Glances at Great Pugilists

Some Varied High-Lights of Ring History

JIM TULLY

PUGILISM has intrigued some fine English writers, George Meredith in The Amazing Marriage, Hugh Walpole in Fortitude, Thackeray in Vanity Fair, George Bernard Shaw in Cashel Byron's Profession, George Borrow in Lavengro, and William Hazlitt in his Essays.

Mr. Shaw once made the criticism that one of BulwcrLytton's pugilists—the one in Kenelm Chillingly—was not scientific—that his technique could hardly be recognized by experts. The same could be said of Mr. Shaw's Cashel Byron."The brilliant Irishman says further that his book "is an attempt to take the reader behind the scenes without unfairly confusing professional pugilism with the blackguardly environment which is no more essential to it than to professional cricket, and which is now losing its hold on the pugilist. . . ."

The "blackguardly environment" of which Mr. Shaw writes is still in evidence, and, at the present writing, is not losing its hold on the pugilist. However, it is better regulated in America. I still respect the pugilist more than his parasites. He is made of sterner and stronger stuff.

America has not developed a creative writer on pugilism worthy of the name. Judged bv their work, most writers on pugilism are little above pugilists mentally. And yet they have intellectual contempt for them. To make characters live on the printed page one must have sympathy and understanding. Van Loon, Witwer and Terhune arc not worth mentioning. Jack London is at his worst in talcs of the ring. As a journalist describing a fight he was splendid. He invented the term "cave-man" at the time of the Jeffries-Johnson fight.

The bruiser is held in contempt even by the most uncouth word-bungler on a metropolitan daily. These writers also have an academic scorn for the reality of life.

While the general run of successful pugilists are thugs in tailored suits, there arc many exceptions. Like most survivors of the underworld, the first thing they do, once they-come into the money, is to buy a diamond ring. They next develop a sentimental streak regarding their mothers or their alma maters.

Pugilists acquire a low cunning in much the same way a banker acquires it—by thinking in circles. This, at times, as in the case of Kid McCoy, Kilbane, Packey McFarland, Jack Delaney and many others, is streaked with genius. They have an astonishing sense of humour and an intuitive knowledge of mob psychology.

When Kid McCoy ran amuck with a gun several years ago he went straight to the antique shop owned by his sweetheart's husband. There he found several men. He did not wish them to run away, and being a kind pugilist, he did not wish to shoot them.

So he merely had the gentlemen remove their trousers. He swaggered about the store confident that they would remain. They did.

The danger of a bruiser with a gun was not nearly so great as the danger of facing the conventions outside.

As McCoy said later, "I knew I had 'em."

McCoy is one of the greatest figures in the history of pugilism. His cunning in the ring was tigerish. He has the cruellest mouth I have ever seen. He never asked mercy in the ring. He never gave any. He invented the "cork-screw" punch. His gloved hand twisted as it landed on the body and tore the ligaments loose.

He was a young hobo for five years. A year after he left the road he had an international reputation as a pugilist. Within another year, he came out of the West and cut to pieces at Maspeth, Long Island, the then Middleweight Champion of the World, Tommy Ryan.

Out of the ring, McCoy was very kind. He many times gave his last dollar away. Married eight times, he had three trunks full of newspaper clippings which told of his exploits. They were many. He hobnobbed with John Hays Hammond in Africa, he had a villa at Nice, and now—a cell at San Quentin.

He once said to me, "The only way to forget one broad is to get another one." His system did not seem to work the last time.

John Patrick McFarland, better known as "Packey", has a niche all his own in pugilism. He was a handsome fellow with wavy black hair and black eyes. He came out of the stockyards district in Chicago and never held a championship, and yet was a greater man than any man who held one. He was too heavy for the lightweight limit, which was then one hundred and thirty-three pounds. He was too light for the welterweight limit, which was one hundred and forty-two pounds. As a result, he fought lightweights, welterweights, and sometimes middleweights. He was never defeated. Even after he had been away from the ring several years he fought Mike Gibbons, then the cleverest man in the world with his gloves. He won the decision over Gibbons in fifteen rounds.

He seldom knocked a man out. It seemed to jar on his artistic sensibilities.

When he fought Tommy Kilbane in Buffalo (who is not to be confused with the far greater Johnny) he kept a safe lead at all times. Kilbane, a rushing, vicious moron, crowded McFarland each round. If he happened to get an advantage for a second McFarland would speed up enough, to overcome it. His object was always to keep the decision well in hand. The audience, noting Packey's mastery, demanded that he finish Kilbane. McFarland merely smiled at the rushing youngster who was trying desperately to knock him out. At the end of the ten rounds Packey said in his dressing room . . .

"Well, the kid's Irish and has to get along—so I let him stay."

Kilbane had asked for no such kindness—he would have granted none himself. Kilbane had a world to gain by whipping McFarland. The latter had nothing to gain by whipping Kilbane. So he could afford to be kind. But who knows? Perhaps the wily black-eyedIrishman had another motive.

So supreme a master was he in the ring that opponents were hard to find. He was accused of "carrying" adversaries so that he might fight them again in some other section of the country. In such a case it was to his interest to retain the lead and still allow his opponent to make a good showing. In other words, for financial reasons, the master did not dare show his complete mastery. He fought some men a half dozen times, always defeating them.

Leach Cross, the East Side Jew, once boxed McFarland on St. Patrick's day in New York. Leach should have been delivered from his friends. They teased John Patrick on his way to the ring. He entered it in a mood which boded no good to the Jewish dentist. Leach was taunted, exasperated, and nearly massacred with gloves. Years later I said to Leach—"You fought Packey in the Garden, didn't you?"

"Nope—I was just in there. It was like tryin' to hit a black ghost."

All pugilists feint with their hands. Feinting is a pretense of hitting ... to draw the adversary out. Such methods were too crude for Packey. He would use his eyes instead. They would dart quickly at the spot he did not wish to strike. His adversary, in alarm, would guard that spot. Suddenly McFarland's hands shifted to the opening his eyes had enabled him to make.

McFarland travelled around the world and amassed a fortune. He then married a millionaire's daughter. No sign of the pugilist is upon him. He dresses in excellent taste. Philosophers could learn the mastery of life and circumstance from this genius of the battered brigade, who is now in middle life.

William H. Rothwcll ("Young Corbett"), the conqueror of Terry McGovern, was one of the first pugilists to use psychology in the squared circle. In ring parlance, it is known as "getting the other fellow's goat".

Young Corbett used a definite method in defeating Terrible Terry McGovern. The latter was one of the greatest ring sensations that ever lived. Few men were able to withstand his terrific attack for more than a few rounds. He knocked out Pedlar Palmer, Featherweight Champion of England, in less than a minute. His reputation was really terrifying.

Corbett, a good looking Denver lad, well known in the red light district of his native town as one whom the ladies of easv virtue loved, secured a match with McGovern. It took place at Hartford, Connecticut. The match was considered a "set-up" for McGovern . . . hardly a light workout.

The blond boy met McGovern in a Hartford restaurant the afternoon of the fight. With perfect nonchalance he said to him . . . "Be ready tonight Terry—I'm goin' to tear your can off." He then walked to his own table and ignored the Terrible Terry. This was indeed exasperating ... a cat had not only dared to look at a king ... it had brushed its tail in his eyes.

That night McGovern tore at the blond boy who whispered . . . "Come on you—. You can't lick a stamp—come an' battle." It was said that Corbett made ugly remarks about having seduced certain female members of Terry's family. Terry was a good Christian and highly moral. The blond boy had no such qualms.

When the gong rang for the second round the terrible featherweight champion rushed at Corbett. He was taunted even more than in the first round. After each taunt Corbett drove a yellow sledge into McGovern's anatomy. With blow after blow he paved the way to oblivion for the maniac that was McGovern. Unheralded, unknown, from out of nowhere had come this lad, to become the master of one who was otherwise the master of all the world. It was as if Fate stood on a hill and threw a rusty horseshoe at McGovern. He rushed in madness at the last insult. ... A blow clattered against his jaw and Terry went to Irish pastures rich with rest.

Wise men, among them Sam Harris, now a successful theatrical producer, then McGovern's manager, thought the victory a fluke. The good looking blond returned to Denver with the Championship of the World . . . won in two rounds.

With the courage of the master he gave McGovern a return match quickly. It took place in San Francisco. McGovern was taunted, insulted, and crashed to the floor in eleven rounds.

Even when young Corbett was a shell of his once mighty self, he had a keen mind in the ring. He once fought a younger man on Pioneer's Day, at Cheyenne, Wyoming. Since winning and losing a championship, Young Corbett had "but fed on the roses and lain in the lilies of life." He was hardly able to stand against his stronger antagonist. Legweary and tottering he held his right hand back, and said: "What a hell of a fighter you arc. Here I am ready to drop and you can't put me out . . . you no good-." Maddened by the slur, the younger man dropped his guard for an instant. The right that had slammed McGovern twice now crashed over. It was "curtains" for the younger man. Corbett returned to Denver with the winner's end of the purse.

In the heyday of his career Young Corbett haunted Broadway. It was at this time that he coined a phrase which has since been twisted about and used in many ways ... "I would rather be a lamp-post in New York than the Mayor of Denver." But nevertheless, he now lives in Denver, a shadow of himself, serene in the memory of his belligerent past. Strange, indeed, as a better man once said, are the uses of adversity. Young Corbett matched his brain with the mightiest of human tornadoes—and won. He has not done so well with life.

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Even the most stolid pugilist betrays nervousness on the day of, or directly before a battle. Battling Nelson patted the rope with his gloved hands before the gong rang. James J. Jeffries was sullen for several days preceding a fight. Ketchell laughed and talked even as the gong rang. He felt himself invincible. This feeling, combined with his great ability, carried him far. Kid McCoy was nervous for several rounds, then settled into the coolest of punishing bruisers. Jack Johnson smiled his "golden smile" at all times. Even under the burning sun of Reno in the "battle of a century" against Jim Jeffries, the black ruffian smiled in the faces of thousands who wanted to see him annihilated.

When the phlegmatic Jeffries rose from the canvas in the second round, Johnson asked Jim Corbett, who was in Jeffries' corner . . . "How'd you like that, Misteh Cohbett?" After the second round Jeffries was helpless. The white champion was literally a baby in the hands of his black master. He threw his two hundred and thirty pounds of bone and muscle against the greatest defensive pugilist that ever lived. But Johnson, under the antagonistic eyes of another race, battered and laughed his way to a crown.

Jack Dempsey will not talk on the day of battle. Fretful and high strung —he dashes out of his corner at the first clang of the gong. From then on . . . his record tells the story.

Much has been said about the brutality of the prize ring. Writing as one who has stood before many vicious maulers, I do not remember having been conscious of hurt during a contest.

The jaws rattle, the knees sag, and the body turns red and raw; but I believe that even the most stolid bruiser is keyed up to such a high emotional pitch that he does not feel the punishment at the time.

A knockout, of course, is a curtain that falls before the brain. It is perhaps the most merciful thing that could happen in the ring, but it is deeply injurious to a pugilist's career. He might explain away a lost decision to a promoter . . . but not the knockout.

There have been pugilists who have never suffered a knockout. They are in the minority. Jack Dempsey, the present heavyweight champion, has only one against his record. It was delivered by Jim Flynn, a fighter from Dempsey's native state, Colorado.

Jack at the time was a gangling lad who was none too well nourished, being little above a hobo at the time. Flynn, a great second-rater, known in the vernacular of the ring as a "trial horse" was at the height of his career. Dempsey knocked him out later.

Some pugilists never survive a knockout—that is, it closes their careers. Others, of tougher fibre, will weather through a half dozen, and then go along for years without suffering another one.

There is a certain spot on the jaw which connects with a cord to the brain. I am now using the explanation given by fighters. A blow heavy enough to break the jaw might not connect with what bruisers term "the button" —that turns off the current of consciousness from the brain.

If a man suffers many knockouts on the jaw, it is soon known that he has a "glass jaw". And fighters, like generals, play for the weakest point.

Criqui, the French featherweight who knocked out Johnny Kilbane in New York several years ago and won the World's Championship, had had a glass jaw. He had been knocked out by several light hitters in Europe before the War. A bullet ripped through his jaw. It was repaired with sheepbone by the surgeons. This protected "the button". He became invincible when he took to the ring again. Kilbane, not knowing his weakness had been overcome, rattled terrific blows on the Frenchman's jaw like sledges on a roof—but in vain.

Whether or not pugilists have duller sensibilities than other men has always interested me. Lord Byron was proud of his ability and boxed frequently with Jackson, a famous bruiser of his day. John Keats was far more pugnacious than most boys. Roosevelt had all the qualities of a great pugilist, save that his sight was weak.

Heenan, the great American bareknuckle fighter of the Civil War period, was a man of fine sensibilities. He fought Sayers, the Englishman, two hours and twenty minutes. The result was a draw. This was in 1860. Sayers hit Heenan in the ribs, and the London Times correspondent said that the blow sounded "all over the meadow as if a box had been smashed in." Thackeray saw the fight and reported it for the Cornhill Magazine.

There is only one way to learn the heartbreaking tricks of the ring, and that is by absorbing them. In the language of fighters, one boxes for years and then, "they come to you".

Learning to judge distance is an art. Deadly knockouts are often avoided by an almost imperceptible movement of the head.

Before a high class pugilist strikes, his muscles are taut like a tiger's before springing. When the blow is delivered, the muscles suddenly become flexible, and the blows are thrown with the weight of the fighter's body behind them. That is, when a man like Jack Johnson hit, it was like a black sledge weighing two hundred pounds colliding against his antagonist's anatomy. Well trained pugilists fight carefully at the beginning of a long fight until they get what is known as their "second wind"—the lungs, the heart, the eye and the muscles coordinating. Barring a knockout, they can fight on for sixty or eighty rounds like woundup automatons carrying battle in their hands.

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The lungs ache the next day from the awful strain. The jaws and kidneys are as sensitive as wounds.

A man may, like the Englishman, Bombardier Wells, have all the qualifications of a great pugilist and have a "glass jaw".

As a rule, foreign pugilists never become masters of "in-fighting", which is less spectacular and more deadly than long range fighting.

A blow from Dempsey, travelling six inches "in close" and unperceived by the audience, can knock a man cold. He is such a master of his body that he can "throw" his hundred and ninety pounds that distance. Even in delivering an "uppercut" (an upward blow to the point of the chin) he will stand in close and lift his body with the punch.

Pugilism, in spite of the syndicated preachments of the moralists, and even in spite of its blackguardly environment, is far more popular today than any time in its history. Its parasites nearly drove it from the American scene. Forced to the compromise of honesty through necessity, and through the laws made in different states which regulate boxing and put it in the hands of honest boards, there is no telling to what degree of popular favour it will yet attain.