from O'Neil's friends."

Both men were badly mauled by the 50th round. Orem, with faster reflexes, had dealt out the greater punishment. O'Neil's nose dripped blood steadily and one of his eyes had begun to swell. His sides were rosy where Orem's sharp punches had scored. But O'Neil was stronger in the clinches and time and again he threw his opponent to the floor.

In the 119th round, both men stood toe to toe trading blows in mid-ring until they went down. The crowd was in a frenzy. Seconds dragged the fighters to their corners and went to work on them. Both responded to the bell, but neither could take advantage of the other's groggy condition.

By the 156th round both fighters were moving slowly. Neither had much of any defense left, but neither seemed to have enough force to take advantage of the other man's helplessness. Still, no one moved to stop the battle, and for the most part the crowd sat in awed silence.

Orem weakened rapidly, appearing almost faint at times. Rounds 180 through 183 ended with O'Neil knocking Orem to the sand almost at will. But still Orem came back for more.

In the 184th, Orem landed desperation rights and lefts to O'Neil's nose but the punches had no effect, and Orem slipped down. O'Neil walked back to his corner, and it was apparent the end was near.

Orem was little more than a punching bag in the 185th round. Under O'Neil's attack, he sank to the floor. It was then that Referee Nelson decided to call an end to the spectacle.

Oddly enough both corners protested bitterly. Orem's seconds insisted their man was able to continue. And battered and weary as O'Neil was, he could see a knockout victory almost within his grasp.

The Montana Post's reporter concluded his story with these remarks: "A gamer, harder fight was never contested in the prize ring. As for Con Orem, nothing but temperance, skill, activity and unflinching heroism enabled him to hold out against 52 pounds extra weight, backing a man who was as brave as a lion.... We are sure that no man of Orem's size or anything like it can be found in America who can whip him in a 24-foot ring.... No harder or more trying contest can ever, we venture to say, be seen here or elsewhere. We sincerely hope that such men may never meet again."

dougm1970

March 1st, 1937. Manchester, UK.

Benny Lynch goes down five times in his bout with Len 'Nipper' Hampston. Lynch is immediately disqualified when his seconds jump into the ring in the fifth claiming a foul.

"Lynch had been discovered on the eve of the fight in such a state of intoxication his handlers tried to coerce the Hampston camp to fix the fight so the follow-up bout could have more meaning. Naturally the offer was refused and Benny suffered five rounds of torture, continuously being felled by body punches, which was a sure-fire indicator of his lax approach to preparation. The rematch sated some of the indignation Benny felt at the previous humiliation (Lynch won by 10th round tko)"

(By Ben Hoskin)

dougm1970

In one of the stormiest scenes in British ring history, Walter Cartier of New York was disqualified Tuesday night for persistent holding in the second round of his bout with Randy Turpin, ex-middleweight champion and current top contender for the vacant crown.

No sooner had referee Tommy Little stopped the bout at 1.30 of the second session in Earl's Court Arena when Cartier, who had received seven separate warnings for holding, touched off a near-riot by rushing across the ring like a wild man with his fists flying at the referee and at a surprised Turpin as he screamed and kicked the ropes as hard as he could.

More than a dozen men swarmed into the ring from opposite corners and they milled about, waving their arms, shouting and cursing in wild argument. The sellout crowd of 18,000 cheered the referee, booed Cartier and began surging towards the ring.

Wild-eyed Walter claimed he had not been holding and that the referee had no right to disqualify him. Arena attendants finally cleared a path for him and he was escorted to his dressing room.

(The Times-News - Mar 18, 1953)

dougm1970

In 1913, Jess Willard lost a 20-round decision to Gunboat Smith in a bout where Willard's ear was shredded. Years later, Smith would tell just how Willard sustained such a grievous wound. 'So in the tenth round I hit him with one of my right hands, but it was on the ear. Tore his ear right off. That hushed him up for the rest of the fight. The blood was running down, and oh God, I, of course, had my gloves loaded. I had insulation tape laid across my hands.'

dougm1970

Sept 26, 1980.
Before and After.
Muhammad Ali begins serious training for his heavyweight title fight against Larry Holmes, left, at his training camp in Deer Lake, PA in March.....and right, Ali winds down training for the Oct 2nd fight while preparing in Las Vegas.

dougm1970

"That's right, folks, my robust opinions are in The Times while the Manassa Mauler had to harrumph in the obscure New York Amsterdam News. How appropriate. For years I pursued frightened opponents around the world before winning the heavyweight championship at age thirty. Jack Dempsey got his title young and spent the next seven years dodging formidable black fighters, pummeling white stiffs, and fooling around in Hollywood. I don't begrudge him the latter, but when a man's most significant victories come over hundred-ten-pound starlets, he's no champ, at least in the ring. And, please, disregard those who say I was bad as Dempsey in denying black fighters opportunities. I only did that after I became champ. At least I fought my brothers while I ascended.

Study the record. Jack Dempsey, already a lazy titleholder, didn't fight for three years before skinny Gene Tunney peppered him ten rounds. Dempsey was then an old man at thirty-one. At that stage I kept getting better. That's why, if Dempsey had given me a shot in 1919, when I was only forty-one, I'd have boxed and confused him and made him stumble around the ring before I dropped the hammer. But of course Jack Dempsey wouldn't fight me then. Maybe he will now. He's only forty-six and I'm sixty-three and been losing most of my fights for years.

Joe Louis also irritates me. I don't know why black folks cheer such an inarticulate guy. They must not remember. If I were twenty-five years younger, I'd tattoo the Brown Bomber."

(1941 column by former heavyweight champion Jack Johnson published in The New York Times.)

dougm1970

I went all over Harlem searching for Sam Langford. Nobody even knew the name. Nobody had heard of him. Finally, someone said "You know, when I was at Amherst I played against Frtiz Pollard, a Negro from Brown. Find him. Maybe he can help."

I went back to 125th Street and asked for Pollard and was told "Oh, sure, he's a booking agent. He books Negro acts into all the Negro theaters"

I found Pollard and said "Look, I want to find Sam Langford. Do you know anything about him?" - He didn't. But I figured he could still help me. I wrote a piece about him, as a matter of fact, to butter him up. It wasn't really one of the series because there wasn't much to write about him. Anyhow, one day he said, "Let's go to the ration office" This was during the war and he meant the place where you get your ration books to buy a pound of meat and so on. We went down there. They had never heard of Langford.

"Well," Pollard said, "let's go over to the welfare office." - At welfare they said "Yes, Langford used to come in. He used to be on welfare."
This was the first lead I had, after almost a month. So we knew Langford was somewhere in the area. We left, and as I was walking with Pollard down Lenox Avenue, he said "Let's go in here" It was a butcher shop. Pollard said, "I know this fellow. He's a great sports fan."

The butcher was a white man. Pollard asked him if he had ever heard of Sam Langford. The man said "Sure, he comes in here every day. I give him pig's feet. He lives around the corner."
That's where we found him, in a terrible, terrible old room. He was blind of course. I knocked on his door, this rickety old door, and I said "Sam?"...and this voice says "Yes, c'mon in"
We went in. I could see by the light through the door that he was reaching for a string to turn on the light above him. He was sitting on this bed, the only thing in the room. There was a tiny little window facing on to the courtyard.

I sat and talked with him. The stench in the place was awful. He was so cheerful, laughing all the time. Of course, he didn't know me from Adam. I told him who I was. He asked if I knew all the old people he used to know. We talked and talked. He told me he had been on and off welfare so much the welfare office had lost track of him.
I went back to the office and wrote a piece that night. It ran the next morning. It was quite a short piece, no more than a thousand words. When I saw it in the paper I said to myself, "My God, what a terrible job I've done."

But then I was deluged with money. Every day came dozens and dozens of letters with postage stamps and dollar bills and two-dollar bills, and quaters wrapped in bits of paper. The piece had been picked up by the Associated Press and put on the wire. So this stuff was coming in from all over the country.

This was early in December, and at Christmas I went back to see him again and do another piece. I neglected my family to go up there. By this time we had all this money, and I bought him a guitar, a box of cigars, a bottle of gin, all that stuff. He loved to take a slug of gin. He never took much.

Sam was wonderful, and there was this one wonderful touch. He was blind, remember, but he said, "I got a little money now. Buy me a couple of candles, will you?"
He fished into his pocket and gave me a quarter. "I want you to light the candles. I can't see them. But I want the candles lit for Christmas."

The christmas story turned out to be better than the other. In anthologies they put the two stories together because they supplement one another. They put a title on it, "A dark man laughs" It's in a dozen or so anthologies.

I wrote five pieces on Sam altogether, and we raised twelve thousand dollars. We got a lot of pleasure out of the Langford story and the organization of the fund.

Sam was such a wonderful person. There was no evil in him. Nothing but sweetness. He had no grudge against anybody. The only person he didn't like was Harry Wills. He kept telling me, "Don't you accept nothing from Harry Wills. I don't want anything from Harry Wills."
Sam had fought Wills nineteen times, but he couldn't fight for the title. No Negroes were fighting for titles back then. By the time Jack Johnson was champion and Negroes were beginning to be accepted for big bouts, Sam was practically blind. He got that lime stuff in one eye, and the eye was gone. But he still fought on. He fought at 160 pounds. Fought the heavyweights too.

Sam and I were friends until he died. We got about a hundred dollars a month for him, which was plenty at the time. He got more and more feeble and then he got diabetes very bad. He kept telling me "I'm going back to Boston". He had a friend up there, a fellow who ran a pub. He finally came down and got Sam and put him in a nursing home. There was enough money to pay his way up there. That's where Sam died.

There was one thing I forgot. Sam is noted for calling everyone "Chief" and I forgot to put that in the story. The first thing I heard him say was "C'mon in, Chief."

The story was not a straight job of reporting. For the facts about Sam, you could say "There he is. He's forgotten. He's blind. He hasn't got any money. And he's very cheerful about it." That's all there is to it, that would be the whole story, if you were just using facts. But this kind of feature reporting is different.

By Al Laney

..............................

From The New York Times - Feb 3rd 1992...

"Al Laney, a sportswriter for more than four decades, died last Sunday at his retirement home, the Fellowship Community, in Spring Valley. He was 92 years old.

In 1924, Mr. Laney went to Paris for the European edition of the New York Herald Tribune and worked there until 1930, when he went to New York to work for The Herald Tribune. In New York, he covered baseball, tennis and golf.

He is survived by a son, Michael Laney of Spring Valley."

dougm1970

When Stanley Ketchel dispatched Mike 'Twin' Sullivan in a single round, a man previously stopped by only Joe Gans over 10 and 15 rounds, big brother Jack 'Twin' Sullivan tried to restore the family reputation. The business became personal.

From a fight fan's point of view nothing better than this Sullivan-Ketchel match could possibly be offered in the pugilistic line. Ketchel, the most spectacular knocker-outer of the current crop, is to hook up with the larger of the famous Boston Twins the winner of the scrap will be the bona fide champion to add a bit of spice to this Sullivan will be seeking revenge 'to wipe the Ketchel blot off the family escutcheon.' - The LA Herald.

Sullivan entered the ring first, taking up the northwest corner, the sun to his back. Ketchel, arriving moments later, stalked across to his opponent and confronted him. Sullivan moved to the other corner. Ketchel had enforced his right to chose which corner he would take his rest in, having won the pre-fight toss.

They began at a stiff pace. Ketchel set it, fighting directly, determinedly, but missing often. Sullivan broke into a smile and eventually a laugh as Ketchel repeatedly missed him. Ketchel took the first round on his aggressive pursuit of his elusive opponent and Sullivan finished the round as cheerily as he had begun it, seemingly fighting his own fight. Observers noticed a thin trail of blood coming from Sullivan's nose as he returned to his stool, squinting at Ketchel through the blazing sun.

The second round was rougher, Ketchel rattling Sullivan's kidneys in a prolonged clinch, Sullivan lifting Stanley off his feet with a huge right hand uppercut, blocking well against the punches that Ketchel brought back. By the third Ketchel was already hunting the body with both hands, Sullivan blocking well to the head, winking happily at his opponent when he managed to get one through. Sullivan seemed primed to take over in the fourth. Ketchel was right on top of his man, noted the LA Herald, but was unable to land. Jack mystified Stanley with clever footwork as the later tried with both hands at the gong. In the fifth Sullivan laughed again as Ketchel missed yet another left to the body feinted Ketchel out of position and they clinched. In the 8th, Ketchel was cut again, this time over the left eye, which made him vicious and he drove Sullivan back to the ropes missing wildly with two lefts before slipping to the floor and being rattled at the bell by a returning left hook. Ketchel was winning rounds but at a terrible price. Meanwhile, boxing with great economy, Sullivan was tricking his way through the fight whilst Ketchel expended energy on wasted punches and rushes.

Round nine began quietly, Ketchel chasing Sullivan around the ring to little affect, some ineffective punching was exchanged. Half way through, Ketchel caught Sullivan a hard right-hand punch to the jaw and followed it with a left to the body. A genuinely two-handed fighter, he had landed his first flush combination. Sullivan's response? To laugh once more. But this time he did not manage to escape, did not manage to counterpunch but instead got hit again, hard. And then again. Ketchel's variety of attack cannot be overstated, he worked body and head with straight, hooked and uppercut punches and he seems in this round to have utterly destroyed the surety of Sullivan's guard. Sullivan was still landing at the same rate - but Ketchel was no longer missing.

Sullivan finished the ninth staggering Ketchel with a shot to the chin. He ended the tenth with a 'hurricane finish' forcing Ketchel back with headshots. He would not win another round. He would never be the same again. He would win only three of his next ten fights. He was being finished as a fighter. One of the bloodiest contests seen in recent years was all but settled. For the next ten rounds Ketchel battered Sullivan about the ring severely punishing him about the head and body, said The Herald. He knew he was beaten many, many round before the end actually came but he saw no way he could get out of his predicament gracefully, observed The San Francisco Call.

Indeed, Sullivan's grace deserted him. He would be dropped five times in the coming rounds, four times by body blows, and each time he would attempt to claim a foul. Each time the referee dismissed the claims and Sullivan was forced to climb back into the furnace. When the end came in the 20th, it was pitiful. Forcing Sullivan to the ground with a straight left, Ketchel leapt upon the tortured great as soon as he rose and drove him down again with a left-right combination. Sullivan hauled himself up for once last try. Ketchel smashed through the guard with another left hook to the body and Sullivan fell once more. He shook his head. 'No.'

When he came to his sense he tried to claim a foul once more. The referee dismissed him out of hand. Sullivan continued to make his case in a post-fight interview. His words were not carried far, likely because they held no truth, but possibly because Sullivan found it difficult to make himself understood -his lips were so grotesquely swollen he found it hard to talk.

(By, and courtesy of, Matt McGrain)

dougm1970

Jack Hurley, the tall, thin, caustic manager and promoter who has a genius for developing mediocre fighters into rich ones, began snooping around for another boxer. Into his office one day in 1949 walked a skinny middleweight named Harry Matthews, who had won 67 out of 70 fights on the West Coast, had been fighting for 12 years and had succeeded only in getting deep into debt. Hurley agreed to take him on for his usual 50%. Matthews screamed in anguish. "Listen, young man," said Hurley, "you've been boxing for 12 years and you've made exactly nothing. Now, 50% of nothing is nothing. You don't know how lucky you are. What is happening is that you are getting 50% of me."

Hurley watched his new gladiator work out and was appalled. "He got all his ideas from amateurs. It's a wonder he hadn't been seriously hurt. His idea of how to defend himself was to grab and run. That's all he knew. He didn't even know how to eat. He'd eat two meals a day. I said, "if you were a truck driver, would you eat like that?' He said, 'No, driving a truck is hard work. If I were a truck driver, I'd eat like one.' I said to him, 'Let me tell you something, young man. If you and I are to stay together, you'll work so hard you'll think truck driving is a soft racket. Don't ever lose sight of the fact that fighting is a hard and brutal business, and you gotta be in shape for it. From now on you eat like a truck driver.' He did, and he finally went up to 182 pounds.

"But oh, he was such a bad fighter at first. He couldn't punch, he couldn't take a punch. He was an agony fighter. Looking at a fighter that can't punch is like kissing your mother-in-law."

Hurley brought Matthews along slowly and one night put him into the ring with a carefully selected opponent who had had only 12 fights and was too light to cope with Matthews. "I figured Matthews would make his name overnight," says Hurley. "He figured to knock the kid out easy. But it went 10 rounds and nobody got hit, although Matthews wins the decision. The next day Matthews comes into the office, and he says, 'How did you like the fight?'

"I says, 'What fight?'

"He says, 'Last night.'

"I says, 'Harry, that was the most disgraceful thing I ever saw. If you and that kid were to go down to the street corner right now and go through the same antics, that traffic cop wouldn't even come over and break it up.' "

But Hurley has never needed a superfighter; all he needed now was a property, and Matthews, game and willing to learn, was it. The two of them set up shop in Seattle, and Hurley began the great campaign. Traveling the Northwest like a couple of drummers, Hurley and Matthews built up a legend that still has boxing's public-relations experts scratching their heads in amazement. The soft-punching, glass-chinned Matthews reeled off a dazzling skein of 35 consecutive wins, 28 by knockouts, and even began to learn a little about boxing. Hurley explains in detail how the feat was accomplished:

"I made sure he didn't fight any great fighters. I picked 'em mostly by their styles, guys that had styles just right for Matthews. So all his fights appeared to be sensational. I wouldn't put him in there with a fencer and a runner, because this guy isn't gonna fight, and he isn't gonna let you fight. By the time Matthews runs him down and gets him cornered where he might nail him, the guy jumps into a clinch and the referee rescues him, and he's off and running again. This doesn't make for a good fight or good box office, and even if Matthews wins he has hurt his earning power. So I always picked fighters that really wanted to get in there and fight and lick my fellow, and while they were doing this my fighter was counterpunching and looking great."

As the string of victories began building, sportswriters started to take notice of Matthews, and Hurley decided it was time to throw his "athlete" in with a genuinely tough opponent, "Irish Bob" Murphy. At first glance the fight looked like a cinch for Murphy, and the bookies made him the favorite. Murphy was a sort of left-handed, junior-grade, muscle-bound Marciano; he turned every fight into a street fight, and few could beat him in a street fight. As a pure boxer, however, he would not have lasted six rounds with Maria Ouspenskaya. Hurley knew this, and he also knew that there was one thing Matthews could do superlatively well, and that was fight a southpaw. "He had an instinct for fighting them, and by now he also knew how to fight a guy who comes to him. The fight was a natural for him."

At the end of the seventh round there came one of those moments that determine whether a manager is worth 50%, 30% or nothing. Matthews had been hit hard on the chin and generally mauled around. He came back to his corner, flopped in the chair and made it plain he could not go on. No one would have blamed him. Hurley jumped in front of the exhausted fighter and blocked his view of Murphy sitting relaxed across the ring. "What a hell of a break!" Hurley whispered. "Murphy ain't coming out!" Matthews tried to peer around Hurley for a look, but Hurley kept getting in the way. "Listen," Hurley said, "I don't think he can come out, but if he does, Harry, step around, move around and let him fall right on his face." Dodging from side to side to block Matthews' view, Hurley poured out an avalanche of phony encouragement: "What a break! And you just getting your second wind at a spot like this! Listen, when the 10-second whistle blows you stand up and glare at him over there. Now, Harry, you got your second wind, you're fine, get in there and feint and let him fall flat on his kisser." The 10-second warning blew, and Matthews jumped to his feet, staring at Murphy. Hurley recalls: "Murphy looked back at him as if to say, 'Why, that dummy so-and-so, he ain't even tired.' " The inspired Matthews went on to win the last three rounds and the decision. Later Hurley explained his psychology:

"You can't sympathize with a tired fighter. He's looking for sympathy, he's abused, the poor athlete. I got to shock him. I can't give him a slap in the kisser, which is what I'd like to do, and say, 'Well, yeh dog yeh, you're in here, ain'tcha? Now get out there and fight.' No, I gotta make him believe he's caught his second wind and the other guy's through. And it worked. Matthews told me he woke up in bed the next morning and said to himself, 'How did Hurley know I caught my second wind?' "

With this win, plus one over Rex Layne, Matthews and Hurley had the ammunition for an assault on the IBC's lock on the heavyweight championship and the big money. Jersey Joe Walcott was the champion. Rocky Marciano was the No. 1 contender. Hurley began a whirling-dervish publicity campaign to force a Marciano-Matthews fight, the winner to meet Walcott for the title. The IBC wanted no part of a Marciano-Matthews fight: if Matthews should score a lucky win, Hurley would become a powerful figure in the heavyweight picture, and the IBC and Hurley were deadly enemies. Hurley began making cracks like: "How about Marciano, this great star they're keeping in cellophane? Did he or did he not stink out the joint with Lee Savold?" The campaign took hold. Wrote Frank Graham later: "By word of mouth, person to person or on radio or TV, in letters to newspapers or interviews with sportswriters, Hurley created such an uproar that it reached the halls of Congress where Senators and Representatives howled that Matthews was being discriminated against." The heat was on from Washington; the IBC had to give in.

Stuck with the fight, the IBC began beating its own publicity drums, but Hurley got all the lines. He lampooned Marciano's talents so convincingly that Toots Shor was moved to remark: "If I listened to Hurley for a week, I'd take off 30 pounds and fight Marciano myself." Hurley boomed Matthews as the all-American boy, told one sportswriter: "Harry and his wife are unusual people and very decent and, while I'm no softy, I'm beginning to get an emotional kick out of seeing how well they are getting along and how wonderfully happy they are. I sometimes go over to their home in the evening just to enjoy the wholesome character of the place and the lovely kind of life they live." Brushing away a tear, Hurley would go back to his hotel and wait for the quote to appear in print, whereupon he would buy 500 of the papers and mail the clipping to sportswriters all over the country, who in turn would describe the touching scene in its endearing entirety. The fact was that Matthews and his wife, later divorced, were fighting like wildcats, but Hurley did not feel that this information would help the gate.

The IBC sent out prefight placards bearing a picture of Hurley leaning over Matthews in the corner. No one could remember when a manager had ever been pictured on such a placard, and Hurley asked James D. Norris about it. Explained Norris: "Matthews is nothing without you." It was one of Norris' truer utterances.

The fight was held on July 28, 1952. There are those who say it was a grotesque mismatch from the beginning, that Matthews never had a chance. Jack Hurley, who no longer has a Matthews ax to grind, thought and thinks differently, and he backed up his opinion with a $10,000 bet on his man. "There is a way to beat any fighter," he says. "If Harry had never heard of Marciano or even had been fighting him in his own familiar territory out West, he'd have won in a breeze. I explained to him before the fight, 'Harry, here's a case where you're safer being close to danger than out in the open. If you stand close and lean in about two inches, all his wild swings will go around your neck. And don't grab him in the clinches. He's too strong. Let him grab you, put your hands beside your chest, and as he reaches around, punch up, up. Those left-and right-hand uppercuts do murderous damage inside.' So in the first round everything went exactly according to plan. Matthews busted up Marciano pretty good and raised a knob on his eye. When he comes back to the corner I say, 'Harry, this guy's a soft touch. Now you know the way to fight him, Harry, you've proved it already, now just get out there and stay close; don't get scared and pull back or you'll get in the path of one of those wild swings.'

"Matthews went out for the second round and all of a sudden he breaks out of a clinch, and he realizes he's fighting in Yankee Stadium in front of all those people, and he just gets frozen with fear. The guy threw a cuffing left at him and Matthews leaned back, and it hit him right on the bad chin. There was nothing on the punch, but Matthews leaned back, scared to death, and the fellow threw a second cuff and Matthews couldn't move. He coulda stayed close all night, but he leaned back and he got hit and he got knocked out. Let me tell you, it's a long way from that ring to the dressing room at Yankee Stadium, and all the way back people are saying, 'Where's your great fighter now, Hurley?' and there I am bleeding in my shoes."

The Marciano debacle would have shoved many a fighter into limbo, which is probably where Matthews belonged anyway, but Hurley set about rebuilding "the athlete" into a card, and soon succeeded in getting him a Seattle fight with British Empire Heavyweight Champion Don Cockell. Matthews lost the decision, but a rematch was scheduled in London. Hurley began talking as soon as his feet touched British soil, and the press was goggle-eyed. "Cockell is the best heavyweight you've ever sent to America," Hurley announced, knowing full well that no sportswriter in England could resist printing this line. "No British fighter has ever made such an impression on the West Coast. Cockell could beat Marciano on the best day Rocky ever knew. Marciano can't box, he's just a crude swinger. Cockell would be too smart for him. Who has Marciano ever beaten, anyway?"

Said a reporter: "Well, Matthews, for one."

Hurley shot back: "Matthews wasn't beaten by Marciano, he was beaten by Yankee Stadium. He was overawed. He would have beaten Marciano in three rounds if they had fought in Seattle."

The sports pages were full of the fight, although a less important contest could hardly have been imagined. John Mac-Adam of the Daily Sketch wrote: "Mr. Hurley can sling words faster than either Cockell or Matthews can sling punches.... Hurley convinces you against your will that Matthews is the fighter of the century while you think in your heart he is not." Wrote Noel Joseph in the News-Chronicle: "Personally, I feel Cockell must win, but when I hear Hurley talking I feel Matthews has atomic power." The result, on a damp, chilly June night, was an attendance of 35,000 and a decision for Cockell. Hurley accepted the purse and the decision with becoming stoicism: "I thought it was a dead even thing. The referee could have given it either way." Matthews and Cockell fought a third time, in Seattle, and Cockell knocked him out. Soon after, Matthews retired; he now has a tavern in Seattle. Hurley came back into boxing's limelight in 1957 when he promoted the never-never land fight between Pete Rademacher and Floyd Patterson; he has been "between fighters" ever since.

(by Jack Olsen - 1961)

dougm1970

"Grimm took the first round by storm, slamming Johnny to all corners of the ring, with a series of two handed attacks. Dias somehow recovered his composure and kept Joe at distance with long and sharp jabs, like he had done before so efficiently. But this time he was counterpunched brutally, and blood began trickling out of his mouth. Until the end of the round, Dias was pounded with stiff shots over and over, forcing him to move backward across the ring. Only the bell saved Dias from a KO. Joe's fans were on their feet, screaming, "Go for KO!"
During the break Joe was sloshed with icy water by his overzealous brother and was told he was doing great. Dias's cornermen tried unsuccessfully to stop the bleeding, while his coach was shouting in his ear. Whatever instructions he recieved, Dias made good use of them. As Joe launched a new attack, Dias used his rapid footwork, forcing Joe to punch the air while enabling his rival to land well-placed blows. At one time Dias counterattacked in full force, and Joe had trouble escaping punishment. It looked like Dias had recovered and maybe even taken the lead. At least that's what his fans wanted to believe.
But, from the third round on, Joe relentlessly struck Dias's body and head with both fists to the delight of the Boy Scouts and Fall River spectators. Round after round, Joe proved himself to be the master of the ring, showing an excellent command of his actions and inexhaustable stamina. Dias fought bravely and once in a while, when he lashed with his left and right swings, his signature punches, his fans screamed with happiness. He moved a lot but could not avoid a serious battering that made him stagger, still, he remained on his feet. As for Joe, he continued to pummel him in the close sessions.
In round eight Joe decided to finish of his tradional rival who had tainted his record with two defeats. He unleashed one attack after another, forcing Dias to run around the ring and be stopped (from running around) by Referee McDonald. Obviously, he was doing everything he could to escape a KO. He was not a coward and continued to counterattack, but Joe's landings came from all angles and directions and were too painful and risky to absorb.
Dias was outpointed and outpunched by the little Syrian mittster, both boys were deserving the credit for their showing.
With his arm raised high by the referee, Joe enjoyed the crowd that could not stop its ovations as he proudly left the arena."

(Fall River Herald - April 12th 1924)

The above account is from the third battle in a series of fights between two journeymen boxers, Joe Grimm (not be confused with Joe Grim, often spelled Grimm who lost to Jack Johnson and Bob Fitzsimmons years earlier) and Johnny Dias, fought at lightweight at Fall River, Massachusetts, USA in 1924. Grimm had lost their two previous battles in 1923 both over points. The pair would have a fourth contest in 1927 with Grimm winning by KO in the first round.

*From the story of journeyman bantamweight boxer Joe Grimm, from the 1920s. Joe weighs 118 pounds and is flat-footed; nevertheless, he wins against boxers who are heavier than he is, he wins when he is booked as a last-minute replacement, and he wins against contenders who are headed to championship bouts. He is so gallant in the ring that the press calls him "Gentleman Joe." His career is interrupted when he and his brother are urgently called home by their immigrant parents. He leaves behind the arenas, with their cheering crowds and works as a butcher in his grocery shop bought with ring money for his family. Grimm lived to be 96 years old.

dougm1970

London. 1979. Muhammad Ali, considered by many to be the greatest heavyweight champion of all time, was really heavy as he announced his retirement at the Royal Albert Hall.

dougm1970

Joey Giambra fought under a completely different set of rules in the 1950s than those afforded the fighters of today. There was no such thing as a two fight-a-year schedule with the accountants tallying up the net. Back in the day, you fought hard, you fought often and unless you were a world champion it was enough to keep the wolf from the door. The Giambra suave, good looks and colorful style held him in good stead during the days of the spinning turnstile. And Joey could fight.

By Dan Hanley...(Joey was 82 years old when the following conversation took place)

DH: Joey, where are you originally from?
JG: I was born in Buffalo, New York.

DH: Tell me about growing up in Buffalo in the 1930s.
JG: Well, I grew up one of 13 kids during the depression in an Italian neighborhood where everyone was on welfare. But I was young and we knew no other life. I helped out the family by shining shoes in saloons and (laughing), earned a bit more by being the only Italian kid who could sing an Irish song.

DH: How did boxing enter the picture?
JG: I was about 13 years old and one day I got beat up and robbed of my shoe shine kit. I wanted to learn how to take care of myself and wandered into Singer's gym. It was there I met Mike Scanlon, who taught me how to box.

DH: What kind of amateur career did you have?
JG: I did well. I won the Buffalo Golden Gloves featherweight championship in 1947 and the lightweight title in 1948.

DH: The decision to turn pro, was this something you always intended?
JG: Well I knew there was money in it and I liked it, so it was an easy decision.

DH: Who did you turn pro with?
JG: Mike Scanlon was my manager and Johnny Russo became my trainer.

DH: You turned pro in Canada in '49. Was there any rule barring you from turning pro in the States, since you were just under 18?
JG: No, that just happened to be where I got signed on my first card and it was just over the border from Buffalo. I fought a guy who came out in a fancy robe and I was so green I didn't even know what the referee meant when he told me to go to a neutral corner. I was thinking (laughing), What's a neutral corner? But I knocked him out in the second round.

DH: It's hard to believe in this day and age, but you ran off 28 fights over the next three years before you fought your first 10 rounder. And even then you were thrown in with future world champ Joey Giardello in back-to-back fights. Tell me about your first two fights with Giardello.
JG: Well, the first fight I was robbed. We fought in his hometown of Brooklyn and his own fans were booing the decision. I got him in the rematch and beat him badly.

DH: After the Giardello fights you really came into prominence and worked your way up to the leading contender for the middleweight title with wins over Bernard Docusen, Tuzo Portuguez and Italo Scortichini. But suddenly you disappeared for 14 months. What happened?
JG: (laughing) I got drafted! I was in the Army for two years. But the funny thing was, I had been in the Naval Reserve for five years before that. (laughing) I just didn't think they'd come and get me. But I was very well known entering the service and became a boxing instructor. I gotta tell you, I felt like an officer the way I was treated and they even allowed me to continue fighting professionally.

DH: You resumed your career in '55 and ran off four wins in succession on the comeback trail when you got a call for a non-title 10 rounder with middleweight champ Bobo Olson in the San Francisco Cow Palace. How did that come about?
JG: Well, Olson's people knew I was still in the Army and obviously didn't think I was in shape. They were just using me as a tuneup for his upcoming fight with Sugar Ray Robinson.

DH: I have an article on that fight that begins with the line, A new star glistened over the fight world today in the person of Joey Giambra. Tell me about that fight.
JG: It was like the first Giardello fight. I thought I beat him and so did all his hometown fans who booed the decision in his favor.

DH: After the Bobo Olson fight you were once again among the top ten with wins over Johnny Sullivan and Rocky Castellani. Then you signed for Gil Turner in Madison Square Garden. Joey, I know so little of this fight. Tell me about it.
JG: It was an outstanding fight. I was very aggressive and completely outboxed Gil. I think I won every round, but still it was a good fight. Gil had a lot of class and winked at me afterwards.

DH: Back then fighters seemed to have a lot of respect for one another. Did anyone ever get under your skin?
JG: Ahh just once. A fighter named Tuzo Portuguez. I beat him twice but in out first fight the referee was letting him get away with all kinds of rough stuff. And once, while breaking, the ref is standing on my foot and Portuguez actually came over the ref's shoulder and decked me. Man, I just thought, I'm gonna kill that bastard!

DH: A second win over Rocky Castellani soon followed, as well as a rare stoppage of Chico Vejar, when you had your first two fights with Rory Calhoun. This interrupted an eleven bout unbeaten streak. Tell me about those fights with Calhoun.
JG: Well, the first fight was a draw, but not too many people know that in the second fight I got my jaw broken somewhere within the first five rounds. I was wearing wires for eight weeks afterwards.

DH: By this time had you relocated to the west coast?
JG: Yes, my manager and I had moved to San Francisco by this time, but they weren't exactly lining up to fight me. Sometimes it was tough getting fights.

DH: Many years ago I read a detailed article on your third fight with Joey Giardello in San Francisco in '58. Tell us about it in your own words, starting with the events leading up to the fight.
JG: Joey Giardello was really being pushed for a title fight at this time and they needed the win over me to continue this drive. We knew one of the judges had been bought but someone approached my manager Mike Scanlon on throwing the fight. He sarcastically, but unintentionally agreed. Like how you would just say, 'Yeah, yeah!', but never accepted any money and never told me. I went out there, did my job and won the 10 round decision. I find out afterwards what went on after a commotion in my corner and Mike says to me, 'We gotta get out of here!' We had to get out of the Cow Palace fast and Mike sends Johnny Russo out to bring the car around back. I was still in my boxing gear when Mike and I ran out the back, tore ourselves up jumping a barb-wire fence, and made it back to New York as quickly as we could. See, I was a kid from the street. Everyone knew me from back in the day when I was shining shoes. And it was because I was well-known that I got a sit down with Vito Genovese and Carlo Gambino. The only thing that saved us was that Mike never took any money. They couldn't and wouldn't have helped us if he had and as a result they put out the word, 'hands off' of us.

DH: You were off for about nine months after that fight. Were you still worried about repercussions?
JG: Yeah, I was trying to get it all cleared up.

DH: By the late '50s, many articles were referring to you also as a young actor. Were you trying your hand in the trade while on the coast?
JG: Well, what happened was, while recuperating with the broken jaw from the Calhoun fight, I had time on my hands, so I went to drama school. I was messing around with that as well as boxing and one night, after I won a fast knockout in Reno, Clark Gable came to my dressing room telling me he loved my fights. We struck up a friendship and I got a part in 'The Misfits' with Gable and Marilyn Monroe. That was fun but I got in a bit of trouble on the set.

DH: What happened?
JG: There was a lot of posing and pictures being taken on the set and one day Marilyn wants to get a picture with me. Now, Marilyn was really stacked. So, we're standing together and she's really leaning them into me when one wiseguy yells out (laughing), 'Hey, Joey, you got a hard on!' Well, Arthur Miller, who was the screenwriter for the movie and also Marilyn's husband at the time, gets hot and wants to come at me. I just said, 'Hey, hey, that's not a good idea!' Miller wanted me off the picture, but Gable says to him, 'If he goes, then I go!'

DH: You were on another winning streak that took you to your rubber match with Rory Calhoun in November of '60. What did you do so differently in your third fight?
JG: I was still very angry over the broken jaw in our second fight. I trained very hard and fought very aggressively in this fight and won a good tough decision.

DH: It appeared that right after this fight that negotiations began for a 10 rounder with former champ Carmen Basilio. Why did this fight not take place?
JG: Nothing ever came of it. Carmen was a game fighter and I think it would have been a great fight. But if I was going to give my opinion on why it didn't happen. Well, it's all about the money, isn't it, Danny?

DH: Joey, you had been taping your knuckles for over 10 years by this time. Did you ever come close to sitting down at a table negotiating a shot at the world title?
JG: Well, Gene Fullmer was the one I wanted at this time. He was world champ, but I was never even considered for a shot. The best I got with him was an exhibition bout in the 1970s. He's trying all his rough stuff on me during an exhibition and I really had enough of it and knocked him to his knees with a body shot, just to let him know to cut it out. You know he actually came to my dressing room while I was in the shower complaining that I was too rough and it was only supposed to be an exhibition.

DH: Joey, by '62, it looked like you were on the downside of your career. You were about 31 years old, had recently lost to Yama Bahama and Farid Salim, good fighters, but not in your league � and you sign to fight one of the most feared bangers in the division in Florentino Fernandez down in Miami. I don't think anyone gave you a chance. Tell me about the fight.
JG: First of all let me say that you're right, he could really hit, but he was also a very dirty fighter. I mean he was butting me throughout that fight. I was always a clean fighter but I got a bit fed up and retaliated once. A purposely missed punch that I followed with a well-placed elbow. Just to let him know I had enough. As for the fight, despite his tactics, I boxed him and cut him pretty bad. At one point I nailed him with a shot that sent blood spraying over a couple of ladies at ringside and the fight was stopped in the 7th round. You know I made $7,000 for that fight, but bet $5,000 of it on myself to win at 6-1 odds against me. I cleaned up in that one.

DH: In October of '62 you finally received your long-awaited title shot, but it was for the inaugural junior middleweight title. What was your feelings on this new division?
JG: Hey, I didn' care. To me it was for a title. That's the way I looked at it.

DH: Tell me about your 15 rounder with Denny Moyer for the vacant title.
JG: We fought in his hometown of Portland, Oregon and at the end of 15 I didn't have a mark on me. I thought I won. Sonny Liston was the referee for this fight and came up to me before the decision was announced and whispered to me, 'You won it, baby!' But Moyer got the decision.

DH: Your last fight was in April of '63. You came in as a substitute and lost a disputed decision to Joe DeNucci in his hometown of Boston. Even the Boston Press said you were robbed, yet, you retired. Were you just discouraged by this point?
JG: Yeah, I was done with it. Y'know, it was embarrassing because DeNucci just conned me at the weigh-in. He's telling me that he just wants to get through this fight because his wife was expecting any minute now and that's all he's thinking about. Well, I'm feeling sorry for the guy, but in the ring he was ready and fighting rough. He was hitting on the break constantly and you know what? I find out later his wife wasn't due for a few months. Between this and a car accident I was in, I was just done with the game.

DH: What did you get into when the boxing career ended?
JG: I worked at Caesar's Palace in Vegas. I was a blackjack dealer. I worked there the same time Joe Louis was there as a greeter.

DH: Joey, what was the one fight out there that just escaped you?
JG: At the top of my list would have been Sugar Ray Robinson for the middleweight title. I pressed him about this at the time and he told me in no uncertain terms, 'Joey, I don't like the way you work inside.'

DH: Joey, at 82, how is your health?
JG: Well, I had a series of strokes awhile back and between that and the housing market bust here in Las Vegas, it really set me back. My son Joey Jr., whom I should tell you put himself in a position of great personal and financial loss, stuck with me, as did my daughter Gina. And, although I still have a few issues, I feel good today because of them.

DH: What's Joey Giambra up to these days?
JG: Dan, over the years I've been inducted into no less than seven boxing hall of fames and have written a book recollecting some of the events in my career. It's called 'The uncrowned champion: Boxing and the Mafia in the golden era', which was published through Author House. And today, they're even talking about a movie on my life.

# # #

Simply put, without the right connections in the 1950s fight game, one had less of a chance of a title shot than a 1980s heavyweight had of ignoring a buffet table. Although having his ups and downs in life, Joey has been blessed with a wonderful family, whom I also had the privilege of talking to. And, although never a world champ, the name Joey Giambra will always be synonymous with what was indeed a truly golden era.

.................................................

(Many thanks to Dan Hanley who has personally allowed that transcript for inclusion on the CBS and other pages)

dougm1970

"My break finally came. If you could call fighting Ernie Shavers a break. I had no choice. I'd waited too long to get a fight that mattered. If it had to be Earnie Shavers so be it. I was ready.
Five years before I was an eager amateur, climbing into Gleason's Gym ring against this world-ranked puncher and feeling thrilled to have survived three rounds with him. Now he was all that stood between me and my chance at the Heavyweight Title.
Outside the ring, Shavers was one of the most likeable guys in all of boxing. And he was my friend. Over the years we'd sparred a bunch of rounds and hung out together. I'd found him to be an unassuming kind of guy with a nice sense of humor. Earnie was easy to be around, but push come to shove, make no mistake, he was all man.
I remember one time a bunch of us were playing cards in a Cleveland hotel room and, with thousands of dollars on the table and Earnie riding a winning hand, one of the guys tried to claim a mixed deal on account of an exposed card. Earnie wasn't buying bull****. With one of his big-knuckled hands, he picked up the money and with a glare that might have made Sonny Liston nervous, said "This money belongs to me. Anybody says different, come and get it". Nobody said different. Not me. Not nobody."

(Larry Holmes)

walshb

A lot of excellent stuff here. Well done!

dougm1970

He was sitting on the edge of the table, staring into the doctor's eyes. His nose looked like the side of a big hill. The eyes were empty, and above each one there were jagged cuts held together by thin strips of clamped tapes. But the real hurt was visible only when he moved off the table, and then his body hung slightly to the left and his face expressed pain when he walked. He had taken an unforgettable beating.

"I told you I was tough," he said. "I'm California tough."

Wayne Thornton was indeed that. For 15 rounds at Shea Stadium a crowd of 12,000 watched Light Heavyweight Champion Jose Torres hammer Thornton with everything but the scoreboard, watched Torres flirt with true greatness and finally witnessed a fight that for pure elemental conflict stood out like Thornton's nose. It was, if your sensibilities could stand it, a magic night for boxing.

It was also a fight that was actually over in the first round. Midway in that round Torres, a 9-to-5 favorite who was making his first title defense and first appearance in a year (in New York's first outdoor show in six years), delivered the blow that finished Thornton. He slammed a right to the back of the challenger's left kidney, and it jacked Thornton up for the eventual devastation. Then, spinning to the left, Torres dug a left hook to the other kidney and followed that with a right cross. Thornton was on his way down, and Torres kept chopping away until Thornton was draped over the ropes. He was down twice in that round, but he survived, and that was all he would do the rest of the evening. He had nothing left.

Willie Pastrano, who was at ringside, pointed to Thornton after the first-round butchery, raised his eyebrows and spread his hands by his heart. Thornton had to have all heart now, he was saying, and who should have known better than Willie? The punch that caught Thornton, the one behind the kidney, was similar to the one that Torres used to destroy Willie's heart and career.

Still, Torres did not come out of the round undamaged. He had a cut extending the length of his right eye, where Thornton had butted him. He had difficulty seeing out of it until the eighth round, and between the second and eighth he was not the fighter he had been in the beginning. Chiefly, he appeared tired and discouraged because he had not been able to put Thornton away. He did, however, open cuts above both of Thornton's eyes in the fifth round.

Thornton was staggered again in the eighth and ninth, and at one point he caught nine straight blows to the head. After that series Torres just shook his head. If he was annoyed at Thornton's indestructibility, he was even more disturbed by his opponent's back-alley tactics. Thornton heeled, held (mainly Torres' left hand, the one that kept raking the right kidney), butted and used his shoulder. In the eighth, after a verbal exchange in a clinch, Thornton stuck his tongue out at Torres.

"Man, he ees a dirty fighter," Torres said later in the dressing room. "He uses terrible language, too. But I don't mind. I just don't like when he grab my nose and start twisting it. One time he did that and I say, 'Hey, man, let her go.' I also kept sayin' to him, 'Man, you can't fight. I can fight. You punch like a little girl.' "

Thornton did not apologize for his crudity. "Sure," he said, "I knew I was fouling him. Why not? I'd have hit him over the head with the stool if I could. This was for the title."

To be certain, the title in itself is enough to inspire any fighter, but there was a bit more at stake for Jose Torres in this one. He was searching for an identity that he had lost. A proud, intelligent man, he has always wanted to be a symbol to his people. "I only knew I owed my people," he said, telling of his thoughts before the Pastrano fight. "I could only think about my position as the champion. Important people would listen to me, people who could help improve the conditions in which most Puerto Ricans live."

When he did become champion, he returned to Puerto Rico as that symbol. "The government offices closed, the schools closed," he said, "and the sick people waved to me from hospital windows and I heard the sirens of the firehouses and the ringing of church bells.' Then it all changed. He did not defend his title for a year, the main reason being that he had a pancreas condition. But the Puerto Rican people did not understand anything about "what you call thees?" pancreas. Heroes fight, and they fight often. A fighter is not a politician or a writer (Torres wants to be a writer). A fighter just fights.

"I want to win sensationally," he said before meeting Thornton, "so I can convince my people that I am a hero."

Torres did all of that, and was every bit as good as his words. "Now I am a professional," he had said while in training. "I can do many things I wouldn't dare do before. I am on the verge of being an artist." Torres has always had quick, powerful hands that explode into deadly combinations, but equally impressive in last week's fight was the way he moved. When he threw a right to the kidney he was in and out, spinning and cutting to the other side, where he would shoot a left hand to the other kidney or hook to the head. The moves were fluid, and more than anything they reflected a man who knew his business and knew that his business in the immediate future is going to be making money out of his title. His biggest purse prior to Thornton had been only $14,850. For this one Torres received $75,000. Thornton collected $25,000, some of which he will have to squander on a nose job.

"One day I'll get it fixed," said Thornton. "Maybe when I'm through fighting. But I don't pay much attention to it anyway. I've got a lot to show for it."

He had chopped cotton in Louisiana when he was 10 years old, and then he moved to California, where he rode "sickles" and the waves of the Pacific and where, as a kid, he looked for fights and usually found them. But now Thornton is all respectability, the owner of four apartment buildings and an insurance agency, and he walks around forever smiling like a guy who has put something over on the world. "Why do I always smile?" he asks. "Why not? I never thought life could be this good."

This, of course, was said before the fight. Afterward it took a while for the old buoyancy to reassert itself. When it did, his smile told anyone who was interested that Wayne Thornton's life does not change because of one beating. Yes, he was disappointed, but that was only because he had been so impotent against Torres. All he could do was hold on. His plan had been to crowd Torres, to stay in command and to go to the body early and then to the head.

"I just didn't have anything left after that punch to the kidney in the first round," he said. "We thought Torres would fold between the second and eighth rounds, but he didn't. Even if he had, I couldn't have done anything. Sure, it seemed he'd forget to throw to the kidney for three rounds, but then he'd come back and rap, rap, rap!"

Would he fight Torres again?

"I'd do it once a week. Just give me time to rest," he said, and then, as if remembering something he should have never forgotten, he added: "Willie Pastrano warned me of that kidney punch. He said he got hit there by Torres, too, and that he saw yellow spots. I saw them, too."

Over in the other dressing quarters, which were jammed with such friends as Norman Mailer and Peter Falk and a phalanx of his countrymen, Torres sat in a little office before coming out to the main room. When he did emerge, the Puerto Ricans started shouting: "Here he comes, here he comes! Make way for Jose." Torres found his way to a table and stood on it. The cameras flashed, and the questions fell. "Yes," he said, "I saw Clay fight on television this afternoon. I think I had a tougher time with Thornton than I would with Clay."

"Arriba, arriba!" his followers squealed in response to the answer.

(BY MARK KRAM - from May 30th, 1966)

dougm1970

"I was in in Panama a few years ago, with Kid Norfolk, the coloured heavyweight, and champion of the Isthumus. The kid had licked them all and was taking it easy, as is his custom.
Things were getting a little monotonous when suddenly word slipped about the little republic that Harry Wills of New Orleans was in the country. Norfolk packed his grip and left for the United States. He made no bones about why he was leaving. Simply stated he was not in the New Orleans mans class.

Wills took on several heavyweights imported there as a source of amusment for the sport-hungry Americans and Panamanians and then the crop failed.
Sam Langford was brought down for a try-out with Wills. They fought twice. Langford took the full count both times from punches delivered in the region of the stomach. Sam lay on the floor and writhed in aparent agony for 5 or 10 minutes and the crowd on each occasion yelled 'Fake!!".

Harry's wife was there for the first meeting. She is a nice-looking coloured woman and seemed to be entirely of the opinion that her husband would shelve 'The Tar Baby' and so expressed herself to the crowd in unmeasured terms. She went about with a wad of good sized bills betting on her husband. Sam had a lot of supporters and when the end came pork and beans were assured for the Wills family for an indefinite period.

When the two men stepped into the ring it looked like a fight between an aberdeen angus bull and a cougar. Wills looked entirely too ready for the Boston gentleman and he stepped right up and stabbed Langford inummerable times in the face. This seemed to only irrate Sam and he made a move to clinch but Wills side-stepped and slapped him again with great earnestness. None of these things pleased the Tar Baby and he referred to Wills unbecomingly and he tossed an uppercut towards Wills chin, the intention of which was in no way disguised. This seemed to bring Wills to a realisation that Sam was cross about something and he wrapped himself around his opponent in such a manner that the referee, who was a very able-bodied citizen, could hardly pry them apart.

As they were seperated Sam looked at the crowd and smiled. Wills did not think this was the right thing for Samuel to do and expressed his indignation by cutting his eye open. My, but did Sam act ugly for a while. But he cooled down later and stood like a block of Vermont granite and took the jabs offered by Wills with becoming dignity. This sort of thing kept up for six rounds, then Harry reached down in his shoe and pulled forth a blow that looked like a streak of sunlight. His hand disapeared in Langford's midriff and Sam doubled up and fell flat on his face on the floor. He did not put out his hands to protect himself. His hands were as useless as a pair of worn-out socks and about as limp. He made serveral ineffectual efforts to rise. He did succeed in getting to his corner some 10 minutes later, with the help of Wills, the referee and two physicians, which showed great will-power.
Sam said the blow was a foul.

The second fight, fought a month later, was about the same as the first, with the exception that Sam did not collect Wills knuckles until the 7th round, but the effect was the same. Sam gathered his end of the purse after this fight and placing it in his pocketbook left the Isthumus.

I saw both fights. They may have been faked. I am not capable of judging, but Wills attitude during the fights and after them struck me very favourably. He is quiet, reserved and very polite outside of the ring. I believe that if Wills and Dempsey were to ever meet Dempsey will have his championship crown knocked into the Great Lakes."

(by Sid Smith - The Gazette Times - Oct 8, 1922)

.........

Sam Langford often fought the same opponents over and over as was typical of coloured boxers at the time. Langford and Wills tangled at least seventeen times (up to twenty-two times by some sources) between 1914 and 1922. They knocked each other out twice and Wills generally had the better of the series, although it must be noted that the first meeting occurred when Langford was 31 years old.

The first Wills v Langford fight was a 10-round newspaper decision win for Langford. The rematch (pictured here) in November 1914 and second fight in their long series went like this -
"With a left swing to the jaw, Sam Langford of Boston knocked out Harry Wills from New Orleans, in the fourteenth round of a scheduled twenty-round fight this afternoon at Vernon. Both men were knocked down repeatedly, Langford himself taking the count four times in the first two rounds. Langford early in the fight hurt his left ankle as he fell to the mat in a vicious breakaway. Wills' effective straight-arm drives gave him an apparent even break in most of the rounds, but Langford fought with a superior knowledge of the game that gradually wore out Wills. As the soreness left Langford's injured ankle, his footwork improved and the twelfth, thirteenth and fourteenth rounds showed Langford winning. His speed, judgment and force then enabled him to play with Wills. The final swing was delivered after a torrent of blows had left Wills staggering." (Indianapolis Star)

Langford had more than ten fights each against Sam McVey, Joe Jeannette, Jim Barry, Jeff Clark, and Bill Tate.

After over three hundred recorded bouts, Sam Langford retired in 1926 at the age of 43. In his last years in the ring, he was troubled by eye problems which eventually resulted in blindness. In 1944, Al Laney of the New York Herald Tribune decided to write a story about Langford, but he had trouble finding him. Several people suggested that Langford was probably dead, but Laney persisted and finally found Langford living at a rooming house on 139th Street in New York City. Langford had 20 cents in his pocket. Shortly after Laney's story was published, a fund was set up for Langford. As a result, he lived relatively comfortably for the rest of his days. Langford passed away suffering from diabetes on January 12, 1956 at a private nursing home in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Harry Wills retired from boxing in 1932, also at the age of 43, and ran a successful real estate business in Harlem, New York. He was known for his yearly fast, in which, once a year, he would live on only water for a month. Wills died, ironically also from diabetes, on December 21, 1958. He left an estate valued at over $100,000, including a 19-family apartment building in upper Harlem. His biggest regret in life was never getting the opportunity to fight Jack Dempsey for the World Title.

dougm1970

"Let me give you a story I've never completely told before...I was in my best form for this fight. Absolutely indefatigable. I was determined to knock Heeney down with my first punch. I walked out and hit him with a straight right hand -a terrific blow - but he didn't go down.

'Oh, oh!' I said to myself, 'this fellow is tough.' I decided then to box him. For four rounds I hit him so often about the head that my wrist began to get sore and I shifted to his body. Then in the eighth round I hit him again with another solid right, just above the eye. I saw Heeney back away, trying to pry open his eye with his glove, even though the eye hadn't been closed.

I knew what had happened. I had had two personal friends lose the sight of an eye after being hit in that spot. It damages the blood vessel, you know. Heeney had been temporarily blinded. I stepped back and did not hit him again for the rest of the round.

Between rounds it was my habit to observe my opponent's corner. I saw Jimmy Dawson, a boxing writer, rush over to ask Charley Harvey, who managed Heeney, what had happened. Then I saw Harvey make a jabbing motion with his thumb, implying that I had stuck my thumb in Heeney's eye.

I was furious....for the next two rounds I gave Heeney a terrible beating - the worst beating of his life, and all because of his manager. But in the 11th round he was still rushing me. 'There's heart!' I said to myself. I evaded him, and he almost fell. Then I turned to the referee and said: " 'If you want me to go on hitting this man, I won't be responsible for the consequences.' And he stopped the fight.

During the last war I made a trip to the Solomon Islands. I found that Heeney was also there - he had become an American citizen and a first-class seaman in the Seabees. I had him transferred, which was a very difficult thing to do, and made a chief athletic specialist, tripling his pay.

Now sometime after the war I ran into Ernest Hemingway, and he said, 'Tom Heeney tells me you were a dirty fighter.'

'Tom Heeney said that? Do you mind if I ask him about it?'

Hemingway said he had no objections. So the next time I was in Miami I took a cab over to Heeney's bar on the Beach. I walked in and had a Martini, but there was no sign of Tom. Then a woman came over and said she was Mrs. Heeney. She said that some men at the bar had told her I was Gene Tunney.

She called Tom, who was at his apartment, and when he arrived I repeated what Hemingway had told me.

'Yes, Gene,' Heeney said. 'You were a dirty fighter.'

'Tom, I don't understand you,' I said. 'Would it be reasonable for me to try to maim you, and then immediately step back and allow you to recover?'

Heeney had to admit that it wouldn't be at all reasonable. Well, we parted friends, but I don't know even today if that man believed in his heart that I was telling the truth."

(Gene Tunney)

dougm1970

"One afternoon, Jack Dempsey strolled quietly into Stillman's gym on eight avenue and after passing the time of day with several old pals, he walked up on to the balcony while "Two Ton" Tony Galento was going through the motions of working out. Galento was fatter than ever, hopelessly out of condition and quite obviously doing nothing about it.

Anyway, he didn't see Dempsey and continued waddling lazily around the ring, clowning wisecracking and grinning as he fooled with his sparring parthers. After watching a couple of rounds Dempsey came down to ringside. He was wearing a beautifully cut light grey suit, tan and white shoes, and white silk shirt and when Tony caught a sight of him, he waved a glove at the ex champ.

''Hiya Jack" he grinned. ''You look like a million bucks dis afternoon'' Dempsey gave him a mean look, ''never mind how I look, you big bum" he said "lets see you do some work''

Galento must have thought he was joking, because he made no attempt to speed up his work and carried on ambling around until Dempsey blew up. ''Have you a pair of Gloves Ray?" called out Dempsey. Then taking off his coat, he stripped right down to his white silk, monogrammed underpants and vaulted into the ring.

''Now Tony'' he said ''it's you and me. I'II show you how we used to do it'' He began huming a little tune - and old Dempsey mannerism- and then, as Galento backed away, he flashed into action. Jack was 40 years old, but his body was lean and tanned, and for three memorable minutes he was the old Dempsey, the murderous, tearaway Manassa Mauler of the 1920's.

He ripped punches into Galento's podgy torso from all angles, split his lips with a terrific left and sent the blood spurting from his nose. ''Lay Off Jack'' Galento gasped as he staggered backwards vainly trying to cover up. But Dempsey showed him no mercy, he chased after him until time was called.

Still breathing easily Dempsey ducked under the ropes and began to dress, while Galento stood shaking his head in a semi daze and trying to wipe the blood from his face with the back of his gloves.

When dressed, Dempsey gave him one contemptuous look. ''That's how we used to fight!!" "

(Ray Arcel: A Boxing Biography)

dougm1970

"Dressing room No. 26 in the rear of New York's Madison Square Garden is a windowless pit that holds heat like a thermos. Behind its heavy steel door, Room 26 contains nothing but the basic needs for a fighter in training - two low benches pressed against the grim, peeling walls, a small tiled shower, an archaic bronze-colored scale that has lost too many decisions to oxidation, a rubbing table only recently oiled and repadded to disguise its oblique past. Every day for six weeks prior to meeting Joe Giardello for the world middleweight championship, Dick Tiger, the courtly 36-year-old Nigerian challenger, would come to this room and sit on a bench in the 90 degree heat.

......

Right from the first round, Tiger flicked jab after jab at Giardello. From a far corner there even came the sound of an apesi, a Nigerian drum. Played by a friend of Tiger's, it beat constantly, and its message was "keep punchin'." In turn, Giardello's fans from Philadelphia started chanting "Hey, hey, take it away," in the ninth round when Joey seemed to rally, but there was very little that Giardello could do to take anything away. As the fight moved toward the 15th round, his combinations had totally disappeared, his legs looked stiff and Tiger's jab was keeping him from ever getting a chance to throw the big right hand that would knock Tiger out. Giardello was courageous, as he always has been, and he was thoroughly beaten, as he hadn't often been.

......

In his dressing room after the fight Tiger looked like a woodcut print of a boxer, while Giardello, sitting on a table across the arena, lifted his mashed profile and announced, rather proudly, his retirement."

(William Leggett)

dougm1970

The Champion who literally had an iron chin.

Eugene Criqui whose jaw and part of his chin were shattered in WW1 by a snipers bullet. Surgeons rebuilt his face with iron and titanium.
After the war he resumed boxing. He won the French featherweight title in 1921 and the next year won the European Boxing Union featherweight championship. On June 2, 1923, he beat Johnny Kilbane by a sixth-round knockout in New York City to win the world featherweight title.

Had over 100 bouts with a reconstructed iron jaw and chin.

dougm1970

"The toughest fight I ever had was with Richie Mitchell in 1921. I almost lost the title then because of Arnold Rothstein, the gambler. Before the fight, Rothstein asked me whether I thought it would be a tough fight. Four years earlier I had knocked out Mitchell in seven rounds, and I told Rothstein this time I thought I could take him in one. That prospect intrigued him, and he said he could get good odds on a first-round knockout and would put $25,000 on it. He said he would give me a piece of the bet for nothing. Well, Arnie was a good friend and I didn't want to disappoint him. I also wanted to pick up some of that money, so I tore into Mitchell at the opening bell. In less than a minute, I had Mitchell down for a nine count. He got up, but I put him down again for another nine count. With a little more than a minute left, I landed a solid left hook and Mitchell crumpled again. He went down as if he could never make it up before the 10 count, but he made it at eight. I knew one more solid punch and it would be over. It came quickly, but I didn't land it. Out of nowhere, Mitchell dug a solid left to my stomach and all the air went out of me. He followed with a right to the chin and I went down. I didn't know where I was; I was in worse shape than Mitchell had been in. They tell me I got up at seven - it must have been out of instinct - and I held on till the end of the round. I finally knocked him out in the sixth. Rothstein came into the dressing room after the fight and told me he could never get the bet down...."
- Benny Leonard

dougm1970

"Most of the crowd were standing on chairs now, roaring protestor encouragement. A wadded newspaper landed in the ring, then somebody's hat. The referee kept his fascinated gaze on the fighters, like a young lab assistant observing a couple of ferocious insects.

Davis walked across the ring and fired a left hook that landed, according to one reporter, "about a foot above Zivic's knees." Zivic's face screwed up in pain, then settled into righteous indignation as he glanced at Referee Billy Cavanagh. Cavanagh was looking elsewhere.

Davis returned to the attack. Another low blow brought a chorus of boos from the crowd. Zivic backed away, but Davis pursued him, ripping two more left hooks into his groin. Fritzie, his face contorted with pain, hopped stiffly, first on one leg, then on the other. He fired back at Davis, rocking his head and drawing blood again from his mouth. But Bummy, in his passion, was impervious to punishment. He crowded Zivic, hooked him low, shifted his attack to the ribs and then lowered it once more. Only once did Referee Cavanagh warn him to keep his punches up.Davis dug another left into Zivic's groin.

Finally, at 2:34 of the second round,Cavanagh stopped the fight......Or, at least, he tried to. But Bummy was not yet ready. His answer to the referee's restraining gesture was to bounce a left hook off Zivic's skull. Faced with a more orthodox attack now, Zivic quickly solved it by hooking Davis twice in the face, bloodying his nose. Handlers from both corners, as well as a squad of burly special cops, poured through the ropes and tried to drag the berserk Davis to his corner. Bummy, his arms pinioned now, aimed a kick at Zivic, who had plunged into the struggling mob. Missing the intended target area on Fritzie's trunks, the kick instead caught Referee Cavanagh in the thigh. Bummy finally was hauled, spitting and cursing, from the ring.

The fight was awarded to Zivic on a foul. Even while the excited crowd streamed out of the Garden, journalists and politicians prepared to publish their outrage to the world. General Phelan, chairman of the New York State Athletic Commission, called the fight "the most disgraceful thing I ever saw," and banned Davis from boxing in New York state "for life".

Having joined the Army shortly afterward, Davis was granted a pass by his commanding general and a pardon by General Phelan on condition that he fight Zivic again for an Army charity. In a bout notable for its strict adherence to the commission's regulations, Zivic dealt Davis a savage beating and stopped him in the 10th round. But this orthodox defeat did nothing to break Bummy's rebellious spirit.

Some years later Bummy Davis was shot to death as he charged, bare-handed, into an armed gang trying to hold up the store of a friend in Brownsville. He was still trying to get that left hook across when he went down."

(from sports illustrated)

dougm1970

"Before Johnny left for his New York training camp we talked at length about the future and he told me he knew we had not spent enough time together, that it had been one training session after another, but he tried to explain to me that he was finally in the position he had been waiting so many years to reach. He felt that if he won the title he wouldn't have to worry about anything else. He explained that champions get the largest share of the gate receipts and that he wouldn't have to fight as often as he had previously done working to the top.

I flew to New York the day before the fight and registered at the Roosevelt Hotel. Johnny had come in from camp and stayed at the Edison Hotel. Johnny came to see me the afternoon of the fight just after he had left the weighin and, as always, there were three or four fellows with him. He had to go eat his dinner at Jack Dempsey's restaurant at 4 o'clock so we didn't have much time together. As I walked to the elevator with him I took his hand and he flinched. I asked him about it and he told me not to worry. But I couldn't help worrying because I knew Johnny was no complainer.

I could not stand to watch the fight and shortly after the first round I went out to the lobby and walked around. The scene soon resembled a motion picture. One by one all of the people who had been sitting in our section - Johnny had purchased all of the tickets together - came out to the lobby and even Johnny's brothers joined us. His oldest brother passed me as if he didn't recognize me, and when I ran up to him all he said was, "They should stop it. Johnny has been hurt." I thought the fight would never end, and finally, from what seemed like a great distance, I could hear the announcer say: " Kid Gavilan, the winner!"

At the dressing room I learned Johnny was to be taken to the hospital right away. His jaw had been broken a third time and he had a broken bone in his right hand. I will never be convinced that he didn't go into the ring with a broken hand. In spite of his handicaps Johnny finished the full 15 rounds and was never knocked down. Within the next few days he had the wisdom teeth on the right side of his jaw removed, as had been done to the left side just a year before, and went back to the camp where he had trained for the fight. He said he needed time to get himself together and he wanted to be alone where he could think things out clearly and decide what his next move would be.

Johnny stayed at camp for almost two months. I was coming to the point where I felt that our marriage would never work. The baby was a little more than a year old now and he didn't even know his father. We didn't have any place that we could call home. Johnny agreed with me in principle, but he kept repeating one idea - this was no time to become disheartened. He asked for more time to get himself together.

It seemed he was always able to reach that point in fighting where he had only one more fight to win and everything would be all right in his world. Then, at the crucial moment with everything at stake, he could never pull through this last fight.

After a brief visit to Detroit, Johnny went to Chicago and I didn't hear from him again for two months. I tried calling everywhere but to no avail. His mother said she hadn't seen him, and even though I left messages he never returned my calls. He hadn't called even to find out how the baby was.

I got a job in Detroit and was working for about three weeks when one evening the phone rang. "Hi, Jo, what are you doing?" Johnny said casually. I had planned for weeks what I would say to him. Now that the time was here I was at a loss for words. The reason he hadn't gotten in touch with me, he said, was because there was nothing he could tell me. When I told him I was working he became quite disturbed and said he would be in Detroit the next day. The next day when I came home from work his car was parked in front of the house. I tried to be stern and forceful in the things I said to him but deep down inside I could see the change that had come over him and I knew he hadn't been too happy either. Johnny had decided to give fighting another try.

We had become indebted to the IBC to the extent of some $18,000, and Mr. Wallman had sent Johnny money during these months he had been laid off. We also owed the government $36,000 in back income taxes. Johnny explained that he knew no other way to erase these tremendous financial obligations. Mr. Wallman had told Johnny he wanted us to come to New York where he would get an apartment for us and make all the necessary arrangements. He would advance Johnny any money necessary for current living expenses until he could fight again. I wanted to go to New York, or anywhere else where we could all be together.

I came to New York and took a cab to Flushing, Long Island, which was to be our address and home from that first day of October 1951. It was more than I had expected. Johnny came in from camp and finished training at home for his next bout against Wilbur Wilson. It was the first time I had ever been able to cook his meals, go to the gym with him, take care of his clothes and really feel that I was helping him in his career.

At 26, when most men are just reaching the height of their careers, Johnny was an old man in the ring. On November 13, 1953 he was to fight Kid Gavilan again for the welterweight title. This was his second attempt to become world champion, and still the only prayer that I could offer was for him not to get hurt. The day of the fight Johnny seemed weaker than I had seen him in a long time and his face was very thin and drawn. The tension was stronger than I had ever felt it before. Everywhere the fight was advertised and everywhere people were after Johnny for attention. Under the pressure, Johnny did a funny thing. He shadowboxed on the street, something he had never done before.

I left the hotel for the fight a full half hour after it had started and I went in the first church I saw on the way to the stadium. I think it was a Catholic church, though I'm not a Catholic. The fight was still going on when I reached the stadium. I waited near the dressing room. After an eternity I could hear the crowds of people rushing from their seats, and again the announcer's voice reached my ears: "And still welterweight champion of the world, Kid Gavilan."

A crowd gathered at the dressing room door, and photographers began asking me to pose for pictures and popping questions at me from all sides. I saw Kid Gavilan come through and finally caught a glimpse of Johnny being almost carried by his handlers. Johnny's mother came past me, and the officer on the door allowed us to go into the dressing room, which was already so overcrowded with people that it was hard to catch your breath.

Johnny was in a prone position on the table and his face was completely covered by towels. For the first time in my life I heard him cry. I left the dressing room to try to compose myself. When Johnny finally came out he had on dark glasses, but they did not cover the horrible sight of his completely disfigured face. At the hotel the outer room of the suite was filled to capacity with people. When I went into the bedroom I wanted to turn and run but most of all I wished that I would soon awaken from what I hoped was a nightmare.

Johnny's face was indistinguishable. His eyes were so swollen that he couldn't open them at all. I walked up to the bed and he said, "Jo, is that you?" He then reached out his swollen hand to touch me. He wasn't out of his head but he just kept repeating that he couldn't understand what had happened to him. He said that he lost all of his strength in the seventh round. It was difficult for him to talk because he had gotten hit in the Adam's apple and he complained that his throat was very sore.

It was two days before Johnny could open his eyes at all. I came into the room and he said, "Jo, I can see you" - just as a child might have said it. I read him all of the newspapers and telegrams that he had received, and before long his friends started coming by. His parents took me aside and begged me to get him to stop fighting. I tried to explain what had happened before and that I was resigned to the fact that Johnny would not quit until he made the decision himself."

(Joanne Jackson - former wife of Johnny Bratton)

dougm1970

"Mathis actually grabbed referee Al Berl by the shoulders and threw him aside in his desire to get at Chuvalo. Chuvalo had be warned twice about hitting low, after he was warned one more time the referee Al Berl began to move in like he was going to warn him, Buster Mathis took two steps back and tee'd off from around his knees looking to hit as low as he could, and he caught Chuvalo, who never even flinched, it was then that they began to get really mad with each other. Chuvalo at one time used his head like a paint brush across the face of Mathis....this could be one hell of a night..."

and it all happened in the 1st round...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRtG6fSpy9w

dougm1970

The curious case of Joe Louis having to defend his world heavyweight title in a scheduled four-rounder...against Johnny Davis, who sported a record of 3-3-0...

dougm1970

In 1918, Billy Miske was told by his doctor that he had Bright's disease, a kidney related condition, and that he had five years to live, if he was lucky...especially in a sport where punches to those kidneys were likely.
Miske decided to keep the news from his family, only telling his manager, and he continued to box, most notably losing to Jack Dempsey in a third-round knockout in 1920.
Despite that loss to Dempsey, Miske continued to fight and win for the most part, only losing one fight from over twenty between 1921 and 1922, but by 1923 his health was failing and his time was running out.
In November 1923, struggling financially and with a strong desire to give his wife and three kids one last memorable Christmas together, Miske convinced his manager Jack Reddy to get him a fight.

................................

'Jack', said Billy, 'get me a fight.'
'You must be kidding, you're in no condition to fight,' Jack replied.
'Get me a fight anyway!'
Jack shook his head. 'I won't do it.'
'Look, Jack,' pleaded Billy, 'I'm flat broke. I know I haven't long to go, and I want to give Marie and the kids one more happy Christmas before I check out. I won't be around for another. Please get me one more payday. I want to make Christmas this year something Marie and the children will always remember me for.'
'Look,' said Jack, 'you know as well as I do that if you were to fight in your present condition you might be killed.'
'Sure, but I'm a fighter and I'd rather die in the ring than while sitting home in a rocking chair.'
Jack pulled out his wallet. 'Let me help you. How much do you need?'
'No way,' Bill put his hand up like a wall. 'I've never taken a handout and I'm not gonna start now.'
'Here's what I'll do,' Jack said. 'You go to the gym and start working out. If you get into any reasonable kind of shape, we'll talk about getting you a match.'
'You know I can't do that,' Billy replied. 'It's impossible for me to train, but I've got to have one more fight for my family's sake. Please do it for me. Please.'
Jack sighed. 'I'll live to regret this.' He stuffed his wallet back into his pocket. 'Let me see what I can do.'

...............................

His opponent was Bill Brennan, whom he knocked out, taking a $2,400 payday in the process, which he used to make his last Christmas with family unforgettable. Billy bought a piano for his wife Marie, who was an accomplished singer, and piles of gifts for his three children. The next day, Billy called Jack Reddy and asked Jack to take him to the hospital. En route, Billy told Marie for the first time that he was dying.

Miske died on New Year's Day. He was 29 years old.

dougm1970

The former light-heavyweight champion who was paralytic drunk when he entered the ring with Jack Sharkey.
1928. Madison Square Garden, New York.

"In his last big fight he was matched with future heavyweight champion Jack Sharkey. Once again, the possibility of a crack at the heavyweight crown, and a big gate with Tunney, was in the balance. This time Delaney entered the ring flabby, bloated and listless. When the bell rang for the opening round he was unable to move. Apparently intoxicated to the point of virtual paralysis, Delaney stood staring at his corner as Sharkey came across the ring. Sharkey paused momentarily in disbelief, and then knocked Delaney to the canvas. The fight ended with Delaney on his hands and knees, crawling around the ring like a man looking for a lost button, while the referee counted him out. The emotional Sharkey, his mouth piece hanging halfway out of his mouth, clung to the top ring rope crying in joy, as the furious spectators cried fix." - Wikipedia.

dougm1970

"They drew a pistol on us and took the belt back"

"Juan Zurita, he was past due for a defense so they named me as contender and gave me a shot at it. They threatened to take the title away from him.
Since I was a little kid, I had envisioned being lightweight champion. I dreamed about the lightweight title and I finally won it. So I guess when I won it that night I probably leaped about five feet in the air. I knocked him out in the second round. It was a combination, I'll never forget it, it was a right hand to the body and a left on his chin. He went down for the full count.
I was almost killed down there, too, for beating him. The Mexicans, we were almost killed. Then the Mexicans started throwing bricks and things. The cops, our bodyguards, two cops, looked around, they were gone. Connie McCarthy (my manager), he was knocked out with a brick to the head. His head was split open with that brick. That's when the Mexican came up, he said "Gimmie the belt!" I haven't seen the title belt since that night, since April 18th, 1945. I saw the belt for maybe five minutes. I haven't seen it since. Maybe it's down in Mexico City now. The fellow pulled a pistol out. He was going to kill all of us. So I said "Give the man the damn belt!" They took the belt back. They drew a pistol on us and took the belt back. We made it to the dressing room. They followed us to the airport the next morning." - Ike Williams.

dougm1970

"MUMBLING INCOHERENTLY, the shriveled little man shuffled into the charity ward of Chicago State Hospital. The doctors looked at him with a mixture of pity and awe. His eyes were blank and his once muscular 133-pound frame had wasted away to a mere 80 pounds. A brash young attendant said callously: "Huh! Another derelict. We're sure getting a lot of them these days." An elderly attendant shot him a cold look. "Do you know who that 'derelict' is?" he snapped angrily. "That 'derelict' is Battling Nelson, one of the greatest fighters who ever lived."
Old Bat, who had licked immortals like Aurelio Herrera, Young Corbett, Jimmy Britt, Terry McGovern and the incomparable Joe Gans, was 71 years old when he was ruled insane and committed in January of 1954. The psychiatrists' diagnosis had been chillingly brief: "Incurable senile dementia." Nobody will ever know what went on in Nelson's tortured mind as he dribbled away his last days amid alien surroundings. Occasionally a flicker of interest would light up his lustreless eyes and he would try to talk. But the words trickled out in a jumble of meaningless phrases. Those familiar with the ex-champion's spectacular career could pick out place names here and there and link them with some of the famous battles that had earned him riches beyond his dreams. Names like Colma... Goldfield... Point Richmond... But what could they make of such mystifying phrases as electric lights... cracks in the floor... sheets of snow... my seven dollar suit...? It was hard to make any sense of this babbling because Nelson, in his wild hallucinations, was conjuring up the broken images of a past less concerned with his great triumphs than with the vivid fragments of memory that often overshadow the important events in a man's life..."
A month later he was dead of lung cancer at age 71. With 68 wins, 19 draws and 19 losses, Bat once said that although he had "lost several fights," he had never been beaten.

(From: Boxing International, Dec. 1974)

dougm1970

On his pro debut in 1910 future Australian sensation Les Darcy fought Guv'nor Balsa over a scheduled 10 rounds, the fight was scored a draw and it was decided by all parties to box one more round to decide a winner, which Darcy (aged 14) won on points.
This was the only time, to my knowledge, that a professional fight was won on points over 11 rounds.

(photo below shows Darcy at 15 when he worked as an apprentice blacksmith)

dougm1970

When Mick Leahy won the British middleweight title against George Aldridge with a first round ko....Sugar Ray Robinson, Muhammad Ali (then Cassius Clay) and Randy Turpin all jumped into the ring to hug Leahy.

megadodge

Very interesting articles.
I haven't had time to read them all yet, but there's some fairly obscure (but interesting) stuff there.
Thanks.

FTA69

Some amazing and unbelievable stories here mate, thanks for posting and keep them coming.

dougm1970

"Marciano's gloved fists broke blood vessels and bones in LaStarza's arms and elbows. First the arms grew heavy, then they began to ache awfully, then they grew numb. As the relentless battle wore on, LaStarza found it harder and harder to raise his arms, much less jab with them or punch with them. His hands lowered, his defense dissipated, Marciano began to punish him about the head. LaStarza began to take a terrible beating." Bill Libby, "The Story of a Champion", 1971.

dougm1970

Liston came back to his corner after round 2 against Valdes with a nearly closed right eye.
The cornermen were waiting for him with an ice-pack, and hurriedly applied it to the closing right eye in an effort to stop the swelling that was becoming more serious looking by the second.
As the bell sounded for Round 3, Sonny was slow getting out of his corner, and was met by an aggressive Valdes, who rushed at him from across the ring.
In a flash Nino fired a 3-punch volley followed by a stunning left hook that crashed off of Liston's exposed jaw.
Stunned and angered, Liston retaliated with a volley of solid punches that seemed to take everything out of the 34 year-old Nino's legs, as he rocked back on his heels.
Liston then crashed a big left hook on Ninos' jaw.
With a stunned Nino in front of him Sonny fired a solid combination that drove Nino into the ropes where he bounced off into a savage right cross that dropped Nino like a weight.
Valdes, with his right arm dangling over the lower rope strand, was on his knees until the count reached 7 then rolled onto the canvas to be counted out at 0:47 of the round.

dougm1970

"The Gator"...Craig Bodzianowski....in 1990 he fought for a world title belt with one foot...after one of his lower legs was amputated !!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d6wWPEezN2w

dougm1970

91,000 people turned up to watch Jack Dempsey vs Georges Carpentier fight for the heavyweight title in New Jersey in 1921......this is how people many turned up in Times Square, New York to listen to it via radio over loudspeakers...

dougm1970

In his old age and brain damaged state after decades of hard fights, he was locked up in an attic and brutally tortured by his family members for years...he barely got anything to eat for days on end, he had to sleep in his own sewage and he was physically beaten.
When the police came to his daughters house and entered that attic in 1998 after a tip-off, they found Jimmy Bivins, former No.1 contender for the world heavyweight title, wrapped in a blanket covered with urine and feces, he weighed only 110lb, he was near death and he had bed sores, broken bones and bone cancer.

..................................

"When Bivins' third wife, Elizabeth, died in 1995, his life forever
changed. He spent less and less time at the gym. He grew weak and
depressed. And finally he quietly moved into the Collinwood, OH home
of his daughter and son-in-law, Josette and Daryl Banks.

As months passed, Bivins' boxing buddies worried. No one knew where
Bivins was.

In April 1998, Cleveland police found him. They had gone to the Banks'
house to investigate a report of child neglect. They found no child,
but in the attic, they found Bivins.

The former heavyweight had withered to 110 pounds, about 75 pounds
below his fighting weight. He was wrapped in a urine-soaked and
feces-caked blanket that covered his face. At first they thought he
was dead.

But when the officers asked Bivins if he was OK, he politely responded
that he wasn't doing so well. Then he asked the officers how they were
doing.

Police initially charged Josette and Daryl Banks with felonious
assault. Daryl Banks later pleaded guilty to a lesser charge and was
sentenced to eight months in jail. Charges against Josette Banks were
dropped after investigators determined that her husband had made all
decisions regarding Bivins' care.

Many 78-year-olds might not have survived, but Bivins proved to be as
tough as his leathery hands.

He spent most of his remaining years in the Shaker Heights home of his
sister, Maria Bivins Baskin. Slowly, he started showing off the road
map of his scars again, carefully unfurling his boxing stories to the
nurses and visitors who tended him.

In 2009, Baskin died, and Bivins moved into McGregor. The Ohio State
Former Boxers and Associates threw birthday parties for him there.

"It's been quite a life," Bivins told The Plain Dealer. "It's been
quite a life."

According to his family, Bivins outlived his two sons, three sisters
and a step-daughter. He left behind a daughter, Josette Banks; four
grandchildren and many great-grandchildren and
great-great-grandchildren. "

from - cleveland.com/obituaries
..............................

Jimmy Bivins, who died in 2012 at the age of 92, was a boxing great of the 1940s and '50s who defeated some of the greatest fighters of his time.
He never fought for a world title, but in 1942 he was given the unprecedented ranking of No 1 contender in the light heavyweight and heavyweight divisions. He met seven fellow Hall of Famers, beating four, and 11 world champions, defeating eight.
Bivins retired from boxing in 1955 after more than 100 professional fights and was inducted in the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 1999. He won bouts against numerous world champions, including Archie Moore, Ezzard Charles, Gus Lesnevich, Melio Bettina, Anton Christoforidis and Teddy Yarosz. He also went the distance with Joe Louis and fought Jersey Joe Walcott to a split decision.

dougm1970

The story of Del Fontaine, the 1930's middleweight who mixed with the likes of Mickey Walker and Tommy Farr, who was the only boxer to be hanged for murder in England...

dougm1970

june 1958...unbeaten 13-0 prospect 140lb jay fullmer, 21 year old younger brother of former middleweight champ gene fullmer, stepped up in opposition and took on 147lb veteran joe miceli....meceli promptly stopped young fullmer in the 3rd round, knocking him down 3 times.
5 months later jay's older brother got to meet miceli in a ring.....this happened....don't blink at 1.18 here...you'll hear it if you don't see it...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9HuD-s3gfq4

dougm1970

"He was the greatest fighter in the world," Holmes said at his postfight news conference. "He's one hell of an athlete, one hell of a man. Even trying to win a fourth title is one hell of an achievement. He had a two-year layoff and then tried to fight the baddest heavyweight in the world."

dougm1970

A 13 round fight.
Doug DeWitt beat Tony Thornton over 13 rounds in 1987.
The result after 12 rds. was a draw so an extra round was fought to decide the winner...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yVERyfOxMdk


*which also happened when sanderline williams fought ronnie esset the following year

dougm1970

winners and losers - iran barkley once spoke about how after his 1989 fight of the year split decision loss to roberto duran, duran went on to fight sugar ray leonard for a 10 million dollar payday, while he fought micheal nunn for what he said was 6,000 dollars.

dougm1970

1966...former world champion sonny liston, was now living and boxing in sweden, and was preparing for a fight when a new sparring partner was brought in...none other than the lesser-known, lesser-talented younger brother of floyd patterson....ray patterson......ray never did that much as a boxer at world level....but that day, behind closed doors, the younger brother of the man who was beaten twice in one round in world heavyweight title fights by liston, did this...

dougm1970

rocky marciano speaks about joe louis and jersey joe walcott in this personal letter from 1968...

dougm1970

This painting depicts the occasion when Jimmy Wilde outpointed Joe Lynch of America after a battle over 15 rounds. At the end, the Prince of Wales (later Edward VIII) stepped into the ring and congratulated the tiny Welshman on his victory. This was the first time Royalty officially entered the ring and thereby had given their official patronage to boxing, a sport which had been illegal in the days of bare knuckle fighting and was still looking for acceptance.