bits and pieces

what i am going to do here is post some of my saved articles in this thread, i think its neater and less messy than making a lot of seperate posts each day and in turn making this section of the forum a bit messy.
i dont imagine theres much here that the posters here may not have seen before, but maybe one or two things might be interesting.
this is a thread i have had running on another boxing forum and it is bits and pieces i have gathered up over the years, either by saving things to disc i have found (as i have been caught out many times returning to a site to read an article and the site would be gone, so i am in the habit of saving things that interest me), or scans from the boxing books and magazines which i have in my collection here.
i consider myself a huge boxing history fan rather than a boxing historian, i'm not a boxing historian - theres a huge difference between the two discriptions....there are some amazing boxing historians on this forum who i have got great pleasure from reading over the years and would never be niave enough to compare myself to them....and some of them like mcgrain i will be quoting here.

please feel free anyone to correct anything which any of you feel is not correct in any of this lot......the credit for each article goes to the original author and i am just a curator, much like a magpie is really

i also post a lot of this in the facebook page i set up - http://www.facebook.com/classicboxingsociety

and also a blog which is easier to seach through older posts -
http://classicboxingsociety.blogspot.ie/

thats it really


there's no theme to this apart from classic-era boxing, so it'll be a bit of a mish-mash.
i'll be re-posting some of the articles i posted here in last few days to begin and then continue on i suppose.

a lot of these articles have images that in some cases really compliment the article...i can't embed images in posts here but will leave links at the bottom of each post where theres an image that relates to the post

 

Tom Heeney v Gene Tunney...by Gene Tunney

"Let me give you a story I've never completely told before...I was in my best form for this fight. Absolutely indefatigable. I was determined to knock Heeney down with my first punch. I walked out and hit him with a straight right hand—a terrific blow—but he didn't go down.

'Oh, oh!' I said to myself, 'this fellow is tough.' I decided then to box him. For four rounds I hit him so often about the head that my wrist began to get sore and I shifted to his body. Then in the eighth round I hit him again with another solid right, just above the eye. I saw Heeney back away, trying to pry open his eye with his glove, even though the eye hadn't been closed.

I knew what had happened. I had had two personal friends lose the sight of an eye after being hit in that spot. It damages the blood vessel, you know. Heeney had been temporarily blinded. I stepped back and did not hit him again for the rest of the round.

Between rounds it was my habit to observe my opponent's corner. I saw Jimmy Dawson, a boxing writer, rush over to ask Charley Harvey, who managed Heeney, what had happened. Then I saw Harvey make a jabbing motion with his thumb, implying that I had stuck my thumb in Heeney's eye.

I was furious....for the next two rounds I gave Heeney a terrible beating—the worst beating of his life, and all because of his manager. But in the 11th round he was still rushing me. 'There's heart!' I said to myself. I evaded him, and he almost fell. Then I turned to the referee and said: " 'If you want me to go on hitting this man, I won't be responsible for the consequences.' And he stopped the fight.
During the last war I made a trip to the Solomon Islands. I found that Heeney was also there—he had become an American citizen and a first-class seaman in the Seabees. I had him transferred, which was a very difficult thing to do, and made a chief athletic specialist, tripling his pay.

Now sometime after the war I ran into Ernest Hemingway, and he said, 'Tom Heeney tells me you were a dirty fighter.'

'Tom Heeney said that? Do you mind if I ask him about it?'

Hemingway said he had no objections. So the next time I was in Miami I took a cab over to Heeney's bar on the Beach. I walked in and had a Martini, but there was no sign of Tom. Then a woman came over and said she was Mrs. Heeney. She said that some men at the bar had told her I was Gene Tunney.

She called Tom, who was at his apartment, and when he arrived I repeated what Hemingway had told me.

'Yes, Gene,' Heeney said. 'You were a dirty fighter.'

'Tom, I don't understand you,' I said. 'Would it be reasonable for me to try to maim you, and then immediately step back and allow you to recover?'

Heeney had to admit that it wouldn't be at all reasonable. Well, we parted friends, but I don't know even today if that man believed in his heart that I was telling the truth."

(Gene Tunney)

 

Wills and Langford

"I was in in Panama a few years ago, with Kid Norfolk, the coloured heavyweight, and champion of the Isthumus. The kid had licked them all and was taking it easy, as is his custom.
Things were getting a little monotonous when suddenly word slipped about the little republic that Harry Wills of New Orleans was in the country. Norfolk packed his grip and left for the United States. He made no bones about why he was leaving. Simply stated he was not in the New Orleans mans class.

Wills took on several heavyweights imported there as a source of amusment for the sport-hungry Americans and Panamanians and then the crop failed.
Sam Langford was brought down for a try-out with Wills. They fought twice. Langford took the full count both times from punches delivered in the region of the stomach. Sam lay on the floor and writhed in aparent agony for 5 or 10 minutes and the crowd on each occasion yelled 'Fake!!".

Harry's wife was there for the first meeting. She is a nice-looking coloured woman and seemed to be entirely of the opinion that her husband would shelve 'The Tar Baby' and so expressed herself to the crowd in unmeasured terms. She went about with a wad of good sized bills betting on her husband. Sam had a lot of supporters and when the end came pork and beans were assured for the Wills family for an indefinite period.

When the two men stepped into the ring it looked like a fight between an aberdeen angus bull and a cougar. Wills looked entirely too ready for the Boston gentleman and he stepped right up and stabbed Langford inummerable times in the face. This seemed to only irrate Sam and he made a move to clinch but Wills side-stepped and slapped him again with great earnestness. None of these things pleased the Tar Baby and he referred to Wills unbecomingly and he tossed an uppercut towards Wills chin, the intention of which was in no way disguised. This seemed to bring Wills to a realisation that Sam was cross about something and he wrapped himself around his opponent in such a manner that the referee, who was a very able-bodied citizen, could hardly pry them apart.

As they were seperated Sam looked at the crowd and smiled. Wills did not think this was the right thing for Samuel to do and expressed his indignation by cutting his eye open. My, but did Sam act ugly for a while. But he cooled down later and stood like a block of Vermont granite and took the jabs offered by Wills with becoming dignity. This sort of thing kept up for six rounds, then Harry reached down in his shoe and pulled forth a blow that looked like a streak of sunlight. His hand disapeared in Langford's midriff and Sam doubled up and fell flat on his face on the floor. He did not put out his hands to protect himself. His hands were as useless as a pair of worn-out socks and about as limp. He made serveral ineffectual efforts to rise. He did succeed in getting to his corner some 10 minutes later, with the help of Wills, the referee and two physicians, which showed great will-power.
Sam said the blow was a foul.

The second fight, fought a month later, was about the same as the first, with the exception that Sam did not collect Wills knuckles until the 7th round, but the effect was the same. Sam gathered his end of the purse after this fight and placing it in his pocketbook left the Isthumus.

I saw both fights. They may have been faked. I am not capable of judging, but Wills attitude during the fights and after them struck me very favourably. He is quiet, reserved and very polite outside of the ring. I believe that if Wills and Dempsey were to ever meet Dempsey will have his championship crown knocked into the Great Lakes."

(by Sid Smith - The Gazette Times - Oct 8, 1922)

.........

Sam Langford often fought the same opponents over and over as was typical of coloured boxers at the time. Langford and Wills tangled at least seventeen times (up to twenty-two times by some sources) between 1914 and 1922. They knocked each other out twice and Wills generally had the better of the series, although it must be noted that the first meeting occurred when Langford was 31 years old.

The first Wills v Langford fight was a 10-round newspaper decision win for Langford. The rematch (pictured here) in November 1914 and second fight in their long series went like this -
"With a left swing to the jaw, Sam Langford of Boston knocked out Harry Wills from New Orleans, in the fourteenth round of a scheduled twenty-round fight this afternoon at Vernon. Both men were knocked down repeatedly, Langford himself taking the count four times in the first two rounds. Langford early in the fight hurt his left ankle as he fell to the mat in a vicious breakaway. Wills' effective straight-arm drives gave him an apparent even break in most of the rounds, but Langford fought with a superior knowledge of the game that gradually wore out Wills. As the soreness left Langford's injured ankle, his footwork improved and the twelfth, thirteenth and fourteenth rounds showed Langford winning. His speed, judgment and force then enabled him to play with Wills. The final swing was delivered after a torrent of blows had left Wills staggering." (Indianapolis Star)

Langford had more than ten fights each against Sam McVey, Joe Jeannette, Jim Barry, Jeff Clark, and Bill Tate.

After over three hundred recorded bouts, Sam Langford retired in 1926 at the age of 43. In his last years in the ring, he was troubled by eye problems which eventually resulted in blindness. In 1944, Al Laney of the New York Herald Tribune decided to write a story about Langford, but he had trouble finding him. Several people suggested that Langford was probably dead, but Laney persisted and finally found Langford living at a rooming house on 139th Street in New York City. Langford had 20 cents in his pocket. Shortly after Laney's story was published, a fund was set up for Langford. As a result, he lived relatively comfortably for the rest of his days. Langford passed away suffering from diabetes on January 12, 1956 at a private nursing home in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Harry Wills retired from boxing in 1932, also at the age of 43, and ran a successful real estate business in Harlem, New York. He was known for his yearly fast, in which, once a year, he would live on only water for a month. Wills died, ironically also from diabetes, on December 21, 1958. He left an estate valued at over $100,000, including a 19-family apartment building in upper Harlem. His biggest regret in life was never getting the opportunity to fight Jack Dempsey for the World Title.

 

Joanne Jackson on Johnny Bratton


"Before Johnny left for his New York training camp we talked at length about the future and he told me he knew we had not spent enough time together, that it had been one training session after another, but he tried to explain to me that he was finally in the position he had been waiting so many years to reach. He felt that if he won the title he wouldn't have to worry about anything else. He explained that champions get the largest share of the gate receipts and that he wouldn't have to fight as often as he had previously done working to the top.

I flew to New York the day before the fight and registered at the Roosevelt Hotel. Johnny had come in from camp and stayed at the Edison Hotel. Johnny came to see me the afternoon of the fight just after he had left the weighin and, as always, there were three or four fellows with him. He had to go eat his dinner at Jack Dempsey's restaurant at 4 o'clock so we didn't have much time together. As I walked to the elevator with him I took his hand and he flinched. I asked him about it and he told me not to worry. But I couldn't help worrying because I knew Johnny was no complainer.

I could not stand to watch the fight and shortly after the first round I went out to the lobby and walked around. The scene soon resembled a motion picture. One by one all of the people who had been sitting in our section—Johnny had purchased all of the tickets together—came out to the lobby and even Johnny's brothers joined us. His oldest brother passed me as if he didn't recognize me, and when I ran up to him all he said was, "They should stop it. Johnny has been hurt." I thought the fight would never end, and finally, from what seemed like a great distance, I could hear the announcer say: " Kid Gavilan, the winner!"

At the dressing room I learned Johnny was to be taken to the hospital right away. His jaw had been broken a third time and he had a broken bone in his right hand. I will never be convinced that he didn't go into the ring with a broken hand. In spite of his handicaps Johnny finished the full 15 rounds and was never knocked down. Within the next few days he had the wisdom teeth on the right side of his jaw removed, as had been done to the left side just a year before, and went back to the camp where he had trained for the fight. He said he needed time to get himself together and he wanted to be alone where he could think things out clearly and decide what his next move would be.

Johnny stayed at camp for almost two months. I was coming to the point where I felt that our marriage would never work. The baby was a little more than a year old now and he didn't even know his father. We didn't have any place that we could call home. Johnny agreed with me in principle, but he kept repeating one idea—this was no time to become disheartened. He asked for more time to get himself together.

It seemed he was always able to reach that point in fighting where he had only one more fight to win and everything would be all right in his world. Then, at the crucial moment with everything at stake, he could never pull through this last fight.

After a brief visit to Detroit, Johnny went to Chicago and I didn't hear from him again for two months. I tried calling everywhere but to no avail. His mother said she hadn't seen him, and even though I left messages he never returned my calls. He hadn't called even to find out how the baby was.

I got a job in Detroit and was working for about three weeks when one evening the phone rang. "Hi, Jo, what are you doing?" Johnny said casually. I had planned for weeks what I would say to him. Now that the time was here I was at a loss for words. The reason he hadn't gotten in touch with me, he said, was because there was nothing he could tell me. When I told him I was working he became quite disturbed and said he would be in Detroit the next day. The next day when I came home from work his car was parked in front of the house. I tried to be stern and forceful in the things I said to him but deep down inside I could see the change that had come over him and I knew he hadn't been too happy either. Johnny had decided to give fighting another try.

We had become indebted to the IBC to the extent of some $18,000, and Mr. Wallman had sent Johnny money during these months he had been laid off. We also owed the government $36,000 in back income taxes. Johnny explained that he knew no other way to erase these tremendous financial obligations. Mr. Wallman had told Johnny he wanted us to come to New York where he would get an apartment for us and make all the necessary arrangements. He would advance Johnny any money necessary for current living expenses until he could fight again. I wanted to go to New York, or anywhere else where we could all be together.

I came to New York and took a cab to Flushing, Long Island, which was to be our address and home from that first day of October 1951. It was more than I had expected. Johnny came in from camp and finished training at home for his next bout against Wilbur Wilson. It was the first time I had ever been able to cook his meals, go to the gym with him, take care of his clothes and really feel that I was helping him in his career.

At 26, when most men are just reaching the height of their careers, Johnny was an old man in the ring. On November 13, 1953 he was to fight Kid Gavilan again for the welterweight title. This was his second attempt to become world champion, and still the only prayer that I could offer was for him not to get hurt. The day of the fight Johnny seemed weaker than I had seen him in a long time and his face was very thin and drawn. The tension was stronger than I had ever felt it before. Everywhere the fight was advertised and everywhere people were after Johnny for attention. Under the pressure, Johnny did a funny thing. He shadowboxed on the street, something he had never done before.

I left the hotel for the fight a full half hour after it had started and I went in the first church I saw on the way to the stadium. I think it was a Catholic church, though I'm not a Catholic. The fight was still going on when I reached the stadium. I waited near the dressing room. After an eternity I could hear the crowds of people rushing from their seats, and again the announcer's voice reached my ears: "And still welterweight champion of the world, Kid Gavilan."

A crowd gathered at the dressing room door, and photographers began asking me to pose for pictures and popping questions at me from all sides. I saw Kid Gavilan come through and finally caught a glimpse of Johnny being almost carried by his handlers. Johnny's mother came past me, and the officer on the door allowed us to go into the dressing room, which was already so overcrowded with people that it was hard to catch your breath.

Johnny was in a prone position on the table and his face was completely covered by towels. For the first time in my life I heard him cry. I left the dressing room to try to compose myself. When Johnny finally came out he had on dark glasses, but they did not cover the horrible sight of his completely disfigured face. At the hotel the outer room of the suite was filled to capacity with people. When I went into the bedroom I wanted to turn and run but most of all I wished that I would soon awaken from what I hoped was a nightmare.

Johnny's face was indistinguishable. His eyes were so swollen that he couldn't open them at all. I walked up to the bed and he said, "Jo, is that you?" He then reached out his swollen hand to touch me. He wasn't out of his head but he just kept repeating that he couldn't understand what had happened to him. He said that he lost all of his strength in the seventh round. It was difficult for him to talk because he had gotten hit in the Adam's apple and he complained that his throat was very sore.

It was two days before Johnny could open his eyes at all. I came into the room and he said, "Jo, I can see you"—just as a child might have said it. I read him all of the newspapers and telegrams that he had received, and before long his friends started coming by. His parents took me aside and begged me to get him to stop fighting. I tried to explain what had happened before and that I was resigned to the fact that Johnny would not quit until he made the decision himself."

(Joanne Jackson - former wife of Johnny Bratton)


http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WcFP5uE5D...1449_447049028773449_934322633090759674_n.jpg

 

a short jersey joe walcott story

In 1935 Jersey Joe Walcott had become a boxing big shot around Camden, New Jersey, although this did nothing to help his financial situation as he was in debt and running out of credit. He and his wife Lydia were being hounded by the grocery store, the milkman and the landlord for immediate payment. Needing money, Walcott agreed to face his old mentor Roxie Allen. Allen had been calling Joe out for some time and had openly challenged him, so a fight was arranged at the convention hall.

Arriving for the fight, Joe was unexpectedly stopped at the entrance by a stranger who wanted to introduce Joe to a small dark man. “Here is the original,” said the stranger “Meet Joe Walcott, the Barbados Demon himself.” Joe was absolutely thrilled and inspired by the incident. After all, Joe Walcott was Jersey Joe’s idol. Although Joe didn’t have a dime to his name to buy a ticket, he managed to get his hero a ringside seat.

The fight started off as a bit of a shock for Walcott. Roxie, in a burst of fury, floored Jersey Joe with a big left hook in round one for a count of seven. Once up, Walcott proceeded to batter Allen without mercy, finally knocking Roxie out in round eight with a left hook. The blow sent Roxie to the canvas, his head hitting the floor of the ring hard enough to make it bounce. Roxie’s body stiffened and Jersey Joe again had the awful feeling that he might have killed an opponent. Roxie was taken to Cooper Hospital. That night Joe prayed for God to spare Roxie’s life. The next afternoon Roxie regained consciousness, but remained hospitalized for ten days. After the fight the Barbados Demon paid Joe a visit in his dressing room, giving him a hug and saying, “Lots of fellers take the name Joe Walcott but you’re the only boy I ever saw I was actually proud to have using it.”

For his victory over Allen, Joe walked away with $375. By the next evening, every cent of it was gone to pay the grocery store, landlord, milkman and a dozen other credits. By the next morning the family were living on markers once again.

(by James Curl)

 

Elbows McFadden by Johnny Brannigan

(click on image to enlarge when it loads)

part 1 -
http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-drLBCpNQIF...00/elbows1.jpg


part 2 -
http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bguvdl-NHs...00/elbows2.jpg

 

"One afternoon, Jack Dempsey strolled quietly into Stillman's gym on eight avenue and after passing the time of day with several old pals, he walked up on to the balcony while "Two Ton" Tony Galento was going through the motions of working out. Galento was fatter than ever, hopelessly out of condition and quite obviously doing nothing about it.

Anyway, he didn't see Dempsey and continued waddling lazily around the ring, clowning wisecracking and grinning as he fooled with his sparring parthers. After watching a couple of rounds Dempsey came down to ringside. He was wearing a beautifully cut light grey suit, tan and white shoes, and white silk shirt and when Tony caught a sight of him, he waved a glove at the ex champ.

''Hiya Jack" he grinned. ''You look like a million bucks dis afternoon'' Dempsey gave him a mean look, ''never mind how I look, you big bum" he said "lets see you do some work''

Galento must have thought he was joking, because he made no attempt to speed up his work and carried on ambling around until Dempsey blew up. ''Have you a pair of Gloves Ray?" called out Dempsey. Then taking off his coat, he stripped right down to his white silk, monogrammed underpants and vaulted into the ring.

''Now Tony'' he said ''it's you and me. I'II show you how we used to do it'' He began huming a little tune - and old Dempsey mannerism- and then, as Galento backed away, he flashed into action. Jack was 40 years old, but his body was lean and tanned, and for three memorable minutes he was the old Dempsey, the murderous, tearaway Manassa Mauler of the 1920's.

He ripped punches into Galento's podgy torso from all angles, split his lips with a terrific left and sent the blood spurting from his nose. ''Lay Off Jack'' Galento gasped as he staggered backwards vainly trying to cover up. But Dempsey showed him no mercy, he chased after him until time was called.

Still breathing easily Dempsey ducked under the ropes and began to dress, while Galento stood shaking his head in a semi daze and trying to wipe the blood from his face with the back of his gloves.

When dressed, Dempsey gave him one contemptuous look. ''That's how we used to fight!!" "

(Ray Arcel: A Boxing Biography)

 

If Victor Perez's story ended with his boxing career, it would still have been rather notable. The Tunisian-born Jew became the youngest world champion in boxing history when he took the flyweight crown shortly after turning 20.

He didn't stay on the top for long. A love affair with a French actress and a hard-partying lifestyle derailed his career. He soon lost his title, and couldn't regain it.

When World War II came, Perez thought that he would be safe in Paris. He was sadly mistaken, as the Nazis caught him and sent him to Auschwitz.

And this is when the storyline veers. When the Nazis found out about Perez's boxing past, they forced him to fight for their amusement, often against boxers twice his size. He kept emerging victorious, using the food he won to feed his fellow prisoners. When the Nazi defeat became all but certain, Auschwitz's prisoners were taken on a Death March. Four months before the war would end, Perez was caught giving bread to another prisoner. He was shot on the spot.

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

From www.boxrec.com:

Perez was arrested by local police on October 10, 1943, and deported to the Auschwitz death camp in Poland. According to reports, Perez was forced to fight in the bi-weekly boxing matches at the camp. The fights were bet on by the Nazi officers in command of the camp. The winners of these matches were awarded with bread and soup, while the loser was executed.
Perez's first fight in the camp was against a German-Jewish heavyweight (inmate) named Iorry. Even though his opponent was over a foot taller, and 50 pounds heavier, Perez scored a knockout. Perez went on to fight twice a week, every week, for the next 15 months, reportedly scoring 140 straight knockout victories.

In 1945, Perez was evacuated from the camp. It was reported that on the road near a camp called Gleiwitz, Perez attempted to pass bread through a fence to another inmate, and was shot and killed by Nazi guards. Some sources list his death in January 1945, others in March.

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

Perez was a fighter who was full of energy; He was not a power hitter but was a non-stop puncher; He lost only 28 of 134 bouts and scored 27 knockouts; During his career, he won the NBA Flyweight Championship of the World, the IBU Flyweight Championship of the World and the Flyweight Championship of France

Victor defeated such men as Frankie Genaro, Emile Pladner, Valentin Angelmann, Nicolas Petit-Biquet, Eugene Huat, Kid Francis, Aurel Toma, Vittorio Tamagnini, Kid Socks and Carlos Flix

Perez was inducted into the International Jewish Sports Hall of Fame in 1986

http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6ewpFN1du...s/mDkoklMpaoU/s1600/perez-victor-young-11.jpg

 

which is a similar story in a lot of ways to harry haft...

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


The story of Harry Haft who was a survivor of a Nazi concentration camp in WW2, surviving by winning bare-knuckle fights in which the loser died during the fight or was executed. Eventually he escaped the camp and his life brought him to professional boxing and to a fight with Rocky Marciano.

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

"Harry Haft was born in Poland in 1925. “It was anything but good fortune to be born a Jew in Poland in 1925,” wrote his son. “Harry would think back on his birth as his first act of survival in an increasingly miserable time.”
One of eight children, Haft was sturdy and strong from the day he was born. His mother, who was so heavy she did not even know she was pregnant with him, was working over a basin when he dropped from her body, landing headfirst on the floor.

His father died when he was three years old, and from the time he was a youngster, the wide-shouldered and extremely muscular fatherless Haft had a fiery temper, which was displayed mostly against anti-Semitic youths. Early on it was obvious that if provoked, he had no qualms about finishing arguments with his massive fists.

In 1939, when he was 14 years old, Haft witnessed the German occupation of Poland. Under Nazi occupation, Haft together with his older brother ran a smuggling business.

In 1941, at aged 16, Haft was deported to Auschwitz because he was Jewish. He spent nearly six years in slave labor. During those six years Harry had been shot, bayoneted, beaten half to death and starved.

Because of his strong physical stature an SS overseer trained him to be a boxer, and had him compete at fights to the death in front of the military personnel. The fights took place at the concentration camp Jaworzno, which was situated at a coal mine north of Auschwitz. Haft fought 76 fights at this concentration camp. When the camp in Jaworzno was dissolved because of the advancing Soviet Red Army, the inmates were sent on death marches. (Those still alive when the marchers reached the coast were forced into the Baltic Sea and shot)

Having witnessed countless acts of horrific sadism, Haft made his escape while on his death march. He stole the uniform and weapon of a German soldier whom he had killed with his bare hands. He then tried to pass himself off as a lost soldier to an elderly German couple who he encountered at their farmhouse.

When they suspected—or he thought they suspected—that he might not be who he said he was, he feared that they would turn him into authorities. Knowing he would be tortured or killed if that occurred, Haft shot them to death without giving it a second thought.

After eventually journeying to America, via the assisstance of American liberators, Haft arrived in New York and began boxing out of desperation.
While boxing in America, Haft encountered even more problems, especially when gangsters Frankie Carbo and Blinky Palermo tried to take control of his career. He won his first twelve fights, but lost against a more experienced boxer in Westchester County Center on 5 January 1949. After this loss, his career never recovered. His final fight was against Rocky Marciano, on 18 July 1949 in Rhode Island Auditorium, in what was Marciano's 18th professional fight. Haft claimed that he was threatened by the Mafia and forced to throw the fight against Marciano.

As Haft warmed up in the dressing room, he said three men entered and threatened to kill him if he did not go down in round one. After they departed, Haft asked his manager what he should do. The manager just shrugged his shoulders and said he did not know.

Having already survived Nazi death camps, the undeterred Haft refused to go along. An article in the Providence Journal described him as “a rusher with very little style,” and said that he “landed the first good punch of the fight, a hard right to Marciano’s midsection.”

Marciano hurt Haft in the second with a right hand that sent him reeling into the ropes. Two follow-up lefts had Haft groggy at the bell.

“Two hard punches to Haft’s head—a left and a right—were Marciano’s openers in the third,” reported John Hanlon in the Journal. “At the halfway mark, Haft rallied briefly. But it was too late.”

Marciano hit Haft with a left to the gut that he followed up with his fabled right hand. Haft was finished. According to the Journal, he “received a fine reception as he left the ring.”

After his loss to Marciano, Haft retired. He married in 1949 and opened a fruit and vegetable store in Brooklyn.

In April 2007, Haft was included in the National Jewish Sports Hall of Fame. He died in November of the same year, aged 82.

(Wikipedia / Robert Mladinich)


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

which recently became a comic graphic novel...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6c3FYeHX_A

 

Billy Miske's last fight

In 1918, Billy Miske was told by his doctor that he had Bright’s disease, a kidney related condition, and that he had five years to live, if he was lucky...especially in a sport where punches to those kidneys were likely.
Miske decided to keep the news from his family, only telling his manager, and he continued to box, most notably losing to Jack Dempsey in a third-round knockout in 1920.
Despite that loss to Dempsey, Miske continued to fight and win for the most part, only losing one fight from over twenty between 1921 and 1922, but by 1923 his health was failing and his time was running out.
In November 1923, struggling financially and with a strong desire to give his wife and three kids one last memorable Christmas together, Miske convinced his manager Jack Reddy to get him a fight.

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

“Jack,” said Billy, “get me a fight.”
“You must be kidding, you’re in no condition to fight,” Jack replied.
“Get me a fight anyway!”
Jack shook his head. “I won’t do it.”
“Look, Jack,” pleaded Billy, “I’m flat broke. I know I haven’t long to go, and I want to give Marie and the kids one more happy Christmas before I check out. I won’t be around for another. Please get me one more payday. I want to make Christmas this year something Marie and the children will always remember me for.”
“Look,” said Jack, “you know as well as I do that if you were to fight in your present condition you might be killed.”
“Sure, but I’m a fighter and I’d rather die in the ring than while sitting home in a rocking chair.”
Jack pulled out his wallet. “Let me help you. How much do you need?”
“No way,” Bill put his hand up like a wall. “I’ve never taken a handout and I’m not gonna start now.”
“Here’s what I’ll do,” Jack said. “You go to the gym and start working out. If you get into any reasonable kind of shape, we’ll talk about getting you a match.”
“You know I can’t do that,” Billy replied. “It’s impossible for me to train, but I’ve got to have one more fight for my family’s sake. Please do it for me. Please.”
Jack sighed. “I’ll live to regret this.” He stuffed his wallet back into his pocket. “Let me see what I can do.”
...............................

His opponent was Bill Brennan, whom he knocked out, taking a $2,400 payday in the process, which he used to make his last Christmas with family unforgettable. Billy bought a piano for his wife Marie, who was an accomplished singer, and piles of gifts for his three children. The next day, Billy called Jack Reddy and asked Jack to take him to the hospital. En route, Billy told Marie for the first time that he was dying.

Miske died on New Year's Day. He was 29 years old.


(By John Hinderaker)

 

McFarland, Cleverest Boxer of All Time, Proved Champions Aren't Always Best
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Edgren Says Chicagoan at Official 135 Today Would Be Kingpin.
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Packey, Success in Ring, Showed Same Sagacity in Business World.
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By ROBERT EDGREN. (1934)

Packy McFarland, now a State Athletic Commissioner in Illinois, was the cleverest fighter I ever saw in the ring, bar none, at any weight. Like a lot of others, Packey started his career with a long string of knockouts. He knocked out 14 of his first 15 opponents. In his first four years he had 42 fights, and won 33 with knockouts. But he developed amazing speed and skill, and after that knocked his men out only when he had to. He had a lot more fun making them look foolish in the ring.

I first heard of McFarland when a New York friend of mine, Mart Waterman, who missed very few good fights while taking business trips around the country, dropped me a line from Chicago.

"I've just seen the greatest lightweight I ever looked at," he wrote. "His name is Packey McFarland."

On returning to New York he told me the story. Mart went to see Battling Nelson, lightweight champion, who was showing in Chicago, in a theater near the stockyards district. Among the boys who wanted to put the gloves on with the champ was a tall, lean, curly-haired youngster, who volunteered for a couple of rounds. Bat asked Mart to come up back of the scenes and hold the watch on his bouts. Nelson was a great endurance fighter, rugged, tough, furiously aggressive, not much of a boxer. He sailed into Packey intent of scoring a quick knockout. But Packey wasn't waiting to be socked. He went into a whirling attack himself, all around Nelson, dodging the champ's flying gloves with ease, picking at Nelson, jabbing his head back, stopping his rushes with swift counters.

Nelson was surprised, annoyed and finally enraged. He couldn't lay a glove on the youngster, and he was getting his head nearly punched off. He was cut, jarred, bruised, humiliated and he couldn't do a thing. A fine exhibition for a champion. The crowd was up on the seats, yelling, and Waterman was so interested in the fight he forgot he was holding the watch. Nelson finally grabbed Packey, wrestled around near the timekeeper and snorted: "Call time, you big bum! Whadda ya think this is, a Marathon?" Mart glanced at his watch. The round had gone five minutes. He yelled "time."

During the rest Bat Nelson tried to catch Mart's eye, but Mart wouldn't look at him. The second round started. It was worse than the first, for Nelson was getting winded. In fairness to Bat, he had been on a theatrical tour and was in no condition for a fast fight. Packey clipped and banged him all over the ring. Nelson was bleeding and his eyes were puffing up and he was panting as he never panted in a fight. He snarled at the timekeeper and made various threats, but Waterman didn't call time. He was enjoying the fight too much to stop it, and it was too good a joke on Bat. Finally Nelson called "time" himself and made a dive for the timekeeper. But Mart discreetly slipped the watch into his pocket and hopped off the stage into the crowd. He gave Bat plenty of time to cool off before going to the dressing room to return the watch. Bat was just having a talk with his manager, Billy Nolan.

"Billy," said Bat, "you get hold of that kid McFarland right away and sign him up to an ironclad contract. We'll manage him together. I want him in the same stable where I won't have to fight him." Nolan failed to sign McFarland. Packey was fully as smart as Nelson. He was sure he could beat Nelson and he wasn't going to sign away his chance. But he never could get Bat into a match. That was one of the reasons why the cleverest of all lightweights in that or any other day never became champion.

In another year or so Packey was finding it hard to make 133 pounds. He could do 135, but Nelson, naturally a 130-pound lightweight, demanded ringside weight in full fighting costume--and that was that.

Today, at the official 135, Packey would be kingpin of them all. The cleverest exhibition I ever saw any boxer give was by McFarland in the Jack Britton bout in New York in 1913. Packey had boxed a no-decision eight-round bout with Britton in Indiana, and one paper had given Britton the "Newspaper decision." Britton went to New York and Dan Morgan became his manager. Morgan got a large number of copies of the paper mentioned and distributed them through New York sport departments, meanwhile taking a blue streak--Dan is one of the most entertaining talkers I ever listened to--about Britton's "victory over McFarland." Of course, we had all seen Packey fight and considered him a marvel.

The beauty of it was that under Morgan's coaching Britton was becoming the sensation of the New York rings, winning fight after fight and showing quite amazing speed and skill and a wicked punch that furnished a lot of fighters with plenty of class.

So New York sent for McFarland, and Packey came.

Just before the fight Packey said to me: "I'm not going to try to knock Britton out. I'm just going to show him up and get even with that manager of his for saying he beat me in that eight-round fight."

The fight started like a whirlwind, Britton attacking swiftly and confidently. And Packey, grinning, never let go a hard punch, but just circled around Jack with a rapid fire of short, light taps that tipped him off balance and kept his head bobbing back. As it went on round after round Britton, who was as game a fighter as ever lived, went at Packey in plunge after plunge, throwing everything he had into a wild flurry of punches, and never landing anything! I remember Jack desperately tearing after Packey, and Packey, stopping and standing still, ducking or blocking Jack's blows without once moving his feet, meanwhile shutting off Britton's vision by holding one open glove across his eyes and working on him with the other hand.

Used to seeing Britton outboxing other fighters almost as easily, we at the ringside could hardly believe it. And I think we were all sorry for poor Jack when, in sheer exasperation over his inability to land a punch on the teasing McFarland or to make headway against Packey's constant tap-drumming of light hits, Jack went into a crying rage. Like a small boy in a street fight, he tore after Packey with wild swings, tears running in streams down his cheeks. I think Packey was a bit sorry for Jack after the fight. He had had his revenge, and more. Anyway they made peace and became good friends. And Britton proved his real class by twice winning the welterweight world's championship and holding the title for five busy years without ever dodging a challenger.

Packey earned a fortune in the ring and retired. Two years after that they persuaded him to come back and fight Mike Gibbons, who was one of the cleverest and most dangerous of all the good middleweights of that time and claimant of the middleweight championship. Always smart, Packey fixed the weight a notch low for Gibbons. Mike burned himself out getting down to it, and Packey got a majority of the "newspaper decisions." This was in the no-decision period of New York boxing, back in 1915. Packey retired for good and went into business, and just to show how smart he was, aside from boxing, he was one of the few fighters who ever tolled up a million dollars outside the roped arena.


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Jack Mcauliffe....and his ******...

Jack Mcauliffe, who retired as undefeated lightweight champion of the world in 1896, once had a ****** that rode his neck when he did roadwork.
Twenty miles was customary in those days - they trained for finish fights - so the ****** and McAuliffe saw a lot of territory together.

"The Monk would hold on with his legs around my neck, and if I stopped too fast he would grab my ears to stop from falling off" McAuliffe said years later.
*'The Monk' (as McAuliffe referred to him)

McAuliffe in his glory had been a great friend of John L. Sullivan and of a bantamweight named Jack Skelly from Yonkers. The three were engaged to perform in a Salzburg festival of the sweet science promoted by the Olympic Club of New Orleans in September 1892.
On September 5, McAuliffe was to defend his lightweight title against Billy Myer. On the 6th, Skelly would try to win the featherweight championship from the incumbent George Dixon. And on the third climatic night, the great John L would annihilate an upstart from San Francisco named Jim Corbett.

"I thought the ****** would bring us all luck" McAuliffe said "He started good. When I knocked Billy out in the fifteenth the monk was up on the top rope as the referee said 'Ten!' and hopped off on to my shoulder before the man got my hand up. I took him and threw him in the air and caught him, I was so happy...."Oh, you jewel of a ******!" I said, and when I was on the table after the fight he played in the hair on my chest like I was his brother.....Then Skelly fought Dixon, and when Dixon knocked him out I thought I noticed a very peculiar look on the ******'s face, like he was glad to see Skelly get it. I said to myself 'I wonder who you are.' I gave him the benefit of the doubt, but when Corbett stopped Sullivan, I grabbed the ****** by the neck and wrung it like a chicken. I've often felt bad about it since. God help me, I have a very bad temper."

(A.J. Liebling)

 

Katie Jenkins

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Chuck Wiggins’ complete boxing record has never been fully documented, but he fought when ever, and where ever he could.

Sometimes giving away weight, height, and experience, he did battle with anyone who dared lace on the gloves. Such well known names as Harry Greb, Gene Tunney, Jeff Smith, Tommy Gibbons, Johnny Risko, Tiger Flowers, Big George Godfrey, Tommy Loughran, Young Stribling, grace his list of opponents.

Probably the most frequently asked question was who was the greatest fighter Chuck ever faced. The answer was always Tunney, and Greb.

Well, he would be asked, “Which was the toughest?”
Chuck would toss a drink down, and shout, :[xx!*].. . I pick Greb. I fought the sucker nine times, and the only two times I win, I wasn’t in shape. I got two draws too, but he took the rest. That guy used to make me disgusted with the gloves. The worst beating in my career was given to me by that Dutchman Greb. He made me say “Uncle” twice in three days. The worst bouncing I got was in Kalamazoo. The night of the fight the boxing commissioner came to the dressing room and said, “Look here you fellows, this fight will not end on a foul, so don’t plan anything along that line. “Greb got me first, and hit me low. He bit me in the nose, and drew blood in the first clinch. Pretty soon he slipped, and as I was behind him, I gave him a kick in the pants, and he fell out on the floor. It was an alley fight all the way, but I had too many elbows for him that night, and got the decision.”

In September of 1927, Gene Tunney was preparing for his fight with Dempsey in Chicago. Chuck was his chief sparring partner, and also the highest paid. During one of the workouts Chuck opened a gash over Tunney’s eye, and was dismissed.

In later years Tunney was asked who was the gamest man he ever met. Tunney replied, “There were three men I met I can call really game. One was Harry Greb; another Bartley Madden; still another was Chuck Wiggins.

“I’ll tell you what I mean by real gameness. I fought Wiggins the first time just when I was getting started. For weeks I had been practicing the trick of slipping inside a right hand blow, and hooking my left to the body. It is not an easy thing to do, and I was green. In the first round I tried the punch, and the blow landed in foul territory. Not a word of complaint came from Chuck. Again in the second I tried it. Once more it landed low. This time the referee warned me.
“For several rounds I did not use the blow, but in the seventh I decided to try again. My aim and my timing were bad. The referee promptly stepped between us, and promised to disqualify me if it happened again. The blows were entirely unintentional on my part, of course they were low blows, Wiggins took them in silence without ever a thought of winning on a foul.

“Once again before the fight ended I tried, and once again my judgment was bad. The referee was at the point of giving Wiggins the award when Chuck himself interrupted, ‘Keep em up Gene’, he snapped, ‘ Those punches really are low’.

“That is a game man, couldn’t beat me at boxing, at least he was too much a fighter to seek a win on a foul.”

Despite the reputation as the dirtiest fighter to ever climb into a ring, Chuck was always kind, and generous to his friends. When in the money, Chuck would buy up a truckload of turkeys for the holidays, and distribute them to the underprivileged, both black, and white, in Indianapolis. Renting a big touring car one night he hired some black musicians, and rode around town with the band blaring “Hold That Tiger” his favorite song. Picking up some drinking buddies, the overcrowded automobile finally arrived at the burlesque, and Chuck gave a rather memorable performance to wind up the evening.

After years of rough campaigning, 1930 found Wiggins definitely over the hill, as far as boxing was concerned, and financially broke.

About this time a glandular freak from Sequals, Italy, was brought to the United States. Primo Carnera stood 6 feet 6 ¼ inches and weighed more than 250 pounds. Backed by the mob, the giant waded through a select group of has-beens, and never-will-be’s all instructed to make like a swan in a certain round.

Chuck was always good for news copy, so it was arranged for him to meet the “Ambling Alp” in St. Louis on March 17, 1930. Since “Ole Chucker” was unpredictable at the best, the syndicate guys gave him an advance of 500 dollars to take a spill. Chuck knew his days were long gone, so taking the money, he got good and drunk. As the fight approached, the mob started getting nervous, for fear Wiggins would cross them up, and “square off” on the prominent jaw of Carnera’s.

Two muscle men were sent to see that Chuck had all the liquor he needed, and that he stayed stewed’ till the fight was over. The boys didn’t hide the fact that they were armed, and didn’t want Wiggins to get any ideas about knocking out their “investment.”

A group of young admirers from Indianapolis, and surrounding areas, went to St. Louis to wish the old “Hossier Playboy” luck. Not realizing their idol was throwing the fight, they knocked on his door at the hotel. The door opened, and Chuck, bleary eyed, stuck his head out. With youthful enthusiasm the boys surrounded the fighter with praise, and slaps on the back. Chuck’s face darkened, and he gruffly told the youngsters to get back home, and to make it snappy. With backward glances the kid’s went down the hall wondering what was wrong with “Chucker.” Back in his room Chuck sat down, and poured himself a drink. Man, wasn’t that great, those kids bumming their way here just to wish him luck. Maybe someday they would understand.

Almost 25,000 fans, the numbered believed to be a world’s record for attendance at an indoor fight show, jammed into the palatial arena to see the most talked about prize fighter meet the veteran brawler. About a minute into the second round Carnera half shoved, half pushed Chuck through the ropes. Reporters at ringside helped shove Wiggins back into the ring at the count of seven. Carnera again cuffed and mauled his smaller opponent around the ring, and again Chuck went through the ropes, struck a revolving chair, and sank down limply. The referee counted ten, and then helped Wiggins back into the ring.

After leaving the prize ring for good, Chuck lived at the Empire Hotel in Springfield, Illinois. Since the future looked pretty bleak, his drinking increased at an alarming rate.

One day around 1932 Chuck was drinking in the Empire Tap Room, when in strolled Tommy O’Brien, a good middleweight from the west coast. Tommy could bend his elbow with the best of them, and since Chuck was an old friend, the two sat down to do some serious drinking. After a number of drinks, O’Brien turned to Wiggins, “You Know Chuck, you are a great guy, and have done me a lot of favors, and I’ll always like ya, but I always figured you ain’t as rough as people say. Someday, I hope we get a chance to fight each other, cause I think I can whip your butt.”

Wiggins shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Bartender, give us another drink.” Then turning to Tommy O’Brien, “Lets finish this drink, and then go out in the alley, and get this out of your system. The loser comes back in, and buys the house a drink.”
Finishing their drinks, both walked back to an area in the alley. Wiggins takes off his thick glasses, and both take off their coats. “I’m ready when you are,” said Chuck. Punches started flying. Down goes O’Brien flat on his back. Wiggins extends his hand to Tommy and helps him up. “You slipped Tom, get up.”
O’Brien got up, and away they went again. A couple of minutes, and Tommy again hits the deck.
“You ready to buy that house drink, Tommy?” asked Chuck as he helped O’Brien to his feet. “I’m convinced,” replied Tommy.
They dusted themselves off; strolled back inside as if nothing happened, and stayed drunk together for the rest of the week.

By now divorced, Wiggins drifted back to his old haunts in Indianapolis, and took residence with his mother at 1716 Broadway.
It wasn’t long before he was again in the headlines. In 1934 Chuck was found lying in the street unconscious, after being slugged on the head with a shotgun. He was rushed to City Hospital with a fractured skull. While waiting treatment he regained consciousness, rose from the hospital cot, and walked out of the hospital.

A short time later he fainted at a filling station, and fell, striking his head on a concrete pump guard. Again he was taken to the hospital, where he recovered quickly.

Physicians said that the first skull fracture had caused a blood clot which probably would have been fatal, but when Wiggins fell against the concrete pump guard, the clot was relieved causing the injury to heal.

And Chuck’s skull had been fractured before… falls, clubs, and even gun barrels.

He once knocked out 15 policemen in a barroom brawl at Calumet City, Illinois, and another time fought 7 policemen, and 2 city fireman in the lobby of the Wesley Hotel, in Indianapolis.

 

chuck wiggins cont...

In 1935 he fainted, and fell, striking his head against a curb in front of the Madison County Jail on South Alabama Street. He was in critical condition for a while.

An X-ray photograph taken at City Hospital on the occasion of his last serious injury showed the surface of his skull criss-crossed by tiny cracks from old injuries.

“It pays to have a bomb proof noggin,” Chuck said with a grin. “This bean can take a lot of thumpin yet.” And it did. Police blotters show frequent notations where Wiggins was arrested for assault, and battery, intoxication, and drunken driving.

Rumors started to drift around that “Ole Chucker” might take up professional wrestling. His reply, “Ha,Ha! Who, me? Now ain’t that something? Just because I go to the shows , and look the mugs over, I guess the fans think they’ll see me in there one of these nights shaking my fist at some flathead, and letting him snap off an arm. I’ll get in there with them when they put on the gloves, and from what I’ve seen lately it looks like they’ll soon be doing that. When they do, Mr. Wiggins is going to take a hand. I’m thinking about a comeback anyhow in the spring.”

In April 1937 he barged into the sports department of the Indianapolis Star, and announced that he was on the comeback trail. Wearing a huge moth eaten rac**** coat, and a battered derby he said he was to be known as the “Bearded Battler.” He wanted to meet John Henry Lewis.

“I’ll fight Lewis, and turn my part of the purse to the dog pound. People should always be kind to dogs, and not kick ‘em around too much. But if I can get that Light Heavyweight Champ in the ring, I’ll take him apart, or call it quits.” No one took him seriously.

With money gone, and sight failing, Chuck like many other declining ex-pugilist, took a job as a bouncer in a downtown tavern. A job responsible for one of the many stories told about him.

Wiggins’ employer told him to promptly eject any person who becomes too obnoxious, and Chuck performed creditably. One night, however, Chuck visited other taverns before going to work, so when his boss became a little boisterous, Wiggins promptly gave him the “heave-ho,” from his own place.

Big, flabby, and squint-eyed, with thick glasses, Chuck in his declining years had no resemblance to the man once described by Jack Dempsey, as the greatest street fighter in the world.

It was hard to believe that this man, bald, and a rubber tire waistline, had fought all the great ones of the 1920’s, had made well over a quarter of a million dollars, and was hailed coast-to-coast as one of the greatest Light Heavyweights ever. But it was true!

(by Robert Carson)


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an image / artwork of wiggins....courtesy of @klompton from his superb book on harry greb...


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