bits and pieces

chuck wiggins cont..

1927

"Wiggins was under the shower in the dressing room for a few seconds after the workout, when he received news of this awful indictment. He went through the roof, and then he went through the door, clad only in a dressing gown."

read more here...

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-23s5Z8cS12E/VMfSLA4Ta-I/AAAAAAAABM4/iTv56rbigUU/s1600/1927edit.jpg



harry greb v chuck wiggins poster (undercard of dempsey v billy miske)....

http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KrUV2W-Po34/VMelYlPClnI/AAAAAAAABMo/szYNUwJhivw/s1600/20150127_143922.jpg

 

mickey walker v harry greb report by nat fleischer

...Walker came out for the 15th round and he was crying...the ringsiders could hear his sobs as he battled those final three minutes...

http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rcyjJ42o7...949_509846399160378_3629141558820779939_n.jpg

 

Wayne Thornton v Jose Torres


He was sitting on the edge of the table, staring into the doctor's eyes. His nose looked like the side of a big hill. The eyes were empty, and above each one there were jagged cuts held together by thin strips of clamped tapes. But the real hurt was visible only when he moved off the table, and then his body hung slightly to the left and his face expressed pain when he walked. He had taken an unforgettable beating.

"I told you I was tough," he said. "I'm California tough."

Wayne Thornton was indeed that. For 15 rounds at Shea Stadium a crowd of 12,000 watched Light Heavyweight Champion Jose Torres hammer Thornton with everything but the scoreboard, watched Torres flirt with true greatness and finally witnessed a fight that for pure elemental conflict stood out like Thornton's nose. It was, if your sensibilities could stand it, a magic night for boxing.

It was also a fight that was actually over in the first round. Midway in that round Torres, a 9-to-5 favorite who was making his first title defense and first appearance in a year (in New York's first outdoor show in six years), delivered the blow that finished Thornton. He slammed a right to the back of the challenger's left kidney, and it jacked Thornton up for the eventual devastation. Then, spinning to the left, Torres dug a left hook to the other kidney and followed that with a right cross. Thornton was on his way down, and Torres kept chopping away until Thornton was d****d over the ropes. He was down twice in that round, but he survived, and that was all he would do the rest of the evening. He had nothing left.

Willie Pastrano, who was at ringside, pointed to Thornton after the first-round butchery, raised his eyebrows and spread his hands by his heart. Thornton had to have all heart now, he was saying, and who should have known better than Willie? The punch that caught Thornton, the one behind the kidney, was similar to the one that Torres used to destroy Willie's heart—and career.

Still, Torres did not come out of the round undamaged. He had a cut extending the length of his right eye, where Thornton had butted him. He had difficulty seeing out of it until the eighth round, and between the second and eighth he was not the fighter he had been in the beginning. Chiefly, he appeared tired and discouraged because he had not been able to put Thornton away. He did, however, open cuts above both of Thornton's eyes in the fifth round.

Thornton was staggered again in the eighth and ninth, and at one point he caught nine straight blows to the head. After that series Torres just shook his head. If he was annoyed at Thornton's indestructibility, he was even more disturbed by his opponent's back-alley tactics. Thornton heeled, held (mainly Torres' left hand, the one that kept raking the right kidney), butted and used his shoulder. In the eighth, after a verbal exchange in a clinch, Thornton stuck his tongue out at Torres.

"Man, he ees a dirty fighter," Torres said later in the dressing room. "He uses terrible language, too. But I don't mind. I just don't like when he grab my nose and start twisting it. One time he did that and I say, 'Hey, man, let her go.' I also kept sayin' to him, 'Man, you can't fight. I can fight. You punch like a little girl.' "

Thornton did not apologize for his crudity. "Sure," he said, "I knew I was fouling him. Why not? I'd have hit him over the head with the stool if I could. This was for the title."

To be certain, the title in itself is enough to inspire any fighter, but there was a bit more at stake for Jose Torres in this one. He was searching for an identity that he had lost. A proud, intelligent man, he has always wanted to be a symbol to his people. "I only knew I owed my people," he said, telling of his thoughts before the Pastrano fight. "I could only think about my position as the champion. Important people would listen to me, people who could help improve the conditions in which most Puerto Ricans live."

When he did become champion, he returned to Puerto Rico as that symbol. "The government offices closed, the schools closed," he said, "and the sick people waved to me from hospital windows and I heard the sirens of the firehouses and the ringing of church bells.' Then it all changed. He did not defend his title for a year, the main reason being that he had a pancreas condition. But the Puerto Rican people did not understand anything about—"what you call thees?"—pancreas. Heroes fight, and they fight often. A fighter is not a politician or a writer (Torres wants to be a writer). A fighter just fights.

"I want to win sensationally," he said before meeting Thornton, "so I can convince my people that I am a hero."

Torres did all of that, and was every bit as good as his words. "Now I am a professional," he had said while in training. "I can do many things I wouldn't dare do before. I am on the verge of being an artist." Torres has always had quick, powerful hands that explode into deadly combinations, but equally impressive in last week's fight was the way he moved. When he threw a right to the kidney he was in and out, spinning and cutting to the other side, where he would shoot a left hand to the other kidney or hook to the head. The moves were fluid, and more than anything they reflected a man who knew his business and knew that his business in the immediate future is going to be making money out of his title. His biggest purse prior to Thornton had been only $14,850. For this one Torres received $75,000. Thornton collected $25,000, some of which he will have to squander on a nose job.

"One day I'll get it fixed," said Thornton. "Maybe when I'm through fighting. But I don't pay much attention to it anyway. I've got a lot to show for it."

He had chopped cotton in Louisiana when he was 10 years old, and then he moved to California, where he rode "sickles" and the waves of the Pacific and where, as a kid, he looked for fights and usually found them. But now Thornton is all respectability, the owner of four apartment buildings and an insurance agency, and he walks around forever smiling like a guy who has put something over on the world. "Why do I always smile?" he asks. "Why not? I never thought life could be this good."

This, of course, was said before the fight. Afterward it took a while for the old buoyancy to reassert itself. When it did, his smile told anyone who was interested that Wayne Thornton's life does not change because of one beating. Yes, he was disappointed, but that was only because he had been so impotent against Torres. All he could do was hold on. His plan had been to crowd Torres, to stay in command and to go to the body early and then to the head.

"I just didn't have anything left after that punch to the kidney in the first round," he said. "We thought Torres would fold between the second and eighth rounds, but he didn't. Even if he had, I couldn't have done anything. Sure, it seemed he'd forget to throw to the kidney for three rounds, but then he'd come back and—rap, rap, rap!"

Would he fight Torres again?

"I'd do it once a week. Just give me time to rest," he said, and then, as if remembering something he should have never forgotten, he added: "Willie Pastrano warned me of that kidney punch. He said he got hit there by Torres, too, and that he saw yellow spots. I saw them, too."

Over in the other dressing quarters, which were jammed with such friends as Norman Mailer and Peter Falk and a phalanx of his countrymen, Torres sat in a little office before coming out to the main room. When he did emerge, the Puerto Ricans started shouting: "Here he comes, here he comes! Make way for Jose." Torres found his way to a table and stood on it. The cameras flashed, and the questions fell. "Yes," he said, "I saw Clay fight on television this afternoon. I think I had a tougher time with Thornton than I would with Clay."

"Arriba, arriba!" his followers squealed in response to the answer.


(BY MARK KRAM - from May 30th, 1966)

 

Richie Mitchell v Benny Leonard


"The toughest fight I ever had was with Richie Mitchell in 1921. I almost lost the title then because of Arnold Rothstein, the gambler. Before the fight, Rothstein asked me whether I thought it would be a tough fight. Four years earlier I had knocked out Mitchell in seven rounds, and I told Rothstein this time I thought I could take him in one. That prospect intrigued him, and he said he could get good odds on a first-round knockout and would put $25,000 on it. He said he would give me a piece of the bet for nothing. Well, Arnie was a good friend and I didn't want to disappoint him. I also wanted to pick up some of that money, so I tore into Mitchell at the opening bell. In less than a minute, I had Mitchell down for a nine count. He got up, but I put him down again for another nine count. With a little more than a minute left, I landed a solid left hook and Mitchell crumpled again. He went down as if he could never make it up before the 10 count, but he made it at eight. I knew one more solid punch and it would be over. It came quickly, but I didn't land it. Out of nowhere, Mitchell dug a solid left to my stomach and all the air went out of me. He followed with a right to the chin and I went down. I didn't know where I was; I was in worse shape than Mitchell had been in. They tell me I got up at seven—it must have been out of instinct—and I held on till the end of the round. I finally knocked him out in the sixth. Rothstein came into the dressing room after the fight and told me he could never get the bet down...." - Benny Leonard

 

Fritzie Zivic v Al Bummy Davis

"Most of the crowd were standing on chairs now, roaring protestor encouragement. A wadded newspaper landed in the ring, then somebody's hat. The referee kept his fascinated gaze on the fighters, like a young lab assistant observing a couple of ferocious insects.

Davis walked across the ring and fired a left hook that landed, according to one reporter, "about a foot above Zivic's knees." Zivic's face screwed up in pain, then settled into righteous indignation as he glanced at Referee Billy Cavanagh. Cavanagh was looking elsewhere.

Davis returned to the attack. Another low blow brought a chorus of boos from the crowd. Zivic backed away, but Davis pursued him, ripping two more left hooks into his groin. Fritzie, his face contorted with pain, hopped stiffly, first on one leg, then on the other. He fired back at Davis, rocking his head and drawing blood again from his mouth. But Bummy, in his passion, was impervious to punishment. He crowded Zivic, hooked him low, shifted his attack to the ribs and then lowered it once more. Only once did Referee Cavanagh warn him to keep his punches up.Davis dug another left into Zivic's groin.

Finally, at 2:34 of the second round,Cavanagh stopped the fight......Or, at least, he tried to. But Bummy was not yet ready. His answer to the referee's restraining gesture was to bounce a left hook off Zivic's skull. Faced with a more orthodox attack now, Zivic quickly solved it by hooking Davis twice in the face, bloodying his nose. Handlers from both corners, as well as a squad of burly special cops, poured through the ropes and tried to drag the berserk Davis to his corner. Bummy, his arms pinioned now, aimed a kick at Zivic, who had plunged into the struggling mob. Missing the intended target area on Fritzie's trunks, the kick instead caught Referee Cavanagh in the thigh. Bummy finally was hauled, spitting and cursing, from the ring.

The fight was awarded to Zivic on a foul. Even while the excited crowd streamed out of the Garden, journalists and politicians prepared to publish their outrage to the world. General Phelan, chairman of the New York State Athletic Commission, called the fight "the most disgraceful thing I ever saw," and banned Davis from boxing in New York state "for life".

Having joined the Army shortly afterward, Davis was granted a pass by his commanding general and a pardon by General Phelan on condition that he fight Zivic again for an Army charity. In a bout notable for its strict adherence to the commission's regulations, Zivic dealt Davis a savage beating and stopped him in the 10th round. But this orthodox defeat did nothing to break Bummy's rebellious spirit.

Some years later Bummy Davis was shot to death as he charged, bare-handed, into an armed gang trying to hold up the store of a friend in Brownsville. He was still trying to get that left hook across when he went down."

(from sports illustrated)

http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NEYCZyPTm...351_447432192068466_4235574494861522261_n.jpg

 

ad wolgast v mexican joe rivers double knockdown..

http://i.imgur.com/ALs4BSS.jpg

 

Short piece on Beau Jack

"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
**** 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)

 

this is from tris dixons superb recent book...(he's allowed me to post from it in various places)

...........


"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)

 

Story of Fritz Holland v Les Darcy


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, ****ysing 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 ho****, 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)

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Fvr1cXJVq...765_508520279292990_7282767552347316184_n.jpg

 

The Two Second Fight

"I began to take on a lot of confidence, and I made up my mind that I would put down a bet on myself the next time I started, if a good chance was offered and I could keep my mother from finding it out. It came quicker than I expected.

William Rosser, a lightning fast young lightweight, and at that time the pride of West Pullman, and a boy who had been defeating every Chicago fighter who dared to come into his bailiwick, sent me a challenge after I had stopped the Cyclone. With a large party of my Hegewisch friends and backers we journeyed over to Harvey by buses, buggies, automobiles and in every manner imaginable. We were about 250 strong.

About a week previous to the fight while training at my White House Club at home, Frank Reiger, one of those talkative fellows, dropped into the club rooms and asked me what I thought of my chances in the coming fight. I jokingly said, "Why, I'll knock him out in a round." Reiger, who had been continually belittling my ability as a fighter, at once offered to bet me $40, to $4, or $10 to $i, that I wouldn't knock him out in a round. I, thinking it was only a bunch of hot air, dug down in my jeans and took up the bet. Reiger immediately appointed George Wickham as stakeholder and handed him the $40. Of course, I put up my four, thinking he would try and crawl out of the bet any moment. But the stakeholder forced him to keep his coin up.

Now that the bet was made and the money posted it was up to me to figure out ways and means to win that fight in a gallop.

I immediately made up my mind to get that one-round money if I never fought again. I notified my backers that I would show the Harvey sports three minutes of the fastest fighting they ever saw in their lives, if Rosser lasted that long.

Having that forty dollars in view all the while, I made up my mind that I wouldn't allow him to get a start. When we were called to the centre of the ring for instructions I had the scheme figured out. Instead of retiring to my corner, as is customary, I decided to take a step toward his corner.
The trick worked like a charm. As the timekeeper rang the bell Rosser raised out of his chair, and he was just within nice hitting distance. The bell had not ceased ringing before I shot a terrific right-hand swing flush on his jaw. He tottered a step forward and fell in the centre of the ring. Rosser tried hard to get up and made two futile efforts to rise, but only got to arm's length, and by the time the referee had tolled off seven seconds he dropped on his face and turned over on his back and remained for the full count, only to be carried to his dressing room by his handlers.

My only punch was so well directed that it was hours before he regained consciousness."

(by Battling Nelson)

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

*The Two Second Fight. April 5th 1902.

Battling Nelson knocked out his opponent, William Rossler, two seconds into the first round making this the shortest bout in history to date. It would be equalled 13 years later by the Billy Weeks v Romeo Hagen bout of Dec.18, 1915.


http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TCKOaQWOb...431_579122232232794_3977865376050581059_n.jpg

 

When Archie Moore was being promoted as World Heavyweight Champion

When Archie Moore was being promoted as World Heavyweight Champion for the period between Rocky Marciano's retirement and Floyd Patterson beating Moore for the legitimate title.

Some info on Moore's opponent James J Parker who Moore fought for the "Heavyweight Championship of the World", with Moore billed as champion, in July 1956 from a Canadian press article...

"A heavyweight boxing champion, he fought the last bare-knuckle boxing match in Canada.

But “The Barrie Bomber” was also known for his soft side, as a loving husband and father.

The thunderous, right-hand punches and ferocious bouts of James J Parker, won’t soon be forgotten in the boxing world.

At a hulking 6-4, 355 lbs. at the peak of his career, Parker was once introduced at Madison Square Gardens in New York as “the hardest-hitting heavyweight in history.” Parker, an inductee of the Canadian Boxing Hall of Fame, fought his final bout in 1958 following a 9-year professional career.

His record — 30-7-4 — includes 17 knockouts and a shot at the world heavyweight title.

Born in Saskatoon in 1928, Parker moved in the 1930s to Barrie where his father had a Massey-Harris dealership.

He wound up in London after serving a five-month sentence at the old London jailhouse for fraud.

The road to boxing legend began with an amateur career starting in 1947.

“He was a championship fighter, and it was cool for me as a kid to have an uncle as a fighter,” said Tom Parker, who has fond memories of his uncle’s boxing days.

“He was a Barrie guy, and although he might not have been the most famous fighter, he was a good one.”

Boxing was Parker’s passion, and he was a championship fighter for much of his career.

“We were proud of him and other kids were scared of you because your uncle was a fighter,” Tom laughed.

After beginning training with the Magneto boxing family in Toronto, Parker won the Alberta novice heavyweight championship — his debut bout. When he turned professional, Parker trained in New Jersey and fought in Toronto, New York, Washington and Florida.

In 1954, Parker defeated John Arthur to claim the British Empire heavyweight championship. That brought him a world heavyweight fight against Archie Moore in 1956.

The bout against Moore was fought at the old Maple Leaf Stadium in Toronto, with seating capacity of about 13,000. Parker lost the fight in the ninth round.

Moore had opened a large cut above Parker’s eye that prompted the referees to end the match. The match was called a technical knockout in Moore’s favour.

Bruce Huff, a former Toronto and Southwestern Ontario sports columnist, still vividly recalls a picture of Parker from the fight. “He was bleeding all down his face,” he said.

Parker was notorious in the boxing world as a “tough a resilient fighter,” said Huff. “He could take a beating, but nobody could ever knock him down.”

Parker’s legendary bare-knuckle fight against Howard Chard is considered the last of its kind fought in Canada. Held in a private Toronto bar, the fight is said to have gone for almost an hour before it was stopped.

But despite Parker’s size and ferocious boxing abilities, Mel Oxford — the former president of the Canadian Boxing Hall of Fame — remembers the pugilist as a gentle giant, a family man well liked by his many friends inside and outside boxing circles.

“There are so many things to remember about him, because he was such a nice person and very well like,” said Oxford.

“He never turned down anyone for an autograph or pictures.”"

(by Brendan McConnell)

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

From a November 1956 article prior to the Floyd Patterson fight...

"Moore has had only two meaningful fights since he just missed taking Rocky's crown, and neither of them supports optimism. One was against Yolande Pompey in London, where Archie defended his light heavyweight title. Archie's admirers were gravely disappointed then, even though in the end he retained his championship. He just didn't look good. The other important fight, if importance can be attached to a ballyhooed mismatch, was against James J. Parker in Toronto; and there Archie's punching was less than satisfactory. He looked better against Parker than against Pompey, pounded him at will and cut him badly, but the fight lasted nine rounds and was stopped only by the referee's pity, and Archie's, for a defenseless opponent. Surely a sound Archie Moore would have taken out a James J. Parker in two or three rounds with a clean knockout. Archie grants the point and says he was not sound.

"After the Pompey fight," he says, "my hands were soft as mush. In England they don't let a fighter protect his hands properly. There is no protection for the fighter whatsoever. London rules state that you can use only eight feet of gauze and only six feet of adhesive on each hand. In the States we can use 10 and 10 each—but it's 10 yards, not feet, if we want that much. So when I was training for the Parker fight I had to use rubber sponges on my hands every day. When I fought Parker my hands were soft."

Archie argues almost as well as he fights."

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

*Any claim on the World Heavyweight Title was dubious at best. The title was officially vacant between April 1956 when Rocky Marciano retired and November 1956 when Floyd Patterson beat Archie Moore for the vacant title.

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mrRIryQLU...674_468836933261325_2639621420632246037_n.jpg

 

Pinkey Mitchell v Benny Leonard

"“We win by a foul!” cried Pinkey Mitchell's corner. But with only five seconds before the final bell Referee Davy Miller ruled it a technical knockout for Benny Leonard, and Richie Mitchell (Pinkey's brother) objected by punching Miller in the face.

“Like a flash, the hemped enclosure was dotted with humanity,” wrote The Milwaukee Journal’s Sam Levy in the next day’s edition. “True blue loyalists of the Mitchell boys leaped into the ring… The Miller faction did likewise. Policemen with swinging clubs followed. But this did not serve to halt the free for all… A half-hour passed and still the battling factions remained in the ring.”

Many of the society matrons fainted, and so must’ve officials of the West Side Boys Club when after the bills were paid all they got from the $25,000 in gate receipts was $25.

A May 31 Milwaukee Sentinel story reporting that thanks to the riot and controversy the Illinois boxing bill was dead alluded to rumors “that somebody cleaned up big on the Leonard-Mitchell bout. Thousands of dollars were bet that Mitchell would not last 10 rounds.”

Pinkey maintained that referee Miller was in on the deal.

“We were in a clinch. Miller grabbed my left arm and broke me loose. He started to turn me away and as he did he permitted Leonard to step around behind and hit me on the chin. I did not have a chance to protect myself, my chin being wide open for the right hand punch that put me down.”

One of the many mysteries about the fight is why Davy Miller was referee in the first place. Davy and his brothers Hershie and Max were well-known Chicago gangsters, and on top of that Davy had a grudge against the Mitchells going back to August 9, 1919, when Richie fought Sailor Friedman in Benton Harbor, Michigan. Miller was Friedman’s manager then, and when the Sailor was knocked down at the end of the sixth round Miller tackled Mitchell in the ring and a riot commenced.

Friedman was disqualified and he and Miller were barred from state rings for a year.

The death of boxing in Illinois was the biggest repercussion of the Pinkey-Benny fight, but maybe not the only one.

On October 11, 1923, Sailor Friedman was supposed to fight Pinkey for the junior welterweight championship at the Milwaukee Auditorium. But the night before, as the Sailor took a late stroll on a deserted downtown street, he was forced into a car at gunpoint and then punched, kicked and pistol-whipped and his unconscious body dumped in a gutter. No one was ever arrested.

“It is said that other Chicago boxers have been fighting shy of Milwaukee since,” noted the Associated Press on January 22, 1924. That was the day after Davy Miller was gut shot outside a Chicago theater. According to authorities, “the shooting was traceable to the Leonard-Mitchell fight.”
“Leave this one to me,” the critically wounded Davy told the cops when they asked who did it. The would-be assassin was rival gangster Dion O’Bannion, who was himself gunned down on November 10. The Millers all had alibis.

Pinkey Mitchell continued to be recognized as 140-pound champion despite his KO by Leonard because at the official weigh-in on the day of the fight Benny refused to get on the scale. Newspaper accounts say he went at least 145.

What Leonard thought about Mitchell’s championship was evinced at his victory party when a boy under the impression that Benny was now a double champion asked him, “What are you going to do with the junior welterweight title?”

With a smile and a bow Benny told the youngster, “I hereby present it to you.” "

(By Pete Ehrmann)

http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6lHBGe0zz...815_453752958103056_7660869762233541972_n.jpg

 

sugar ray seales

He is visiting his mother's small clapboard house in the depressed Hilltop section of Tacoma, Washington. He is in the tiny living room, struggling with the long sheet of clear plastic d****d, as a sort of dust guard, across the front of the cabinet that his mother has set up as a shrine to his career as a boxer. Finally, he gets his hand up under the sheet and directs it, by memory, to a six-inch winged figurine of Victory. "This here was my first trophy," he says, smiling behind tinted glasses. Then, rummaging once more, he locates the object of his heart's frustration and desire: the gold medal from the 1972 Olympic Games. "This," he says wistfully, "should have propelled me into something good."

Instead, it propelled him into seasons of futility and self-delusion. And finally, tragically, into delusion's physical counterpart: blindness itself.

After more than 400 amateur and professional fights, after seven eye operations and years of kidding himself that he was only a fight or two away from the world middleweight championship and that his surgically restored retinas would hold up until he got there, Sugar Ray Seales, 31, is all but in the dark. He has no vision in his left eye and only 10 percent in the right. "I can't read," he says. "I can't drive. Most I can do is walk with this cane." And gingerly, at that. A novice at not seeing, he steps too soon going up the stairs, he walks into glass doors, he has burn scars on his forehead from trying to put logs in the wood-burning stove in the rented house he shares with girlfriend Mae Howard and her four kids.

What's more, he is penniless. "He owns only what I give him," says Ed Garner, his equally destitute manager, who professes a lifetime commitment to the blind fighter. Worse still, Seales is $100,000 in debt to assorted doctors and hospitals. Even efforts to extract him from the abyss seem doomed—scuttled by the Fates, or maybe just by the ineptitude of the people who have surrounded him throughout his once-promising career. Hearing of Seales' plight, Sammy Davis Jr. brought his Las Vegas show to the Tacoma Dome last month for a benefit performance. "He's got all three Bs," said Davis. "He's black, blind and broke. I got two of them myself." Somehow, the benefit managed to lose $25,000.

Withal, Seales is unbowed. "We're waiting to see what we can do for our-self," he says, lapsing, as he often does, into the royal "we." The only thing, in this Olympic year, that seems to give him pause is the announcement that a younger and more famous Sugar Ray, former welterweight champion Ray Leonard, is returning to the hunt after his own retinal surgery. Together, Leonard and Seales offer an instructive tale of two Sugars, of to-have and have-not, of two careers as different as the two Olympics in which they were forged. Yet Ray Seales' story—one of naïveté, botched opportunity, exploitation and, especially, reckless ambition—should be required reading for Ray Leonard.
Growing up in St. Croix, Virgin Islands, Ray Seales was quiet, even reticent as a child. "I believe when my mother was carrying me she was working in a mortuary," he says. "I don't know, but I think it made me come out a little slim, a little fearful." The legacy of his father, however, offset his timidity. The latter was a soldier in the American Army who earned his stripes as a boxer. He didn't actually teach Ray how to box during his 15-day furloughs. His influence was more subtle. "We felt for each other," says Seales. "And what I felt in him was fighting."

It wasn't until 1964, when he moved to Tacoma with his mother after his parents' divorce, that Ray made good on his patrimony. He was 12 years old, and his newfound peers were merciless in taunting him about his island English. "I joined the Boys Club and learned to fight," he says. "They stopped picking on me."

On the verge of his teens, Ray stood 5'7" and weighed but 78 pounds. He was all arms and legs, and he had processed hair, which made him a dead ringer for the sweetest fighter of them all: Sugar Ray Robinson. As an amateur Seales lived up to his moniker, winning all but 12 of his 350 fights. In the 1972 Olympics he was a polished stone in a diadem that included such prized talents as Duane Bobick and James "Bubba" Busceme. Yet he was the only one to sparkle. "The Olympics," he likes to say, "was the greatest thing ever to happen to Sugar Ray Seales." Perhaps. But he was not able to convert Olympic gold into more negotiable currency. In 1973 he made less than $1,000 for his first professional fight; four years later Sugar Ray Leonard banked $40,000 for his pro debut—it was more than Seales would ever make for any fight in his entire 11-year career. The matter was beyond his control. Leonard came out of the '76 Olympics as the headliner of a boxing squad that captured the public's imagination, whereas Seales emerged from the sorry '72 affair, best remembered for the bloody massacre of Israeli athletes by Palestinian terrorists. "I saved America by winning the only gold medal in boxing in 1972," says Seales, who to this day fails to understand why America never took him to its heart the way it did Leonard.

"His whole mistake," says Cus D'Amato, the fight manager who turned Olympians Floyd Patterson and Jose Torres into world champions, "was when he turned pro he remained with the fellows he was with in the amateurs." Seales' manager-of-choice was one George Yelton, who'd been good for an occasional five-spot when the Boys Club boxing team was on the road and who owned several taco stands in Washington state. Perhaps even more naive than his fighter, Yelton's idea of a major promotion was a banner strung across one of his Tex-Mex establishments: "Come See Sugar Ray Seales at Taco Time." Worse, he did not even know enough to protect his fighter. In 1974, after Seales had gained 20 wins against less-than-stellar opposition, Yelton agreed to come east to Boston for what was billed as a benefit for the United Way. "I thought it would be like an exhibition, where I could dance, get a chance to perform," says Seales. He remembers freezing at the weigh-in, then looking over to see a short, heavily muscled, shaven-headed warrior sweating with intensity. His opponent was the young Marvin Hagler, one of the most devastating punchers of our day, already 14-0 with 12 knockouts—and neither Seales nor Yelton were ready for him. They didn't even know who he was.

After this first loss, by decision, Seales fought Hagler twice more. Indeed, Hagler would become a sort of touchstone for his career, a measure of how much ground he had lost. Ray fought to a draw with him in a return war in Tacoma. Then in 1979, under new management, Seales fought Hagler again in Boston. Ray's corner was a circus. Two days before the fight, his new manager decided to entertain lady friends in his hotel room, which provoked Ray's trainer, George Wright, to threaten to leave for Tacoma. The next day somebody called from Alaska, claiming he owned a piece of Sugar Ray Seales and demanding to know what his purse was. Ray was hauled into the office of the Massachusetts boxing commissioner for an accounting. Finally, on fight day, it was discovered that Seales and Hagler were wearing the same color trunks, and Ray was hassled into changing his. Already beaten, the Sugar Man was knocked out by Marvelous Marvin before the first round was half over.

Shortly thereafter Seales hooked up with Ed Garner, yet another local businessman without clout or boxing credentials. By this time he was regarded by promoters as an "opponent," a stepping stone for some less tarnished prospect. Yet Ray was as game as ever. In early 1980 he eclipsed the hopes of Arthur "Tap" Harris, a 31-0 fighter scheduled for bigger things, with a sixth-round knockout. Then suddenly, in August, Ray was thumbed in his right eye, which filled up with blood. Two operations performed a couple of days later in Tacoma by Dr. Hsushi Yeh were deemed successful. For his part, Seales remembers Dr. Yeh telling him, "You could get hit in that eye twice as hard as before and nothing would happen." Says Dr. Yeh, "You want the true story? I told him, 'Personally, I think you should quit boxing right at this moment.' " Yeh remembers Seales replying, "Doctor, this is my life. I got only two or three fights before I can gain my championship!"

Seales, however, was deceiving himself. By this time Marvin Hagler bestrode the world. Undaunted, Seales and Garner plunged back into the heartland, starting a new round of one-night stands with local club fighters for as little as $4,000 a go. Then, late in 1981, says Ray, "We experienced something in our left eye. We experienced the ring getting farther away." Seales came home and had two more operations, which had to be performed by two new doctors, since Ray hadn't been able to pay Dr. Yeh and couldn't pay this time either. According to Dr. Yeh, a charitable man who would later resume care of the blighted fighter, this was a turning point. "It's my understanding," he says, "that the fighter still had 20/40 vision in his right eye."

 

sugar ray seales cont...


It is remarkable that Seales fought thereafter in six different states—California, New York, New Mexico, Nevada, New Jersey and Colorado—and that he passed each prefight physical with ease. According to boxing commission physicians, Ray deceived his examiners by keeping his surgical history a secret and memorizing the eye charts. On the one hand, Seales denies that he was trying to fool the commission doctors and blames them for conspiring with promoters to use him as meat. On the other, he intimates that he was hoping to get caught. "I wanted someone to tell me," he says, " 'Hey, man. It's over for you. I can't let you fight in my state.' "

The end came quietly last March. Trainer George Wright kept changing the bulbs in the gym, but Seales could not shake the feeling he was in the dark. A few days later in Portland, Oreg., retinal specialist Dr. Richard Chenoweth took one look at the benighted fighter and said, "This kid has been blind for 18 months!"

Back in the days when the world was green and his career was in its first flower, Ray Seales had thought to win the world middleweight title, then return in glory to St. Croix and become governor. The dream seems remote now. But Seales is an incorrigible optimist, and he insists that his ambition has been merely deferred. "It's the strength, the power and the will that I have inside," he says, "that makes me project more light than there really is. Someday my eyes are going to be restored." He pauses and makes a gesture of dismissal with a long sleek hand that bears his ruby Olympic ring. "You know, we don't think of ourself as blind. We are going to stretch and become a champion at something else."

(by William Plummer - 1984)

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

Years later, doctors operated and Seales regained the vision in his right eye, though he wears glasses. Seales later worked as a schoolteacher of autistic students at Lincoln High School in Tacoma for 17 years until 2004 before retiring. In 2006, he moved to Indianapolis with his wife, where he currently resides. Seales currently works as a boxing coach, working with talented amateurs in the Indianapolis area.


http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xGfHzCScA...477_532535350224816_7327161138561282368_n.jpg

 

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.


http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kLti053EV8w/VN5ZlfIBijI/AAAAAAAABsI/AIXkpgUaE48/s1600/B8N6wQvIMAAufnj.jpg