bits and pieces

meeting marciano


I knocked on the bedroom door and a voice you associate with misty New York dockside rasped: ‘Friend or foe?’

‘Friend, I think.’

Inside there were blue whorls of cigar and cigarette smoke, a small crown of American lounge suits and a plump man in ragged trousers and short padding barefoot and swinging an arm as thick as your thigh.

‘… So I keep coming forward like this, left foot first, and I hit him a shot with the right, and I see his eyes roll up in his head and I give him the left to finish him…’

‘Rocky, you remind me of a skunk…!’ Somebody interrupting. I backed quickly for the door.

The Rock’s eyes widened below the stitch mark – one eye took thirteen stitches, seeing him through just one million dollar world title defence: ‘A skunk?’

‘The way you fought, Rocky, like a skunk with a farm dog and the dog keeps backing away because he knows what a punch that skunk packs in his tail!’

‘Right! Joe Louis couldn’t take my shot to the head – not even high on the head. I got to him with one high on the head and I see his eyes go “Great to meet ya!”’ The Rock comes for me. ‘Have a cup of coffee! You’re welcome!’ The Rock opens his fist and there’s a cup and saucer hidden in it.

The honesty in the round, hearty face is humiliating. I told the Rock we’re talking of banning boxing in Britain.

‘Right! Well, it’s got to come! It’s got to – in fifty, twenty-five years’ time – no, less than that – it’s got to come; as people get more civilized, they’re going to ban boxing.’

‘Rocco, my baby!’ A man lying full-length on a divan barks: ‘Whaddya sayin’…!’

‘I tell you it’s got to. They will outlaw boxing. A hundred years from now we’ll be like the gladiators, something out of history.’ The sad, gentle eyes. ‘There won’t be any boxers any more – aw, boxing’s just got to go. Less than twenty-five years, ten years or less than that maybe. In America they let fighters go on till one of them’s half-dead – Joe Louis couldn’t take a shot to the head any more.’

‘He couldn’t take one on the button, Rocky!’

‘He couldn’t take a punch anywhere on the head any more. Even high on the head. People say to me, “Rocky, you made me scream watching you fight, you looked like you’re going to get killed the way you keep coming forward taking all those punches on the chin…”’ The Rock shakes his head amusedly. ‘But I never did.’

He tucks the bristling chin into the protective shoulders. ‘I always had my chin down here. I never used to take any punches on the chin. Nobody can take punches on the chin.

‘Rocky, baby…’

‘Only time I left myself wide open was when they put wintergreen in my water bucket to try and stop me winning the world championship and my eyes stung so I had to lift my chin just to see and Walcott nailed me on the chin and nearly knocked me out.’

‘Crooks! Wintergreen they put in his water bucket!’

‘Talk about divine justice. The officials handling me in that fight, awhile after they all dropped dead.’ The Rock massaged his chin quickly.

Are there punch-drunk boxers in America? ‘Not many. Ezzard Charles. Oh, he’s banged up, oh God yes he is. After he met me.

‘Rocco, baby! He is not! Charles is not.’

‘Aw, yes. Aw, terrible, yes. He is.’ The Rock demonstrates with a press picture showing his victim’s face like a chocolate marshmallow crushed between the Rock’s fists.

‘Think! What kind of money Cassius Clay versus Rocky would take now! Rocky could take Clay right now!’

There is a famous story of the Rock’s pugilistic encounter in a wartime brawl in a British pub. ‘Right! That’s true. But if I get in trouble like that now I have to back away. Talk my way out of it. I have to … I never like to see people hurt. I was an old man when I won the world title – I was twenty-eight. That’s why Patterson can’t beat Clay! He’s an old man. He’s twenty-seven.’

The Rock’s finger’s play constantly with the poke of his English ratting cap on his head. Going bald has hurt the Rock more than anything could do in the ring. He wears the cap even indoors and, for public appearances, a well-made American hair-piece.

‘Over here in Britain boxing is so civilized anyway. They’d never let me become heavyweight champion of England – I bleed too easy. Sure there are fights that not quite right. But not the world heavy championship. There’s too many people like Norman Mailer – like you – watching us all the time.’

The eyes soften. ‘I don’t even go to the fights any more. Don’t like to see people getting hurt. I’m a bad fight referee even.’ The Rock admits it sadly. ‘I spoil the fights. Soon as one of the fellers starts bleeding a little even, I stop the fight. The crowd don’t like it. You hear the crowd yelling. Screaming. Go on! Let ‘em fight! Beat him to death, go on! That’s the really brutal part of the boxing. The crowd.

Outside I met a sports writer. ‘You saw Marciano – what’s he like? More animal than man, I suppose?’ "

(John Summers - 1965)

https://www.facebook.com/classicboxingsociety/posts/529596997185318

 

'Young Joe Walcott'


"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)

 

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)

 

21st September 1948

Lee Oma vs Bruce Woodc0ck - Haringey Stadium, London.

In New York they thought Oma should win, but they'd had the word and bet Wood****. 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. Wood**** 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 *******jack 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)


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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 *** 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."

 

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)

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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)

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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.'

this photo shows the ear damage during the fight, although not the clearest photo...

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"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.)

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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."

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D1ck Madden, young Boston heavyweight, shared Max Baer's mood for good, clean fun last night and they put on one of the most amusing travestries a Boston boxing crowd ever witnessed.

The heavyweight champion was wearing his motion picture ring costume and was eager to provide comedy. His hilarious antics had the over-flow crowd of 4,000 in hysterics all through the four round skit.

Max reeled and slipped, walked bow-legged and acted punch drunk from Madden's futile efforts to hit him. In the second round Madden became a bit serious but he desisted when Max rapped him on the jaw a few times and reminded him he was forgetting his lines.

The champion got a great kick out of his performance but his 239-pound brother Jacob, known as 'Buddy', ran into an unexpected setback. In a four round bout with the veteran Babe Hunt of Ponca City, Oklahoma., Young Baer was soundly drubbed.

(The Miami News - Jan 11, 1935)

*This was one of five exhibition bouts that Baer had in January 1935

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15th Nov 1940.

"In New York's most riotous ring brawl in years, young Al (Bummy) Davis was disqualified for repeated fouling tonight in the 2nd round of his scheduled 10 round non-title bout with welterweight champion Fritzie Zivic. In the opening session, Zivic battered the floundering Davis about the ring and hit him so hard with a right to the chin that Davis half sank to the canvas, supporting himself on his gloves, with one knee also touching the canvas. Davis was up without a count. In the 2nd round, referee Billy Cavanaugh warned Davis at least four times that he would DQ him if he continued fouling. But Al kept pegging away with his steaming left hook at the champiuon's groin. The fans were screaming, "Foul, foul. Throw him out." And that's what Cavanaugh finally did at 2:34 of the turbulent 2nd round. When Cavanaugh pulled the gladiators apart and motioned Davis to his corner, Davis became almost insane with rage. He tore after Zivic, despite the referee's warding arms, with Zivic desperately trying to fight back. Zivic's manager Luke Carney, joined the fray, then two uniformed policemen leaped into the ring, as newspapers, magazines, and peanut bags showered into the ring." -United Press

"That Zivic is a quittin' bum, he gave me the works and then deliberately stepped into my body punches to make them appear foul. I hit him in the belly and he quit." -Al (Bummy) Davis

"The first two low blows didn't hurt much because my protector caught them. But the third was an uppercut that hurt terribly. I tried to fight back but about every third punch was down in my groin. I was almost paralyzed." -Fritzie Zivic

"I can't talk about rules now because Davis threw them all out the window. We won't need Al Davis anymore in New York. You can say for me that Davis will be barred from NY state for life, and I mean it." -Bill Brown, Commissioner of the NYSAC.


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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 s**** 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)


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