Stephen Singer, a collector of all things Muhammad Ali, had sought out to collect the signatures of every man Ali fought in his 21-year professional career. After all, many became famous for fighting Ali. Chuck Wepner's 1975 effort spawned the billion dollar Rocky franchise. Joe Frazier's 1971 victory cinched his place in heavyweight history. Great Britain's own Henry Cooper became a knight of the British empire and his legend lives on long after him for what he did against a 21-year-old Clay in London, England. Enlisting the services of a "professional autograph collector," the first 35 signatures came easy. As the pro's well ran dry, Singer set out to find the rest on his own. Searching over the course of months, Singer went from gym to gym, seedy neighborhood to seedy neighborhood in his quest. He located a notarized letter from a fighter turned Mafia hit man. A rabbi acted as a middle man in a small Argentine town for the passport of a fighter who'd been dead since 1964. He was No. 49. Bit by bit, the puzzle came together as Singer counted his autographs. He counted 49. Only one remained. One February night in 1961, just a few weeks removed from celebrating his 19th birthday with a 3rd-round stoppage over gangster Tony Esperti -- who later did time for a mob hit -- Clay was scheduled for his fourth fight. The scheduled opponent had fallen through. Jimmy Robinson, a last-minute replacement from Miami, found himself with the assignment to pad Clay's record. He lasted a mere 94 seconds in what turned out to be Ali's only 1st-round KO, sans the Sonny Liston dive. "If promoter Chris Dundee had canvassed the women in the audience, he couldn't have found an easier opponent for Clay," The Miami Times wrote. Robinson, known as "Sweet Jimmy" went on to carve a niche as a local "enhancement talent," a jobber - a guy paid to lose. He retired in 1964 with an 8-24 record, coming out of retirement in '68 to lose once more. There's been only one sighting since then. In 1979, a photographer shooting pictures for Sports Illustrated went to find Ali's earliest opponents. Michael Brennan located Jim Robinson, whom people down in Miami called "Sweet Jimmy." Most of what's known about his life comes from the brief blurb that ran with the photos. He lived off veteran's benefits. He claimed he was born around 1925. He claimed he was wrongfully convicted of armed robbery. Most days, he just hung out in the seedy Overtown neighborhood, at the pool hall owned by Miami concert promoter Clyde Killens. The photos show a haunted man. His jaw juts out, like he's lost teeth. His eyebrows are bushy; once, they probably seemed delicate. A visor throws a shadow across his eyes. A deep scar runs along his left cheekbone. In one, he leans up against the wall of a Winn-Dixie. In another, he walks down railroad tracks, the skyline of Miami rising behind him. He never smiles. Brennan shot the photos on a Friday night and Saturday morning. Sweet Jimmy smelled of booze and Camel cigarettes. Brennan remembers the last time he saw him. It was in the morning, on the railroad tracks, and he slipped the old fighter 20 bucks. Sweet Jimmy turned and walked off, negotiating the crossties. He never looked back. "Tell Clay I ain't doing too good," he said. ............................................... Some other Ali opponents... Tunney Hunsaker, the first opponent, spent nine days in a coma after a bout. Trevor Berbick, the final opponent, was beat to death with a steel pipe. Herb Siler went to prison for shooting his girlfriend. Tony Esperti went to prison for a Mafia hit in a Miami Beach nightclub. Alfredo Evangelista went to prison in Spain. Alejandro Lavorante died from injuries sustained in the ring. Sonny Banks did, too. Jerry Quarry died broke, his mind scrambled from dementia pugilistica. Jimmy Ellis suffered from it, too. Rudi Lubbers turned into a drunk and joined a carnival. Buster Mathis blew up to 550 pounds and died of a heart attack at 52. George Chuvalo lost three sons to heroin overdoses; his wife killed herself after the second son's death. Oscar Bonavena was shot through the heart with a high-powered rifle outside a Reno *****house. Cleveland Williams was killed in a hit-and-run. Zora Folley died mysteriously in a motel swimming pool. Sonny Liston died of a drug overdose in Las Vegas. Many still believe the Mafia killed him. (by Wright Thompson) http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qmbnG-S1XaI/U_Mmrc0WoWI/AAAAAAAAA0U/gTW6YoGfEYw/s1600/sweet+jimmy.jpg
henry armstrong, 66 years old...mugged by two men in st louis.. http://img.tapatalk.com/d/14/08/20/utazyte2.jpg
Jake LaMotta v Rocky Graziano...June 1950.....nearly... http://scontent-b-ams.xx.fbcdn.net/...326_492053437606341_7430114318638265103_o.jpg
"One day at Stillman's Gym, Charley Goldman, who trained Rocky Marciano (shortly to become world heavyweight champion), approached a young, then-middleweight, yet to turn pro, Floyd Patterson and asked if he could go a few rounds with a new fighter Goldman was working with, Tommy Harrison. Patterson wasn't so sure he was ready for that. Harrison was one of Marciano's regular sparring partners, and he was taller and heavier than Patterson. And he was fast, nearly as fast as Floyd himself. Patterson told Goldman to ask Cus D'Amato, who was cautiously bringing Floyd along, not rushing him to spar fighters substantially better than he. D'Amato, to Patterson's surprise, gave the OK. Early in the first round, Harrison unloaded twelve unanswered jabs, most landing in spite of Patterson's bobbing and weaving. Those blows hurt Floyd, even though Harrison wore padded sparring gloves. In all his amateur career, even fighting for the championships of the AAU and the Olympics, Floyd never encountered punches as hard as these. It was a brutal introduction to just what Floyd could expect as a pro. The eyes of the Stillman's cognoscenti locked onto Patterson as he took those heavy shots. Would the kid collapse? Patterson knew he had to do something. He timed Harrison's next big jab. When it arrived, Patterson threw a stiff right cross above it, tagging Harrison in the face. The experienced pro staggered. After that, Floyd pursued Harrison, firing combinations that Harrison struggled to ward off. The men in the folding chairs nodded their approval, happy with how Floyd had overcome adversity, transforming it into an advantage. A buzz began to spread around New York about D'Amato's up-and-comer, a kid who someday soon just might be good enough to put in the ring with the likes of Sugar Ray Robinson. There were plenty of questions about his manager, however, the most eccentric man in the New York fight community. He was a weirdo, someone who read too many books, someone who believed in flying saucers and welcomed visitors from another planet, someone who never smoked or drank - the latter all but unheard of in the world of professional boxing. And there was more. For reasons no one could quite understand, D'Amato refused to play ball with the men who ran professional boxing. It seemed as if he bore a vendetta against something, but just what that something was left boxing insiders scratching their heads. It also seemed as if he were preparing for a war of some kind. He lived in his gym, sleeping in a small room to the left of the boxing ring, a baseball bat within easy reach, a gun or two hidden away, his fierce dog curled up on the floor next to him. He never rode subways, fearing enemies could push him onto the tracks as he waited for a train. But he was plotting to become the most powerful force in professional boxing." (by W.K. Stratton) .............................. *A couple of years later in 1954, 15 fights into his professional career, and now weighing 169lbs, Patterson TKO'd Tommy Harrison in 89 seconds of the first round of their fight in Brooklyn. The fight report is testament to Patterson's nature as a boxer - "Patterson staggered Harrison against the ropes, floored him with a clean flurry for "four" and the mandatory eight-count, and floored him a second time with a left-right combination to the head that sent Harrison down flat on his back. Harrison barely made the count of ten. But he lurched helplessly around the ring with his arms down. Referee Conn appeared contented to let the bout continue but Patterson refused to attack and implored him to step in."
"My problem with Leon Spinks arose in 1980 at a dinner in Las Vegas honoring Joe Louis. At that time, Louis, in failing health, was confined to a wheelchair. The end, it was plain, was near. I was one of many champions seated at the dais while Diane* was at a table up near the front. Spinks, it turned out, was at the same table. He was loud and obnoxious, and bothering Diane. I had one of my guys go over to him and tell him to cool it. That's when a ruckus started, with Spinks and my people pushing and shoving and shouting. I hurried over and found Spinks and Diane pulling on a small, gold souvenir boxing glove that was at the center of the table. Leon had been taking them from the various tables and throwing them around. Diane had told him not to take the one on her table, but he had ignored her and grabbed it at the same time she did. When I got there, I told him let go or I'd knock him on his butt. He let loose with a stream of profanity, and when I pushed him his bodyguard tried to get at me. His bodyguard was a muscular guy with a Mohawk haircut and a lot of attitude. Nobody knew him back then, but in time he would surpass Spinks as a celebrity, becoming an actor going by the name of Mr. T. I'd have whupped Mr. T and Spinks right where they stood except for the importance of the occasion, to honor Joe Louis. I didn't want to muddy that with violence, so when Spinks let go of the souvenir and both he and Mr. T relaxed their threatening postures, I backed off. But I marked Spinks for a good buttwhupping, deciding right there I'd try to get him in the ring as soon as I could. Get him in the ring and beat him bad. Hurt him - that was what I had in my mind when the bell rang in Joe Louis Arena for me versus Spinks. I didn't have to go looking for Spinks. He was charging at me, bobbing and weaving like a disco dancer in a frenzy, trying to get inside my longer reach. But he was also firing away, like some damn kamikaze in boxing shorts. Some of his shots hurt, but I took them because what I was laying on him was even better. Still, he kept coming. There was a lot of fight in him. By the third round, though, he seemed to be slowing. And I wasn't. I nailed him on the jaw with a right hand. Spinks dropped slowly to the canvas, fell facedown on the lower strand, and rolled over onto the canvas, landing on his back. He was on his feet at the count of nine. The referee, Richard Steele, asked him if he was okay. Spinks nodded and came toward me. I hit him with one right hand after another, and he took the punches. That's when I suddenly began to feel sorry for Spinks in spite of the way he had insulted Diane. I stepped back from Spinks and yelled at Steele: 'Stop the goddamned fight. You want me to kill this man?' But he didn't stop it. It didn't get stopped until Leon's brother, Michael - who would fight Eddie Mustafa Muhammad the following month for the WBA light heavyweight title - came charging up the steps yelling at Steele while another guy in Leon's corner threw a white towel into the ring. Steele would tell reporters afterward that he never saw the towel - he was going to stop it then and there on his own. Whatever. The fight was over. The rage was gone from me by then, and I was feeling pity for Leon Spinks and regret for the malice I'd had for him." (Larry Holmes) *Diane - Larry Holme's wife.
I normally like to quote @klompton first and foremost when it comes to greb...but this passage comes from bill paxtons book.. An epic comeback by Harry Greb in his 1923 fight with Soldier Jones. .......... The first round began with Greb forcing the fight while Jones 'missed with lefts and rights.' Greb hooked lefts and rights to the body and face while Jones continued to miss. According to the Pittsburgh Post, 'Both were swinging wild and Jones sent a left to the chin, which backed Greb up to the ropes. Jones hooked a left to the head and Greb went down.' It was just one minute into the first round. Being blind in his right eye, he probably didn't even see the left punch coming. While he was being counted out, Greb 'lolled and rolled about on the lower ropes.' While the count continued Greb was able to 'regain his feet after a count of eight and wobble about like a drunken man.' Jones continued his attack 'and another right caught Greb's chin.' Greb went down again, this time holding on to Jones's legs. Referee Joe Keally had counted to four when Greb finally staggered to his feet. Greb went in for a clinch to try to clear his head. While Greb was still 'groggy' Jones landed two more left hooks. Mason called for Greb from a corner since he was 'staggering and did not know which corner to go to.' In between rounds Greb sat 'limp' on his chair while Mason tried to revive him. 'Mason worked frantically but wisely over him, rubbed his tired legs back into life, massaged his ears and brought color back into his pale face.' Greb came out at the start of the second round still blinking, tired and groggy, but slowly recovering due to the help of his manager. After a minute of the round Greb had seemingly recovered, and it looked like he would survive. Then Jones landed two more left hooks to the head which rocked Greb again. Greb went in for a clinch then later landed a left and right of his own. These punches were able to delay Jones's attack until the bell rang to end the round. When in his corner Greb was silent, but then halfway through the rest time he began to 'straighten up in his chair and began talking to Mason.' When the third round started the crowd was 'standing on chairs, yelling and howling for Greb.' This seemed to refresh Greb, who then 'began moving, swinging, jabbing, hooking and throwing with both hands.' With one of the best chins in boxing history, Greb had shaken off the cobwebs and finally recovered. Throughout the third round his energy continued to replenish itself with Greb throwing 'right and left overhand punches to Jones' head and face.' Near the end of the third round Greb threw a punch that caused a 'gaping cut' over Jones's right eye. The third round was awarded to Greb. By round four Greb was not only fully recovered but was dominating Jones. He was even able to stagger Jones with a right to the chin. The Post wrote: 'Greb was battering Jones to all sides of the ring at the bell. It was a terrific round and Greb had a big margin, sending Jones to his corner with his right eye closed.' Now, unbeknown to most people, both boxers were fighting with only one eye. For the rest of the fight Greb proceeded to punish Jones so badly it was described as 'a slaughter.' Greb landed twenty unanswered punches in the fifth round, and by the sixth round 'Jones was wobbling around. It was another round for Greb and Jones seemed more tired even than Greb was in the first two rounds.' By the seventh Jones was 'leg weary' and only managed to land two blows. Greb was back to his normal self and was completely dominating his opponent, who was staggering around groggily. At the end of the round the referee had to ask Jones if he wanted to continue. In round eight 'Greb hooked a hard right to Jones' chin and Jones went down for the count of nine, Jones arose and seemed helpless as Greb pounded.' Jones continued to stagger around at the start of round nine. During the round Greb punished Jones severely, 'which made the soldier's face a mass of blood.' Jones had one eye closed while blood flowed from his nose and mouth. The tenth round was much the same. When the fight ended Greb had lost the first two rounds but won the remaining eight in a very one-sided finish. It was said to be one of the biggest massacres Greb had dished out. A headline in the Post the next day read, 'Pittsburgh's great boxer displays wonderful gameness and recuperative powers. Tears into Soldier Jones, earning verdict by taking last eight rounds.' (by Bill Paxton) http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xjSwWv_Kn...1I/Fyp8WiMG7fA/s1600/greb+v+soldier+jones.jpg
On May 31st 1938, at Madison Square Garden, New York, Henry Armstrong fought Barney Ross, a slick boxer, for the welterweight championship. Armstrong dominated the fight. The first three rounds were even but by the fourth, Armstrong style wore on the champion. The fight became a massacre, as Ross' face was a bloody mess. Ross' corner wanted to stop the fight but Ross beseeched them to allow him to continue. The referee Arthur Donovan went to Ross' corner but Ross pleaded with the third man in the ring. Ross, who had never been stopped, was determined to finish on his feet. Armstrong, respecting his rival, carried Ross for the last three rounds of the fight. 'How are you feeling?' Armstrong asked Ross in the 13th. Ross barely replied, 'I'm dead.' Ross leaned on Armstrong and Armstrong told Ross, 'Just shoot your left but if you shoot your right, you're dead!' Armstrong allowed Ross to finish his last fight on his feet.
"Evidence in the case of Eligio Sardi'as vs Judah Bergman to be given Thursday night into the hands of a jury of some 25,000 fight fans and a referee at the Polo Grounds. Eligio, better known as "Kid Chocolate", the dazzling Cuban, will attempt to prove he can give away ten pounds and still whip Bergman, otherwise known as Jeck 'Kid' Berg, a jewish boy from the Whitechapel area of London and one of the best and busiest of the lightweights. If the jury has any preconceived opinion it is that Chocolate can't do it. The odds for their ten-round tilt stand at 6 to 5 on Berg. Never beaten in 67 professional or amateur bouts, Chocolate has flashed sensationally in two years of American campaigning. He is considered the uncrowned featherweight champion, a natural 126 pounder, an ebony marvel of boxing ability and speed afoot, and a puncher besides. He has been held only once to a draw, and holds a decision over Al Singer, the present lightweight champion, as a result of an open-air duel here last summer. He is considered unbeatable at his own weight. But in Berg the Cuban licorice stick is tackling a rough and rugged lightweight who has beaten back the best of the 135 pounders and was considered a more logical contender for the lightweight title held by Sammy Mandell than Al Singer, who finally cornered the crown holder and knocked him out in a round. Berg and Singer have never met but the Whitechapel hebrew has whipped an imposing crop of the divisions best, including Tony Canzoneri, the Italian sharp-shooter. Berg did his last boxing today in preperation for the battle, going two fast rounds with Nel Tarleton and two with Al Tipoli. He will work out here again tomorrow but will confide his efforts to shadow-boxing, rope skipping, bag punching and calisthenics." (St. Petersburg Times - Aug 5, 1930) .............. "A battered little bundle of ebony fighting machinery sat huddled in his corner at the Polo Grounds last night after ten of the most furious rounds of slam bang boxing New York has witnessed in many a moon. As Joe Humpries walked towards him, white official slips in hand, Kid Chocolate leaped in anticipation of being proclaimed the winner, only to stumble back and fall into a sobbing heap in his corner as Humpries suddenly checked himself and turned and lifted the hand of Jackie 'Kid' Berg in the token of triumph. In those few dramatic moments, pulse-stirring the crowd of 25,000 that had been thrilled by a sensational battle of little fellows, the winning streak that Chocolate appeared to have kept intact was brought to a sudden end. Entirely on the strength of his tireless agressiveness Berg won by a two to one vote from the officials. So close was the battle and so partisian was the symapthies of the crowd that the decision, plus the announcers initial uncertainty, provoked a big demonstration of disapproval. Cocolate, led tearfully from the ring, recieved an ovation that drowned out the cheers for Berg. So heated was the scene that impromtu fights broke out around ringside and in the stands. It was fully five minutes before order was restored by the police. Among the ringside experts a sharp division of opinion existed. On the Associated Press score sheet Chocolate was given six rounds to Berg's four. Chocolate seemed to have the edge in the first three rounds as well as the sixth, seventh and eighth. Berg holding margains in the fourth, fifth, ninth and tenth. Chocolate landed the cleaner, more effective blows, he had Berg somewhat groggy with a sensational attack in the third round, the most exciting of the entire fight. The flashy ebony kid was also the faster, better boxer whenever he could keep away from the crowding, mauling Englishman. Berg was unceasingly the agressor. His punches were seldom damaging but they were more persistant and landed more often. The gate was estimated at $160,000, around the same as that for the Singer-Mandell lightweight title fight recently at Yankee Stadium. (The Day - Aug 7, 1930) ....................... Berg was barely 20 when he snapped the long unbeaten run of Kid Chocolate at the Polo Grounds in Harlem that night in June 1930, in what was a huge, if sometimes forgotten, fight. He received a purse of $66,000, a massive payday at the time, and one that set him up for life. On July 18, 1932 Kid Chocolate would meet Kid Berg in a return match (pictured)...again Berg was able to pull off a close decision, this time at Madison Square Garden.
Sept. 1908. Newspapers compared Stanley Ketchel to Jim Jeffries, who would be refereeing him the match, labelling him 'the pugilistic marvel of the decade, ranking as prominently today as Jeffries ranked in his prime.' 'The Evening World' labelled him 'another Fitzsimmons, the greatest of the modern fistic artists.' The World also knew Billy Papke. 'It will be a desperate s****.' Billy's ring walk was almost Zen-like, a broad smile on his features, in excellent humour with himself and all the world - he was almost childlike in his supreme confidence, (The LA Herald). Within three minutes of the opening bell, the fight was over as a competitive battle. In a hellish first round, Papke knocked Ketchel down for the nine count no less than three times. Ketchel, hurt initially by a right hand smash to the bridge of his nose, was dropped five times in total. Already bleeding from the nose, mouth, and a bad cut over his rapidly closing right eye, he needed the aid of his seconds to make it back to his stool. 'When Ketchel stepped to the center for the second round it was seen that his right eye was closed. At the next intermission his seconds lanced the socket and sucked the blood, but Ketchel never regained the sight of his right eye. Before the finish the other eye was all about closed, and for the last three rounds he staggered about the ring dizzy, like a drunken man, virtually blind.' - Jay Davidson, Los Angeles Herald Papke, a hard-nosed, unforgiving fighter, grinned and laughed as he piled up the damage, but he struggled to put over a finishing blow as Ketchel battled gamely to survive. In the clinches, where much of the battle was fought, Ketchel spat blood that dripped down Papke's body. In the eighth, Ketchel was brutalised horribly, shipping multiple flush headshots, blood now pouring from his nose. The 1900's crowd began to call for the fight's end, a rarity for the era. Both men were smothered in Ketchel's blood. By the ninth both of Ketchel's eyes were shut and he staggered blindly about the ring as Papke thrashed him. In the tenth, The San Fransisco Call describes Ketchel's face as 'barely human looking.' Ketchel prepared himself for the eleventh by trying to s****e the blood from his eyes, the left still gaping from the failed lancing between rounds one and two. The LA Herald: 'The minute between rounds was not enough for Ketchel to recover his wits and although he responded to the gong he was unsteady on his legs and beclouded of brain and about all he could do was cover up and try to stall the round. Papke would not have it - forcing an opening he [landed] a clean right to the head flooring Ketchel for the count of nine.' Only a heart unbreakable could have drawn Ketchel from the canvas in that moment. Papke, still smiling the same smile he had worn on his way to the ring, approached, but Ketchel was not even looking at him, rather he was looking out to the crowd, arms hanging at his sides, and he 'did not raise his hands to ward off the punch that toppled him from the championship pedestal.' 'As they went to their corners (at the end of the tenth), Papke raised his hands to the crowd and they were running with blood from his wrists to his shoulders, where his opponent had hung on.' - Los Angeles Times The crowd roared for referee Jim Jeffries to stop the bout in the eleventh, but the former heavyweight champion ignored the cries. Finally, Papke scored with a series of blows, sending Ketchel falling through the ropes and onto the laps of the ringside press. The fight looked certain to be over, but the bell rang and the writers pushed the beaten man back into the ring, where he was lead to his corner for a minute's reprieve. 'The twelfth saw the finish, for in the opening of the round, Papke floored the 'champion' with a right on the jaw. Ketchel was down for eight seconds and when he wobbled to his feet and bleared at his foe, Papke dropped him against for the last time with an uppercut on the jaw. He stayed down for five seconds and then half-raised himself and, sitting there with his mashed and bleeding face and his closed eyes turned toward his own corner. Referee Jeffries counted him out amid a great chorus of cheers from the thousands of excited fans.' - Grey Oliver, Los Angeles Times Ketchel's condition was horrific. The Evening World: 'Both his eyes were closed tight. His face was battered out of shape, as if Papke had knocked him about with a baseball bat instead of two fists. His face was crooked as if his cheekbones had been beaten in. His mouth was a mere gash. His whole body was covered with unsightly lumps where Papke's iron fists had landed - it will be months before he fights again, if he ever does.' The fight became a source of some controversy in later years, with the legitimacy of Papke's victory called into question. Papke was said to have struck Ketchel with a devastating opening blow when the champion had extended his hand for the customary touching of the gloves. It is true that Papke ignored the traditional handshake by going after Ketchel to start the bout, but he missed wildly with his opening swing and it was actually Ketchel who landed first when he tagged Papke with a left hand. In the days after the fight, there was no talk of the bout being decided by foul play, but Ketchel did indicate he believed the result had been a fluke and blamed the loss on overconfidence. Papke naturally disagreed and was quick to sign for a third meeting, agreeing to meet Ketchel again on November 26. (also contains notes from online articles by Andrew Fruman and Matt McGrain)
"It had been at Jack Dempsey's urging that I took on Mickey Walker, whose manager had died. Dempsey had warned Walker that I was an "expensive manager," but he also realized that I could help Mickey as no one else could. It was in 1925, and Walker had come west to make a few matches on his own. He was staying at the Hotel Barbara in Los Angeles, which Dempsey and I owned. I offered him a 50-50 deal, we shook hands on it and that was the only contract we ever had. He had two girls with him at the time and we even split them. We immediately went on an all-night party which pretty much symbolized what our relationship was to be in the years thereafter. "There's one thing I didn't get a chance to tell you, Doc," Mickey said next day as we nursed our hangovers. "I've already agreed to meet Harry Greb in New York in July for the middleweight title." "How much are you getting?" He was almost proud in his answer. "Twenty thousand dollars." My explosion took the wind out of his sails. "Cripes almighty," I yelled at him. "You ought to be getting a hundred grand at least! Maybe we can get you out of the fight." Mickey proved his honesty to me right then and there. "I can't do that, Doc. I gave them my word." We had a tune-up bout in San Francisco and headed east, where I found I was suddenly persona non grata with the New York boxing commission. They still were after Dempsey to fight Harry Wills, and nothing I could say would convince them that every time we tried to set up the match politicians blocked it. Bill Muldoon, the gruff commissioner, wouldn't even let me go to the arena for the Walker-Greb fight. "If you show up, I'll ban Walker, too," he told me. I sat it out at Billy LaHiff's Tavern, listening on the radio. It was a tough night for Walker. Greb outweighed him seven pounds and gave him plenty of thumbs. What made it worse, the referee, Ed Purdy, dislocated a trick knee in the seventh round and from then on frequently supported himself by hanging on to both fighters, particularly Walker. Despite all this, Mickey rallied after nearly being knocked out and was hurting Greb at the end of the 15 rounds. Still, he lost. Walker met me in LaHiff's after the bout, and we were having a drink at a corner table when who walks in out of the night, like Dangerous Dan McGrew, but Greb. Mickey's eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and Greb's lips were puffed and cut. Greb walked over to our table and leered down at Walker. "How're you feeling, Mickey?" Mickey pointed to his own eyes. "How do you think I feel with these peepers after you stickin' your thumbs in them all night?" Greb grinned wickedly. "Forget it. You were plenty tough on me, too." Greb left, and Mickey, usually a happy guy, was pretty glum. "Come on," I said, trying to cheer him up. "Let's go over to the Silver Slipper and have some laughs." By the time we got there, after visiting a few watering holes on the way, we were in, and full of, good spirits. And one of the first people we spotted was Greb, sitting with a pretty girl. After a few more drinks Mickey, obviously looking for trouble, invited himself over to Greb's table and began making a play for Greb's date. Within a few minutes I heard Walker's voice, loud and clear above the racket in the place. "You Dutch so-and-so, you couldn't lick me again if your whole family was helping you." Now they were both standing up, shoving their chins at each other. "Why, you Irish bum," said Greb, "suppose I let you try right now?" They were squaring off when a flying wedge of waiters hustled them out to the street. I was right on their heels and watched as Greb started to take off his coat. But Mickey couldn't wait for that. He fired a punch that sent Greb flying into the fender of a parked automobile. They were swinging away in earnest when I spotted a policeman hurrying up the street toward us. I jumped in between them. "What's the matter with you guys?" I yelled. "You ain't even getting paid for this." It broke them up. They started laughing, and then, throwing their arms around each other, they led the way back inside. We all greeted the sunrise together. There was a great demand for a rematch, especially after word of their street fight swept the city, and I was all for putting them together again in the ring. "Let's get somebody else, Doc," Mickey pleaded. "He's too good a friend of mine for me to bust up." I asked Greb what he thought. "You can keep that Irish bum," Greb answered, grinning. "There must be easier ways for me to make money than fighting him." Walker had been paid $20,000 to box Greb in a fight that drew a $339,000 gate. Now I got Mickey a $100,000 guarantee to defend his welterweight title against Dave Shade at the Polo Grounds. A couple of nights after the bout, which Mickey won in 15 rounds, I met him and handed him a check for $96,000. All I took was $4,000 for training expenses. I figured that Mickey needed the money and that I wouldn't cut him because this was our first fight as a team. Mickey didn't even look at the check, just stuffed it in his pocket. A few days later I received a letter which contained a note and a check for $48,000. Mickey's note said: Dear Doc: Everything we do is 50-50. Yours, Mickey. " (Jack [Doc] Kearns) *the account of the after-hours street tussle between greb and walker has been highly disputed by a lot of people...including @Klompton who is the leading authority on greb in my eyes.
July 1925. Jimmy McLarnin beats the reigning World Flyweight Champion commonly known as Pancho Villa (real name Francisco Guilledo) in a non-title bout. In the days leading to the fight, Villa's face became swollen due to an ulcerated tooth, and on the morning of the fight he went to a dentist to have the tooth extracted. Despite the pain and swelling, Villa insisted on going ahead with fight with McLarnin. Villa ended up spending most of the fight using one hand to protect his afflicted face and lost via a points decison. Two days later Villa had three more ulcerated teeth pulled out. Within the week it was then discovered that the infection had spread to Villa's throat and he was rushed into surgery, but he lapsed into a coma while on the table and died the following day, July 14, 1925, 17 days before he became 24 years old. Meanwhile, back in Manila--the day before he died-- Pancho's wife gave birth to their son. In 1989, she swore that his death was caused by an intentional overdose of anesthesia: a gambling syndicate's conspiracy to murder Villa for losing to McLarnin.
"At about seven o'clock in the evening on Monday, December 14, his wife met him on the stairs to their flat on West Forty-second Street. The house they lived in still stands, a house of dingy brick with ten walk-up apartments, two on each of its five floors. He told Mrs. Siki he was going "out with the boys" and would be back in time to help her pack for a trip they were making next day to Washington, where Siki was to appear in a theater. Shortly after midnight on the morning of the fifteenth, Patrolman John J. Meehan, of the West Thirtieth Street station, walking his beat along Ninth Avenue, had a brief encounter with Siki, whom he knew by sight. Siki, wobbling a little as he turned under the "L" tracks from Forty-first Street, called to Meehan that he was on his way home. The patrolman told him to keep going that way. At 4:15 A.M., Meehan walked past the intersection of Forty-first Street and Ninth Avenue again and saw a body lying about a hundred feet east of the corner in the gutter in front of 350 West Forty-first. Approaching it, he recognized Siki. The body was taken to Meehan's station house where a doctor pronounced the fighter recently dead from internal hemorrhage caused by two bullet wounds. Detectives examined the deserted block of Forty-first between Eighth and Ninth avenues. In front of No. 346, some forty feet east of where Siki had died, they found a pool of blood on the sidewalk. It seemed to them that Siki might have been trying to crawl home after he was shot. They could not tell just where the shooting had taken place. The gun, a vest-pocket .32-caliber pistol, was lying in front of No. 333, on the other side of the street. Only two bullets had been fired from it. An autopsy showed that these had entered Siki from behind, one penetrating his left lung and the other his kidneys. The autopsy showed something else which surprised Siki's neighbors a good deal when they heard of it: he had suffered from an anemic condition. At his wife's request; Siki was given a Christian funeral service at the Harlem funeral parlors of Effie A. Miller. The Reverend Adam Clayton Powell delivered a eulogy. However, seven Mohammedan pallbearers in turbans carried his body to the he****, chanting prayers as they did so, while a crowd of three thousand people looked on. The body was clothed in evening dress, as Siki would undoubtedly have wished. His estate, estimated at six hundred dollars, was awarded to his wife in Surrogate's Court after Levy made out an affidavit in her favor. The words of the affidavit while perhaps not strictly accurate in point of fact told the broad truth about Siki's place in the world better, I think, than the editorial that spoke of Achilles, Siegfried, and "natural man." To the best of his knowledge, Levy said, Siki left surviving "no child or children, no father, mother, brother, or sister, or child or children of a deceased brother or sister." He lived as a man without kin or country, roots or guides, and that, it seems to me, is a hard way to do it. Siki's murder was never solved. There was an abundance of suspects, but none of them suited the police at all until one day in March 1926 a young man of eighteen who lived a block or two from Siki's house was arrested and booked on a homicide charge in connection with the killing. Detectives disguised as truck drivers had heard him making incriminating remarks, they said, over a telephone in a bootleggers' hangout at Tenth Avenue and Fortieth Street. On being arrested, he allegedly signed two statements which gave two different accounts of the crime. One said that Siki had staggered into a coffee pot at Eighth Avenue and Fortieth Street in the early morning of December 15 and had thrown a chair at the eight men, including the deponent, who were gathered there. Deponent ran out of the place in alarm and heard shots fired in the restaurant behind him. The other statement, which fitted the physical facts of the killing a little better, said that a short while after the throwing of the chair, he, the young man under arrest, lured Siki to Eighth Avenue and Forty-first Street on the promise of buying him a drink. At the corner they were joined by two other men, one of whom, as the party walked west on Forty-first, shot Siki in the back. The young man was held in the Tombs for eight months, until the fall of 1926, and then was released by the court without trial, presumably because the state was not satisfied with its case. I might add that in May 1927 this same young man got five to ten years for second-degree robbery, committed in April in the vicinity of Ninth Avenue and Forty-second Street against a tourist from another state. That was clearly the wrong part of town for a tourist to go to." (by John Lardner)
"It must've been around 1904 at a bar in San Francisco, I was drinking with some admirers when Jack Johnson strutted in and demanded I fight him for my heavyweight championship of the world. For about a minute I listened to his boasts about speed and defense and how he'd carve me up, then told him to get out before I knocked him out. Johnson persisted, what an obnoxious fellow he was, so I reached into my coat, grabbed about two grand, and slammed it on the bar and said, let's go down to the cellar, and this money's yours if you make it back up the stairs. I ain't no cellar fighter, he said. You're afraid of blacks. This way, I said, pointing the index finger of a big left hand ready to flatten him. Johnson darted the other way, out the door." - James J Jeffries
Sept 2, 1920 - Dempsey tackled Bill Tate, Harry Greb and Marty Farrell in sparring this afternoon. He took them on in that order, boxing two rounds with Tate and three each with Greb and Farrell. The bout with Greb was a real one. It was the best work-out Dempsey has had. The Pittsburgher was in prime shape, and although he weighs only 165 pounds he gave the champion a real honust-to-goodness battle. Dempsey hasn't seen so many gloves in a long time as Greb showed him. Greb was all over him and kept forcing him around the ring throughout the session. Dempsey could do but little with the speedy light heavyweight, while Greb seemed to be able to hit Dempsey almost at will. Time and again Greb made the champion miss with his famous right and left hooks to the head and countered with heavy swings to the head and hooks to the body. Greb was a veritable whirlwind. Twenty-five pounds lighter than the champion and about four inches shorter, Harry made the champion step lively. He had to jump off the floor to hit Dempsey in the head when the latter was standing straight, but managed to do it and landed without leaving himself open to Jack's snappy hooks and short swings. One of the most notable things about Dempsey's boxing is the fact that he is not hitting as straight as he did in Toledo. This is not a particularly good sign. Why he should hook and swing his blows more is a mystery. He can hit straight when he wants to, and when he does his blows carry a wealth of power behind them, for the champion knows how to put his powerful shoulders behind his punches and how also to get the necessary asistance from his legs by rising to the ball of the rearward foot when the punch gets over. It may be that Dempsey does not care to hit straight from the shoulder, fearing to punish his partners too severly. Sept 3, 1920 - Dempsey sparred three sessions with Harry Greb, Pittsburgh lightweight, and another trio with Marty Farrell, Pacific Coast middleweight. Miske felt the lack of capable sparring mates and he was compelled to set the pace himself. He stepped the first two rounds with George Wilson, a negro heavyweight, the second two with Jack Heinen. Early in the third round Greb's head collided with Dempsey's mouth, cutting the champion's tongue so severly that he spat blood for the remainder of the round. The Pittsburgher was in fine fettle after the excellent showing he made against the champion. He was full of pep. With the call of time signalizing the beginning of activities, Greb promptly rushed Dempsey. The onslaught was so sudden that Jack was caught off his guard and it took a solid left hook into the body, plied with all the force at Greb's command, which is considerable, to jolt Dempsey into action. Then the fur began to fly. It was a whirlwind three rounds that these two fighters staged for the edification of the biggest crowd that has yet shoe-horned its way into the grandstand at the baseball park in front of which the ring is built. There were fully 2,000 people present, and they were treated to as much action in those three rounds as is usually crowded into eight of a real bout. The bout caused the crowd to burst into cheers and prolonged applasuse. In fact, during the intermission between the second and third rounds Ted Hayes, who acts as announcer at the Dempsey camp, was compelled to request the spectators to refrain from urging either of the men to greater efforts. Although Dempsey insists that his wind is perfect and that he is not troubled by shortness of breath while working out, to those who have studied him closely it appears as if his wind might be in better shape. He was puffing very hard after boxing Greb. Of course, it was an unusually fast workout, but it seemed to take him longer than it should to recover his wind even after so strenuous a session. Sept 4, 1920 - Harry Greb, looking as chipper as ever in his U.S. Navy Jersey and his black tights, climbed into the ring to take Dempsey over the jumps for two rounds of three minutes each. Just as soon as they squared off it was apparent that there was to be none of the continuous slam-bang stuff which had accompanied their previous engagements. Greb did not rush the champion and they feinted and pranced about for a full minute before either made a real lead. Toward the close of the round they met near mid-ring and there was a sharp exchange of body punches. The second round was a little livelier, but it wasn't a cyclone, and the crowd was somewhat dissappointed. The fans had expected to see more of a real battling than had featured the jousts between these two. "Doc Kearns, who was managing Jack Dempsey, refused to let his tiger in the ring with Harry Greb. They did spar on two occasions. The first time was when Dempsey was getting ready for his title defense against Billy Miske in Benton Harbor, Michigan. Greb ripped into dempsey, punching the heaveyweight champion as he pleased, until Kearns finally threw him out of the ring for being too rough." "It is not generally known however, that Greb and Dempsey did actually meet in the ring. It was at Jack's Atlantic City training camp. They were to box four rounds with sixteen ounce training gloves. Jack Kearns refereed. Harry came snorting out of his corner raising hell with the heaveyweight champion's middle. Dempsey looked confused, he hesitated about throwing punches at first. But he became desperate along about the second round and started putting ginger behind his left hooks. But Greb raced around so fast and poked so many jabs into Jack's face that the great Mauler couldn't land one solid wallop during the entire exhibition. The next day, in bold black type the size off an egg, some papers carried the headline "GREB MAKES DEMPSEY LOOK LIKE A KITTEN." (Quotes taken from - New York Times / The Washington Post / Ring Magazine / Boxing and Wrestling Magazine)
Dec. 1959. World Welterweight Champion Don Jordan travels to Buenos Aires, Argentina for a non-title fight against Luis Federico Thompson. It was the beginning of the end for Jordan. He would lose by 4th round KO. ........ "Jordan was a slum boy who grew up with a misguided admiration for mobsters, and he became an an acquaintance with the Los Angeles gangster, Mickey Cohen. When abandoned by a former manager, Jordan was stranded in Mexico when Don Nesseth, a young fight manager outside the mob, picked him up. Nesseth bought his contract and negotiated Jordan to the championship. Instantly, Frankie Carbo and Blinky Palermo, boxing's most influential gangsters, tried to muscle in. When Nesseth resisted the muscle and told his story to the authorities, Jordan not only quit him but berated him for violating the mobster code of silence. But Nesseth came out of one fight with checks totaling $90,000, his price for releasing Jordan from his contract. Jordan came out with a mere $2,000, a sum he extorted from Nesseth in his dressing room 20 minutes before the fight by threatening to refuse to enter the ring. Jordan's estranged wife had process servers busy trying to divert the $2,000 pittance to the care of their four children. Mickey Cohen was at ringside, flanked by his girlfriend and Jordan's fiance. It was suggested that Cohen should give Jordan a job as it looked like he needed one." (Martin Kane)