Bob Fitzsimmons on how to BOX

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THE big men often do not know how to handle
themselves when in a light, so I will tell them.
The greatest mistake that big men make is
in spending so much of their time in doing all
kinds of work to develop their muscles and
wind and hitting powers, and so little in studying
out the tricks of the game. Any big,
heavy athlete has an immense advantage, if he
wants to become a boxer, right at the start.
He has the power; all he lacks is the knowledge
how to use it to the best advantage. I
will give him three rules to follow:
Be aggressive. Do not be careless.
Remember that you have the punch.
Your natural strength and weight are
enough to put you on the aggressive at all
times. You are not like a little, weak chap
who is forced to keep away from his opponent
and protect himself Your mere weight is bound to give you the upper hand over an opponent if you keep boring in at him. But
at the same time you must not let this idea of
forcing matters make you careless. It is so
easy to fight in a slipshod, careless fashion.
And it is just as easy for the other fellow to
suddenly reach out and hit you a blow that
puts you down and out when he catches you
in one of your careless moods.
The idea of “taking a punch for the opportunity
to give one” is all right if you are
careful to see that the punch which you “take”
does not land on a vital spot.
As to the next item in a big man’s fighting
schedule—his ability to give a punch that will
bring down his man—too much attention
cannot be given to his education upon this
line.
He is built upon lines that give him a
natural advantage for sending in a hard blow.
He should cultivate his ability in this line,
and study out how he can land the hardest
blow.
Remember you have weight to add speed
to the blow if you only throw it behind your
arm.Do not waste your energy and strength in
hitting lightly; study well just where to land
the blow, and when you hit do it with all the
strength and force and weight you can muster.
Just as your fist strikes your opponent’s
body, set your arm rigid and throw your weight against it.
When you have knocked your opponent
down do not rush at him as soon as he is on his feet.
Take your time. Feint him once or twice,
thus confusing him. Then he will probably
leave an opening, and you can administer the
knockout without danger to yourself.
l have seen men unduly eager to finish an
opponent whom they have knocked down or
dazed, rush into the fight, only to receive a wild
swing on the jaw and meet defeat just at the
moment when the battle was all in their hands
—because of failure to defend themselves.

Points for the Big Fighter to Remember
Do not fight on the defensive; be aggressive.
Keep cool at all times.
Do not get careless, particularly when you
think you are winning.Remember that your weight gives you a
great advantage.
Use this weight to add greater force to your blows.
Put in every blow as if you meant it to be the last.

 

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Muscles of the Shoulders Play the Most
Prominent Part in Landing a Knockout
“How can I learn to strike a hard blow?”
That is a question that is asked of me
frequently by both young and middle aged
men, so I am going to tell them. There is
neither trick nor art worth mentioning in striking
a hard blow. The mere landing of a hard
blow, be it on the face, head, or body, is not a
question of skill. It is strength, and nothing
but strength, that sends in the blows which are
commonly called “hard.”
Way Anyone Can Learn to Hit Hard
For this reason anybody can learn to hit
hard. If it took skill, there might be some
people who would not be able to master the
trick well enough to land the blow. But there does not live the man, woman, or child, be they
moderately healthy, who cannot, with sufficient
patience and exercise, bring themselves finally
to a point where they can land a truly hard blow.
The muscles of the shoulders play the most
important part in the delivery of a hard blow.
Take any boxer who has finely developed back
and shoulder muscles and you will find that he
is a stout hitter. No matter how weak his
biceps and forearm muscles may be, in comparison
with those of his shoulders and back,
if the latter have the power he will be what
is commonly known as a “knockerout.”
Of course, it is to one’s advantage to have
well developed
biceps and forearms, as this will
add to the compactness and solidity of the
blow.Muscles Mast Easily Developed
There are no muscles of the body that are
more readily developed than those of the
shoulders, back, and arms. A rubber exerciser,
such as can easily be fastened upon any doorframe,
a light pair of dumbbells, and regular
breathing exercises will accomplish the object.Like every other kind of exercise, however,
regularity counts for everything. Ten or
fifteen minutes’ work in the morning, a short,
stiff walk, a dozen full, deep breaths, forcing
the air down into the stomach and out again
through the nose, and the same routine at
night, will soon endow you with the power of
hard hitting. But you must pursue such a
course of training with preciseness and regularity
to secure the desired result.
Punching the bag is the best exercise for
developing the shoulders, back, and arms. It
is the primary school of hard punching. Every
muscle of the body is brought into play. It
trains the eye and schools the brain to act
quickly. You gain in both delivery and defense.

 

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ALL amateur boxers are inclined to be
nervous. This is a fault. The best way to cure
it is to do all the boxing you can with men
whom you know you can best, but men who
will give you a hard battle. Take your lessons
from a competent professional teacher.
After boxing a while with men to whom the
gloves and the ring are as familiar as their
daily meals, the amateur game will seem like
child’s play to you. That is one hint for you.
Now for another. Be sure you go into the
ring in good physical condition. Get your
stomach “right” and keep it “right.” Be
careful not to catch cold. There must have
been no training on hot birds and cold bottles;
no theatre parties, late suppers, or cotillons.
When you step into the centre of the ring
do not rush blindly at your man. I have seen
many amateurs do that. If the other fellow comes at you that way stick out your left hand
as hard and as often as you can, and jab him
in the face. If things go quietly, however, you
should feel your opponent out well. Use your
cleverness to the best of your ability to confuse
him. If you are successful in that then comes
the time to be aggressive. jab him, if you can,
with your left. Failing this, send in both
hands, straight from the shoulder, to his face
and head. Keep at this until you get his
guard up. If he finds you fighting at his head
all the time he will forget to protect his stomach and wind.
When he forgets, the time has come for you
to get in your fine work. Watch your opportunity
well, and when the proper moment
comes step in as close to him as you can,
and a little to one side, and strike with
your left or right hand, whichever is convenient,
hard in his solar plexus. Throw every
pound of your weight behind the blow, put all ∙
your strength in it, and pivot slightly on your foot as it lands.
If you execute the blow properly, it is almost certain to score a knockout.

 

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THE fight began at 12.05 o’clock, on March
17, 1897, with all the preliminaries, pomp, and
frippery of a dress parade. All the fancies of
pugilism were aired in the men’s respective
corners. Only one thing was omitted, the
customary handshake, that old fiction used
under the English law to suggest that it
was only a test of endurance and skill and
not of malice.
“I will shake hands with Fitzsimmons when
he has whipped me,” said Corbett to me on the
occasion of that memorable meeting on the highroad,
and in an hour from the time the fight began he kept his word.
Fitzsimmons earned that handshake. He
fought his fight like a game man; he fought it
his own way; he fought it uphill against odds
which, in the fifth round, could only have beenrepresented by 10 to 1. He fought for his
life; he fought for his wife, who cheered him
by her presence, and he received blows that
would have reduced any other man now before
the public to subjection in much less time than
this fight lasted.
To say that the unexpected happened would
not be true. It was the expected that happened.
We all expected to see Corbett have
the best of the fight right along, emerge from
the ring practically unmarked, and win the fight
unless Fitzsimmons got in one punch. Corbett
was looking for that punch himself, his seconds
were looking for it, and yet Fitzsimmons was
able to catch him off his guard long enough to
plant the blow that reversed all ring form, and
U that made a middleweight champion over the
best heavyweight of the century and won the

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a fortune.
To describe the fight in the language of the
ring would convey but little meaning to those
who have not devoted the whole of their lives to
pugilistic phraseology. The hooks and counters,
leads and swings, clinches and pushes, and
all that sort of thing can be seen on the
kinetoscope at five cents a peep. I did not see them. I saw the fight as a whole, but not in
I its details. I happened to see the blow in the
stomach that ended it, and a few other critical
ones, but the grand mixture of attack and defense was lost.
I saw a face that will haunt me until time
has effaced it from my memory. It was a
mixture of pathos and tragedy. There was
no savagery in it, but some intelligence.
There was a leer and a grin and a look of
patient suffering and dogged courage. It was
the face of a brave man fighting an uphill
fight, with lip torn and bleeding, nostrils
plugged with coagulated blood, ears torn and
swollen, eyes half closed and blinking in the
sunlight, with every line and muscle drawn to
the angle of suffering, but withal watchful, intent, and set.
Fitzsimmons’ face was not cruel or passionate,
but was clear, and never once did he lose
his hope of success, his watchfulness over his
opponent, his waiting for an opening. It was
one face from the time that first blood was
claimed and allowed in the fifth round until
the victory was in his hands. You cannot compare
it with anything, for there is not another human countenance like Fitzsimmons’ when he is lighting against odds.

Corbett had the crowd. It was plain from
the start that on this St. Patrick’s day an Irish American
had the sympathies of the people
against the Englishman who came here by way
of the Antipodes. Then, too, the crowd was
largely from Corbett’s home in San Francisco;
and California, though not always true to her
native sons, did send her best wishes to
Corbett that day. The cries of “Good boy,
Jim!” were heard whenever Corbett made a
hit. Fitzsimmons answered these with a look
that said, “Wait and see whether you want to
shout for Corbett after the finish.” The look
was not due to intention—Fitzsimmons’ purpose
evidently being to smile—but when one’s
lips are an inch away from the teeth and one’s
nose is reduced to a pulp the finish of a smile is hard to guess.
Corbett’s face changed during the fight.
The change came at the end of the tenth
round, when, much to the surprise of everyone,
Fitzsimmons was still in the ring, and
Corbett, too wise to go in and finish him, was
wondering why the Australian took so much pounding. The high, proud look of confidence
that had marked Corbett’s appearance from the
beginning suddenly gave place to an appearance
of exhausted vitality and doubt. He
found himself with less energy than he expected,
and he could not understand why that
bruised and battered piece of flesh in front of
him, which bore so little resemblance to
humanity, continued to face him. A minute
before that look came over Corbett, odds of
10 to 1 on him would have found no takers.
A minute after wise ring goers were whispering,
“The champion is losing his steam,” and
Bill Naughton, monotonously counting off the
blows to a stenographer, said, “Jim is gone.”
There was such a story told by the ashen grayness
of Corbett’s face that things brightened
in Fitzsimmons’ corner, and Delaney looked as
though he would like to cry. From that time
on there were two men in the fight. Corbett,
unhurt, but not confident; Fitzsimmons,
bruised and beaten and torn and bloody, but waiting for his chance.
Going back to the beginning, there is not
much to tell of the first two rounds. The
boxing was light, Corbett endeavoring to hit and get away without return, and Fitzsimmons
simply waiting. In the second round, after
Fitzsimmons had received a few blows in the
face, he grew more aggressive, and, driving
Corbett into his corner, attempted to punch
him, but the big champion laughed and ducked
and got out of what seemed to be a very tight
place. It was “Good boy, Jim!” all over the
ring, and, “Good boy, Jim!” again when
Corbett landed twice in Fitzsimmons’ stomach
with blows that might have been dangerous
had Fitzsimmons been the least out of condition.
It was noticeable that Corbett could
hit and hit and generally get away from Fitzsimmons’
returns. The confident air became
more confident and the applause from the Californians more general.

 

In the third round the spectators had a
chance to see who had the best of the clinches,
which were frequent. Fitzsimmons would try
little jabbing hits that reached Corbett’s neck
or body and did no harm. Corbett seemed to
think clinches were his best time for a knockout
blow, but it is not easy to knock out a
man whose head, like a turtle’s, has a habit of
ducking in between two enormous masses of muscle, and its only presentation a side view.
Whenever Corbett had attempted a heavy
blow and failed, and sometimes when he did
not fail, Fitzsimmons would lay his head over
Corbett’s shoulder and smile at the southwest corner.
In the fourth round it looked like a fight,
and all around I could hear the enthusiastic
sports saying, “Oh!” and “Ah!” and smacking
their lips over the stiff blows that Corbett
sent into Fitzsimmons’ face and body. They
were not knockout blows, but blows at about
half strength,
delivered with the arm stiff and
were meant to hurt and not to kill.
Fitzsimmons soon showed the effects of
them. His face began to swell, and he would
lie on Corbett’s shoulder as though in the hope
of obtaining some respite from the punching,
which was annoying. Corbett grew confident
as this round progressed, and went to his I
corner as happy as a boy. It was “Good boy,
Jim!” and “Punch his head off!” and “Knock
the Australian’s head off!” but only one man
said “Take your time, Fitzsimmons!” Corbett
looked like a winner then, and he looked like a
winner all through the fifth round, when he drew first blood from Fitzsimmons’ lip, and
Siler allowed the claim which Billy Delaney promptly made.

I began to feel sorry for Mrs. Fitzsimmons
then, and wished she was not there.
She was anxious and Fitzsimmons was distressed,
and Martin Julian’s face bore all kinds
of woe. Little Roeber was thoughtful for the
first time this year, and Dan Hickey suffered
as much as his chief.
In Corbett’s corner, how different! Delaney,
calm and confident; Donaldson, a trifle jubilant;
Billy Woods and “Kid” Egan both
smiling, and occasionally turning around to
remark to some spectator, “Six rounds.”
The blood seemed to arouse Corbett’s
temper, and he went at Fitzsimmons with more
determination than he had shown before. He
hit him time and again, and I could see Mrs.
Fitzsimmons wince, right across the ring.
There were words of sympathy, too, for her in
the sixth round, when, after the clinch, Corbett
landed a tremendous blow that brought Fitzsimmons
to his knees, sent the blood spurting
from his nose, and distorted his face almost
beyond recognition. Everybody wondered whether Fitzsimmons would recover, but the
ninth second found him on his feet and still
fighting. Again and again Corbett hit him
until his own gloves were covered with blood
from Fitzsimmons’ face, and his body was
smeared a glaring crimson from the same
source.
Smiling, confident, and erect, Corbett poked
at his now crouching adversary. Someone in
his corner said: “Look out, Jim, he is kidding.
Do not go near him. He is foxy.” Who
knows but that remark gave Fitzsimmons the
championship. There was no deception in
that bruised face, no foxiness in the eyes that
were drawn down to tiny points, showing
nothing but patience and determination.
The services of the seconds at the end of the
round made Fitzsimmons presentable, and the
minute was a grateful rest to him. When he
came up he began his hard hitting, and the
spectators thought he had determined to finish
the fight right there or go to the floor. But
no. When he found his blows did not reach
the clever man in front of him, he changed his
tactics and waited, taking the punishment that
came to him as gamely and as doggedly as a bulldog would take a beating—and still there
was nothing savage about him. He would
punch, and Corbett allowed him to land once
to feel his blow. It was feeble, and we all
looked for a finish then. We expected to see
Corbett dash in and knock his head back, as
the crowd advised. A right hand swing from
Fitzsimmons, which missed him, made him
change his mind and keep away—at least that
is what it seemed to me.
The eighth round was sickening. Face
smashes and body blows, punches in the neck
and punches under the heart were Fitzsimmons’
portion. It would have all been over but for
his gameness. The betting men were almost
ready to cash in their Corbett tickets.

 

So, also, in the ninth round, he was hit and
hit and hit again. Fitzsimmons would put his
face over Corbett’s shoulder and hang for
respite. “Why doesn’t that game fellow quit?”
people asked. But the game fellow hit when
he could and hugged a little, and when his
portion became too much to bear he would
swing his right, though out of distance, to keep
his larger opponent away. At the end of the
ninth round Corbett laughed, and his seconds were happy. It was all over but the finishing,
and the finishing was to be done right away.
But somehow or another Fitzsimmons did not
look quite so bad when his face was washed
and sponged and his wind was cleared, and
Corbett wondered at the change that came
over him. Why, the man was getting stronger
under the terrific beating, and, incredible as it
may seem, he was the stiffest puncher in this
round. Not that he hurt Corbett, but he
worried him and made him doubtful and
wonder who it was, and it was then that the
doubt came into Corbett’s heart and the gray
look into his face. But he, too, was game, and
I began to sympathize with him. Fitzsimmons
was anything but a beaten man in the eleventh
round. He was growing stronger and Corbett’s
wind was none too good. Fitzsimmons
grew confident and pushed the champion and
poked him into his corner and landed good
and hard on his face, and punched him, and
then Corbett rallied and hit back, and I saw
the hardest and fastest fighting I have ever
seen in the ring. It was “Game boy, Fitzsimmons!”
while the Corbett men looked grave,
and the crowd, who scented the coming change of championships, began to yell for Fitzsimmons.
Even then it was anything but all over.
There was no denying Corbett’s courage,
and when the twelfth round began he was
full of fight, and led and led, until Fitzsimmons
went in to smash, and caught him twice on the
jaw on the breakaway. Then Corbett missed
his chance. There had been a clinch and rally,
and Fitzsimmons had got the worst of it. He
went back after the clinch, and for a second
his arms hung helpless. What a chance for an
uppercut. Corbett saw it, but a tenth of a
second too late. Dash went his right hand,
upward and outward, missing Fitzsimmons’
chin by an inch and losing the fight—the
nearest miss for so much money one is likely
to see. Then we felt sorry for Corbett again,
and Delaney whispered caution and told him
to fight the man to a finish in his own way, and
the thirteenth round passed without much
difference.
“Fight the fellow to a finish; whip him in
your own way,” was Delaney’s warning to
Corbett as the fourteenth round began. The
veteran second looked anxious. He could see that Fitzsimmons was anything but whipped.
His eye and ear told him that Corbett was P
becoming slightly tired. He felt confident that
Corbett could win if he saved himself. It was
clear that he was the cleverer man and unhurt,
while Fitzsimmons’ face was battered to a pulp.
But no man can fight another’s battle. It was
Corbett who had to do the fighting.
There were a few exchanges, and then I saw
what I do not want to see again. I saw Fitzsimmons’
left hand go smash into Corbett’s
stomach just as though it had gone into butter,
and I saw Fitzsimmons’ right hand reach the
point of Corbett’s jaw. Then Corbett sank to
his knees in the western corner of the ring
holding on to the ropes for support; his eyes
absolutely turned upward until none of the
pupil was visible. His face was white. He
was not unconscious in the sense of being
entirely benumbed, but his limbs refused to
respond to the demands made upon them.

Time was up. The champion was out.
Where was Nevada’s boasted police force
then? Surely they were wanted. Where were
the Pinkerton fighting men and the braves
from the border? I would like to have these questions answered. There were none of them
I around the ring, where they should have been,
keeping order; and the threat of death to the
man who crossed the ropes proved to be but
an idle bluff. The ring was half∙full in twenty
seconds. I noted the time. Corbett was upon
his feet again, half delirious, and, dashing at
Fitzsimmons, who had been called back by his
seconds, Corbett gave his conqueror a blow in
the face that might have killed him.
Plucky little Roeber jumped into the melee.
I saw Joe Corbett hitting indiscriminately.
Everything was confusion. Spectators tried to
find out what was the matter. There were
cries of “Foul!” Corbett’s hand was on his
stomach, pointing to the place where he had
been hit, and Siler, cool, contained, and nervy
despite the crush, said: “No foul. Fitzsimmons
knocked him out fairly with a
stomach punch, and Fitzsimmons wins.”
After the round was finished it was fully two
minutes before the spectators knew what the
decision was. I made inquiry immediately
around the ring, and could only find three men
who knew, or thought they knew, what had
happened. They were Billy Madden, George Siler and William Muldoon. Now everyone knows all about it.
At the time it occurred but few people saw
the blow and fewer still realized exactly what
I they had seen. What I saw was a right hand
reach, from which Corbett drew his head and
upper body back. It was a feint to give
Fitzsimmons his coveted chance. Then I saw
Fitzsimmons’ left hand fly into Corbett’s
stomach. Corbett was facing me, and I saw
him flinch and his lips form as if to make a
sound. As he came forward I saw Fitzsimmons
strike him with his right hand on the jaw,
not what I think was a dangerous blow; nor do
I think that the righthand blow had anything
to do with ending the “bout.” I say I saw
these things. That is certainly what I marked
on the piece of paper in front of me, and it is
certainly what is fixed in my mind; but others,
as competent as myself and with as good eyes,
reverse the blows and make the right hand
punch the stomach blow and the left hand on the jaw.
When doctors disagree perhaps the patient
may be permitted to tell his story, and I for
one am contented to leave this to Fitzsimmons,who tells his own story in another chapter, and
who, I am certain, knows exactly what occurred.
I say “certain,” because in watching him I saw
that he knew what he was doing. The moment
he landed his face told the story of a
successful general’s clever coup.

 

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WHEN I entered the ring I tipped the beam
at one hundred and fifty six
and one half
pounds, while Mr. Corbett weighed one hundred
and eighty seven
pounds. Before the
fight my opponent acknowledged over his
signature that he was in fit condition to make
the fight of his life. Well, he made it, and so
did I. He is a big, strong, clever fellow, but
from the moment I saw him standing before
me, trembling with anxiety to begin, I saw the
expression of uncertainty in his eyes. I saw
his legs tremble as he stood there like a young
cub lion, waiting to spring at me.
At the call of time I had collected all my
coolness; had settled myself to meet him in
any variety of onslaught he chose to offer, and
felt certain that if he whipped me he would
have to do part of the work. I remember distinctly
the way he leaped from the arms of his second; how his arms quivered as he struck a
defensive pose. There was nothing for me to
do at that juncture but to feel him. I saw that
he was not in possession of that confidence
which he boasted, and I was in no sense of the
word disconcerted. I began to frame his weaknesses.
Much to my surprise, he, too, was
curbing his temper, and was not likely to lose
it unless he lost the fight. On that point I was
right, and we will discuss that later.
In the opening of the first round I decided
to meet him halfway in everything, and toward
the close, when I saw an opening made by his
advances to me, I put my right on him and
broke my thumb. For a moment the pain was
severe, but he had evidently been knocked by
the blow, and his caution gave me plenty of
time to recover. When the gong sounded I
was satisfied that there was something more
than mere inquisitiveness in him. There was a
color of anxiety, and his big eyes danced over
my face and peered into mine as though he
were looking for an answer. I hardly think
my expression told him anything. We came a
little nearer and began to feel the advantages
of the first round, but I saw that he was on the defensive, and I made up my mind right there
that I would have to go in and take a little
punishment. He was on the verge of going at
me several times in the third round, but I came
at him and sent some hard ones on to his jaw
that put him back a little. But he is a good,
game fellow and stood it well, returning about
as good as I sent, but he was a little more cautious about “finishing” me.

I confess I found it a difficult thing to get to
his head as often as I wished, but therein I
proved my generalship by immediately changing
my tactics and going for his wind. Once I
landed squarely on his mouth, and every time
he opened it to breathe I could see him holding
back that blood colored
saliva, in order, I suppose,
to deprive me of the privilege of drawing
first blood. Not for a single instant did I feel
that I was mistaken regarding his intentions.
I knew that he had given up the idea of a
hurricane and was looking for an opening.
Several times I gave it to him merely for the
opportunity I hoped it would present me. He
was quick to take the cue, but he never landed
just as I wanted him to. A tenth of a second
is frequently of the most vital importance under those circumstances, and conditions
must be right to put in the finishing touch.
In the fifth round he appeared to take a little
more confidence and set the pace a trifle
livelier than he did before, drawing blood from
my mouth and somewhat exciting the audience
and his various followers. Twice I tried to put
something strong in, but made no tangible
connection. I jolted his head back pretty hard
once or twice. Several times a pained expression
came into his face. Once he looked at
my wife, who sat by the ringside, and literally
laughed at her, but she retorted, “You cannot
whip him!” And as the words struck my ears
it came like an encouraging voice out of the
dull murmur and hum and conversation going
on around me, and I said to myself then and
there, as I have often said before, “It shall
never be the lot of that woman to be the wife
of a defeated husband.” About that time I got
another blow in the mouth, which opened my
lip a little more and the blood began to flow.
I was also bleeding at the nose, but suffered
no inconvenience except when it ran into my mouth.

 

under those circumstances, and conditions
must be right to put in the finishing touch.
In the fifth round he appeared to take a little
more confidence and set the pace a trifle
livelier than he did before, drawing blood from
my mouth and somewhat exciting the audience
and his various followers. Twice I tried to put
something strong in, but made no tangible
connection. I jolted his head back pretty hard
once or twice. Several times a pained expression
came into his face. Once he looked at
my wife, who sat by the ringside, and literally
laughed at her, but she retorted, “You cannot
whip him!” And as the words struck my ears
it came like an encouraging voice out of the
dull murmur and hum and conversation going
on around me, and I said to myself then and
there, as I have often said before, “It shall
never be the lot of that woman to be the wife
of a defeated husband.” About that time I got
another blow in the mouth, which opened my
lip a little more and the blood began to flow.
I was also bleeding at the nose, but suffered
no inconvenience except when it ran into my
mouth. The sixth round was especially warm, and I found Corbett getting a little wild in his
punches; but when he did hit me they were
heavy ones. Once I slipped while trying to
get away from a left hand swing. He stepped
on my foot. I tripped and fell to my knee and
remained in that position seven seconds to
wipe my nose. The referee, at the suggestion
of Mr. Julian, urged Corbett to stand further
away from me until I got on my feet. I was
not in the least bit dazed. Shortly after getting
up the round closed, and I decided to make the
seventh just as lively as he had made the sixth.
It was then that I discovered that his blows
were losing force. He struck less frequently
than before and seemed to be playing for wind.
He did not, however, lose much of his cleverness,
and managed to avoid me up to the eleventh round.
In the twelfth I saw an occasional smile i
coming to his lips, and mentally congratulated
him on the way he was keeping his temper. I
cannot recall just how many times I missed
him, but I am aware that he ducked several
hooks and clinched me to avoid punishment.
As I retired to my corner at the end of the
twelfth round, my wife, who sat within five feet of me, called out, “Remember, Robert, the
thirteenth is your lucky round; do not let him
whip you!” When the gong sounded I had
freshened a little and was positive that he had
1 gone his limit, had done the best he could,
and was at my mercy the first bad break he
made. Every time I caught my wife’s eye
she whispered something encouraging, and I
winked and nodded back to her. She was
a greater help to me than many people can
appreciate, and I saw from the expression in
her face what she expected of me. When the
thirteenth round closed I had not effected an
entrance such as I desired, but I had the satisfaction
of knocking out one of his gold teeth,
and perhaps two. He looked awful sorry when
he got that crack, and flushed to the roots of
his hair. I went to my corner at the end of
that time more thoroughly convinced than ever
that it was all up with him, and that the next
round would close the issue.

When the opportunity came in the beginning
of the fourteenth round Corbett was fighting
a little wild and made a swing which I sidestepped.
In a flash I saw a clean opening on
his stomach and came in with a left hand
shift on his wind; then, without changing the position
of my feet, shot the same hand against his
jaw, thus giving him the identical blows which
I administered to Sharkey in San Francisco.
There was no way for him to get up in ten
seconds. I was sure I had done the trick, and,
although he made a hard struggle to get on
his feet, he was counted out by the referee,
and the championship honors which I had won
once before were again mine in one of the
fairest fights ever fought in a prize ring.
The excitement occasioned by the knockout
upset things greatly, and after I had retired to
my corner, where I stood surrounded by my
friends, receiving their congratulations, I was
suddenly pushed to the east end of the ring,
and the next moment I saw Corbett break from
the arms of his trainers, who were trying to
restrain him, and rush at me.
A dozen men had hold of my hands and
arms, complimenting me, and I was powerless
to defend myself from the blows which, in his
frenzy, he rained upon my neck. He was
ghastly with rage, and the break in his teeth
added nothing to his beauty. With curses on
his lips he threw himself upon me like a man who was possessed with the spirit of a devil and whose next act would be to destroy
himself. Amazed and dumfounded, I was
almost unable to defend myself and not until
he was pulled away did I realize that he had
done what I had expected of him, and lost his
head and his manners the third time. Finally,
when order was restored, information was
brought to me that he wished to shake hands;
and as I had refused to take his palm, owing to
the incident on the prison road not long before,
and when I considered, also, that I had fought
and won the battle, I decided to show him that I
had still the qualities of a man of courtesy, and
offered him my hand in return. He complimented
me highly, said I was the greatest man
he had ever encountered, that he was whipped
fairly, and that he wanted another “go” at me.
I told him as politely as I could that I had
fought my last fight, and would never enter the prize ring
again. With that, instead of accepting
my ultimatum as containing a little wisdom,
he retorted that if I did not give him another
chance he would meet me on the street and
beat me to death, or words to that effect, interspersing
his statement with profanity.“If you do, Jim,” I answered, looking him
square in the face, “I will kill you!”

I told him this because I meant it, and because
of my wife and my child, whom I love
better than all the world. My only object in
signing for that encounter was to vindicate my
honor and prove that no man ever lived who
could defeat me in a prizefight, be he great or
small. In the morning before I went to the
arena my wife prayed on her bended knees
that I would be the victor. Had it not been
for the semblance of a hollow mockery to my
God, I would have joined her.
When the gong sounded for the opening of
that fight I made up my mind that if they
carried me out a loser it would be as a dead man. I submit the facts.

 

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A PUNISHING, staggering fight, with the result
in doubt a dozen times. In the sixth
round Fitzsimmons dropped Ruhlin as cold as
an iceberg with the fatal shift. Possibly there
are many in this broad land who do not know
what the fatal shift is. The shift is an assault
used in fighting. It is not always fatal. When
Fitzsimmons uses it, though, it is generally
fatal to championship aspirations.
In order to work the shift to perfection a
fighter has to change his feet with the speed
of lightning. His right foot acts in the dual
capacity of brace and pivot, and every ounce of
strength and weight in his body and limbs
apart from that anchored right foot and leg gives
force to the blow which accompanies the shift.
Fitzsimmons always boxes in such a manner
that it is easy for him to resort to the shift.
He keeps his feet shuffling around, with neither very far in front. His leg motions are
ungainly, but there is a purpose in it all. You
would think sometimes he was a victim of
sciatica, the way his legs drag.
Fitzsimmons a Bundle of Toughened sinews
He looks the “lean and slippered pantaloon
of pugilism” to those who do not appreciate
his physique. In reality, he is a crouching
bundle of seasoned muscles and toughened
sinews; a hardfisted fellow, as cold as a fish
and with an eye that notes every move on the Queensberry chessboard.

He was all of this in the present fight. He
kept close to Ruhlin, flogging away, and at
times fumbling. His knees were bent on
occasions and his gait wobbly. His bony head
was rocking from the force of the Akron
Giant’s blows in many a round, but there was
never a sign of dizziness about the Cornishman.
My! what a slugging match it was. It
looked as if Fitzsimmons would put aside all
his knowledge of trick and endeavor to win
out in a smash for smash fight.
He went close to Ruhlin and began to slug.
Ruhlin struck straight from the shoulder and beat the Cornishman back to the ropes again
and again. The first was Ruhlin’s round. In
the next round the aspect of things changed.
Fitzsimmons tried the left shift once or twice
with fair success. The most damaging blows
were the left hooks he threw into Ruhlin’s stomach.
Terrible Clip Set by Both
By the end of the third round the faces of
both men were bruised. They were fighting at
a terrible clip. Fitzsimmons worked the right
cross until welts appeared near Ruhlin’s temple.
Ruhlin’s nose was flattened and his lips puffed.
He was bleeding like the stuck pig of tradition.
He was weak, and so was Fitzsimmons.
Nor did Fitzsimmons’ face escape in the
melee. There was a ragged gash alongside
his left eye and shining lumps on his forehead
and temple. Both eyes were black.
Fitzsimmons was the aggressor in every
round. He took Ruhlin’s left full in the face
times without number, and still kept pursuing
the Akron Giant. If Ruhlin is possessed of
the damaging punch his friends speak about
he did not have it with him.In the beginning of the fourth round Fitzsimmons
steadied himself after driving Ruhlin
clear across the ring. Bob was arm weary.
Ruhlin, whose plight was equally serious,
urged by a few words of advice whispered
from his corner, Hung his big gloves at the `
Cornishman’s face. Bob bowed his head to
the attack, and Ruhlin’s friends were fooled.
They thought Fitzsimmons was all out and about to fall.

 

Bob Was Only Fooling
The Cornishman was simply fooling. He
straightened up with a grin on his countenance
and hammered Ruhlin across the mat, bringing i
him down near the ropes.
The endurance displayed by the two men in
the fifth round was marvellous. For the greater
part of the time there was no attempt at guarding,
and swings, hooks, and straight punches
landed on their faces. Fitzsimmons’ blows
were the more telling. Ruhlin appeared to
be weary, but he still swung in a tired way,
hoping by chance to drop his opponent. Near
the end of the round Fitzsimmons showed
more of trickiness than he did at any stage of the battle. He dodged and drew away, and it
was evident he was trying to clear the road for some particular punch.
The opportunity was offered in the sixth
round. Fitzsimmons was on top of Ruhlin
from the first tap of the gong. He hammered
him across the floor and brought him to his knees.
Ruhlin stood erect again and Fitzsimmons
acted as if intent on backing away. He halted
suddenly and made a bluff motion with his right,
and in his steel blue eyes was an expression
that might pass for anything from a baby stare
to a look of horror. Beginning of the End
It gave no indication of what was passing in
his mind. Then came the left shift. His right
foot went forward and his left came back. His
left glove crashed against Ruhlin’s jaw, and
the Akron Giant fell to the ground an inert mass.
The light was over. It was won by Fitzsimmons
with a combination of hard fighting and
trickiness. He battered Ruhlin to a standstill
inside of four rounds: played with him another round, as a cat plays with a mouse, and worked the shift for all it was worth.
So far as Ruhlin is concerned, the fight
simply served to show that he is a game
fellow and that he can stand a terrible gruelling.