bits and pieces

continued from previous post...

He was still in agony in the dressing room and they had to tape up his rib cage in order to ease the pain and give him support. He sat on the long bench in the room so weak and tortured he was unable to dress himself.

When they did eventually dress him they had to assist him to his feet. “Right, help me round to Hampston’s dressing room . . . but leave me when we get there.” He winced at every step, each movement jarring the big blue bruise blotches. He was uncut, as usual, but his face hurt so badly he couldn’t breathe through his nose, taking short pants of air through his mouth.

Benny had gone to see Hampston to deliver a message. When he got to his dressing room door he pulled himself up and a half smile appeared on his face as though everything was normal. Hampston was surprised to see him but Benny made no move to go into the room. “I’ll give you a return within the month,” he said. “But I’m telling you something, Nipper. Get yourself fit. The fittest you’ve ever been in your life.” With that, he turned and walked away. The message had been delivered.

They couldn’t conceal the agony of the worst-ever night in all his boxing life. Anne was shocked when he got home to see what the punches had done. She had never realised what their bodies could be like after a fight . . . weals that reddened as though there was no skin, bordered by big bruises which were brown and a greeny blue, and a face puffed and so tender it couldn’t face food that had to be chewed. He had never thought before about revenge after a fight. The ones he had lost against Paddy Docherty and some others in the early days and, more recently Jim Warnock, were fights to be avenged. And they usually were; the scorecard corrected with a victory. But against Hampston he could only think of revenge for never had a man given him such a beating. Of course it had been his own fault. No one needed to tell him that. He had only been a shell of himself on the night of the fight . . . but had a man to be so humiliated?

He lay for days in agony unable to resume training for the return match, now fixed for March 22 . . . exactly three weeks after the meeting in Manchester.

The venue this time was Leeds. They would be less partisan there. Fourteen days before the match the pains had subsided sufficiently to resume light training. Two days after that it became more intensified and for a full week prior to the date he was in full training, road miles, gym work, and sparring, the sweat rinsing the alcohol from his bloodstream.

They were pleased with him at the camp by the end of the third week. He could outrun any of them, take twenty rounds of sparring in his stride. The only imperfection had been his timing. Once it had been uncannily instinctive, his mind translating every opportunity into instant and precise action; but now there were hairsbreadth flaws in some of his connections, noticeable only to those who had known his target mastery of a year ago.

Hampston was cautious in the opening round, covering himself well and relying on the occasional opportunity which presented itself before despatching a glove. He got one explosive belter in and Benny’s face twisted in pain for it had hit him square on the belt. The referee, however, ignored it. It was in the fourth round that the pair of them fell back on the tactics of the first fight; punching viciously to any part of the body, hellbent on turning it into anything but a boxing match. Referee Jack Smith stopped the contest, brought them together to tell them, “Right, lads, none of that stuff with me. You know the rules. Stick to them. As for the fouling . . . cut it out. Right!” They understood.

An aggressive Benny took the fifth and sixth, Hampston gaining confidence to return well to go to the top of the scorecard for the next two. By the tenth Hampston was getting impatient and rushed at his opponent straight from the bell. There are several ways to combat a raging bull in the ring. You can run. Rage back. Cover up. Or keep perfectly cool and apply the ring science you have learned over the years. The first three are easy and reflex. The fourth response is the most difficult and calculated. But Benny knew it was the best tactic. And while Hampston raged and charged, Benny picked him off, bit by bit. A right to the jaw and he staggered on the ropes before collapsing on his back. Up at eight he walked into the most concentrated two-fisted barrage he had ever experienced in his entire boxing career and slowly crumpled on the floor on one knee, his right glove feeling for the canvas as he sank. He rose again, but he wished he hadn’t for the left hook that hit him was like no other punch he had ever received. They would often say that a man was hit so hard it lifted him off his feet. It rarely did and a few had ever seen the metaphor in reality. But they did this night in Leeds as Hampston’s body lifted right off, his feet rising upwards before falling sharply back on the ropes where he dangled like a wet sheet on a foggy Monday wash line. Jack Smith waved “no more”.
Benny had his revenge.

(by John Burrowes)

 

"After introducing several celebrities in the audience, the ring announcer, Freddie Russo, said in his booming voice, “Ladieees and gentlemen, tonight we have a fifteen round fight for the Welterweight Championship of the World.” As is customary, he introduced the challenger first, “Weighing in at 145 ½ pounds, from Boston, Massachusetts, the challenger with a record of forty-five wins and six defeats, the Flame and Fury of Fleet Street, Tony Demarco!” The cheering was deafening and seemed never to end. When Saxton, the reigning champion was introduced, the cheering for me had not yet subsided.

Mel Manning, the referee, gave the instructions to each of us before we went back to our corners to wait for the bell. We stared at each other from our respective corners. It seemed as though our eye contact brought us closer and closer to the middle of the ring. We were both eager for the fight to start. The bell finally rang and we charged on one another, hurling leather. This was the defining moment.

Immediately I threw punches to Saxton’s head and body. I seemed to get the best of him with my body punches. The fact is that body punches don’t knock you out but they have a devastating effect on your stamina. It was certainly the case with this fight. Between rounds my trainer, Sammy Fuller, told me to keep using body punches and not to let up. I continued to throw body punches at every opportunity. We went back and forth, round after round, but the body shots on Saxton were finally taking their toll. Whenever I could, I threw left hooks and continued until I could see that they were hurting Saxton. Johnny was a devastating puncher, and believe me, he was inflicting some real punishment on me, but I began to wear him down.

The excitement mounted with every round. It got to a point where Saxton and I walked to the center of the ring and just stared each other down until the bell rang to start the round. My adrenaline was off the charts, and I was throwing shots that were coming from left field. A couple of times, Mel Manning, the referee, had to come between us to make sure we didn’t throw any punches before the bell rang.

For the first thirteen rounds, the fight seesawed back and forth between the two of us. At the beginning of the fourteenth round everything changed. I hit Saxton with a combination of punches ending with a vicious right that sent him to the canvas. He was hurt and the crowd went wild. Saxton struggled to his feet before the count of ten. Looking back at his condition at that point, I think it would have been better for the Champ if he hadn’t tried to stand up. He was helpless and defenseless as I attacked with punch after punch.

I caught the Champ with a relentless array of left hooks and right crosses that were devastating. I hit him with a total of twenty-four consecutive punches that were right on the mark. The crowd was amazed at the amount of punishment the Champ was capable of taking. Many in the crowd shouted for the referee to stop the fight before it was too late.

After those twenty-four punches, Johnny Saxton, the champion of the world, was dead on his feet. The Champ was helpless and the referee stopped the fight. I, Tony DeMarco, Leonardo Liotta, had reached the top of the mountain. I was the new undisputed Welterweight Champion of the World. The ring announcer tried to quiet the screaming crowd with no success. His only recourse was to yell over their volume. He brought the microphone closer to his lips and shouted, “One of the few undisputed champions from Boston Proper since the ‘Boston Strong Boy’ John L. Sullivan won the heavyweight crown on September 7, 1892. Ladies and gentlemen, the new Welterweight Champion of the World, Tony DeMarco!” "

(by Tony DeMarco)

 

And now was the hour, on this bitterly freezing July night. Entering the arena proper, there was a massive roar from the crowd at the first sight of Fritz Holland and, in fact, for the man shambling along behind him, Tommy Burns. Oh, yes, they remembered Tommy all right, at least plenty of them did—Tommy, who, in the most humiliating fight any of them had ever seen, had been the great white Receiver-General for black anger…Helloooo, Tommy! Burns, in response, gave what seemed to some to be a slightly sheepish wave of acknowledgement, but no more than that. His focus was on his charge, Fritz, and getting him ready for this fight, not that he expected it would be too much trouble, despite the enormous crowd that this kid Darcy had pulled and the passion they had for him. For, as the battle knell sounded, all other thoughts were drowned as Darcy himself emerged into the light with a posse of three men behind him. At the sight of him, the fight fans, almost as one, were on their feet and cheering wildly. Les! Darcy! Les Darcy!

Some boxers, to be sure, could wither under such adulation, such pressure to perform, but not Les Darcy, never Les Darcy. For now in response to the roar Les waved cheerily, flashed a broad smile—much as he did to anyone who recognised him on the streets of Maitland—and made his way into the ring, attended closely by Hawkins, Fletcher and Newton. Of course there wasn’t really a need for all three of them to attend as his ‘seconds’, but Les just wanted them there, so that was that.

Same thing with Father Coady, who sat in the front row. It was not a part of Father Joe’s pastoral duties to be there, and he had not attended as a fight fan pure. Rather, he had become extremely close to Les over previous years, and it was unthinkable for him not to be there.

From his own corner, Fritz Holland surveyed the scene with an experienced and therefore entirely untroubled eye. There was no way this unmarked fellow opposite smiling at him could beat him, but he, too, had been interested that such a young man could have generated a following enough to fill a stadium this size, and apparently have 3,000 or so more outside trying to get in! How could this be? How could a man of so few years have already developed a following so strong? Such musings were interrupted, as young Darcy’s seconds unfurled a large Australian flag…and now the crowd roared even more!

From the opening bell, Les did what he had always done in boxing matches, which was to charge at his opponent like a bull at a gate, throwing lefts and rights, uppercuts and crosses, in furious flurries that would have completely overwhelmed a lesser opponent. And indeed, Fritz Holland was surprised at the extraordinary intensity of the young man. Nevertheless, by simply covering up, he was able to absorb and parry the worst of the blows, smother the charges, and come back with a few hard punches of his own. The key, the American knew, was to weather the storm. There was no way the kid could keep up this pace for long. But why did he keep smiling? It near put a bloke off to have to punch such a pleasant, friendly countenance, but Fritz did the best he could as Les continued to charge in…obviously enjoying it hugely!

Down in the crowd, Father Coady and not so far along from him, the Australian heavyweight champion Gentleman Dave Smith were watching the clash closely—the latter, as always, analysing every punch, every feint, every move. It was obvious that Les was giving a very good account of himself against this veteran boxer of vast experience, but equally apparent that much of young Darcy’s energy was being wasted against Holland’s bristling defensive shield.

Though the 27-year-old American really had seemed shocked early at the unexpected thunder and lightning emanating from the youngster’s fists, he was nothing if not wily, and bit by bit was able to adjust and make his way back into a fight that in the first rounds seemed to have escaped him.

The spectators, sitting in near-darkness as the two figures went at it beneath the harsh electrical light bulbs suspended above the ring, roared themselves hoarse, trying to will Darcy to a great win, but it was always going to be a nail-biter…No matter how hard Les bored in, the American always seemed to have an answer, a parry, a block, a sharp jab, to momentarily rock him backwards. In the thirteenth round the younger man did seem to get on top but, no, Holland held on and came out almost as strongly in the fourteenth round. True, by the end it was clear that the American was completely exhausted, while Darcy appeared comparatively fresh, but even then Holland was managing to counter most of what his young opponent threw at him and still give back some of his own. No matter, with just a few rounds left in the bout, Les said to Mick Hawkins during the break, ‘Gee this is great! I hope it keeps going.’

After twenty rounds of the finest fighting many in the crowd had ever seen, it seemed to most of the spectators that Les was the victor, but the referee and sole judge of the fight—Harald Baker, the brother of the manager of the stadium, Snowy—was not of the same opinion. And the winner is…Fritz…Holland!
Fritz Holland!?!?!
Never mind that Les himself smiled gracefully, and warmly shook the hand of the man who had bested him. All around, the stadium went crazy. Boos, hisses, chairs thrown, fists flying, the lot. The men of the coalfield did not take lightly one of their own being called a loser when he had bloody well won fair and square, and they made their feelings known in no uncertain terms. Order could only finally be restored by directing fire hoses at the brutes who simply wouldn’t quit…and those who were trying to set fire to the stadium besides. Even after the police arrived in force, there were still an estimated 8,000 men in the environs of the stadium an hour after the match was over. Back in the dressing room it was all quiet and Les, for his part, was not at all upset.

The smile he had displayed throughout the fight was genuine; he really had enjoyed going up against such an experienced campaigner as Fritz and, again, felt he had learned a lot. For now the most important thing was to gather himself together and get to Sus*** Street in time to catch the 11.30 pm steamer to Newcastle, which would allow both him and Father Coady to make 6 am Sunday morning Mass. And though, because it was a Saturday and Les didn’t have to work on the morrow, he nevertheless wanted to get straight home so he could have the early pleasure of giving his prize money—no less than £500!—to his mother.

On the steamer, Father Joe was impressed by the young man’s upbeat mood. He had been afraid that Les would be downcast and need reassuring. Instead, Les was thrilled at having fought at the stadium, against such a veteran as Holland, and having acquitted himself well, without yet attaining victory. ‘It’s a step in the right direction,’ Les told Father Joe, as the throbbing of the small ship’s motors propelled them north along the sleeping Australian coastline.

(by Peter Fitzsimons)

 

“I could see he was upset in the ring and that is when I said to him, ‘I will give you a rematch. Wherever you want the fight to take place, I will be there. If you want the fight to take place in Australia, I will be there. Your mother can be the referee; your father can be the judge; and your friends can be the supporters. I will knock you out.’” - Azumah Nelson speaking after his draw with Jeff Fenech in Las Vegas, June 1991.

WBC president Jose Sulaiman was keen for a rematch and was concerned that Fenech would opt to take on WBA champion Hector Lopez, as they had installed him as their number-one contender. Eventually, an agreement was reached. Fenech signed a new contract with Don King for one fight only; the Australian would receive a percentage of the television rights and $2 million. Azumah would receive the same pay prior to paying expenses to his management support staff. The fight was scheduled for March 1, 1992, and would be staged in Melbourne. The rematch was good news for Azumah, as it finally guaranteed him a substantial payday to match his glittering career. He had only suffered one defeat in the past nine years, and that was to Pernell Whitaker on the eve of his wife’s passing away.

Azumah had headed to Spain for an operation on his elbow, which had troubled him in the first fight. He had the operation in Zaragoza and based himself there for his recuperation and training with Buffalo before heading to Melbourne.

Fenech was quoted in Fist magazine as saying, “I’ve really lived for this moment, when I can get Nelson into the ring again. Now that we’ve signed and got a date and a venue, I’m a very relieved and happy man. There have been some great sporting events in Australia, and this will be as big as any.” He went on to “guarantee” there would be no draw in the rematch. Probably his most shocking statement was when he was quoted in the media as saying, “The only way they’re going to take him home to Ghana is in a body bag.”

Azumah’s reported response was, “Tell Fenech he is playing with fire, and it will burn him.”

Finally, the day of the most anticipated sporting event in Australia arrived. The fight was to take place on a Sunday to tie in with television in the U.S. On the undercard that night was another boxer with a bright future from the Johnny Lewis stable making his professional debut, Kostya Tszyu, who knocked out Australian Darrell Hiles in just seventy seconds.

The rain started to fall in Melbourne, which reduced the crowd from an expected sell-out to close to thirty-seven thousand. However, many Australian highfliers were ringside, including media tycoon Kerry Packer, Olympian Dawn Fraser, iconic Aussie actor Paul Hogan, and former WBC featherweight world champion Johnny Famechon, who arrived in a wheelchair after having been hit by a car while jogging outside Sydney’s Warwick Farm racecourse the previous year.

This was Azumah’s seventeenth world title fight in almost ten years. He was thirty-three years of age; he had fought in seven different countries; and he had been a world champion for eight years. Yet few gave him any chance of victory against a younger fighter in his own backyard.

Azumah was incredibly confident going into this rematch and, as he had done previously, had ensured that the fight would be aired live on television back home in Ghana. Knowing that there would be plenty of excitement back home, he contacted his good friend, Obi Oblitey. Obi recalls, “He sent a message to me and one of our friends, who has now died, as he knew the Ghana Broadcasting Corporation would come and interview us. He said they will ask us how we see the fight and told us to tell them he would stop Fenech in round seven. So we did.”

In his corner, Azumah had his brother, and he had told him to tell him when round six had finished so that he could be true to that prediction.

It took Azumah one minute and forty-five seconds of the first round to have Fenech on the canvas. “Before the fight, I hear his coach telling him—he is a good coach—he is telling him, ‘Be careful. Azumah’s left hook is dangerous. Watch out.’ So from the first round, the guy was watching my left hook. All of a sudden in the first round, I just jab, one, two, three, four, and then boom—I landed a right and he went down. The left hook didn’t come because I knew he was looking for the left hook. I changed the style and I put him down. I knocked him down again in the second and almost in the third,” Azumah remembers with a trademark smile.

Round two saw Fenech come back well from the knockdown, but Azumah was still the aggressor and benefitted when what appeared to be a slip by Fenech was ruled a knockdown by Mercante. This was a very different fight from the one in Las Vegas. Azumah looked stronger, fitter, and much sharper than his opponent, and went forward more often than he had in the first encounter. Round three saw the two toe-to-toe, as they had been in Las Vegas, and Fenech landed some telling blows. The bell sounded and Mercante struggled to separate the two, and words were exchanged. Azumah, despite his prediction, failed to knock out Fenech in round seven, and he explains why this was the case. “I told my brother, ‘Listen, I will knock this guy out in the seventh round. I will set him up, and after the sixth round I will knock him out in the seventh, so when we get to the sixth round let me know.’ But in between the rounds, my brother was enjoying watching the fight so much and he was so happy. At the seventh round, he came to me and said, ‘Brother, sorry I forgot to tell you it was the sixth round. It’s the seventh round.’ I said, ‘I told you to tell me the sixth round, so I could knock him out in the seventh. Now I cannot knock him out in the seventh. I will have to do it in the eighth and set him up this round.’ The bell went for the seventh round, and I start setting him up. At the end of the round, I looked at my brother, and I said to him, ‘Now I am going to knock him out this round'.

“In the seventh and eighth rounds, I give myself to him and he just starts punching. When I set him up, I went to the corner. He is throwing the punches and I am blocking, but I slow my punches down, so I am just touching him. I am hardly hitting him, just touching him. Then he realises the punches are slow and there is no power. He could lose himself and start throwing punches, trying to knock me out. As soon as he did that, his guard came down and I went boom, boom, and landed the punches and he went down.”

Ever the warrior, Fenech quickly leapt to his feet, but that could have been his mistake. His trainer, Johnny Lewis, climbed the steps to the ring, towel in hand, desperately trying to see how his fighter was, but Mercante, who waved the fight on, obstructed his view. Azumah turned Fenech back onto the ropes and fired off six unanswered blows to the head before Mercante stepped in and stopped the fight at the same moment that Lewis’s towel hit the canvas behind him.

Two minutes and twenty seconds into round eight, Jeff Fenech had lost his first professional fight, and Azumah had recorded a victory that was named the “Upset of the Year for 1992” by The Ring magazine. The disappointed Australian crowd that had booed Azumah when his name was announced at the start of the bout showed great sportsmanship at the end of the bout, acknowledging a great champion. Many realised that they had just witnessed two great champions go head-to-head in their own backyard.

It was after this fight with Jeff Fenech that Azumah went from being “The Terrible Warrior” in the ring to being known as “The Professor,” a moniker that certainly suited his age far better. There has been conjecture over who gave the champ his new ring name, but it would appear that it was in fact Azumah himself. At the press conference after the fight, where both fighters complimented each other, Azumah said, “I am a professor of boxing. Fenech is a great fighter, but today I proved that I’m better.” The media around the world appeared to love the description, as the title “Professor” was linked to his name by more than one media outlet in their post-fight write-ups. Ultimately, the origin matters not, but from that day forward Azumah Nelson became known as “The Professor.”

(by Ashley Morrison)

 

A knock on the Broztell Hotel door. Les opens it. It is the young hotel porter, a painfully thin Negro, and he is deeply sorry suh, but there is someone downstairs who is insisting on seeing Mistuh Darcy. Sez he is an Oss-tralian, too. And he used to be a boxer. The thing is, Mistuh Darcy, it is difficult to know much of him, ‘cos he might be drunk, but he sez his name is ‘Griff’, ‘Griffa’, sum’n like that? Young Griffo? The boxing hero of Australia, who had left home shores in 1893 never to return? Great! Show him up! But Mistuh Darcy, he very drunk, not too good dressed, terrible, rotten, black teeth, and thuh hotel probably wouldn’t want likes of him in the building… Fine, but please get him!

And so the young porter does, returning shortly afterwards and furtively pushing a fat old drunk man into Mistuh Darcy’s room before skedaddling. He is going to catch hell from management, if they find out.

And so there they are, Les Darcy and Young Griffo—each a hero before heading to America to seek their international fame and fortune—meeting in a New York hotel room in the early days of 1917.

They talk… The fact that ‘Young Griffo’ is no longer young is obvious, as is the fact that the young porter hadn’t been exaggerating in his description. Griffo’s teeth are terrible, he reeks of alcohol, and is evidently doing it very tough indeed. These days one of his tricks to get more alcohol is to take a handkerchief into a bar, stand on it and bet someone that they can’t lay a single punch on him for a whole minute while he doesn’t take a step off the hankie, but simply dodges and ducks all their blows! No, he couldn’t win a real fight in the ring these days, but by God he can still keep himself in grog.

They laugh and talk. Les is delighted to meet this Australian legend, and later tips the porter a quarter, telling the disbelieving young man that the ‘fat old alko’—as the porter would later describe Griffo, whom he brought up to Les’s room—was once one of the greatest featherweight boxers of them all.

(by Peter Fitzsimons)

 

Feb 26, 1925.
The night that Jack Delaney beat Tiger Flowers....twice....in the same fight!!...

"Delaney was also involved in a bizarre match with future middleweight champion Tiger Flowers. After a round had passed, Delaney floored Flowers with a straight right hand. The referee counted Flowers out, but his corner protested that he had received a "fast count". The Flowers faction became unruly and a riot seemed imminent. Flowers demanded that the match resume, and Delaney amazingly agreed. The two fought until the fourth round, when Delaney again fired an irresistible right hand that knocked Flowers senseless. This time there was no controversy, as Flowers did not come close to arising in time. When Flowers did come to, he went to Delaney's dressing room and said "Ah want to thank you, Mr. Delaney, and tell you that Ah is convinced." "

http://news.google.com/newspapers?n...X9RAAAAIBAJ&sjid=UA8EAAAAIBAJ&pg=6975,4975175

 

"I knew from the quiver in his voice that the gentleman calling on the phone wanted to tell me something he knew would knock my socks off. He was so right.

"They found a Harry Greb film!"

"You're full of you-know-what," I said. "Did you see it yet?"

"No. Not yet. But I'm getting a tape in a few days."

"Good," I said. "Give me a call after you do."

To understand the historic significance of what the gentleman was saying , you need some background. From the day when collecting boxing films became a cult art form, the most astute cult members grew increasingly frustrated when not an inch of film footage of Greb, an immortal of fistic immortals, had been uncovered. Compounding that frustration was the fact that extensive footage had been discovered of dozens of famous boxers, even 19th-century champion John L. Sulliven. As a matter of fact, the very first boxing movies were taken of an exhibition between Jim Corbett and Peter Courtney at Edison, New Jersey, in 1894, which was the year Greb was born. How could there be nothing on Greb?

My old friend, the late dean of boxing film collectors, Jim Jacobs, and I kidded each other for more than a quarter-century about the non-existence of Greb fim footage. Many times I would call Jacobs.

"Hey, Jimbo," I'd say, "You know what the mailman delivered this morning?"

"Don't give me that again," Jacobs would snort, knowing instinctivly that I was throwing him another Harry Greb curve. Jimmy knew I was jiving, but it was still fun.

The last time I saw Jacobs was a year before his death. He had come to our offices in Rockville centre in search of still photos of Stanley Ketchel. He found three pictures that he wanted. I promised I'd have prints made and send them to him. With Ketchel out of the way, we turned, as usual, to our favorite mystic subject.

"If somebody--somebody astute about fight films, not just a guy who knows nothing about collecting--found, say, Greb footage in his cellar or attic, and he called me for a deal, I would trade him anything I have in my collection for whatever he has of Harry greb," Jacobs said.

You can understand why, when i recieved that out-of-the-blue phone call about the possible discovery of Greb footage, why I immediately thought of my dear, late friend. As hopeful as I was that this would not turn out to be yet another Greb false alarm, I had mixed emotions. Wouldn't it be a shame if this was indeed the real thing and Jimmy hadn't lived long enough to enjoy it?

It was indeed the real thing! Remarkably sharp film footage of Greb had been discovered in the archives of a major American University, where it had rested, unnoticed, for about 65 years. You can imagine how tense and excited I was as I sat in the screening room with the young man who had brought me the film, collector Phil Guarnieri, waiting to see for myself wether or not this whole thing was for real. The first thing to fill the screen was the smiling face of Harry greb; the same face I had seen in hundreds of still photo's for more than half a century. But this time the face was alive. The eyes blinked, the head turned, the lips curled into a mischeivous smile. I was astonished and moved to the point of tears.

"I've got to be dreaming. This can't be! Pinch me, phil," I said to the young collector seated next to me. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."

For the next four minutes 43 seconds I was mesmorised, watching the great harry greb punching the bag, skipping rope, sparring with Philadelphia Jack o'Brien, exercising, clowning for the camera, playing handball, and suddenly dressed in the tight-fitting, striped suit of a broadway dandy, with an oversiazed brimmed straw hat and a broad grin on his one-of-a-kind face. (We all have lookalikes, but not Greb. He was a true original.)

To have an opportunity to see harry greb alive and in the prime of life was beyond my wildest dreams, comparable for a fight film collector to seeing Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address or Napoleon bidding farewell to his troops at waterloo. My only regret is that Jim Jacobs was not sitting with me in that screening room the day Harry greb was re-incarnated. Had he been there, years of kidding and teasing would have been erased by less than five minutes of wonderful reality."

(by Stanley Weston)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EUpN1x1uhms

 

"I watched Beau Jack climb down from the ring apron and move in a
half-trot across the floor, shoulders swaying with his rolling gait,
right leg dipping to accommodate old pain. I approached him. ''You
fought in battle royals, didn't you?'' I asked.
''Yes, sir,'' he said, eyeing me.
''How did it feel?''
''They should still have them,'' he said. ''They'd be a lot of fun
for people who ain't seen them. But they can't. Guys ain't tough
enough anymore.''
''I'd like to write a story about you,'' I said.
''All right, sir,'' he said quietly. A maroon cap hid most of his
balding head with its white stubble of hair, and a T-shirt with the
words FORWARD MOTION covered his still-muscular chest. ''They think
they can tire me out,'' he said, as if he had been one of the men in
the ring. ''They can't. I can outlast them all. They try to kill me,
and I be relaxin'. I know how to breathe and how to throw punches.
You're not in condition, you're gonna get your brains scattered to
the wrong part of your head. Can't never quit in a ring. All that
crap about defense -- take it and put it up your butt.
Conditioning.'' He threw a combination at a heavy bag and walked over
to two women lying on tables, doing leg lifts. ''Everybody gets sick
when they first come here,'' he warned one. ''It'll go away. Tomorrow
I'm gonna murder you.''
His tone turned gentle now, as if he were an old man telling his
assembled grandchildren a story before bed. I moved closer to hear.
''You know, if you didn't get your ticket before Friday when I
fought,'' he said, ''forget about it. They was none left. I had 2,000
ladies came to see me. They'd yell, 'Uh- oh, here comes that tiger
again.' And anyplace I go now I hear people say these same words: 'We
been watchin' and we been lookin', tryin' to find another Beau Jack,
but we ain't never seen another one. How did you keep throwing
punches from one end of the bell to the other, Beau Jack?'
''Well, you have to love people to do that. They kept screamin'
'Beau Jack, Beau Jack,' '' -- his fists began to punch the air --
''so I loved 'em and had $ to fight harder and harder and harder.
Didn't want no people talkin' about me like I was a dog. I had to do
good for my guests. I love every human being God put on this earth.
We're here for one reason -- to attract each other. I fought that
way, for love.''

Pools of dusk had begun to form in the corners of the gym; in ones
and twos the boxers toweled their sweat, called goodbye to Beau Jack
and departed. ''That bone tried to jump up and get away, but I chased
it down and caught it, and I ain't even got no teeth, that's how good
that chicken was you cooked for me,'' he said to one of the two women
he was conditioning. ''You comin' back to work out tomorrow, aren't
you?''
When she was gone, I asked if I could accompany him home. I wanted
to meet his wife and the 15 children that people said he had
fathered. ''No need for that,'' he said. ''We disbanded. Sometimes
it's best to just disband yourself.''
''Who do you live with?''
''Nobody. Myself.''
''Where?''
''One-room place, few blocks from here. Don't need nothin' else.''
I asked what he did alone at night.
''I play blackjack against a dead man's hand,'' he said. ''When I
win, I put the cards on my side. He wins, I put 'em on his side.
Funny, 99 times out of a hundred, the dead man wins.''
Carefully he reached under a desk in his shabby corner cubicle,
pulled out his boxing plaques and awards, and tucked them into a
black bag. He placed it on his shoulder, locked up the gym and headed
home. A block away, he paused. At the night air, he threw a pair of
punches."

(by Gary Smith - Sports Illustrated)

 

"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

 

Sparring partner to Mickey Walker – June 1927 (aged 14)


"When Mickey Walker was signed up to defend his world middleweight title against Scotsman Tommy Milligan at the Olympia on the above date the whole world of British boxing fans were agog with interest.

Jack Kearns, Walker’s manager, struck camp at Taggs Island, which was situated in the middle of the Thames river at Hampton Court. Kearns, who was the former manager of Jack Dempsey, former heavyweight champion of the world, was very businesslike and arranged what order we would spar with his present champ.

As he looked at me I could see the disappointment in his eyes, and he said, 'You’re far too light for this job.' I weighed 7st-12lb or 110lb, American method. My manager explained to him that I was engaged for my speed, not my strength. Mickey, who was talking to another of his partners, noticed that we were talking, rather excitedly came to us and on hearing the cause of the argument said, 'Okay I’ll just spar with him last to speed me up, and he better be fast.'

I sat at the ringside and watched Mickey spar two rounds each with a Malcolm Campbell, middleweight champion of Scotland and Tom Fowler, a heavyweight who had served his time as a sparring partner to most of our leading heavies. Walker, not a brilliantly clever boxer but clever just the same, with a K.O. punch in either hand, and I was his sparring partner. One of his punches could kill me. Still, I had a job to do and I intended to do it as well as I could.

While watching Mickey spar I had noticed that he would make his partner miss with their initial punch by swaying backward, and then counter [the hopelessly reaching boxer] with his right. At the first opportunity I had, I feinted with my left lead, Mickey drew back from his hips and was temporarily defenceless as I moved forward and connected with a perfect right hand punch on his jaw. Mickey stopped boxing, shook hands, patted me on the back and said, 'That was a great punch kid.'

After I had finished my training I was told that we had been booked to appear at Jimmy Butler’s boxing booth at the Welsh Harp, Hendon in the evening and that I was to stand on the front of the booth and take on all comers. I did two houses, which means I had two fights, three rounds each. Still, it brought my manager in a few shillings and saved me wasting time. I only fought two fights as there was not time for any more, as it was 10pm and the fair was closing down.

(On another occasion, as I had missed a 15 rd contest at Premierland on Sunday, my opponent Young Siki had not turned up, the Prof sent me the next day, Bank Holiday Monday, to work at a boxing booth at Lea Bridge Road. When I started work I created something of a sensation as it seemed that most of the young men in the crowd wanted to take me on as I was 15 years of age, skinny and did not look like a fighter.)

Still, the time saved me from having several more bouts. I’d had an easy day, only having sparred with the world middleweight champion and fought two opponents at a booth. I was very proud at having sparred with the world’s middleweight champion and also pleased that Mickey had pulled his punches."

- Nipper Pat Daly.





( via - http://blog.boxinghistory.org.uk/2012/11/sparring-partner-to-mickey-walker-june.html )

 

"The tap on the door came at 6 o'clock in the morning. I knew it was 6 o'clock because there was a clock on the dresser, next to a copy of the Bible, and I'd been lying in bed since 2 o'clock looking at it.

The phone had rung all night, friends from Philly and Montana and Tennessee telling me that Howard Cosell had painted Randall Cobb as some kind of a freak of nature on national television.

Yes, Randall took a pounding.

No, he didn't quit. The only other man Holmes has failed to knock out since he became champion was Trevor Berbick, but—as Holmes would tell me later in the day—Berbick wasn't fighting, he was just trying to survive. "Fifteen rounds, after all the shots," Holmes would say, sounding like he was remembering it from a long time ago, "Cobb was still tryin' to win the fight. He fought me harder than anybody."

I got up off the bed and opened the door. "I knew an ambitious young businessman like yourself would be an early riser," he said, coming in. "All of us are early risers.” One of his eyes was swollen half shut, there were six small stitches in the lid of the other one. He sat down on the bed and looked out the window at the Astrodome. It was still raining in Houston, as far as I knew it always had been.

"Are you hurt?” I said. I'd walked with him back to the dressing room after the fight, but I left when he and his trainer George Benton started talking about the next one. I think a lot of George Benton, but I didn't want to hear about any more fighting then.

"It looks a lot worse than it is," he said. "I don't know why, usually it's worse than it looks. No, I'm fine, except my ears." Randall always gets an ear infection after a fight. He hit himself on the side of his head, like a kid who has been in a swimming pool.

I said, "If something comes dripping out of there I'm going to lock myself in the bathroom.”

He smiled and looked at the television. I'd left it on, trying to sleep. It was a Kung Fu rerun, David Carradine remembering the advice of his old dime-eyed teacher on how to disarm a troop of drunk and insensitive American cavalry troops. "You must listen to the color of the sky," he said, "and see the sound of the hummingbird's wing."

"You think I need a blind trainer?" he said.

"He did have a right hand," I said, meaning Holmes.

There was a tiny, unstitched cut about an inch under his left eye, where so many of the right hands had landed, and as he spoke it leaked watery blood down his cheek. The cut must have gone all the way into a tear duct, and his face, on that side, was streaked with two long, bloody tears.

"Are you hurt?” I said.

He shook his head no. "It was just an advanced game of tag," he said, "and Larry won.”

A fresh bloody tear came out of the cut underneath his eye and worked its way down his face."

(by Pete Dexter)


Howard Cosell gave up boxing after calling the fight.


.

 

"Sometimes I was actually just a few pounds over middleweight. I used to get a stiff neck looking up at heavyweights all the time but the lead shoes made me their weight.

‘I’d go to the weigh-in and the commissioner would say, “OK Mr Johnson, you can come over to the scales.’”

Harold leapt from his bed and started shouting, ‘Clunk, clunk, clunk,’ with each step around the room, walking as though it was an effort to lift his feet.

‘The commissioner would look at me suspiciously and say, “You better take those shoes off.’’

‘Then I’d sneeze.’

With that, Harold faked a sneeze that shook his apartment windows and made me jump from my perch at the foot of the bed.

‘I would say that I didn’t want to take my shoes off because I might catch a cold before the fight. “I think I’m coming down with something already,’’ he would tell officials.

‘I’d clunk on to the scales; the commissioner would look at me, look at the scales, look at me and look back at the scales again. He’d scratch his head and say “190lb?” And really I was just over 170lb.

The commissioner would say, “OK, you can walk away now.’’

‘Clunk, clunk, clunk,’ again filled the room as Harold stepped off the make-believe scales and moved around his room.

‘I learned to walk up on my tip-toes so they wouldn’t hear me so much,’ he continued.

With that, Harold tip-toed carefully, demonstrating, on his way back to sit beside me.

‘One time I had a guy come up to me and he said, “You know Harold, you could lose this fight tonight and make very good money.”

‘I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I said, “What do you mean? I’m going to try to win.”’

‘He said, “But you could lose.”’

‘I said, “Noooo way!” In a roundabout way he was telling me to throw the fight. I was scared. Back then there were some bad guys hanging around boxing. Someone wanted me to throw a fight with Archie Moore but they didn’t have to. He beat me fair and square.’

Harold chuckled at that one.

‘So when you finally won the title against Doug Jones, how did you feel?’ ‘I was like a kid who got what he wanted for Christmas,’ he enthusiastically answered. ‘People would ask, “How does it feel Mr Johnson, now you’re champion?” And I was speechless. I was so excited I could hardly reply.

A friend had asked me to get Harold to sign a piece of 10x8 photo paper so he could scan a picture over it. I asked Harold to make his mark, adding he was under no obligation to do so. He said he would try but wasn’t sure he could do it very well. I instantly regretted asking him as he struggled with the pen and scrawled across the slick paper.

With time moving swiftly and the interview becoming increasingly repetitious I asked if he would pose for some photos. A little reluctant at first, he soon warmed to the task.

‘Like this?’ he asked, standing with his hands clasped in front of his belly. ‘How does this look?’ he said, changing position. ‘Is this the type of thing?’ he went on, as he held his hands up in a traditional boxing pose. ‘Yes, Harold. Yes, that’s great.’ ‘One more like that?’ I asked. ‘How about a jab,’ he offered, prodding out his once meticulous left. ‘Good,’ I said, encouragingly. ‘And follow it through with a right hand.’ He was getting into it, smiling, and then he suddenly stopped and looked at me.

‘You came all the way from England to see me?’ ‘Yes, Harold, you were a great champion. Of course.’ ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I might not be how you wanted me to be. I hope you haven’t been disappointed,’ he said softly, as we sat back on the bed. ‘Don’t say that, Harold. I’m privileged to meet you.’ ‘But look at me,’ he said. ‘Harold, you’re brilliant. I can’t believe you’re in such good shape.’ ‘Really?’ he said, looking up hopefully.

‘Are you sure you have to go?’ he asked, as I gathered my things. ‘Yes, I must.’ He thanked me again and crushed my hand once more. I promised we would stay in touch and he watched me walk back down the long, dark corridor towards the lift. I turned and waved, then heard the door close.

(Tris Dixon)

 

October 1937.

At Shawfield Park (Glasgow, Scotland), capacity packed with 40,000 and thousands more unable to get in, it was vintage boxing, the likes of which a man would see, if he was lucky that was, only once in a lifetime.

It was Peter Kane at his greatest - unbeaten in 42 professional fights - and Benny Lynch at his pinnacle - and the best man won.

Peter Kane was a youngster of nineteen and had been a pro since he was sixteen - although he had been fighting long before that as a youth in the booths around the market towns of the North of England. Some scoffed at the idea of such a young fellow taking on the likes of Lynch. Nevertheless, Kane was unbeaten.

The English were convinced he was their answer to Benny Lynch.

Tommy Farr said it was the best fight of any weight he had ever seen. Elky Clark, former British flyweight champion, rated it the greatest flyweight match of boxing history. And Victor McLaglen, the former heavyweight boxer turned sucessful actor, picked him up in his arms to announce to everyone that he was holding the Jack Dempsey of the small men. “Oh boy, what a fight,” he said. In his commissioned report of the fight he enthused even more...

"It’s the most exciting fight of its weight I have ever seen and although Kane was the aggressor until about the ninth round, Lynch seemed to have his measure all the time. . . . You would notice that Kane’s punches had little effect on your boy who seemed as fresh as paint after the fight. Indeed, I was surprised when I met him in Mr Russell Moreland’s office afterwards to see how little bruised he was. How Kane weathered the twelfth round I don’t know. Lynch had him at his mercy . . . it wasn’t a knock out in the accepted sense. Kane was too weak to get up in the thirteenth . . . the gamest loser I have ever seen. And what a clean, fair fight it was. If you can promise me another fight as thrilling and sporting as this one then, boy, I’m certainly coming back to Scotland."

No one ever offered that promise.

And there never was another fight like that night at Shawfield Park, although other Scots were to win world titles. It was the fight men were to speak about for the rest of their lives. It was the fight the fifty-bob fighters, the men who knew and suffered their industry, said they never thought they would see the likes of, for they never thought two men could fight like that. Some of them had seen Jimmy Wilde. But no one had ever produced what they said was the ultimate in the sporting science called pugilism that Benny Lynch produced that night.

(by John Burrowes)

 

August 2, 1980

Aaron Pryor vs. Antonio Cervantes

As the fighters awaited the opening bell they presented a study in contrasts. The 24-year-old Pryor couldn’t stand still. Keyed up and ready to go, he danced about the ring, shadow boxing and flexing his muscles and glaring at Cervantes. Meanwhile the champion sat slumped on his stool like a man patiently waiting for the next bus. A veteran of well over a hundred bouts, this appeared to be just another day at the office for “Kid Pambele,” his facial expression and body language that of someone ready for a dip in the hot-tub, not a world championship fight. Or maybe it was that of a ring-worn veteran who was ripe for the taking.

Columbia’s Antonio Cervantes was something of a mysterious figure to U.S. boxing fans. Despite the fact he had been a world champion for most of the preceding eight years, had dominated the super-lightweight division, and was a living legend in his native Columbia, his face and name were little known, most of his fights taking place in Venezuela and Panama. Another mystery was his age. He insisted he was 34, but he looked older; it was whispered he was past 40. And while he had won 13 straight since losing to the gifted Wilfred Benitez back in 1976, he was a decided underdog going into his defense against Pryor.

But the real mystery was why he was here in the first place, why he had agreed to do what so many would not: take on Aaron “The Hawk” Pryor, in his hometown, no less. But whatever back room deals may have been involved, Pryor finally had a title shot and an appearance on national television.

Pryor had been laying waste to the lightweight division, setting a breakneck pace to compliment his swarming, all-action style. In less than three years he racked up 19 straight wins, all but two by knockout. He was still “Aaron Who?” outside of his native Cincinnati, but the top contenders in the lightweight division were definitely aware of both his presence and his reputation for being a very dangerous individual.

Broadcast live on CBS, Pryor vs. Cervantes followed the timeless script of the proud, old king versus the young upstart in search of glory. At the bell, “The Hawk” tore after the champion, chasing him about the ring and firing a non-stop barrage of leather. Cervantes appeared briefly perplexed by the challenger’s aggression and the absence of any “feeling out” process but soon enough began to find openings for counter shots. Displaying admirable grace under pressure, the champion connected with counter left hooks as Pryor kept barreling in, a veritable buzzsaw, though he landed relatively few effective blows. Setting a whirlwind pace, he forced Cervantes into the ropes again and again but then, with seconds left in the round, a short counter hook followed by a right hand put Pryor down briefly on one knee. Round one to the champion.

The torrid pace continued in the second in what was clearly a contest between youthful exuberance and veteran ring-smarts. Cervantes repeatedly got home with clean punches as Pryor’s brazen attack left him wide open for counter shots, but it was the champion who appeared hurt near the end of the round this time, as Pryor landed two hard right hands. Returning to his corner at the bell, Cervantes could be seen gulping air, the pace already affecting his stamina.

With his cornermen shouting at Pryor to “Go get that old man!” he started the third with two more powerful rights as he worked to take full control of the battle. Seconds later a series of right hands put Cervantes on the run and opened a deep gash over his right eye. The champion scored with solid counters but the punches had no effect on the constantly charging Pryor. Like a shark, the sight of his quarry’s blood drove the challenger to attack with even more intensity, his unceasing assault driving a bewildered Cervantes from one side of the ring to the other. His legs already unsteady, he clinched and held to survive the round.

To his credit, the champion never gave up. Hurt, tired and bleeding, he fought back as Pryor went for the kill in the fourth. His counter punches kept landing on Pryor but they were like small pebbles thrown at a tank; they had no effect and the challenger just kept driving forward. Backing Cervantes into his own corner, Pryor unloaded with right hands. The champion, overwhelmed, tried to clinch but “The Hawk” shrugged him off and kept firing until a crushing overhand right landed flush on Cervantes’ chin and dropped him. The old king gallantly tried to rise but could not. The long championship run of “Kid Pambele” had come to a sudden end.

(by Michael Carbert)

 

What made Mickey Walker different from the norm was that he couldn’t do things within the boundary of a set timetable. For Mickey, the difference between day and night needed to be blurred. Time and timepieces were of scant importance to him.

Manager Jack Kearns made this discovery when he got it into his head that a more regimented training regime would work wonders for Walker and push him to greater heights. Jack got his great idea at Madame Bey’s camp while Mickey was preparing for a fight with King Levinsky. Trainer Teddy Hayes, much more knowing in such matters, was out west on other business and blissfully unaware of this potentially fatal change to Walker’s civilised routine. Kearns’ fanciful notion was at once doomed to failure. It gave Mickey the collywobbles and upset his entire system.

Jack wanted him to cut down on the booze, eschew sweet and fatty foods and go for long runs at the crack of dawn. The great plan quickly bombed. The clincher, the one rule that gave Walker the shudders more than any other, was that he had to go to bed early.

As hard as he tried, Mickey simply couldn’t persist with what he regarded as the sacrilegious act of retiring to his bed on the same day he got out of it.


(by Mike Casey)