Weird losses

Interesting thread. As it happens, I just got finished reviewing Mark Wills-Greg Page I & II for the first time since they originally aired. Greg was 242 at age 27 for their first go-round, 218 at age 31 for their rematch. (Weight differential actually didn't change how his body looked all that much.)

Page's heart was never in boxing, and it showed against Wills. Ali made a choice at age 12 to pick up the gloves.

The Wills-Page results look weird enough on paper. Seeing them again was also as weird as viewing the broadcasts for the first time to discover how they ended, even knowing those conclusions today.

 

He did fight back from adversity against that one Samoan guy, although i think it required a bite on the neck and blatant headbutt.

Another weird one was the Tyson fight. Tyson apparently inflicted some serious injuries on him in the first round, but rather than quit in the corner he went back out and threw arm punches for a round until quitting in public-spectacle type fashion.

 

I think it was a style matchup thing.

Page had a bad habit of dropping his hands and getting hit by telegraphed shots.

Watch the Berbick fight. Berbick was better than wills but was similar strength wise and fired telegraph punches which, surprisingly, found Page's chin with regularity and shook him up.

For all his physical gifts, Page was not a great defensive fighter. This was especially true when he failed to use movement.

Also, by the time he fought Wills, Page was slipping noticeably.

 

one of the most brutal things I ever seen in the sport his nose was gushing like a fire hoose

 

dunno if this fits here at all...but it came to my mind...

......

Jack Dempsey sent to canvas 9 times in bout.

Dempsey never had a “boxing match” with anyone in his life. It was always a fight. He began talking about one of the fights, one of the toughest. It was a ‘fight he lost to a roughneck puncher named Johnny Sudenberg in Goldfield, Nevada, in 1915. Dempsey was 20 years old then, not fully grown, weighing 165 pounds. He had been hopping freights, working in mines, traveling all over Utah, Colorado, Ne*vada, trying to get into the ring against anyone who would fight him.

Sudenberg was a heavyweight, one of the most rugged and skilful the mining country had ever produced. Dempsey went up against him as a substitute for a fighter who had backed out. The promoters were worried, because Jack looked too small and seemed too green as a fighter. But Dempsey talked them into it.

He trained in a dive called the Northern Bar. His first sparring part*ner was a rough Indian pug named Kid Harrison. Dempsey, never easy on spar‑mates, knocked Harrison stiff one day and lost him. He took on an*other boy named Roy Moore. This one managed to stay on his feet during the training. Before the bout, Moore, who had seen Sudenberg fight, advised Dempsey not to start slugging it out with his opponent.
That went against Dempsey’s grain. He knew how to do only one thing, go in there and slug. The fight was held in the town dancehall. For three rounds, the two men stood toe to toe and tried to kill. each other with punches. The place was a madhouse of screaming miners and farmers. They had never seen anything like it.
“Johnny could hit,” Dempsey said. “From the fifth round on, I had no idea what was happening Sometimes there was a face in front of me. Some*times there was nothing. I just kept throwing my fists.”

The fight went ten rounds. Dempsey was on his feet when the bell rang, but for hours afterwards he didn’t know whether he had won or been knocked out. The fight went to Sudenberg on a decision. Dempsey dragged his bat*tered body and welted, shapeless face to a shack outside of town where he slept. When he woke up the next morning, he discovered that his man*ager had skipped off with the $100 Dempsey was to get for the fight. He was flat broke.

The beaten‑up kid fighter hung around town for a few days, then a wire came from a promoter in Tono*pah, Nevada, 30 miles away. Would Dempsey fight Johnny Sudenberg again? Dempsey’s answer was to start for Tonopah, walking. It was a walk over the mountains. He legged it 15 miles before he was picked up by a wagon. And ten days later, his face and body still swollen and bruised, Young Dempsey, as he was then known, climbed into the ring again against Sudenberg.

The second Dempsey‑Sudenberg fight was rougher than the first. In the first round, Dempsey floored Suden*berg seven times. Each time, Johnny bounced back and crashed into Demp*sey. Round after round wore on. One of the fighters had to retreat. It was Sudenberg. He began to back up, but as he went back, he kept belting away and gaining strength. Dempsey, not used to fighting in high altitudes, began to weaken. In the seventh round, Sudenberg brought up a right from the floor and knocked Dempsey flat on his back. Jack got ‑up. Suden*berg knocked him down again. Demp*sey took three knockdowns in that round, but kept on boring in for more.

The crowd watching that fight was as exhausted as the fighters. By the last round, with the two men still slugging at each other, they watched in silent, breathless awe. They had seen the greatest prizefight of their lives, probably one of the most brutal of all time. It was called a draw. Dempsey pulled himself across the ring at the final bell, put his arm around Johnny Sudenberg’s shoulders. They left the ring that way, support*ing each other.

“He was a fighter,” Dempsey said. “I really liked that guy.”

Those were the fights, dozens of them, that made Dempsey the kind of fighter he was. Hard, back‑breaking work and cruel jungle‑camp brawls developed Dempsey into the merciless, stalking killer he became in the ring Those who criticize Dempsey’s lust for mauling his opponents don’t realize that these were the only tac*tics he knew. The fighters of that day asked no quarter and gave none. To win, you had to be the tougher. You fought to prove how strong and mean you were.

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one more. apologies if these dont exactly fit the thread theme.

.....


The story of the night that Benny Lynch and Nipper Hampston fought when Lynch was described by one of his sparring partners as "never known him so drunk"...*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Benny had his revenge.

 

:good pretty sure Airich's promoter hit the bell mid way through the 6th just as his fighter was about to get finished off Absoloute joke of a fight

 

Tommy Morrison/Michael Bentt was a strange one.

 

Apparently there's a website for this kind of stuff http://www.weirdboxing.info

 

It was Ahmet Oner, sleaziest of them all.

 

Love that story about Dempsey.

 

something weird about this draw...

....


They fought for the farcical "Whiskerweight Championship of America." (Jubb was 92 & Brown was 80.) They boasted "whiskers of the Kentucky colonel type and through the four rounds both vainly tried time and again to reach the button. Round one found octogenarians waving like palm trees in the gentle ocean breeze." Brown floored Jubb's false teeth in the third stanza. By the end of the bout "both aspirants were locked in an embrace on the floor [after falling during a clinch] as 2,000 tourists cheered.... Charles W. Eldridge, the referee, 101 years old, declared the battle a draw." New York Times


http://boxrec.com/boxer/250894

 

gainer-Norwood

http://youtube.com/watch?v=9BgDjV0CFUQ