bits and pieces

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re: rockyssplitnose recent bratton post..

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they were a bit quick here calling louis's punches 'duds'...

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nothing wrong with his punching in the rematch..

look how much tax he paid here, considering the total purse he got....and he still was in trouble with taxes after he retired....government certainly did well out of him..

aparently he earned 4.6 million in his career, but after paying everyone he only pocketed 800,000...yet at the end of the 50's he got a tax bill for 1 million dollars !!

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eagle eyed burt

 

this thread is all messed up now that we can't see pictures....i'll add a few more entries that dont need pictures maybe

 

"I often wonder what other fighters feel, and what goes through their minds when they lose," he said, placing a cup of tea on the table. "I've wanted so much to talk to another fighter about all this, to compare thoughts, to see if he feels some of the same things I've felt. But who can you talk to? Most fighters don't talk much anyway. And I can't even look another fighter in the eye at a weigh-in, for some reason.

"At the Liston weigh-in, the sports writers noticed this, and said it showed I was afraid. But that's not it. I can never look any fighter in the eye because . . . well, because we're going to fight, which isn't a nice thing, and because . . . well, once I actually did look a fighter in the eye. It was a long, long time ago. I must have been in the amateurs then. And when I looked at this fighter, I saw he had such a nice face . . . and then he looked at me . . . and smiled at me . . . and I smiled back! It was strange, very strange. When a guy can look at another guy and smile like that, I don't think they have any business fighting.

"I don't remember what happened in that fight, and I don't remember what the guy's name was. I only remember that, ever since, I have never looked another fighter in the eye."

- Floyd Patterson

 

The story of Benny Lynch and Nipper Hampston...

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

There were three weeks before the match against Len Hampston of Batley at Belle Vue. Hampston, whom they nicknamed Nipper, was a bantamweight; a man with a good enough reputation to provide what the experts reckoned would be a good night’s entertainment seeing the world champion in action and, of course, winning. No one was to predict anything remotely like the outcome . . . except those really in the know.

Benny had gone on a real binge. They went to look for him but he couldn’t be found. He had told his friends that if they saw any boxers looking for him not to tell them where he was. For he knew they would be after him to get him to the camp. And the camp meant sweat and torture. And worse . . . no drink. They would even raid houses where they thought he might be. Once they got close . . . he was under the bed.

It was Johnny Kelly, friend and regular sparring partner, who found him. He had never known him so drunk. And the fight with Hampston was the next night . . . in Manchester. They tried everything . . . showers and coffee; more showers. Then he went for a long sleep. Because of his state, they approached Hampston to see if he would agree to a gee fight with the promise of a return that wasn’t fixed. “No, lads,” said Hampston. “It will be on merit.” They didn’t tell Benny that they had tried to fix it for they knew he would have nothing to do with a gee fight. They had tried before. Gus Hart had tried to get him to lie down for a fight he was trying to arrange against Angelmann, whom he had already beaten, in Paris. He had exploded at the suggestion and had made it clear then that there would be no more similar suggestions put to him.

There were dubious low punches from both of them right from the start. Hampston claimed a foul for a low punch when he went down in the first round, but the referee waved them on. Hampston retaliated with a series of punches of doubtful intent. What had started out to be a boxing match had very quickly turned into a fight . . . ugly, brutal, and both men being completely uncompromising to each other.

A left hook to the body and Benny went down for eight. Another to the pit of the stomach, the stomach that could take on the full slam of the medicine ball, the ripple of midriff muscles a belt of steel. But not tonight. The exercising had tapered and the rigid muscle had softened. He was down for another eight. Then another, again in the same area. And he went down again. It was nine this time and he was in desperation when he gained his feet again. Hampston was on the rampage and only the bell ended his unstoppable attack. Nick Cavalli, the Continental agent, had been selected as his chief second for the night and he had to work hard on him in the respite. Benny was in semi-shock. He knew what was happening to him but couldn’t bring himself together enough to hold off the menacing Hampston.

“Hampston,” he thought. A month ago and he wouldn’t have let him share the same ring for longer than two rounds. He was no Jackie Brown, let alone a Small Montana or Pat Palmer. But tonight with the condition he was in and the way he felt, it seemed like those three were there together against him.

A right to the jaw and another straight left which buried itself in his solar plexus and he was down again. Benny Lynch down! Not just once. But in every round. It couldn’t be true! The crowd couldn’t believe it. But it was happening. And he lay on his back, face contorted, knees bent in pain as he heard the fateful count.

“ONE.” . . .
“Mother of God, Holy Mother of God, is this really me?”
“TWO.” . . . “Christ, my guts must be ripped wide open . . . how can there be such pain?”
“THREE.” . . . “C . . h . . r . . i . . s . . t . . . suffering Christ get me out of this misery.”
“FOUR.” . . . “How do I get up . . . Jesus . . . get me up!”
“FIVE” . . “Roll round . . . yes, that’s it . . . roll round . . . lie on my belly and get up that way.”
“SIX.” . . . “That’s it . . . on my knees now . . . can I push up once more?”
“SEVEN.” . . . “On one knee now . . . I’ll make it Hampston you *******.”
“EIGHT” . . . “Right . . . just one more push, a hard one this time, and I’ll be able to stand.”
“NINE.” . . .

The next round was the fifth. The pattern was the same and he was on his back again. The first was to nine. Hampston crowded in on him the moment the referee signalled to continue. And he was only on his feet seconds when Hampston gave him the most wicked punch of the fight, another sledgehammer to his stomach, again a punch the referee considered not fully below the belt and not a foul. Lynch plunged in a dead man’s fall . . . and a man parted the ropes to jump into the ring. It was Cavalli, his second, and he was waving a towel, frantically shouting at the referee that his man had been fouled. The referee ordered him from the ring, but Cavalli bent over his charge, picked him up and carried him to his corner for treatment. The crowd was in an uproar. They thought for a minute their man was going to be deprived of the victory he had legitimately gained in this night of his greatest triumph. But Gus Platts, the referee, was in no doubts about what the outcome should be and the M.C. announced the findings. Lynch was disqualified and Hampston was the winner.

cont...