Knuckles and Gloves

In 1889 he had fought Jake Kilrain, a man with a great reputation, of about the same age, weight, and height. This had been a bare-knuckle affair and had lasted for seventy-five rounds, which occupied two hours and a quarter. On that occasion Sullivan was in magnificent fettle, and very often disdained to rest between the rounds, standing against the ropes in his corner and chatting with his seconds. This fight also took place at or near New Orleans, and as the month was July, it was insufferably hot. Indeed it is a wonder that both men were not touched by the sun. The actual place for the encounter was kept secret, as the police were out to stop it. Indeed they chased the combatants all over the country afterwards. Now Kilrain prided himself on his wrestling and ended the first round by throwing Sullivan with great force to the boards. But to his great astonishment thereafter Sullivan turned the tables on him at that game, and threw him, at various periods of the fight, no less than eleven times. But it was as a smashing hitter that Sullivan had made his name, and it was by terrific hits that he wore Kilrain down. In the third round Sullivan’s seconds claimed a foul because they believed his man had hit him below the belt, but this was not allowed by the referee. A few rounds later Kilrain drew first blood by a splitting blow upon the ear, which resulted in making Sullivan coldly furious, and in the next round, the seventh, he knocked Kilrain down with a blow on the jaw which would certainly have ended a glove-fight. After that Kilrain fell at every possible opportunity, sometimes from a light hit, sometimes without being hit at all. He fought very foully, stamping on Sullivan’s foot with his spiked shoes. Indeed, the insteps of both of them were severely scored by spikes at the end. It was not an exhilarating encounter. During a great deal of it there was next to no fighting at all. Kilrain kept away and dropped to avoid punishment. His blows, such as they were, became feeble. He was badly beaten. In the forty-fourth round Sullivan was sick, and Kilrain immediately asked him if he would give in. “I don’t want to hit you in that condition,” he added. To which audacious observation Sullivan replied: “You’re crazy. I’ve got you licked.” The “temporary indisposition” did Sullivan a lot of good as a matter of fact, and he fought all the better afterwards. In the seventieth round Kilrain seized Sullivan by the legs and tried to throw him. It was a palpable foul, but then the whole battle was foul so far as he was concerned; and the referee was grossly to blame for allowing such a display to proceed. In the end Charley Mitchell, Kilrain’s chief second, went over to Sullivan’s corner and asked him if he’d give Kilrain a present if he gave in. “Of course I will,” said Sullivan: and he was declared the winner. He was very little marked, but Kilrain was both disfigured and exhausted.

Now to return to the later fight, Corbett was much younger, longer in the reach, quicker, in better condition, and much more scientific than Sullivan. On the other hand, the old stager could hit a good deal harder, had far more experience, and was two stone heavier. His only chance lay in an early knock-out. And it was evidently Corbett’s best plan to keep away from him and wear out his strength. Sullivan was one of the glaring and stamping kind of boxers who beat timid men before a blow has been struck. To hard-headed and insensitive people it is a matter of perpetual astonishment that sheer bounce and bombast should cow an opponent in the ring; but, as an odd and unhappy fact, it frequently does so. But it took hard blows to beat Jem Corbett. He knew what to expect from Sullivan. He knew that he would try to rush in and beat down his guard and half kill him before the fight had fairly started. And Sullivan did try this. But Corbett was a good boxer and he had character, and he ducked and stepped aside, or stepped back, not attempting to hit, only making sure that he was not hit.

There were people who called Sullivan a coward. He showed no cowardice that day. Even in the fourth round his legs began to grow tired, but he stood up like a man. In the fifth round he caught Corbett a terrible blow on the throat, and he tried to follow it up with a mighty right swing; but though hurt Corbett avoided the second punch and sent in two hard smashes on his antagonist’s face. These he instantly doubled with blows on the ribs and nose. Sullivan was dazed, and only the call of time saved him. He was bleeding a good deal when he came up again, but seemed refreshed and wisely kept away out of reach. The seventh round showed that his condition was poor. He was breathing hard, and he misjudged his distance. Corbett could hit him almost as he liked; but Sullivan’s capacity for taking punishment was almost infinite.

Corbett saw now that he had the fight in hand if he were only careful. Sullivan was weakening before his eyes, but he dare take no risks. Once he sent in a right which closed the older man’s left eye, and after that he drove in some good body blows, but he held his hand a little. He must not go “all out” until there was no possibility left of a “lucky” punch from Sullivan.

And yet the beginning of each round found the veteran fairly fresh and always game. The minute’s rest and the attentions of thoroughly competent seconds revived him wonderfully, so that Corbett began to feel just a little uncertain. What punishment the man could take! Ah, but “youth would be served,” and Corbett’s nimbleness of foot kept him out of danger. The eleventh round started by Sullivan brilliantly attacking with the left on the head followed by a hard right on the body. For a moment the onlookers believed that Sullivan had turned the tide in his own favour. Corbett was hurt: if only the old chap could keep it up.... But the young one fell into a clinch—a thing he never seemed reluctant to do in order to avoid punishment, and as they broke away he sent a right to his opponent’s chin which drove his head back. The next three rounds were slow. Corbett felt confident again, finally confident. He was perfectly sure of his man by this time. Sullivan was trying to ease the pace a little, for he was clearly done, and Corbett would take things comfortably for a while to reserve his own strength, keeping the big man well exercised, though, so that he should not recover his wind. In the sixteenth round Corbett sent a left hook to the body which visibly shook Sullivan, who was unable to land one blow that mattered. True that in this round Sullivan pulled himself together and aimed a blow which would certainly have stretched Corbett senseless if it had landed on his jaw; but then Corbett entirely avoided it, and sent home three spanking blows on the face without a return. And yet, after being virtually a beaten man for several rounds, John Sullivan was the better man in the seventeenth. He began by knocking Corbett down, not severely it is true, for he caught him when he was for once standing in a bad position with his feet almost level. And Corbett found that he could hit hard still. Indeed he was a giant of strength, and if his legs had been as strong as the rest of him he should have won. He rushed Corbett to the ropes and forced him back against them and hit him left and right. Corbett was profoundly thankful for the call of time. He was very cautious when they came up again. He remembered all his boxing, which is exactly what a weary man is often incapable of. He knew that Sullivan felt that he might have a chance yet by rushing him off his feet; and when the rush came he was ready. Instead of stepping aside this time he timed his adversary nicely, and sent out a right which took Sullivan on the jaw. It was a damaging blow, but the veteran went on fighting. In the next round he put his own right on Corbett’s jaw and spun him round, but failed to fluster him or seriously shake him. For the rest of that round Corbett kept a respectful distance and sparred. Then at the beginning of the twentieth Corbett realised that his turn had come. He began at once by rushing in his turn, got Sullivan up against the ropes, clinched to hold him there, broke and banged his right on the body and shot a half-arm blow to the side of the head. Sullivan was in a bad way. He reeled, and Corbett came after him, but the call of time intervened. Sullivan was now hopelessly beaten. He came pluckily up for the twenty-first round, but could hardly put up his hands. Corbett smashed in a right swing to his jaw and the veteran fell. The yells of the watching crowd, and particularly those of his seconds in the corner, helped to steel his resolution, and he dragged himself up at the sixth second. Corbett immediately hit him again, thrice, and it was all over.

Youth had been served, and the boxer had beaten the slogger, which, other things being equal, he invariably does.

CHAPTER III
ROBERT FITZSIMMONS AND JAMES J. CORBETT

Robert Fitzsimmons was in all respects the opposite number of Jem Corbett. He was in the great tradition of fighting blacksmiths. A rough, simple soul, who was perfectly content to be a prize-fighter. Three or four years younger than Corbett, a Cornishman by birth, he had emigrated to New Zealand with his people, as a lad. His first successes were won in amateur competitions organised by Jem Mace, the old bare-knuckle champion. Later on he went to Sydney and learned under Larry Foley, himself a pupil of Mace. In 1890 he moved to San Francisco, and for some years he carried all before him. He beat Peter Maher, Jem Hall, Joe Choynski, and Dan Creedon. Then, in 1891, he knocked out Jack Dempsey in thirteen rounds, for the World’s Middle-weight Championship. Fitzsimmons was just short of six feet in height, and, at the time of his fight with Corbett, he had filled out from the middle-weight limit of 11 stone 4 lb. and was now slightly over 12 stone. His is another name that will never be forgotten so long as men talk of boxing.

The match between these two was of great importance at the time, and (this is so seldom the case) it is important to look back on: for it was a fight between two strong men, both of great reputation, with somewhat similar records, but perfectly different methods. It was a match between an intensely scientific boxer and a rugged fighter, who had, however, a kind of skill or shrewdness not closely related to conventional boxing science, which carried him very far. Fitzsimmons was, indeed, a more remarkable man than Corbett.

In order to explain Fitzsimmons to the best of my ability, it will be necessary to make a small excursion into autobiography.

Just before Christmas of 1908, Fitzsimmons came to England on a music-hall tour. He was due to arrive in London one Sunday afternoon, and it occurred to me to meet him at the station and ask him to box with me. It would be an interesting experience. I went to St. Pancras, and waited until the regular interviewers had finished with him. I was not anxious for any one to overhear my curious request. Just as he was getting into a taxi with his manager, I asked him if he would put on the gloves with me that night. He needed a good deal of persuading, but in a slow, unsmiling way he was a good-natured fellow, and after a while he consented. Accordingly we met later on in a private room at the National Sporting Club, and boxed two rounds. The only other person present (it being Sunday night, the club was, officially, closed) was Fitzsimmons’s manager.

It is not affectation to describe this encounter as a real pleasure. Making due allowance for the self-complacency an amateur (in all senses of that misused word) would feel at taking on a great champion, I can honestly say that I enjoyed those two rounds for their own sakes. Of course, I knew perfectly well that he wouldn’t “eat” me; but quite apart from any competitive spirit, which, in this case would have been absurd, boxing is a definitely enjoyable pastime.

I emerged from the encounter with a black eye, and—for the first time in my life—a bleeding nose, but my experience had been extremely interesting. Fitzsimmons was taller than I, much heavier, and far longer in the arm, but I found him quite easy to hit. I suppose I can’t quite exclude the “competitive spirit” after all, let alone my amateur self-complacency, for I was delighted at sending in one really hard straight left which took Fitzsimmons on the mouth and sent his head right back. If I say, with all diffidence, that it was a respectable blow, it is only to emphasise the fact that my opponent’s head, driven back, sprang forward again exactly like a steel spring. In fact, you could always hit Fitzsimmons, but it wanted a Jefferies to hurt him, as we shall see later on. He was an awkwardly made man, hard and angular, with a back and shoulders phenomenally developed. His very long arms may be compared to wire-bound bamboo, and unlike the arms of heroes in fictitious boxing stories, with no biceps to speak of and indeed no special show of muscle at all.

Fitzsimmons was not a first-rate boxer, because he had never learned to defend himself, but he had an almost infinite capacity for taking punishment, which was his title to genius in the ring.

The great fight between Fitzsimmons and Corbett for the championship took place at Carson City, Nevada, on March 17th, 1897. No love was lost between the two men, who refused to shake hands at the beginning. Bad feeling in sport is, no doubt, deplorable, but as in this case it does not necessarily spoil sport.

It was evident that both men were nervous and showed the utmost respect and caution for one another. Fitzsimmons led off with the left, and Corbett ducked. This lanky, raw-boned, skull-faced man troubled him. Fitzsimmons’s eyes were like those of an ill-tempered horse—fierce and cold. And they were merciless. The American missed the more comfortable and open ruffianism of some of the men he had fought, or the full-blooded and jovial savagery of John Sullivan. Nevertheless, he got in the first blow, and thereafter paid most of his attention to his man’s body. Before the first round was over his confidence returned, and his greater skill in ducking and slipping and getting away was manifest. In this, as in most of the subsequent rounds, Corbett showed himself by far the better boxer, and he was well ahead of his opponent on points. Other things being equal, the better boxer wins. But other things in this battle were not equal.

Let us try to put ourselves, so to speak, in Corbett’s shoes. He must have been quite satisfied that he had won the first round on points, and we may be sure that his seconds did not fail to hearten him. He began the next round with his full confidence, and attacked. Fitzsimmons replied, and they fell into a clinch. Indeed this round was spoiled by much hugging and holding, though once Corbett broke away to put in two quick hard lefts on his antagonist’s head which seemed to stagger him. In the next round he came in close and put in a hard right over the heart, which drove his man back. Fitzsimmons glared and showed signs of anger, and made a futile rush at Corbett which must have pleased him greatly. To see evident signs of temper in your opponent inspires confidence. You feel that if he really loses his temper he will lose his head and become wild. Practised boxers seldom do this, because they know that with a fresh and still vigorous man real “wildness” means a speedy downfall. But Fitzsimmons never lost his head in that sense. He may have been angry in a way of speaking, but he could keep a hold on himself. As though to remind him that he must not charge like that, Corbett stopped him again and again with hard counters on the ribs. In the fourth round the pace of the fighting became furious, Fitzsimmons still being somewhat reckless, hitting much harder than Corbett but not nearly so accurately. In the meantime the American avoided nearly all the punishment intended for him by the most graceful and polished footwork. Both men were by now a little winded and fought slower through the next round. Corbett again showed himself markedly the better boxer, landing blows with both hands and getting away out of distance without any trouble. There was a little clinching, and then a hard left from Corbett made Fitzsimmons’s nose bleed. He was now perfectly happy. He felt that it was only a question of time and he would have his man well beat.

Fitzsimmons’s wife, who was present at the ring-side, was now heard to urge her husband to attack the body. But in this sixth round, before he could act successfully on that good advice, Corbett came in close and sent a whizzing upper-cut to the Cornishman’s jaw which sent his right foot tapping involuntarily in the way that always happens with a jaw-blow just not hard enough or accurate enough to knock a man down. Just after that Corbett landed again and Fitzsimmons fell, remaining down for nine seconds. Corbett’s heart must have glowed. True, the nearly beaten man rose and managed to fend off his opponent’s triumphant attack for the rest of the round. But Corbett went back to his corner not greatly disappointed. It was no doubt a pity that he couldn’t finish him off at once: but surely the effect of that knock-down blow would be felt at the end of the minute’s rest. Surely—and yet—would it? There may likely have been a subconscious shadow of doubt in Corbett’s mind. He was himself tired, and, though his seconds whispering to him took his immediate victory for granted, they were just a little anxious. The seventh round found Corbett dashing in to complete his work. Right and left again and again he smashed into Fitzsimmons’s face, bruising and battering, almost pulping it so that hardly a feature was distinguishable. But the effort tired him, and he failed to land a blow on the vulnerable jaw. With a man so reckless of defence as Fitzsimmons, it was, as already explained, easy enough to land a blow—just a blow and another. But to land that blow where no hardihood can stand against it, that is, at the side of the chin, is another matter, and calls for thought and guile. And the cunning though not yet the strength seemed to have gone from Corbett. When a boxer is worn out it is often his forethought and ringcraft which give out before the actual force of his blows. And Fitzsimmons must have looked horrible, soaked in blood and with ferocious eyes and the iron hardness of his limbs still full of spring and vigour. With his long arms swinging, he slouched round the ring watching his opportunity. In the eighth round Corbett sent a driving left straight to his mouth and split his lip so that more blood flowed, and again and yet again Corbett stopped his furious rushes with straight blows, so that Fitzsimmons battered himself upon them by flinging forward his own weight. But it seemed impossible to hurt this thin, awkward man. And Corbett grew more and more cautious, and in his heart more hopeless. His footwork was still a miracle of speed and neatness, and he kept dancing in and away again, dealing out to his opponent a series of hooks and swings and upper-cuts which must have defeated a man of even his own build and lasting power. But footwork should be economical and never for show, and Corbett was using his feet more than was necessary, and adding, in this way, to the whole encounter’s great total of fatigue. And so it went on till the fourteenth round—Fitzsimmons bashed about, staggered sometimes, out-boxed and out-generalled in every round, but still strong and agile and ferocious. Corbett, weighed down with infinite weariness and unmarked.

It was a hard test for him, as it is for any man in like case. His very arms were an intolerable weight, he was sick with weariness. And—he was unhurt and was faced by a virtually beaten man. And now he dragged his feet and his pace was gone from him. He could not see a moment ahead. He could only do the simple things. He could lead with his left and did so. And Fitzsimmons dodged the blow and they fell into a clinch, and the Cornishman grinned wickedly over his shoulder. His moment had come now and he was quite sure about it. They broke away, and Fitzsimmons came in again, sliding his feet along the boards with an almost reptilian movement. With his left foot foremost he sent a hard left to Corbett’s mark: then whipped his feet over, left behind right, almost in one movement, and shot his right up from below to the jaw. The American’s face was seen to go gray. His great body seemed slowly to crumble and he went down. As the referee counted the seconds he struggled to rise. But he was paralysed—out.

When at last he did manage by an heroic effort to find his feet again he lost his head and wildly threw himself at his antagonist. Seconds and officials leapt between the men and held him away. Great strength and an abnormal capacity for endurance had beaten one of the finest boxers who ever claimed the Championship of the World.

CHAPTER IV
JAMES J. JEFFERIES AND ROBERT FITZSIMMONS

James J. Jefferies was an enormous fellow who for many years held the World’s Championship. He stood 6 feet 1½ inches, and his weight was generally in the neighbourhood of fifteen stone. He was born in 1879, and before he was twenty he had at least eight conquests to his name, and had fought drawn battles of twenty rounds each with such men as Gus Ruhlin and Joe Choynski. And having knocked out the majority of his opponents in a very few rounds, and being a man of phenomenal strength and hitting power, it naturally followed that he should challenge Bob Fitzsimmons for the World’s Championship. This he did, and the fight took place at Coney Island Athletic Club, near New York, on June 9th, 1899.

If it wanted a sledge-hammer to hurt Fitzsimmons, the hammer of Thor was needed for Jefferies. There has seldom, if ever, been a man who could take a harder blow, whether on the “mark” or the jaw, without turning a hair. He was not a scientific boxer of the first order, but he was no mere windmill, and he knew enough not to fight “raggedly.” He was, however, slow.

In arranging the conditions of the match beforehand, Fitzsimmons was anxious to have all hitting in holds forbidden, as it is by the strict English rules: that is to say, he preferred a clean break from a clinch. In most boxing contests now, both in England and America, when the referee stands in the ring he breaks the men away from each other, often by the use of considerable force, and passes between them. By this means each man has time to get ready again to start fighting in a fair manner. Jefferies objected strongly, for a man of his great weight and power can do a great deal of damage by hitting “on the break-away.” Fitzsimmons was a very fair fighter, and upheld the English tradition in respect of clinches. Also, he knew, of course, that a clean break was greatly to his advantage. In the end the point was left to the referee, who thrust himself between the men to end a clinch.

The ring used was only 22 feet square; no weights were announced before the fight, but Fitzsimmons was probably between twelve and thirteen stone, whilst Jefferies was evidently a good two stone heavier.

From the very beginning it was seen that the old champion was much the better boxer, Jefferies much the stronger man. Heaven knows that Robert Fitzsimmons in his lean and lanky way was strong enough for six, quite apart from his spiritual qualities of will-power and courage. But Jefferies was phenomenal—is, no doubt, still; for though one speaks of him in the past tense, because this fight took place many years ago, he is at the time of writing still a comparatively young man.

At the time of this encounter Fitzsimmons himself was only, and also, a young man in the comparative sense. He was thirty-six, and in despite of his agility he was stiffer and less alert than he had been. Only two years had gone by since his great battle with Jem Corbett, but they were two years of great significance in the life of an athlete.

He began with his old brilliance of footwork, darting in and out, hitting Jefferies almost as he liked: but his blows were not hard, not hard enough, not so hard as they used to be. On points the first round was certainly his, and he wound it up by sending home a splendid right on his man’s ear. The second round was much spoiled by clinching. Jefferies began to assert himself, landing hard on body and face. He crouched low, and with his forearms close to protect his head, “bored in,” as they say, and went for Fitzsimmons’s body with short-arm blows behind which he swung his huge weight. Fitzsimmons tried to put in a right upper-cut, but his adversary guarded it and they clinched, the referee parting them. Immediately afterwards Jefferies shot out a straight left which caught the Cornishman hard in the face when he was standing square, so that he was off his balance, and the blow knocked him down flat on his back. Such a knock-down as that does little harm, and Fitzsimmons rose at once, scorning to take advantage, as so many men would have done, of the ten seconds’ count. It should be remembered that the blow on the jaw which ends, or nearly ends, a fight makes a man fall forward. The third round was very even: they had settled down to hard fighting, and there was a good exchange of blows. The same may be said for the next round, except that Jefferies’s punches were much harder, and once Fitzsimmons was visibly shaken. He must have realised about this time that the odds were considerably against him. He had excellent opportunities for virtually free blows—blows which he could deliver with all his power, perfectly timed, and nicely judged. And they seemed not to inconvenience Jefferies at all. He tried his famous “shift” upon him without avail, that trick of his own invention by means of which he beat Jem Corbett—that dancing, glancing change of feet so that the right hand followed the right foot and smashed into the body under the heart and then glanced upwards to the jaw. Jefferies stood it all, and crouched and glowered and came on, quite impervious to anything that he could do. Once again Fitzsimmons decidedly “won” the sixth round. But of what use was that? He showed himself the better boxer, he landed more hits than his antagonist landed. That was all. There were to be other rounds beyond the sixth, and Jefferies was unhurt, unweakened, only biding his time. The seventh was the same, and this time Jefferies showed a little uncertainty. Fitzsimmons with his years of experience might be feeling a little desperate: Jefferies was only a lad, and realised the great difficulty of landing a punishing blow. No one knew better than he how much cleverer a boxer was the Cornishman. Jefferies was slow to start work in this round, and even, it seemed, a little reluctant. He kept backing away to avoid Fitzsimmons’s rushes. The old champion never charged blindly at his man; he knew too much for that. But he could get with extraordinary speed across the ring, coming with a sliding, slithering movement which was snake-like in its quickness and certainty. And the expression of his face and especially of his light blue eyes was terribly and coldly fierce. For all the awkward, unsmiling kindness of his nature, Fitzsimmons could look a very devil when he was fighting.

After a little Jefferies halted and tried to force his man up against the ropes, but Fitzsimmons nipped easily away and held his own comfortably. But he was not happy. He could not hurt his opponent, and before this he had been used to make himself felt in seven rounds. In the next round Jefferies was again slow and reluctant at the outset, but after a little sparring he put in a couple of lefts without serious return, and later finished the round with a spanking straight left which sent Fitzsimmons staggering half across the ring.

The ninth round settled the matter. Fitzsimmons led off and attacked ferociously, but was sent back again with just such a left as had troubled him in the previous set-to. He left his body open, and Jefferies swung all his great strength and all his mighty weight into a body-blow which caught the veteran over the heart. He gasped audibly and time was called. But that was the winning blow. The fight was knocked out of Fitzsimmons. He was still almost dazed when he came up for the tenth round. Again Jefferies used that best and safest of all blows, the straight left, and Fitzsimmons was shaken to his heels. He could not defend himself: he could only stand and take what he was given. The next blow sent him to the ground, and he only rose, very groggy, at the seventh second. And now, though it made no ultimate difference, Jefferies lost his head. Fitzsimmons had been beaten by the blow over his heart, the effect of which would last much longer and take far more out of him than three or four on the jaw which failed to knock him out. But Jefferies could not have known that for certain at this moment: and seeing his man weak and tottering he swung wildly at him. If he himself had not been so extraordinarily strong, or if the elder man had not been already broken, he might well have lost the fight by that wildness. It has happened scores of times. As it was, an inferior blow from Jefferies knocked Fitzsimmons down again, but only for five seconds. Done as the old champion was, the blow must have been a comparatively poor one, or he could not have risen in the time, though, as had happened earlier in the fight, his pride would not allow him to take full advantage of the “count.” Even then, in his excitement, Jefferies failed to finish his man, and the round ended.

Then the eleventh round began, and Fitzsimmons showed the stuff that he was made of. He always had the reputation of being strong, and hard, and phenomenally plucky: but he had been badly hurt by that blow in the ninth round and the cumulative effect of several others. Yet he did not mean to be beaten without a great struggle. Immediately time was called he dashed across the ring and attacked Jefferies with all his might. It was not of the slightest use, for Jefferies was quite ready for him and the veteran was too weak now to do any damage, but it was a good effort. Jefferies waited for him to expose his body and then sent two more hard right-handers to his heart; then several blows at the head, ending with a left half-arm blow which dazed Fitzsimmons, so that he stood, or rather tottered, helpless, with his arms down, in the middle of the ring. Jefferies looked at him for a moment to make quite sure that he was as bad as he seemed, then swung left, followed by right, to the point of the jaw. Fitzsimmons fell forward, down and out.

In spite of his age and his defeat at Jefferies’s hands, Fitzsimmons challenged the champion to a second battle three years later; and on July 25th, 1902, they met again at San Francisco. It was not much of a fight, and the whole business was viewed with great disfavour in England. It was regarded as an outrageous commercial transaction: and indeed it was little more. Fitzsimmons, in fact, consented to be thrashed for so much down—consented, rather, to risk the very strong probability; for no one suggested that the fight was not a perfectly square one. Fitzsimmons was now only 11 stone 6 lb., whilst Jefferies weighed 15 stone 5 lb., quite an absurd difference when we remember also the disparity of their ages. Once more there was no sort of doubt but that the Cornishman was the better boxer. He had forgotten nothing: Jefferies had learned very little. The first two rounds were slightly in Fitzsimmons’s favour, but after that the big man’s huge natural advantages made the end inevitable. At the end of the second round Fitzsimmons was bleeding severely from the nose, and it usually takes a very heavy blow indeed to draw much blood from the nose of an old hand. But Jefferies’s cheek and eye were also cut and bleeding, for Fitzsimmons had not treated him gently. In the fourth round Jefferies crouched low and glowered at his man, bent on hurting him. He guarded the beautiful long straight lefts that Fitzsimmons sent whizzing in and attacked the slighter man’s body. The next round was very fast, whilst the men were fighting; but there was a good deal of clinching too, in which Fitzsimmons, however much he tried to save himself, got the worst of it, because the overwhelming weight of his adversary was thrown forward on to him. Superficially Jefferies looked much the worst of the two, for Fitzsimmons’s sharp blows had cut his face in several places and he was bleeding profusely. This was due not so much to the hardness of the older man’s hitting as to the softness of Jefferies’s skin: for the champion could generally beat his opponents so easily that severe training seemed to him not worth the candle. Fitzsimmons was unmarked, but the damage was partly to his body and visible only in vague red blotches such as gloved fists make, and partly in store for him. And yet by boxing he had the better of the sixth round, and his hope rose. He was not a man of vivid imagination, just a healthily hopeful fellow, with plenty of self-confidence. Jefferies had beaten him once, and only a round or two before he had been winning—winning on points, at any rate. He had forgotten that fight now. He only knew that he was his adversary’s master in the art of boxing, and surely good boxing, skill, ringcraft, experience would win now? Did he think about it like that? Not at all. There was no time for thinking, only for an instinctive effort to do his best, to put in one of his very best and hardest blows on the point of the jaw—not the exact point, but an inch or so on either side of the exact point. That was where the impact of his glove must come, that part of his glove behind which lay the protruding knuckle of his second finger—the striking point of the anatomical piston. He must land that blow with terrific force, and the sharp upper end of the jaw would be levered up to the bundle of nerves at the place where the skull is thinnest, the semi-circular canals behind the ear would be temporarily deranged, the sense of equilibrium would go, there would be, speaking roughly and somewhat incorrectly, a slight and quickly passing concussion of the brain. The victim would fall, the old champion would be a champion once again.... Desperately Fitzsimmons tried to land that blow. But the sixth round ended and nothing happened. In the next round Jefferies came crouching, but rushing, across the ring, and Fitzsimmons caught him with a hard left on the mouth; and a little later, Jefferies, with blood to get rid of, stopped to spit (or to “expectorate,” as the sporting papers, with their inimitable refinement, put it). It was, I suppose, a legitimate opportunity, though a fastidiously chivalrous boxer would not have used it: in any case, Fitzsimmons did, and attacked his man with all his might. He sent in three hard blows, meant for the jaw, which again got Jefferies on the mouth, doing no decisive damage, and before time was called again Jefferies had got home upon the heart with one of his devastating rights, just as he had done in the previous encounter. They began the eighth round with fairly equal exchanges, and then fell into a clinch. They broke away, and as he stepped back Fitzsimmons began to talk. Now, there is no doubt that he had hurt Jefferies; certainly he had hurt him more than in the match at Coney Island. It is not to be said that he would have won if he had been more careful—who can say? The probabilities are against it. But he began to talk to Jefferies, and he paused to do so. It is most surely true that you cannot do two things at once when one of them is fighting. I don’t know what Fitzsimmons said, but we may be pretty sure that his words were words of scorn. “Mouth-fighting,” as it is called, is a more foolish than reprehensible practice. To stand and invent rude epithets for your antagonist, to shower invective upon him, to deride his method of boxing, or to impugn his sportsmanship is so very far beside the point—especially the point of the jaw, which is the real bone of contention. And in order to talk Fitzsimmons necessarily laid aside his strict vigilance. And Jefferies, who wasn’t always slow, took a most legitimate advantage and swung his left at long range at his opponent’s stomach. It was, on the whole, a lucky blow, for it caught Fitzsimmons just beneath the breast-bone at that point which we call the “mark.” And the Cornishman, for once, was taken unawares: the blow made him gasp, and it made him tuck in his stomach instinctively, with the result of bringing his head forward and down. Jefferies’s huge left swung back and forward, again, catching him full on the jaw. And once again Fitzsimmons knees gave, his face went ashen gray, his body sank forward ... seven, eight, nine—Out!

After this defeat Fitzsimmons fought about ten other battles, though four of them hardly count, as they took place in those states of the American Union where only short contests are allowed, and failing a knock-out no decision must be given by the referee. Such contests seem to us quite pointless. If men are giving an exhibition of scientific boxing, as for charity or as on one occasion or another they often do in this and other countries, why should it not be called an exhibition, even if the sparring partners are heavily paid for that purpose? For, of course, the tendency in No-Decision contests is for the men to “go easy” and not to try to knock each other out. And if men are boxing their best so far as science goes and yet not giving their physical best to the affair, the whole event is apt to be meaningless. Besides, science and physique are intermingled. A man is not boxing his best who doesn’t try to finish his opponent as speedily as possible, who doesn’t try, that is, to assert his superiority of combined force and skill.

Fitzsimmons won battles again, and lost them again. And he went on fighting till 1914—not very long before his death, at the age of fifty-four or so.

CHAPTER V
TOMMY BURNS AND JACK JOHNSON

If the last decade of the nineteenth century saw the growth of glove-fighting to a high level of scientific achievement, the first decade of the twentieth saw the decline of its management to the uttermost pit of low commercial enterprise. Not that the promotion of any professional athletic contest has ever been entirely free from the besmirching influences of money: it has not. Rascality apart, there have always been hucksters who shouted their merchandise of weight and muscle and skill in raucous and unseemly tones. But when real if degraded cunning is brought to the job, the issues are obscured, and unsophisticated sportsmen, behind the times in business methods, are apt to be deceived.

Fighters, you may say, are born, whilst champions are made—in Fleet Street and the complementary thoroughfares of New York and San Francisco. A particular boxer is discussed in some newspaper every day for a considerable period. He is advertised, in fact. You get accustomed to the fellow’s name in exactly the same way as you get accustomed to the name of some coffee or toffee, tailor or tinker. You begin to regard him, quite unconsciously, as an inevitable concomitant of everyday life. And when the paper tells you that he is a champion, you, having a general interest in boxing but knowing very little about it, accept him as a champion.

This boxer happens to be a good boxer, wins many fights, and you take it as a matter-of-course. The newspaper pats itself as you might say, loudly on the back for having made a good shot. The boxer happens to be a bad boxer and is beaten every time, and you and the newspaper denounce and deride him—you, because what you thought was your opinion is shown to be wrong, the newspaper which (in collaboration with the boxer’s manager, business-manager, publicity-manager, and general manager) invented the poor fellow: because it is unable to flatter itself.

The genuine champion, who will be content with a small c, is not made by newspapers. By his own merits he emerges from the ruck and he makes his own way. But he can make his way, probably, much quicker with the aid of newspapers, managers, who sometimes exploit him, and other sound business methods: and not his way only, but his fortune. Carpentier is a transcendent example. He is a magnificent boxer, who was bound to have made a name for himself by boxing and boxing alone. And we do not grudge him the fortune which boxing and boxing alone would not have brought to him. But we do grudge the vast sums made by spurious champions (or their managers), and the sums much more vast and rolling and altogether disgusting made by the promoters of what are, virtually, spurious contests.

Now the most notorious boxer of the first ten years of the present century, a really good fighter, of unorthodox methods and exemplary fortitude, was Tommy Burns. His real name was Noah Brusso, he was said to be a French Canadian by birth, and he had won the World’s Heavy-weight Championship by beating Marvin Hart in 1906. He was born in 1881, stood 5 feet 7 inches, and weighed 12 stone 7 lb. He was very broad for his height, and always somewhat inclined to fatness.

In 1907 Burns came to England, and in that and the following year summarily knocked out the best men that England could find to meet him. Our best in this country at that time were very poor indeed. Gunner Moir, quite a third-rate boxer in point of skill, was Champion of England. There was the wildest excitement about his match with Burns, because Moir’s prowess had been trumpeted far beyond its merits. Burns knocked him out in ten rounds. It was a disgraceful affair, because there can be no doubt that the Canadian could easily have beaten him much sooner. On that occasion it certainly seemed as though he were boxing to please, or rather not to disappoint the spectators. The public like to have “value for money.” And, of course, there are always cinematograph rights. What will the much larger public, outside the actual place of battle, say if the film consists, as it has done before now, of five minutes’ display of American pressmen, seconds, and other boxers who have nothing to do with the matter in hand, and half a minute’s fighting with three visible blows? The public will be disgusted, and they won’t go to see that picture, and the film-rights will be negligible. I am unable to remember whether moving pictures were taken of the encounter between Tommy Burns and Gunner Moir, but if they were that would be a sufficient, if not a good, reason for the unnecessarily protracted bout, as it certainly has been the reason in other contests.

Burns, then, was Heavy-weight Champion of the World, and was, in the course of nature, liable to be challenged to fight for his title. And there had come into prominence a huge negro, Jack Johnson, who was anxious to fight Burns. In England we had hitherto heard very little of Johnson. He was three years older than the white champion, stood 6 feet and one-half inch, and weighed 15 stone. He appears to have started his career in 1899, and from that year down to December, 1908, when he finally succeeded in getting a match with Burns, he had fought sixty-five contests, half of which he won by means of a knock-out. Excepting Peter Jackson, he was about as good a black boxer as had ever been known. He was very strong, very quick, a hard hitter, and extraordinarily skilful in defence. He was by no means unintelligent, and, not without good reason, was regarded generally with the greatest possible dislike. With money in his pocket and physical triumph over white men in his heart, he displayed all the gross and overbearing insolence which makes what we call the buck nigger insufferable. He was one of the comparatively few men of African blood who, in a half-perceiving way, desire to make the white man pay for the undoubted ill-treatment of his forbears.

Whether Tommy Burns really wanted to avoid Johnson or not it is difficult to say. Certainly, it seemed as though he did. Or, on the other hand, the long procrastination may have been deliberate, with the end in view of rousing public excitement, to its uttermost pitch of intensity: and thus, perhaps, of acquiring more pelf. Burns succeeded, at all events, in rousing the public impatience and irritation which immediately precedes boredom. And it would be a dull business to trace the whole story of Johnson’s efforts to get into a ring with him. It is enough to say that he finally succeeded, a match was made, and the two men entered the ring at Rushcutter’s Bay, Sydney, New South Wales, on December 26th, 1908.

As so often happens in a black and white affair, feeling ran very high, and it was feared by responsible people that black, in the person of Jack Johnson, would not on this occasion get a fair chance. But as the event proved, the fight was perfectly fair—in that sense, and we may be sure that Johnson was well cared for and guarded. Interference by the police was by way of being expected, and it was arranged before the contest that if the police did stop the fight in its course, the referee would give a decision on the merits of the encounter up to the moment of interference.

If Johnson’s demeanour had always been insolent, it is unnecessary to look for another word to describe the conduct of Tommy Burns. For all I know, at heart Burns may have been a modest man, though I don’t think so. But to hear him talk you would think that no other boxer had ever existed. There are two ways of getting a hearing and of making people think well of you: one is to talk as though the person spoken to was the most important and interesting and delightful man or woman alive, to talk with such conviction in that way that the person in question believes himself to be just that. The other way is to shout aloud that you are the most important person (and all the other things) alive, and upon my soul, if you shout loud enough you will find believers. Naturally or deliberately, Burns did this, and quite a large number of people believed in him. And it must always be remembered that they had something to believe in. Burns was a decidedly good boxer. His manner in the ring was unorthodox. He had no settled attitude or position to take up at the beginning or return to between rallies. He kept his hands and his feet in the positions which suited the demands of the moment. His style was loose and easy, and he could hit hard. Also he went in for glaring balefully at his opponents, stamping on the floor to inspire terror, and worst, “mouth-fighting,” pouring vituperation upon his man and telling him exactly what he was going to do to him. All this sort of thing makes modern professional boxing a sorry business, though no peculiarly bad instances have occurred lately. Indeed, boxers have begun to understand that it does not pay.

The men entered the ring on the appointed day, and Johnson’s natural advantages were at once evident. He was taller, heavier, and stronger than Burns. They were both well trained, but Burns always scorned the conventional abstinences and smoked cigars right up to and including the day of a fight. He never looked really hard all over. And now directly the fight started Johnson began by going straight for his opponent and knocking him down. Burns rose in eight seconds, obviously shaken. He crouched with his right hand forward and his left back, and attacked the black man’s body. Johnson kept away from him and sent his right across to Burns’s chin, rather too high to bring him down again, but enough to make him stagger. Then Burns sent home a blow on the jaw, but not a good one, and a hard opening round came to an end. No one supposed then that Burns stood the faintest chance of winning. But Burns was going to do his best. He was acutely conscious of his position as the white champion. He was filled with passionate antagonism to the black man because he was black. Right or wrong, this antagonism is one of the strongest prejudices that moves men. And there was nothing about Johnson, as there certainly was about Peter Jackson, to mitigate the accident of his birth. Rather the contrary.

The second round began, and the negro taunted his white opponent. He, too, was a great hand at “mouth-fighting,” but as he talked he boxed, and he swung his right and caught Burns on the chin. The white man stumbled slightly and his ankle gave so that he fell, but he rose again at once to receive a straight blow on his left eye, which immediately began to swell. Then Johnson put in a swing on Burns’s stomach. It was his round, and he went to his corner grinning widely, as only a black man can. Burns tried to get close at the next set-to, and again and again hit his adversary’s ribs, but these blows made no impression on Johnson who, whilst the in-fighting continued, struck Burns heavily over the kidneys. During the fourth round both men talked, heaping insults upon each other. And so it went on. Once, after pounding Burns heavily on the ribs, Johnson clinched and over the white man’s shoulder laughed for the benefit of the crowd, and made ironic observations to Burns. It was in the seventh round that Johnson began seriously to hurt his man, and it was palpable to experienced onlookers that he was trying to do so. “I thought Tommy was an in-fighter,” he called out, and sent Burns violently down with a terrific right on the body. Both the white man’s eyes were now swollen, he was bleeding at the mouth, and Johnson was all over him, hitting him as he liked, left and right, hard, but not too hard. He could have knocked him out at any time now, but that was not at all his idea of fun at the expense of the white race. He would keep him on his feet and hurt him. He knew Burns would never give in so long as he could stand. He no doubt guessed that the referee would not stop the fight so long as the smallest chance remained of a lucky blow from Burns.

Then the talking began again. “Come on, Tommy, swing your right,” the black laughed, and Burns snarled back, “Yellow Dog!” A disgusting performance on both sides, you say? Yes: and yet there was something wonderfully fine about Burns that day. His prejudice may have been foolish, his behaviour in talking, whether he started it or not, was childish, his methods of self-advertisement before the fight reached the nethermost pit of vulgarity. But he was game. To take a beating at any time, even from your best friend, is hard work. But take a beating from a man you abhor, belonging to a race you despise, to know that he was hurting you and humiliating you with the closest attention to detail, and the coldest deliberation, to know that you don’t stand more than one chance in a hundred of landing a blow which could hurt him, and not one in ten thousand of beating him, and to go on fighting, doing your best to attack, your utmost to defend yourself, with your knees weak, your hands too heavy to lift, your eyes almost blinded, your head singing and dizzy—this requires pluck.

By the tenth round even Johnson was a little tired, but Burns was nearly done. His valiant but futile efforts to land a damaging blow drew forth the laughter of his adversary, who stepped away from him and banged him on the back or sent his right whizzing up from underneath to smash his wind, or pound him on the nose and mouth. Burns’s mouth indeed had been badly cut some time ago, and round after round Johnson hit it again and yet again, never missing, always with the fiendish desire to injure and to give pain. In the thirteenth round it was seen that the police were getting restive, they were closing in upon the ring, having in mind, no doubt, the likelihood of a serious attack being made upon Johnson. And Burns, reeling against the ropes, gasped out an appeal to the referee to let the fight go on and not to let the police interfere—which, naturally, was beyond the power of the referee. The fourteenth round was the last. Burns tried to hit, then retreated, and Johnson following quickly sent a hard right-hander to his jaw, which dropped him. Very slowly, with obvious pain and difficulty, Burns rose as the eighth second was counted. And Johnson went for him again with all his might. Then the police stopped the fight, and the referee pointed to the new black champion.

Burns was a brave man, and he did the utmost in his power to put up a good fight against a much heavier, stronger, and more skilful boxer than himself. But it should certainly be recorded that he received for his considerable pains and trouble the sum of £6000—which he had bargained for beforehand, “win, lose, or draw,” and without the promise of which he would not have undertaken the contest.

CHAPTER VI
TOMMY BURNS AND JOE BECKETT

In order to dispose of Tommy Burns so far as this book is concerned, it is necessary to break the chronological order of contests and jump twelve years. Between his defeat by Johnson and the encounter to be described now, the records tell us that he engaged in five matches, none of the first importance. Then, in July of 1920, an affair was arranged with Joe Beckett, the Heavy-weight Champion of England. This took place at the Albert Hall, and should be regarded rather as an event than as an athletic contest.

As already suggested, the interest in many widely-advertised glove-fights is spurious: a passion of sensationalism stimulated by the Press. The fight between Beckett and Burns hardly comes under that head, because there is always a genuine interest in watching the return of a veteran, whether that veteran be boxer or prima donna. Burns had been in the hey-day of his fame when Joe Beckett was a young lad. He had been execrated by sportsmen for his trick of “mouth-fighting,” for trying to intimidate his antagonists by heaping insult upon injury during the course of a battle; and also for his rank commercialism. He had been one of the first “business boxers” to be seen in England, and we had been rather appalled by the phenomena. Since those days we have grasped the fact that there is a practically negligible correlation between professional sport and sportsmanship, so far at least as boxing goes—especially now that men like Jim Driscoll and Pat O’Keefe (both of whom appeared as seconds in Beckett’s and Burns’s corners respectively) have retired. It was from Burns that we first learned the dodge of demanding a fixed fee for a contest—so much down, whatever happened. And Burns, having through his Press agents arranged to be famous and to be a certain attraction to the multitude, could get pretty well what he asked.

To set against this unpleasing but no doubt justifiable business acumen, Burns was gloriously plucky. And in his fight with Beckett he displayed that merit undiminished. People remember these things; they remember the fame (never in Burns’s case entirely undeserved) and the good points quite as readily as the notoriety and the bad ones: so that Burns had a great following at the Albert Hall, and, in despite of his age and condition, his chances against the younger and stronger man were considered good.

I had seen Burns watching several fights during that year, and his appearance did not suggest the hardened pugilist. Even in the ring after training he was much too fat, and he did not box like a young man. He was thirty-nine and looked a good deal more. Yet he remembered a good deal of his boxing. His footwork was still excellent, though he wasted his height by keeping his feet too far apart. His blows, however, were not really hard, except when he made a special effort to knock Beckett out. For punishment the English champion’s hitting was much more level and dangerous. But Beckett looked singularly foolish on several occasions: he hooked and he swung and he led, and over and over again his opponent simply wasn’t there. Burns’s defence was good, and it was youth and strength that beat him. But he deserved to be beaten if only for continued holding and “lying on” his man. “Lying on” consists of resting your head on your antagonist’s chest or shoulder, making some pretence at in-fighting, but all the while throwing your weight forward so that you get a good rest, and your opponent holds you up and loses energy in so doing. In a long contest between heavy-weights it is extremely important to save all the strength you can and to make your man do the more work.

Taken as a whole, this contest was full of bad boxing. The referee was continually having to separate the men, and the fault was nearly always Burns’s.

The first two very cautious rounds were Beckett’s. In the third Beckett too, held a little: for Burns landed a right high up on the jaw hard enough to make him careful. That round made many people believe that Burns was going to win. In the next round, which was dull and tedious from much holding and clinching, Beckett showed himself most respectful, and covered himself, if not with glory, at all events with his arms. It was soon seen that Burns was beginning to flag, though now and again he made a spurt with what looked like renewed vigour. In the sixth round he was virtually beaten, but he continued to keep his head out of danger and fought on with commendable courage. After about a minute of the seventh round Beckett knocked his man down with a hard right on the point of the jaw. Burns was badly dazed and only rose at the ninth second. He dashed at Beckett and made a despairing effort to knock him out, but he had no strength and no sense of direction. Beckett easily avoided his blows. Burns was really beaten now, and, after he had risen from another knock-down blow, his seconds very wisely threw the towel into the ring as a token of surrender—much to their principal’s indignation. The seconds were fully justified, for unnecessary punishment to a man of Burns’s age and condition may be more serious than it looks.

The public, who make contests of this kind possible, do not sufficiently realise in what way they directly affect the future of boxing in England. The majority of onlookers at a big show have only the haziest notion of what good boxing is. They are bored by too much clinching, but, determined to get some of their money’s worth, they would be still more bored, if, after due warning, the referee disqualified a man, or, the fault being equal, ordered both men out of the ring. A strong referee, with the best interests of the sport at heart, does this. It seldom pays the promoters of big show contests to appoint strong referees.

This fight between Burns and Beckett was clean in comparison with many others, and is described here because it was between two very well-known men and because it typifies the futility of the return to active service of long retired veterans who are not in good condition. Also it was typical of the modern show-boxing of which, since the war, there has been so much.

The only thought in the mind of either man was a knock-out. Men who stand up and hit straight with exceptional skill (like Jem Driscoll) also think of a knock-out, but only as a fortunate termination to a well-laid scheme and lengthy preparation. They wear their men down by real boxing and then seize an opportunity. Men like Joe Beckett, on the other hand, not being really good boxers, aim for a knock-out all the time, and hit straight once in a blue moon. It is true that in fighting Burns, Beckett wore his man down until he failed to stop a finishing blow, but it was the finishing blow that he was trying for all the time. Burns, on the other hand, in persistently trying for a knock-out, was perfectly right; because, though a better boxer than Beckett, he hadn’t the strength to meet a young man on his own ground. He must have known that he couldn’t last very long, and that he must dedicate his superior skill to the landing of a knock-out blow before he was too tired. His superior skill was not enough, and so when he got into danger he helped himself and hindered Beckett (though not for long) by holding. In doing that he was breaking a cardinal rule.

But it is the sentimental or dramatic element in boxing—quite a real one—which draws the closest attention of the crowd. So long as a fight is comparatively fair and one of the men is well-remembered as having caused much excitement ten years or more ago, what more can be needed? The veteran wins, or the veteran is beaten. In either case he is under the white glare of light put up on behalf of the cinematograph operators. The crowd, unless its money is upon the issue, don’t much mind what happens, who wins, provided they get their money’s worth of excitement.

CHAPTER VII
JACK JOHNSON AND JAMES J. JEFFERIES

Johnson’s victory over Burns in 1908 created, if we are to be judged by our newspapers, both in England and America, a sort of absurd terror. A black man was champion, and no white man could be found capable of beating him. Of course, the enmity that he inspired was very largely Johnson’s own fault. His conduct was outrageous, and, worst of all, he had a white wife. If he had behaved as Peter Jackson did there would have been much less trouble. As it was, one man after another was tried with a view to training a “White Hope,” as it was said, and no new man could be found anywhere who would stand the least chance of beating the negro.

At last, nearly two years later, the old champion, James Jefferies consented (after, we may be sure, some prodigious bargaining) to fight Johnson, and the match was arranged to take place at Reno, in the state of Nevada, on July 4th, 1910. Before the fight he is said to have bragged that no living man was capable of knocking him down for ten seconds. But boasts of that kind should always be discounted. They mean very little. If said at all, they are said for print in the hope that they may have a depressing effect upon the opposing camp. It is unlikely that Jefferies really believed what he said.

Once again some doubt was felt whether the black would have a fair chance of winning, but if any plans ever were made to “get at” him or to break the ring, they were frustrated. The greatest doubt of all in the minds of the public, both in England and America, was whether Johnson would be heavily paid to let Jefferies knock him out. And that doubt was set at rest by Johnson himself, who, in an “interview,” which was obviously sincere, explained that he could get all the money he wanted by fighting straight, and that his one ambition was to thrash any white man pitted against him so that the “white race should kow-tow” to him.

The men were fairly well matched, though some doubt was expressed as to Jefferies’s health. There is no doubt that they trained well, though again the white man certainly had superfluous flesh on him. He weighed 16 stone 4 lb. against Johnson’s 15 stone 2 lb. Their height was much the same, but Jefferies’s enormous chest made Johnson look narrow. Jefferies’s greatest handicap lay in the fact that he had retired six years before and had not fought since. His retirement had been genuine. He had no desire to fight again. But he was badgered and worried and importuned: it was “put to him as a white man.” And as a white man he nobly agreed to fight the black, but—that was not the only consideration. The purse was one of 101,000 dollars.

Now Jefferies had never been either very quick or very skilful, but he had never been beaten. He had won all his many fights in the past by his strength. He knew that he was now matched against a very good man, but he really expected as well as hoped to win. Good judges of boxing shared the hope, but not the expectation. The return of a veteran always fills every one but the most sanguine of his supporters with misgivings.

The crowd about the ring was enormous—women, cowboys, poor men, rich men, yellow, red, and black men. The grand stand alone held 18,000 people. It was announced by the doctor officially appointed for the occasion that Johnson was upon the brink of nervous collapse. But a few minutes later when he entered the ring he certainly appeared to be well and confident.

Nothing of any interest occurred in the first round. Both men were desperately cautious. Jefferies crouched with his head sunk between his huge shoulders, whilst the black stood up straight, a magnificent figure of a man, his left hand up and out, his right diagonally thrown across his chest in the conventional manner, his knees very slightly bent. He was perfectly poised, his weight equally shared by both legs. The crouching attitude has its advantages, but amongst the several points against it is the fact that it is unnecessarily fatiguing. So the men circled round each other, hitting tentatively now and again, to see whether the other was on the alert and quick to guard, not letting go, risking nothing. And in the second round also both exercised the extremest care. Once Jefferies hit out with all his might and missed Johnson by inches as he side-stepped. And the black laughed at his failure. An equal round.

But Johnson got seriously to work in the third round, sent in a hard right-hander to the head, and during a clinch put in two upper-cuts which, however, appeared to do no damage. Jefferies smiled and kept perfectly cool. It would not have been worth while smiling unless he had been hurt just a little. He was boxing well. Oddly enough, despite his long inactivity, many of the spectators observed that he had never boxed better. There were very hard exchanges in the next round, Johnson landing on the ear, Jefferies drawing blood from the mouth. Indeed the white man landed again and again, but he was not the man who had knocked out Bob Fitzsimmons. He did not hit nearly so hard. It is quite likely that his actual boxing was all the better for a long rest and then careful training with many different sparring partners: but hard hitting must be practised constantly, and moreover, it is a virtue which to a less degree than the science of boxing, follows the general trend of a man’s health: and Jefferies had not the constitution he once had. The fifth and sixth rounds consisted mostly of clinching, but at the end of the latter Johnson opened up an old wound on Jefferies’s eyebrow which bled so severely that the blood streamed down his face, and his eye began to close at once. The next round was certainly Johnson’s. A vicious right swing on the side of the head staggered the white man, who was already beginning to lose what little speed he had. Weeks of severe training are made of no avail in an amazingly small number of minutes of hard fighting. Jefferies was hurt, and his way of boxing now showed the onlookers that he was hurt. Johnson, meanwhile, was perfectly cool and boxing easily and well. There were to be no tricks this time, no cruelty of keeping an opponent on his legs so as to hurt him. Jefferies was a harder man than Burns, and Johnson would not take the smallest risk. Was he not “out” to humiliate the whole white race? Had he not said so, and was he not doing it? Of course, to those two men and to ninety per cent. of the onlookers this contest was, as it were, a life and death affair, as important as a minor war. I don’t suppose that it occurred to any one of them that boxing is, when all’s said, a sport, a sort of game, a method of exercise for spare time. Certainly the men were being very highly paid for their “game,” but did that fact alter the essential littleness of the whole thing? No: it was perceived to be a desperate encounter between the white races and the black, and nothing less portentous at all.