In this corner...

PAUL W. GALLICO

Some possible claimants to the title of the world's heavyweight champion now held by Mr. Schmeling

Fair is foul and foul is fair. . . . Macbeth.

The return to circulation of the heavyweight prize-fighting championship of the world from whence it was withdrawn two years ago by James Joseph Tunney, comes as a great relief to that strange group of amateur and professional connivers consisting of what the late Tex Rickard used to call—"socially refined and wealthy millionaires," gangsters, racketeers and ward heelers. The championship is one of the great sporting and political plums of the generation and it is sinful not to have it around earning increment. It is a fine thing for sport to have it back although the manner of its return is greatly deplored in all circles.

The title is now the exclusive property of Maximilian Siegfried Adolph Otto Schmeling, of his manager, his manager's manager, his friends, his connections and the political party that was in office at the time of the transfer. The first German ever to hold the championship, Schmeling was considerably aided in its acquisition by a division of the human body at the waistline, established by nature and recognized and popularized by the Marquis of Queensberry. In his day the Marquis had always declared that it was fair game to strike in the upper portions, but strike him a delicate shade of magenta if it was cricket to hit a man below the belt!

In the finals of the heavyweight elimination contests, Jack Sharkey, American contender, during the fourth round, fetched the German contender a perfect beauty about three points north of the patella and terminated the evening. Amidst the hysterical shrieks of Schmeling's manager, the supine hero was declared heavyweight champion of the world since there was nothing else to do about it.

Inasmuch as the quarter-final and semifinal bouts necessary for the restoration of the championship both ended in fouls or claims of foul, the question of heavyweight superiority has been left rather in abeyance, but the campaign has had considerable sociological importance by aiding and abetting the growing freedom of speech between the sexes. The technical and anatomical discussions I have heard from departing customers and their escorts at various ringsides have, been unique, interesting and sometimes inspiring.

However, having worked felicitously and harmoniously for two years to create a new heavyweight champion, the interests known affectionately to the trade as "the boys" can see very little to gain in allowing a German to have the championship with the social prestige, revenue and patronage that go with it. Thus the plotting already goes merrily forward to take the title away from Schmeling, this being the inevitable cycle of the fight business. You build 'em up and then you knock 'em down. The instruments for the eventual attainment of this praiseworthy and understandable ambition are at present but seven in number. They are Jack Sharkey of Boston; Philip Shuffling Scott of London; Vittorio Mario Campolo of Buenos Ayres; Primo Camera of Venice; Tuffy Griffith, Sioux City, Iowa; Otto Von Porat of Norway, and Ernie Schaaf of Elizabeth, N. J.

In view of what seems to be the modern method of waging prize-fights no survey of contenders may be made without a consideration of their ability to weather a left hook to the kneecap or a rousing kick in the shins. This should automatically eliminate from further consideration the pretences of Phil Scott, the London fireman who is one of the master boxers of the day but unfortunately cannot fight a lick. In addition, he has on many occasions demonstrated that he is unable to take his fouls or leave them alone, and the one time where it really counted, when he was Sharkey's victim, in Miami, his attendants were not sufficiently quick-witted to steal the decision for him while he lay in his swoon.

The weakest sister of the entire group of pretenders, Scott votes the straight Tammany ticket and thus may be seen once again going into his faint on the canvases of the better local abattoirs. Should this timid Englishman be elected to demonstrate one or two of his collapses with Herr Schmeling next June you need only know that he has one of the best left hands in the game, the aggressiveness of a chocolate marshmallow and an attack in which he advances rapidly backwards. The aspirant will more than likely be one of the following—

Jack Sharkey—born Josef Cukauskas.

Even his best friends know by this time that he is not destined, even as was the sailor whose last name he adopted (Tom Sharkey), to become heavyweight champion of the world. Technically he is the best equipped heavyweight fighter of our time, the protests of James J. Corbett to the contrary. Mentally and temperamentally, Sharkey falls below the standard of his physical capabilities. He lacks that fraction of control of temper and punches which would make him champion. He has mastered every blow in the catalogue with the exception of the left counter to the body which he sends in low. He is convinced, that Fate is against him. He has been in the game too long to harbor any illusions or to have any further ambitions. His position as pater familias militates against the dashing and reckless abandon needed in the ring. If he meets Schmeling again he will surely lose. Vittorio Mario Campolo—A gigantic fellow from the Argentine, standing six feet six, who is incredibly ugly, is alleged to have been a gaucho but this may have been a typographical error on the part of his press agent. I suspect that gauche was the original word. Crude, strong, game, a heavy right hand hitter, he is nevertheless colorless, lacks fighting temperament and goes into the Grand Banks when tapped on the lug, which is how the boys at the Madison Square Garden describe his reaction to concussion. He has a unique if vulgar strategy by which he turns his head away from his opponent during the heat of battle to expectorate. The opponent notices this and makes up his mind to fetch him one the next time he does it. When he tries it, Vittorio Mario turns suddenly and lets fly a right hand with his whole family riding on it. It is doubtful whether this simple strategem will suffice to carry him through to the world title.

Primo Camera—is probably the most menacing and hideous figure that ever climbed through the ropes. He is six-feet seven inches tall, weighs 265 pounds of bone and muscle. His American rights are owned and operated by a night club entrepreneur, advised and assisted by a select coterie of fascinating characters who are well versed in the lore of the dive, the fix, the plunge and the Barney, including also that sterling and misunderstood character, Mr. Abraham Attell, confessed handyman to the fixing of the 1919 world series. He was recently convicted of participating in a fake fight in California, when a Senegambian, engaged to keel over from a ferocious push on the elbow, suddenly decided to play it straight, heeding neither the lure of the money nor the gentle persuasion of the shooting pistol sometimes exhibited in such emergencies.

Although he is barred by most boxing commissions the giant Italian is nevertheless one of the most dangerous fighters in the ring. He moves sinuously and inevitably, it is impossible to elude him or to clinch with him, and he punches like a pile-driver. He uses a right uppercut that drives his opponent's teeth up through the top of his head. Whether it's on the level or whether Camera is pushing some stuffed shirt into the tank, it gives one the creeps to watch him. Owner of the world's largest varicose veins, he is a trifle weak in the center and is liable to scream for help when pegged in the body. He has the neck and shoulders of the Piltdown Man, a big gummy mouth and a nightmare leer. Attendance at any performance of his is as good as a night at the Grand Guignol. If matched for the heavyweight title, he will bring back the million dollar gate.

Tuffy Griffith—is Chicago's entry. He is a lively, rushing young fighter who boxes with a queer, petulant expression on his pan. He has the largest and most inviting jaw in the racket and gets it clouted every so often by some local clown elected to serve as a set-up for a little ham and bean money, and falls down for ten seconds or more. Upon being revived he announces that he is not discouraged by this unfortunate accident, and that the next time out he will lick someone like Paulino or Johnny Risko. He features a rushing attack, speed, with both hands hooking, patterned after Dempsey. Not patterned after Dempsey is his chin.

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William L. (Young) Stribling—exacrobat, prizefighter, aviator and family man. Injected into the heavyweight picture once more when he recently subdued lantern-jawed Otto von Porat of Chicago in one round. Von Porat, a pretty good fighter, will eventually achieve immortality through Gene Fowler's imperishable couplet—"O Otto von Porat, O where is the floor at?" Stribling is as notorious an in-and-outer as Sharkey. He has the nerve to rattle a flying machine around in the upper ether in a violent manner but curls up in the ring. He has a left hand lash like a striking rattler, speed, experience, punch and color. Why he will never be heavyweight champion is one of those ring mysteries, but the fact remains—he won't be.

Ernie Schaaf—is a young ex-gob and model for the Muldoon-Tunney heavyweight championship trophy—that bronze statue you trip over in the lobby of Madison Square Garden. He is included among the list of possible candidates, because recently some of the Best People have Taken An Interest in him. A strong, two fisted aggressive young fellow, he is a product of the amateurs from which class he was excused when his varlets were discovered one evening packing his bandages with scrap iron, parts of old Ford automobiles and bric-a-brac. But it was done, as was later explained, in a spirit of true humanitarianism with a view to not prolonging the agony of his opponents, so the matter was not held against him.

No African has been included in this list, not as is popularly supposed because there is danger of race rioting, but because I know that the thought of a negro making so much money is repulsive to the fight promoters who invented and keep sacred the gigantic hocus-pocus known as the heavyweight championship and sets them to tossing fitfully in their beds at night unable to enjoy rest and repose.

As for young Max Schmeling, the new champion, if I told you how good he was you wouldn't believe me anyway and like as not I will be accused of being pro-German in sympathies. He is as intelligent as Gene Tunney and has a better business sense than Luis Firpo had, and Looie is considering sending the first dollar he made in the United States to the treasury in exchange for a new one because the numbers are pretty nigh worn off from carrying it around. Schmeling has every attribute of a champion—speed, condition, brain, punch and ambition including as well an extraordinarily astute little West Side Hebrew named Jacobs as his manager. This is an important point and should not be overlooked in placing any small wagers. A manager is about three-quarters of a champion. In the case of Herr Schmeling's strange acquisition of the title, Yacobs—as he calls him—was just about one hundred per cent. In fact there are some people who claim that Joe Jacobs and not Max Schmeling is the heavyweight champion of the world but Joe modestly puts aside such complete honors. He has the typical manager's aversion to punches, and when he says—"We will fight anybody in the world next June," he wants it distinctly understood that he means Herr Schmeling.