Classic American West Coast Boxing

[kikibalt]

Longtime customers say goodbye to Sportsmen's Lodge

After thousands of receptions, weddings and other parties, the San Fernando Valley landmark is about to change.

By Jennifer Oldham

As he has so many times before -- for his son's bar mitzvah, for his daughter's wedding, to celebrate birthdays -- Jerry Bass reserved a banquet room at the woodsy Sportsmen's Lodge this month for his family's Hanukkah party.

In some ways, the lighting of the candles was a bittersweet commemoration for Bass, who knew this would be his last party at the San Fernando Valley landmark.

On New Year's Day, the Sportsmen's Lodge and its collection of well-known eateries, including the Caribou Restaurant, Muddy Moose Bar & Lounge and a handful of banquet rooms, will be temporarily shut down for remodeling. A new owner plans to reopen the historic venue in Studio City as a modern restaurant and boutique shopping center, perhaps with a new name.

And perhaps the kind of place that the Basses would shy away from.

"We've been to other places, but I didn't like that it was too ritzy," said Jerry Bass, holding a page listing dozens of events he's held at the lodge since 1970, including his 35th, 50th and 60th wedding anniversaries. "It wasn't, like we call it in Yiddish, haimish or homey," he continued. "The other places, they didn't have the same thing. They didn't feel the same way."

For the Basses, what sets the restaurant apart is the personal service provided by longtime employees, including banquet manager Alberto Aparicio, who tended to the details of their Hanukkah party.

Knowing that this month's holiday celebration would be the last milestone family event for one of his best customers, Aparicio made sure the Regency Room was perfectly outfitted: Christmas decorations hidden from view, tables to hold gifts for the 15 children and room to play musical chairs and spin the dreidel.

The old lodge's closure is likewise a life-altering event for Aparicio's large family. The venue, with its swan-filled ponds and expansive eucalyptus-shaded grounds, has been their gateway to the American dream.

In 1972, Alberto Aparicio's father, Juan, took a job as a busboy after emigrating from Mexico City. While working double shifts serving as many as 800 diners a day, Alberto's family obtained green cards, learned English by watching old movies, became citizens, bought houses and sent children to college.

Aparicio recalls that after watching "The Ten Commandments," he realized its star, Charlton Heston, was the customer he had seen perched on a bar stool sipping soup. In its heyday, Clark Gable, John Wayne and Bette Davis favored the lodge, where Ronald Reagan and his bride, Nancy, held their wedding reception.

Along the way, the Aparicios and many of the lodge's employees forged bonds in a business rife with high turnover. "Some of the guys working here have known me since I was 17," said Aparicio, who started as a busboy in 1978 and now manages a staff of 45. "I like the fact I grew up with a lot of these people."

The final days of the aging Sportsmen's Lodge likewise close the scrapbooks for thousands of families. This is a place where even in the slow years, couples booked more than 500 weddings in its banquet rooms. In the last three weeks alone, 150 parties were scheduled.

"I had a customer come up to me and say, 'You worked at my son's bar mitzvah, you worked at my son's wedding and now you're working my birthday. We have pictures of you in our house,' " said Oscar Aparicio, 45, Alberto's brother, who has periodically worked as a waiter at the lodge over the last three decades.

Once a trout farm

When it opened in 1913, the Hollywood Trout Farms featured ponds and a bait-and-tackle shop. Dave Harlig bought the venue near the end of World War II, added the first dining room and kitchen and reopened it as the Sportsmen's Lodge on Dec. 31, 1946.

The rustic dining hall became a movie studio hangout at a time when sheep grazed hillsides later claimed by Universal Studios. Surrounded by orange groves, the Ventura Boulevard restaurant quickly became a local hot spot, a place where patrons could hook their dinner and have it fried fresh in the kitchen.

Families holding events there often relied on nearby small-business owners, like North Hollywood florist Dan Codron. He started working in the restaurant's banquet halls in 1973. "It's going to be missed," said Codron, who got married there, as did his two sisters.

"In the 35 years I've worked there," he added, "I've done thousands of weddings for thousands of couples and thousands of happy people shared the experience."

In 1978, the Basses' daughter Doris got married at the lodge, the same year Alberto Aparicio started as a busboy. In the next decade, nine of the 17 Aparicio children worked alongside their father, Juan, in the themed banquet halls. Many of Aparicio's uncles also toiled in the restaurant's expansive kitchens.

"Half the crew in the kitchen was related to me," said Oscar Aparicio. "The butcher, the pastry guys, the bread makers. The guys making salads were my mom's half brothers."

As he learned to cook chateaubriand and flaming cherries jubilee, Alberto Aparicio rubbed elbows with dignitaries and celebrities. Once, he refilled President Ford's water glass without permission, earning reprimands both from the Secret Service and his boss.

He recalled showing Sylvester Stallone how to make strong Cuban coffee, sashaying around Patrick Swayze strutting his stuff during salsa night and watching Tom Selleck eat barbecued buffalo burgers.

As the Valley grew up around it, with chic eateries and boutiques opening nearby on Ventura Boulevard, the lodge's popularity declined.

Looking ahead

In 1996, Patrick Holleran bought the restaurant and banquet business, not the land, from the Norred family, which had purchased the business from the Harligs.

Revenue tripled after the lodge was renovated, Holleran said.

Malibu developer Richard Weintraub bought the 11-acre site and a 190-room hotel next door last year from Len Harlig, the son of the original owner, and did not renew Holleran's lease.

Weintraub hopes the refurbished lodge will feature several new restaurants -- one of which may be a high-end steak house -- retail uses and possibly a fitness center, said Steve Afriat, a lobbyist who represents Weintraub and whose sister was married at the Lodge.

While the renovation is underway, residents can book events in the hotel's banquet facilities, Afriat said, which will retain the name Sportsmen's Lodge Hotel.

But the lodge's longtime employees -- the Aparicios; executive chef Ramon Avila, who began his career as a dishwasher 43 years ago; and bar manager Luis Hurtado, who started in 1970 as an assistant behind the bar -- are losing their jobs.

Holleran said he owns the rights to the Sportsmen's Lodge name and plans to open restaurants and banquet facilities using it in Orange County and Santa Clarita. Afriat said the matter is not settled.

"The only history that's going away is the run-down operation that's been there for the last 10 years," Afriat said. "My client wants to bring the Sportsmen's Lodge to its heyday. No one goes there anymore except for people who have been having luncheons there for the last 20 years."

But the Bass family is wary of the impending change.

"There are a lot of families that will be very, very sad at not being able to use the Sportsmen's Lodge," Jerry Bass said. "These guys greet me like a brother. It's always been that way. They never forget your name in all the years I've been going there."

And the Aparicios say it's hard to imagine life without the Sportsmen's Lodge.

"I myself thought I was going to die here, but now I'm 50 years old. What am I going to do?" Alberto Aparicio said. "It's going to be hard for us to see this place go."

[email protected]

[kikibalt]

Happy New Year....

[kikibalt]

Young Firpo a.k.a. Guido Bardelli
Circa 1930

[kikibalt]

Danny Kid
Circa 1959

Phillipine Flyweight Champion

Japanese Bantamweight Champion

OPBF Flyweight Champion

California State Bantamweight Champion

North American Bantamweight Champion

[kikibalt]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNqqGtmfO7Y
Randy The Man...

[dagosd2000]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNqqGtmfO7Y
Randy The Man...

Randy
After watching this,I finally know the secret of teaching fighters how to punch and slip punches. Leave the TV on. Kid looks good. Does he need a manager? Rog

[kikibalt]

Mexican Oysters

A big Texan stopped at a local restaurant following a day roaming around in Mexico ..

While sipping his tequila, he noticed a sizzling, scrumptious looking platter being served at the next table. Not only did it look good, the smell was wonderful.

He asked the waiter, 'What is that you just served?'

The waiter replied, 'Ah senor, you have excellent taste! Those are called Cojones de Toro, bull's testicles from the bull fight this morning. A delicacy!'

The cowboy said, 'What the heck, bring me an order.'

The waiter replied, 'I am so sorry senor. There is only one serving per day because there is only one bull fight each morning. If you come early and place your order, we will be sure to save you this delicacy.'

The next morning, the cowboy returned, placed his order, and that evening was served the one and only special delicacy of the day. After a few bites, inspecting his platter, he called to the waiter and said, 'These are delicious, but they are much, much smaller than the ones I saw you serve yesterday.'

The waiter shrugged his shoulders and replied, 'Si, Senor...

Sometimes the bull wins.'

[kikibalt]

"Two Ton" Tony Galento

By Roger Esty

[Rick Farris]

Longtime customers say goodbye to Sportsmen's Lodge

After thousands of receptions, weddings and other parties, the San Fernando Valley landmark is about to change.

By Jennifer Oldham

As he has so many times before -- for his son's bar mitzvah, for his daughter's wedding, to celebrate birthdays -- Jerry Bass reserved a banquet room at the woodsy Sportsmen's Lodge this month for his family's Hanukkah party.

In some ways, the lighting of the candles was a bittersweet commemoration for Bass, who knew this would be his last party at the San Fernando Valley landmark.

On New Year's Day, the Sportsmen's Lodge and its collection of well-known eateries, including the Caribou Restaurant, Muddy Moose Bar & Lounge and a handful of banquet rooms, will be temporarily shut down for remodeling. A new owner plans to reopen the historic venue in Studio City as a modern restaurant and boutique shopping center, perhaps with a new name.

And perhaps the kind of place that the Basses would shy away from.

"We've been to other places, but I didn't like that it was too ritzy," said Jerry Bass, holding a page listing dozens of events he's held at the lodge since 1970, including his 35th, 50th and 60th wedding anniversaries. "It wasn't, like we call it in Yiddish, haimish or homey," he continued. "The other places, they didn't have the same thing. They didn't feel the same way."

For the Basses, what sets the restaurant apart is the personal service provided by longtime employees, including banquet manager Alberto Aparicio, who tended to the details of their Hanukkah party.

Knowing that this month's holiday celebration would be the last milestone family event for one of his best customers, Aparicio made sure the Regency Room was perfectly outfitted: Christmas decorations hidden from view, tables to hold gifts for the 15 children and room to play musical chairs and spin the dreidel.

The old lodge's closure is likewise a life-altering event for Aparicio's large family. The venue, with its swan-filled ponds and expansive eucalyptus-shaded grounds, has been their gateway to the American dream.

In 1972, Alberto Aparicio's father, Juan, took a job as a busboy after emigrating from Mexico City. While working double shifts serving as many as 800 diners a day, Alberto's family obtained green cards, learned English by watching old movies, became citizens, bought houses and sent children to college.

Aparicio recalls that after watching "The Ten Commandments," he realized its star, Charlton Heston, was the customer he had seen perched on a bar stool sipping soup. In its heyday, Clark Gable, John Wayne and Bette Davis favored the lodge, where Ronald Reagan and his bride, Nancy, held their wedding reception.

Along the way, the Aparicios and many of the lodge's employees forged bonds in a business rife with high turnover. "Some of the guys working here have known me since I was 17," said Aparicio, who started as a busboy in 1978 and now manages a staff of 45. "I like the fact I grew up with a lot of these people."

The final days of the aging Sportsmen's Lodge likewise close the scrapbooks for thousands of families. This is a place where even in the slow years, couples booked more than 500 weddings in its banquet rooms. In the last three weeks alone, 150 parties were scheduled.

"I had a customer come up to me and say, 'You worked at my son's bar mitzvah, you worked at my son's wedding and now you're working my birthday. We have pictures of you in our house,' " said Oscar Aparicio, 45, Alberto's brother, who has periodically worked as a waiter at the lodge over the last three decades.

Once a trout farm

When it opened in 1913, the Hollywood Trout Farms featured ponds and a bait-and-tackle shop. Dave Harlig bought the venue near the end of World War II, added the first dining room and kitchen and reopened it as the Sportsmen's Lodge on Dec. 31, 1946.

The rustic dining hall became a movie studio hangout at a time when sheep grazed hillsides later claimed by Universal Studios. Surrounded by orange groves, the Ventura Boulevard restaurant quickly became a local hot spot, a place where patrons could hook their dinner and have it fried fresh in the kitchen.

Families holding events there often relied on nearby small-business owners, like North Hollywood florist Dan Codron. He started working in the restaurant's banquet halls in 1973. "It's going to be missed," said Codron, who got married there, as did his two sisters.

"In the 35 years I've worked there," he added, "I've done thousands of weddings for thousands of couples and thousands of happy people shared the experience."

In 1978, the Basses' daughter Doris got married at the lodge, the same year Alberto Aparicio started as a busboy. In the next decade, nine of the 17 Aparicio children worked alongside their father, Juan, in the themed banquet halls. Many of Aparicio's uncles also toiled in the restaurant's expansive kitchens.

"Half the crew in the kitchen was related to me," said Oscar Aparicio. "The butcher, the pastry guys, the bread makers. The guys making salads were my mom's half brothers."

As he learned to cook chateaubriand and flaming cherries jubilee, Alberto Aparicio rubbed elbows with dignitaries and celebrities. Once, he refilled President Ford's water glass without permission, earning reprimands both from the Secret Service and his boss.

He recalled showing Sylvester Stallone how to make strong Cuban coffee, sashaying around Patrick Swayze strutting his stuff during salsa night and watching Tom Selleck eat barbecued buffalo burgers.

As the Valley grew up around it, with chic eateries and boutiques opening nearby on Ventura Boulevard, the lodge's popularity declined.

Looking ahead

In 1996, Patrick Holleran bought the restaurant and banquet business, not the land, from the Norred family, which had purchased the business from the Harligs.

Revenue tripled after the lodge was renovated, Holleran said.

Malibu developer Richard Weintraub bought the 11-acre site and a 190-room hotel next door last year from Len Harlig, the son of the original owner, and did not renew Holleran's lease.

Weintraub hopes the refurbished lodge will feature several new restaurants -- one of which may be a high-end steak house -- retail uses and possibly a fitness center, said Steve Afriat, a lobbyist who represents Weintraub and whose sister was married at the Lodge.

While the renovation is underway, residents can book events in the hotel's banquet facilities, Afriat said, which will retain the name Sportsmen's Lodge Hotel.

But the lodge's longtime employees -- the Aparicios; executive chef Ramon Avila, who began his career as a dishwasher 43 years ago; and bar manager Luis Hurtado, who started in 1970 as an assistant behind the bar -- are losing their jobs.

Holleran said he owns the rights to the Sportsmen's Lodge name and plans to open restaurants and banquet facilities using it in Orange County and Santa Clarita. Afriat said the matter is not settled.

"The only history that's going away is the run-down operation that's been there for the last 10 years," Afriat said. "My client wants to bring the Sportsmen's Lodge to its heyday. No one goes there anymore except for people who have been having luncheons there for the last 20 years."

But the Bass family is wary of the impending change.

"There are a lot of families that will be very, very sad at not being able to use the Sportsmen's Lodge," Jerry Bass said. "These guys greet me like a brother. It's always been that way. They never forget your name in all the years I've been going there."

And the Aparicios say it's hard to imagine life without the Sportsmen's Lodge.

"I myself thought I was going to die here, but now I'm 50 years old. What am I going to do?" Alberto Aparicio said. "It's going to be hard for us to see this place go."

[email protected]

This is my watering hole, my hangout. I was there last night. It's right around the corner from my home. Monica knows I need to go there, she does not care to join me. It's MY place. Tonight is the last night I'll sit at that bar. I don't get drunk, two beers and I'm done. My friend Joe knows boxing like we do. He could be one of our regulars here, but his computor crashed. Tonight I'll talk boxing, have my two Heinekens and then leave the Lodge for the last time. Frank Baltazar and other boxing legends were inducted into the California Boxing HOF there. What a shame! I'll really miss the place. More on the Lodge later.

-Rick

[kikibalt]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRsJlAJvOSM
"Tears In Heaven"
Eric Clapton

[Randyman]

Today is, Savannah’s, my youngest daughter, 21st birthday. My wife and I have gone through this four times before, with the other kids. What makes this time so significant is that this is our youngest. It marks a turning point in our lives. All our kids are now grown up. She still lives at home but she has one foot out the door. Any day, any moment, someday soon, she’ll say to my wife and I “Mom, Dad, I’m moving out” or “I’m going to leave California” or perhaps “I’m getting married” or any number of fearful thoughts that have played in my head over the years. . I’ve gone through it four times before but each time was like the first. This time it will be the last. I’m a grandfather six times over. You would think I would have it down pat.

Daughters! So different than sons. A boy we understand. We’ve been there, we understand. We know what mistakes they are going to make, we know now how to correct it because we learned the hard way. We understand it too when they reject 90% of what we have to pass on, until someday in the future the light bulb goes on and they realize the “old man” knew what he was talking about. From the very beginning we raise our sons to be men. We raise them to be independent. To stand on there own two feet.

Daughters on the other hand, we raise them and try our damnedest to keep them “our little girls” despite the evidence to the contrary everyday that she is becoming a young woman. We are never, ever prepared for it. It hits us head on, like an out of control semi truck. We see the changes coming but we shake our heads in denial. A dress that means so much to them, a secret talk with mom that they just can’t share with you, or the first time you see them dressed up and ready to go to a school dance. We see the physical changes. You hear a sound coming from deep within, you know what it is, you know it’s the sound of your heart breaking as your little girl is growing up.

We are never ready for the first knock on the door either as some kid, probably a nice boy, but certainly not someone good enough for my daughter, comes to take her away from you (the little shit!). The wife staring at you with piercing eyes, pleading with you not to embarrass your daughter. What women don’t know or maybe they do, and just secretly hope that you are the man for the job despite their interference, is that it is a father’s role to be an asshole. If the father of a daughter is not known far and wide as an asshole, than he is not doing his job. When a boy comes knocking on a girls door, especially my daughter, he better already know who I am, his knee’s better be shaking and his voice better crack, at least a little. One day someone will knock on the door. It will be “the one”. It will be the one that will not go away, nor will he be intimidated. Maybe he’s already knocked. I am prepared and I am unprepared.

There comes a time with every child when we have to let go, at least on the surface, because as every father knows, you never really let go. We do come to understand though, that at some point, we have turned them over to God and the world, and we pray that everything we have taught them will finally sink in. Even more so, we pray that the mistakes we made with them will stay in the past and be forgotten. When you have done all that you can do, you have done all that you can do.

Tonight my wife Jeri and I will take Savannah, a young woman now, and her boyfriend Josh to dinner at a restaurant of her choice, she’ll probably pick Italian, it’s her favorite. We’ll laugh and talk about what ever people talk about when they are having a good time. She’ll be old enough to order a drink if she chooses but she probably won’t. I’ll be looking at her, probably holding back a tear or two. I’ll be remembering a lifetime. I’ll still see a little girl. It’s how I’m wired.

[Randyman]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRsJlAJvOSM
"Tears In Heaven"
Eric Clapton

Thanks for posting this Frank. A beautiful song and one that has personal meaning to me. When my grandson Nathan passed away, my son played the guitar and one of my best friend sang this song at the service, at the request of my daughter Meranda. It's hard for me to listen to. It had to be painful for Eric Clapton to write and peform this song.

Randy

[iskigoe]

Rick,
Thanks for the encouragement. Hope you don't regret it.

Here is one of my favorites. It's is about Stanley Ketchel, Hype's
favorite boxer. Hype managed Ketchel after Britt's death,up till
Ketchel fought Langford. It was on the way home from this fight
Ketchel informed my grandfather that he was going with Wilson Mizner.
If you ever want to study someone Mizner was quite a guy, and was very
close to boxing. Any way I'll let Hype tell his story.
------------------------------------------------------------------------



It seems hardly possible that 33 years
have slipped down life's ways since that night in the old horse
mart on 2th street that the Michigan Assassin, . S t a n l e y
Ketchel, so named by this writer, his turned defeat into an unbelievable
victory over Philadelphia Jack O'Brien.

Little Willus Britt, a classmate of mine in the old Franklin
Grammar School, "south of the slot," in San Francisco was Ketchel's
manager. The National Sporting Club was housed in this
ancient horse market and the two were fighting under the old, no decision manner.


Ketchel was the middleweight champion of the world, handsome,
swash-buckling, gloriously courageous and Imbued with the
belief that) despite his strange shuffling, rolling style, he was
"clever." He probably never had caught up with such astounding
! androitness and footwork as that possessed by the Quaker. All
things considered, I do believe that O'Brien was the fastest near big
man ever to lace on fighting boots.


For seven rounds he had made a butcher shop of Ketchel's
Greek-god countenance Blood covered every inch of Ketchel's
front, like a red Navajo blanket, even running into his shoes.
In the middle of the seventh round Ketchel slowly dropped his
powerful arms at his sides and to the utter astonishment of
O'Brien and all the rest of us , deliberately inflated his chest and
drank In a great quaff of smoke laden air, upon which one could
have walked on. There must have been some new-life giving andyne
because the tremcndous, Intake It transformed Kelchel
from a beaten man to a demon.


Men swallowed their Adam's apples as Ketchel turned on unbridled
fury. From one corner of the ring to the other he crowded the elusive
O'Brien, not now slippery elm he had been in the
first six rounds. Ketchel was wearing him down punch by
punch as he advanced with giant strides and devilish, vicious "wallops
. Ketchcl was mad clean through to his marrow. He had ' already
been humiliated, humbled, made a laughing stock before the elite
among Gotham's boxing fanatics on this, his New York debut!

From my place in the press row I found myself doing what always
I've religiously avoided. I was I shouting encouragement to the
Assassin and so was my buddy, ! old raw-bones, Tad! The one
cool person In the entire building was Little Willie Britt. He was
chewing on a cigar as big as a window-weight and giving a
superb demonstration of how to be cool, calm and collected under
great stress. You see, Willus knew his Ketchel. He was one
of the few persons there ever to have seen "Steve" fight,


"Steve" being Willie's pet name for the great middleweight.
Now Kelchel was h u r t i n g O'Brien dreadfully every time he
banged him! The punches seemed to be rattling every bone in
O'Bricns, frame. On, on, on, on, on came Ketchcl, his brown mane
'lying in the wake of his own hissing fists. O'Brien began to
bounce off the floor in the eighth, but he was not licked by a long shot
since he had so much the better part of seven rounds to his
no-decision credit. Ketchel would have to knock him cold to win even thougth he was butchering Obrien in the eight and the ninth
Ketchcl would bring him down with canvas thuds so sickening us
the landing of his big fists had been. The ninth ended with
O Brien going to his corner much after the fashion of a circus
clown emulating a drunk walking across a slack-wire.

The bell the tenth and last round ! Ketchel sprang from his chair with a bound of a great cat . Every time he lashed out Obriens blood splashed in all directions .



Twelve seconds to go—eleven—he must catch him here or
O'Brien would win the newspaper decision, the manner of making
the awards in those days. Ten to late now-no matter what might happen
the bell would save Obriens skin ! Eight seconds left and then—deep, unpenetrable night for O'Brien! A left hook caught him flush on the
button and down he went, his head resting In his own little
resin box which his handlers had neglected to remove.
There lay Obrien , inert as a stone log in a petrifed forest,
counted out! He remained stretched for fully 20 minutes.
Then came the question of who won the fight! The clock said
OBrien had been saved, yet we writers argued the point, over
our beer and chips for three or four hours. afterwards. Tad and
this writer finally convinced Billy Bicks sports editor of this paper he couldnt possibly give the fight to a man how finished the fight like a mummy.
, on theflat of his back. One of my alltime, never to be forgotten ring
classics!


(This is the first of a series of
articles In which Hype. Igoe, dean
of boxing writers recalls ring
epics he witnessed while covering
fights during the past 50 years).

[kikibalt]

Rick,
Thanks for the encouragement. Hope you don't regret it.

Here is one of my favorites. It's is about Stanley Ketchel, Hype's
favorite boxer. Hype managed Ketchel after Britt's death,up till
Ketchel fought Langford. It was on the way home from this fight
Ketchel informed my grandfather that he was going with Wilson Mizner.
If you ever want to study someone Mizner was quite a guy, and was very
close to boxing. Any way I'll let Hype tell his story.
------------------------------------------------------------------------



It seems hardly possible that 33 years
have slipped down life's ways since that night in the old horse
mart on 2th street that the Michigan Assassin, . S t a n l e y
Ketchel, so named by this writer, his turned defeat into an unbelievable
victory over Philadelphia Jack O'Brien.

Little Willus Britt, a classmate of mine in the old Franklin
Grammar School, "south of the slot," in San Francisco was Ketchel's
manager. The National Sporting Club was housed in this
ancient horse market and the two were fighting under the old, no decision manner.


Ketchel was the middleweight champion of the world, handsome,
swash-buckling, gloriously courageous and Imbued with the
belief that) despite his strange shuffling, rolling style, he was
"clever." He probably never had caught up with such astounding
! androitness and footwork as that possessed by the Quaker. All
things considered, I do believe that O'Brien was the fastest near big
man ever to lace on fighting boots.


For seven rounds he had made a butcher shop of Ketchel's
Greek-god countenance Blood covered every inch of Ketchel's
front, like a red Navajo blanket, even running into his shoes.
In the middle of the seventh round Ketchel slowly dropped his
powerful arms at his sides and to the utter astonishment of
O'Brien and all the rest of us , deliberately inflated his chest and
drank In a great quaff of smoke laden air, upon which one could
have walked on. There must have been some new-life giving andyne
because the tremcndous, Intake It transformed Kelchel
from a beaten man to a demon.


Men swallowed their Adam's apples as Ketchel turned on unbridled
fury. From one corner of the ring to the other he crowded the elusive
O'Brien, not now slippery elm he had been in the
first six rounds. Ketchel was wearing him down punch by
punch as he advanced with giant strides and devilish, vicious "wallops
. Ketchcl was mad clean through to his marrow. He had ' already
been humiliated, humbled, made a laughing stock before the elite
among Gotham's boxing fanatics on this, his New York debut!

From my place in the press row I found myself doing what always
I've religiously avoided. I was I shouting encouragement to the
Assassin and so was my buddy, ! old raw-bones, Tad! The one
cool person In the entire building was Little Willie Britt. He was
chewing on a cigar as big as a window-weight and giving a
superb demonstration of how to be cool, calm and collected under
great stress. You see, Willus knew his Ketchel. He was one
of the few persons there ever to have seen "Steve" fight,


"Steve" being Willie's pet name for the great middleweight.
Now Kelchel was h u r t i n g O'Brien dreadfully every time he
banged him! The punches seemed to be rattling every bone in
O'Bricns, frame. On, on, on, on, on came Ketchcl, his brown mane
'lying in the wake of his own hissing fists. O'Brien began to
bounce off the floor in the eighth, but he was not licked by a long shot
since he had so much the better part of seven rounds to his
no-decision credit. Ketchel would have to knock him cold to win even thougth he was butchering Obrien in the eight and the ninth
Ketchcl would bring him down with canvas thuds so sickening us
the landing of his big fists had been. The ninth ended with
O Brien going to his corner much after the fashion of a circus
clown emulating a drunk walking across a slack-wire.

The bell the tenth and last round ! Ketchel sprang from his chair with a bound of a great cat . Every time he lashed out Obriens blood splashed in all directions .



Twelve seconds to go—eleven—he must catch him here or
O'Brien would win the newspaper decision, the manner of making
the awards in those days. Ten to late now-no matter what might happen
the bell would save Obriens skin ! Eight seconds left and then—deep, unpenetrable night for O'Brien! A left hook caught him flush on the
button and down he went, his head resting In his own little
resin box which his handlers had neglected to remove.
There lay Obrien , inert as a stone log in a petrifed forest,
counted out! He remained stretched for fully 20 minutes.
Then came the question of who won the fight! The clock said
OBrien had been saved, yet we writers argued the point, over
our beer and chips for three or four hours. afterwards. Tad and
this writer finally convinced Billy Bicks sports editor of this paper he couldnt possibly give the fight to a man how finished the fight like a mummy.
, on theflat of his back. One of my alltime, never to be forgotten ring
classics!


(This is the first of a series of
articles In which Hype. Igoe, dean
of boxing writers recalls ring
epics he witnessed while covering
fights during the past 50 years).

Thanks Kevin, for sharing this articles your grandpa wrote many moons ago, thanks again

[Randyman]

Rick,
Thanks for the encouragement. Hope you don't regret it.

Here is one of my favorites. It's is about Stanley Ketchel, Hype's
favorite boxer. Hype managed Ketchel after Britt's death,up till
Ketchel fought Langford. It was on the way home from this fight
Ketchel informed my grandfather that he was going with Wilson Mizner.
If you ever want to study someone Mizner was quite a guy, and was very
close to boxing. Any way I'll let Hype tell his story.
------------------------------------------------------------------------



It seems hardly possible that 33 years
have slipped down life's ways since that night in the old horse
mart on 2th street that the Michigan Assassin, . S t a n l e y
Ketchel, so named by this writer, his turned defeat into an unbelievable
victory over Philadelphia Jack O'Brien.

Little Willus Britt, a classmate of mine in the old Franklin
Grammar School, "south of the slot," in San Francisco was Ketchel's
manager. The National Sporting Club was housed in this
ancient horse market and the two were fighting under the old, no decision manner.


Ketchel was the middleweight champion of the world, handsome,
swash-buckling, gloriously courageous and Imbued with the
belief that) despite his strange shuffling, rolling style, he was
"clever." He probably never had caught up with such astounding
! androitness and footwork as that possessed by the Quaker. All
things considered, I do believe that O'Brien was the fastest near big
man ever to lace on fighting boots.


For seven rounds he had made a butcher shop of Ketchel's
Greek-god countenance Blood covered every inch of Ketchel's
front, like a red Navajo blanket, even running into his shoes.
In the middle of the seventh round Ketchel slowly dropped his
powerful arms at his sides and to the utter astonishment of
O'Brien and all the rest of us , deliberately inflated his chest and
drank In a great quaff of smoke laden air, upon which one could
have walked on. There must have been some new-life giving andyne
because the tremcndous, Intake It transformed Kelchel
from a beaten man to a demon.


Men swallowed their Adam's apples as Ketchel turned on unbridled
fury. From one corner of the ring to the other he crowded the elusive
O'Brien, not now slippery elm he had been in the
first six rounds. Ketchel was wearing him down punch by
punch as he advanced with giant strides and devilish, vicious "wallops
. Ketchcl was mad clean through to his marrow. He had ' already
been humiliated, humbled, made a laughing stock before the elite
among Gotham's boxing fanatics on this, his New York debut!

From my place in the press row I found myself doing what always
I've religiously avoided. I was I shouting encouragement to the
Assassin and so was my buddy, ! old raw-bones, Tad! The one
cool person In the entire building was Little Willie Britt. He was
chewing on a cigar as big as a window-weight and giving a
superb demonstration of how to be cool, calm and collected under
great stress. You see, Willus knew his Ketchel. He was one
of the few persons there ever to have seen "Steve" fight,


"Steve" being Willie's pet name for the great middleweight.
Now Kelchel was h u r t i n g O'Brien dreadfully every time he
banged him! The punches seemed to be rattling every bone in
O'Bricns, frame. On, on, on, on, on came Ketchcl, his brown mane
'lying in the wake of his own hissing fists. O'Brien began to
bounce off the floor in the eighth, but he was not licked by a long shot
since he had so much the better part of seven rounds to his
no-decision credit. Ketchel would have to knock him cold to win even thougth he was butchering Obrien in the eight and the ninth
Ketchcl would bring him down with canvas thuds so sickening us
the landing of his big fists had been. The ninth ended with
O Brien going to his corner much after the fashion of a circus
clown emulating a drunk walking across a slack-wire.

The bell the tenth and last round ! Ketchel sprang from his chair with a bound of a great cat . Every time he lashed out Obriens blood splashed in all directions .



Twelve seconds to go—eleven—he must catch him here or
O'Brien would win the newspaper decision, the manner of making
the awards in those days. Ten to late now-no matter what might happen
the bell would save Obriens skin ! Eight seconds left and then—deep, unpenetrable night for O'Brien! A left hook caught him flush on the
button and down he went, his head resting In his own little
resin box which his handlers had neglected to remove.
There lay Obrien , inert as a stone log in a petrifed forest,
counted out! He remained stretched for fully 20 minutes.
Then came the question of who won the fight! The clock said
OBrien had been saved, yet we writers argued the point, over
our beer and chips for three or four hours. afterwards. Tad and
this writer finally convinced Billy Bicks sports editor of this paper he couldnt possibly give the fight to a man how finished the fight like a mummy.
, on theflat of his back. One of my alltime, never to be forgotten ring
classics!


(This is the first of a series of
articles In which Hype. Igoe, dean
of boxing writers recalls ring
epics he witnessed while covering
fights during the past 50 years).

Thanks Kevin, for sharing this articles your grandpa wrote many moons ago, thanks again

Kevin, welcome to this thread. I'm looking forward to reading your posts as well as your Grandpa's article. A perfect fit to this thread.

Randy

[kikibalt]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRsJlAJvOSM
"Tears In Heaven"
Eric Clapton

Thanks for posting this Frank. A beautiful song and one that has personal meaning to me. When my grandson Nathan passed away, my son played the guitar and one of my best friend sang this song at the service, at the request of my daughter Meranda. It's hard for me to listen to. It had to be painful for Eric Clapton to write and peform this song.

Randy

Randy....It is a beautiful song, and I know how you must feel about your grandson, you see Connie and I lost a son in 1968 and certain things, i.e. a song, something that somebody says, brings back memories of that son we once had, and damn it hurts, its been 40 long years, but we never forget, his name was Gilbert Baltazar, and I hope to see him again some day.....

[kikibalt]

[Randyman]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRsJlAJvOSM
"Tears In Heaven"
Eric Clapton

Thanks for posting this Frank. A beautiful song and one that has personal meaning to me. When my grandson Nathan passed away, my son played the guitar and one of my best friend sang this song at the service, at the request of my daughter Meranda. It's hard for me to listen to. It had to be painful for Eric Clapton to write and peform this song.

Randy

Randy....It is a beautiful song, and I know how you must feel about your grandson, you see Connie and I lost a son in 1968 and certain things, i.e. a song, something that somebody says, brings back memories of that son we once had, and damn it hurts, its been 40 long years, but we never forget, his name was Gilbert Baltazar, and I hope to see him again some day.....

Frank, my condolences to you and Connie. The years mean nothing, it could be yesterday. Frank, you and your family are always in my prayers. You will see Gilbert again.

God Bless you My Friend!!

Randy

[Randyman]

I have a lot of catching up to do here on this thread. I spent Christmas at my mother's house in Spring Vally Lake. We had a good time up there. I hope all of you guys had a great Christmas as well. This year really flew by.

Randy

[iskigoe]

Thanks for the warm welcome guys.

I thought I would post the same story told by TAD. considered in his time as the "great one". What it must have been to wake up the day after a
fight you could not see and have these guys tell you the tale. it's no wonder fighters of the past are so enduring.
Each writer seems to give you a different feeling. Hype, is like talking right to you, and TAD seems to bring you to a ringside seat. When they finish' you feel like you have been to the fight.

Enjoy.

THE BELL SAVES O’BRIEN
.
BY TAD

Lying helpless in his corner, with his battered head resting in his resin box, Jack O’Brien Was saved the humiliation of a knockout at the hands of Stanley Ketchel at the National Club, March 26, 1909, when the gong clanged after he had been down four seconds in the last round.

It was a spectacular finish to a spectacular fight. There was everything to make it a great fight, as there is everything in a big story to make it a hit. In the story you read of beauty, wealth, and treachery. In this we had a master boxer, the terrific hitter and a title. There is no more to a fight than that.
O’Brien’s jab and getaway had won him the first; mad an even break for the third and won him the fourth. In the second he received a slam on the eye which almost ended the go and closed the organ. They were vicious but didn’t compare to what was to come. This spell took a lot of spark form Jack and in the fifth he began to slow up. Ketchel got in close and in the clinches belted his man with a left to the body that worked like a piston rod. O’Brien held, but couldn’t squirm
Away from the belting. When O’Brien came up for the sixth his feet began to drag and the punishment began to tel. His eyes, which were cut, were bleeding more than ever, and to even up matters he sent a left to Ketchel’s nose that brought the blood in torrents. Now both were a sight and both tired. We expected things soon, and they were to come.
In the mix O’Brien stumbled and fell to the floor, but was up in a second. He caught Ketchel right on the point that rattled his man , and trying for a knockout missed, saving Ketchel much pain the latter, with his head first this side and then that kept after Jack chasing him from corner to corner, but un able to get him right. The bell clanged, with both weary and bloody.

In the eighth O’Brien had still a spark left. He jabbed and ran. Ketchel’s punishment was dealt to the Marathon Kid while at close quarters. He went back to the stomach and pounded it well. O,Brien turned his back on it, tried to hold his arms, and brought forth hisses from the crowd, but he was stalling his way through. He was tired and trying to stick it out. The other man was tired too, but still had something to deliver. He kept chasing Jack from side to side, taking jabs on the nose and mouth, but belting the body hard when n he got close enough. Jack’s footwork was not there now . he was wild-eyed; he was trying to keep off the terror from Michigan . it was a fairly even round, with both weary, awfully weary, at the bell.
In the ninth Willus Britt sent Ketchel in to end the festivities. O’Brien was to dance no more, he was to be flattened, and Ketchel surely followed orders. He backed Jack into a corner and like a flash sent left and right to the jaw. Jack staggered and tried to sidestep out of harm’s way.
The crowd seeing the Quaker wobble yelled and howled, so did the seconds. Ketchel bent over like a panther watching which way the prey was to jump. Jack skipped to the right, but ran into a left shift which dropped him near the rope for the count. He stayed there on his knees waiting for nine then arose. He was weak and almost gone. A right to the eye started it bleeding again and a left to the other side started that. He was a sight.

Ketchel rushed in again but went straight into a jab that started his nose bleeding, and the pair were covered in blood. They fell to a clinch and Ketchel sent in some body blows that seemed tobend the clever O’Brien double. They were solid stung, and when O’Brien broke away his feet seemed to drag like lead. Ketchel , seeing victory in sight , tore after his man, but missed with both hands . o’Brien cleverly ducked and held on for dear life. The referee was fully 20 seconds breaking him away, at which the crowd hissed once more.

With their faces washed clean the pair shook hands for the tenth and last round. Ketchel was out for blood and before they had gone fifteen seconds rapped his man right on the jaw that sent him to the ropes. Jack was gone. A left sent him to the boards, where he took the full count. It seemed as though every man in the house was up yelling advice. He got up again and tried to run , but fell into a clinch as Ketchel missed a terrific right.

Back to the body went Ketchel with both hands, and O’Brien was forced to break again. He was weak and heavy in the legs. He couldn’t keep away—he was done for. A right to the jaw sent him to the floor again. He squatted there with a sickly smile on his face while the referee stood over him counting the seconds off. At the eight he arose reeling.
Ketchel measured him and missed with a right. O’Brien couldn’t lift his arms, and reeled away across to his own corner. He stood there, bent over, trying to duck what was coming, but it was impossible. A left went crashing to his chin, and he fell as though dead, his head striking the rein box and his feet pointed toward the centre of the ring.
The house was in an uproar. There was Ketchel with his bloody face standing over the stiffened form of O’Brien and the referee counting. O’Brien was never seen in such a position in New York before. In fact, he was never counted out in a straight fight. What a thrill there was to that scene, ONE, TWO, THREE, yelled the referee, four-- . and then clang went the gong. The4 fight was over. O’ brien was not counted out. His limp body was lifted to the chair, where his seconds worked like Trojans over him. He was there for fully fifteen minutes before he left the ring.
It will be many a day before we see such a fight again.

We went up to see Jawn after the battle at his hotel and found him in bed, his eyes covered with cotton soaked in witch hazel and a handler massaging his swollen lips.
The man from the un conscious city got up a bit, greeted us and smiling said, “he’s a great fighter, that boy”. When a member of the party asked whether he was dangerous or not, Jawn said: “Oh, NO he’s just about as dangerous as an elephant stepping on you that’s all.”

[Rick Farris]

Today is, Savannah’s, my youngest daughter, 21st birthday. My wife and I have gone through this four times before, with the other kids. What makes this time so significant is that this is our youngest. It marks a turning point in our lives. All our kids are now grown up. She still lives at home but she has one foot out the door. Any day, any moment, someday soon, she’ll say to my wife and I “Mom, Dad, I’m moving out” or “I’m going to leave California” or perhaps “I’m getting married” or any number of fearful thoughts that have played in my head over the years. . I’ve gone through it four times before but each time was like the first. This time it will be the last. I’m a grandfather six times over. You would think I would have it down pat.

Daughters! So different than sons. A boy we understand. We’ve been there, we understand. We know what mistakes they are going to make, we know now how to correct it because we learned the hard way. We understand it too when they reject 90% of what we have to pass on, until someday in the future the light bulb goes on and they realize the “old man” knew what he was talking about. From the very beginning we raise our sons to be men. We raise them to be independent. To stand on there own two feet.

Daughters on the other hand, we raise them and try our damnedest to keep them “our little girls” despite the evidence to the contrary everyday that she is becoming a young woman. We are never, ever prepared for it. It hits us head on, like an out of control semi truck. We see the changes coming but we shake our heads in denial. A dress that means so much to them, a secret talk with mom that they just can’t share with you, or the first time you see them dressed up and ready to go to a school dance. We see the physical changes. You hear a sound coming from deep within, you know what it is, you know it’s the sound of your heart breaking as your little girl is growing up.

We are never ready for the first knock on the door either as some kid, probably a nice boy, but certainly not someone good enough for my daughter, comes to take her away from you (the little shit!). The wife staring at you with piercing eyes, pleading with you not to embarrass your daughter. What women don’t know or maybe they do, and just secretly hope that you are the man for the job despite their interference, is that it is a father’s role to be an asshole. If the father of a daughter is not known far and wide as an asshole, than he is not doing his job. When a boy comes knocking on a girls door, especially my daughter, he better already know who I am, his knee’s better be shaking and his voice better crack, at least a little. One day someone will knock on the door. It will be “the one”. It will be the one that will not go away, nor will he be intimidated. Maybe he’s already knocked. I am prepared and I am unprepared.

There comes a time with every child when we have to let go, at least on the surface, because as every father knows, you never really let go. We do come to understand though, that at some point, we have turned them over to God and the world, and we pray that everything we have taught them will finally sink in. Even more so, we pray that the mistakes we made with them will stay in the past and be forgotten. When you have done all that you can do, you have done all that you can do.

Tonight my wife Jeri and I will take Savannah, a young woman now, and her boyfriend Josh to dinner at a restaurant of her choice, she’ll probably pick Italian, it’s her favorite. We’ll laugh and talk about what ever people talk about when they are having a good time. She’ll be old enough to order a drink if she chooses but she probably won’t. I’ll be looking at her, probably holding back a tear or two. I’ll be remembering a lifetime. I’ll still see a little girl. It’s how I’m wired.

Randy, Monica just passed by as I logged in. I pointed out the picture of you with Savannah, told her she was your youngest. When I read that you and Jeri had six grand kids she was shocked. "That beautiful woman has six grand children? No way." Monica was speaking of your wife, Jeri. Jeri and the kids make you look good, amigo.

-Rick

[Rick Farris]

Thanks for the warm welcome guys.

I thought I would post the same story told by TAD. considered in his time as the "great one". What it must have been to wake up the day after a
fight you could not see and have these guys tell you the tale. it's no wonder fighters of the past are so enduring.
Each writer seems to give you a different feeling. Hype, is like talking right to you, and TAD seems to bring you to a ringside seat. When they finish' you feel like you have been to the fight.

Enjoy.

THE BELL SAVES O’BRIEN
.
BY TAD

Lying helpless in his corner, with his battered head resting in his resin box, Jack O’Brien Was saved the humiliation of a knockout at the hands of Stanley Ketchel at the National Club, March 26, 1909, when the gong clanged after he had been down four seconds in the last round.

It was a spectacular finish to a spectacular fight. There was everything to make it a great fight, as there is everything in a big story to make it a hit. In the story you read of beauty, wealth, and treachery. In this we had a master boxer, the terrific hitter and a title. There is no more to a fight than that.
O’Brien’s jab and getaway had won him the first; mad an even break for the third and won him the fourth. In the second he received a slam on the eye which almost ended the go and closed the organ. They were vicious but didn’t compare to what was to come. This spell took a lot of spark form Jack and in the fifth he began to slow up. Ketchel got in close and in the clinches belted his man with a left to the body that worked like a piston rod. O’Brien held, but couldn’t squirm
Away from the belting. When O’Brien came up for the sixth his feet began to drag and the punishment began to tel. His eyes, which were cut, were bleeding more than ever, and to even up matters he sent a left to Ketchel’s nose that brought the blood in torrents. Now both were a sight and both tired. We expected things soon, and they were to come.
In the mix O’Brien stumbled and fell to the floor, but was up in a second. He caught Ketchel right on the point that rattled his man , and trying for a knockout missed, saving Ketchel much pain the latter, with his head first this side and then that kept after Jack chasing him from corner to corner, but un able to get him right. The bell clanged, with both weary and bloody.

In the eighth O’Brien had still a spark left. He jabbed and ran. Ketchel’s punishment was dealt to the Marathon Kid while at close quarters. He went back to the stomach and pounded it well. O,Brien turned his back on it, tried to hold his arms, and brought forth hisses from the crowd, but he was stalling his way through. He was tired and trying to stick it out. The other man was tired too, but still had something to deliver. He kept chasing Jack from side to side, taking jabs on the nose and mouth, but belting the body hard when n he got close enough. Jack’s footwork was not there now . he was wild-eyed; he was trying to keep off the terror from Michigan . it was a fairly even round, with both weary, awfully weary, at the bell.
In the ninth Willus Britt sent Ketchel in to end the festivities. O’Brien was to dance no more, he was to be flattened, and Ketchel surely followed orders. He backed Jack into a corner and like a flash sent left and right to the jaw. Jack staggered and tried to sidestep out of harm’s way.
The crowd seeing the Quaker wobble yelled and howled, so did the seconds. Ketchel bent over like a panther watching which way the prey was to jump. Jack skipped to the right, but ran into a left shift which dropped him near the rope for the count. He stayed there on his knees waiting for nine then arose. He was weak and almost gone. A right to the eye started it bleeding again and a left to the other side started that. He was a sight.

Ketchel rushed in again but went straight into a jab that started his nose bleeding, and the pair were covered in blood. They fell to a clinch and Ketchel sent in some body blows that seemed tobend the clever O’Brien double. They were solid stung, and when O’Brien broke away his feet seemed to drag like lead. Ketchel , seeing victory in sight , tore after his man, but missed with both hands . o’Brien cleverly ducked and held on for dear life. The referee was fully 20 seconds breaking him away, at which the crowd hissed once more.

With their faces washed clean the pair shook hands for the tenth and last round. Ketchel was out for blood and before they had gone fifteen seconds rapped his man right on the jaw that sent him to the ropes. Jack was gone. A left sent him to the boards, where he took the full count. It seemed as though every man in the house was up yelling advice. He got up again and tried to run , but fell into a clinch as Ketchel missed a terrific right.

Back to the body went Ketchel with both hands, and O’Brien was forced to break again. He was weak and heavy in the legs. He couldn’t keep away—he was done for. A right to the jaw sent him to the floor again. He squatted there with a sickly smile on his face while the referee stood over him counting the seconds off. At the eight he arose reeling.
Ketchel measured him and missed with a right. O’Brien couldn’t lift his arms, and reeled away across to his own corner. He stood there, bent over, trying to duck what was coming, but it was impossible. A left went crashing to his chin, and he fell as though dead, his head striking the rein box and his feet pointed toward the centre of the ring.
The house was in an uproar. There was Ketchel with his bloody face standing over the stiffened form of O’Brien and the referee counting. O’Brien was never seen in such a position in New York before. In fact, he was never counted out in a straight fight. What a thrill there was to that scene, ONE, TWO, THREE, yelled the referee, four-- . and then clang went the gong. The4 fight was over. O’ brien was not counted out. His limp body was lifted to the chair, where his seconds worked like Trojans over him. He was there for fully fifteen minutes before he left the ring.
It will be many a day before we see such a fight again.

We went up to see Jawn after the battle at his hotel and found him in bed, his eyes covered with cotton soaked in witch hazel and a handler massaging his swollen lips.
The man from the un conscious city got up a bit, greeted us and smiling said, “he’s a great fighter, that boy”. When a member of the party asked whether he was dangerous or not, Jawn said: “Oh, NO he’s just about as dangerous as an elephant stepping on you that’s all.”

Kevin . . . Your grandad's stories of these great fighters are priceless. This is a great place to share them, we're here to learn and pass on true boxing history. Great, great story. I've read a lot about Stanley Ketchell, a late friend of mine, actor Victor French had in his plans to produce a feature film on Stanley Ketchell, but Vic was taken by cancer in 1989. The unfinished screenplay never had a chance.

-Rick Farris

[kikibalt]

I have a lot of catching up to do here on this thread. I spent Christmas at my mother's house in Spring Vally Lake. We had a good time up there. I hope all of you guys had a great Christmas as well. This year really flew by.

Randy

Randy...where is Spring Vally Lake?.

[dagosd2000]

Rick,
Thanks for the encouragement. Hope you don't regret it.

Here is one of my favorites. It's is about Stanley Ketchel, Hype's
favorite boxer. Hype managed Ketchel after Britt's death,up till
Ketchel fought Langford. It was on the way home from this fight
Ketchel informed my grandfather that he was going with Wilson Mizner.
If you ever want to study someone Mizner was quite a guy, and was very
close to boxing. Any way I'll let Hype tell his story.
------------------------------------------------------------------------



It seems hardly possible that 33 years
have slipped down life's ways since that night in the old horse
mart on 2th street that the Michigan Assassin, . S t a n l e y
Ketchel, so named by this writer, his turned defeat into an unbelievable
victory over Philadelphia Jack O'Brien.

Little Willus Britt, a classmate of mine in the old Franklin
Grammar School, "south of the slot," in San Francisco was Ketchel's
manager. The National Sporting Club was housed in this
ancient horse market and the two were fighting under the old, no decision manner.


Ketchel was the middleweight champion of the world, handsome,
swash-buckling, gloriously courageous and Imbued with the
belief that) despite his strange shuffling, rolling style, he was
"clever." He probably never had caught up with such astounding
! androitness and footwork as that possessed by the Quaker. All
things considered, I do believe that O'Brien was the fastest near big
man ever to lace on fighting boots.


For seven rounds he had made a butcher shop of Ketchel's
Greek-god countenance Blood covered every inch of Ketchel's
front, like a red Navajo blanket, even running into his shoes.
In the middle of the seventh round Ketchel slowly dropped his
powerful arms at his sides and to the utter astonishment of
O'Brien and all the rest of us , deliberately inflated his chest and
drank In a great quaff of smoke laden air, upon which one could
have walked on. There must have been some new-life giving andyne
because the tremcndous, Intake It transformed Kelchel
from a beaten man to a demon.


Men swallowed their Adam's apples as Ketchel turned on unbridled
fury. From one corner of the ring to the other he crowded the elusive
O'Brien, not now slippery elm he had been in the
first six rounds. Ketchel was wearing him down punch by
punch as he advanced with giant strides and devilish, vicious "wallops
. Ketchcl was mad clean through to his marrow. He had ' already
been humiliated, humbled, made a laughing stock before the elite
among Gotham's boxing fanatics on this, his New York debut!

From my place in the press row I found myself doing what always
I've religiously avoided. I was I shouting encouragement to the
Assassin and so was my buddy, ! old raw-bones, Tad! The one
cool person In the entire building was Little Willie Britt. He was
chewing on a cigar as big as a window-weight and giving a
superb demonstration of how to be cool, calm and collected under
great stress. You see, Willus knew his Ketchel. He was one
of the few persons there ever to have seen "Steve" fight,


"Steve" being Willie's pet name for the great middleweight.
Now Kelchel was h u r t i n g O'Brien dreadfully every time he
banged him! The punches seemed to be rattling every bone in
O'Bricns, frame. On, on, on, on, on came Ketchcl, his brown mane
'lying in the wake of his own hissing fists. O'Brien began to
bounce off the floor in the eighth, but he was not licked by a long shot
since he had so much the better part of seven rounds to his
no-decision credit. Ketchel would have to knock him cold to win even thougth he was butchering Obrien in the eight and the ninth
Ketchcl would bring him down with canvas thuds so sickening us
the landing of his big fists had been. The ninth ended with
O Brien going to his corner much after the fashion of a circus
clown emulating a drunk walking across a slack-wire.

The bell the tenth and last round ! Ketchel sprang from his chair with a bound of a great cat . Every time he lashed out Obriens blood splashed in all directions .



Twelve seconds to go—eleven—he must catch him here or
O'Brien would win the newspaper decision, the manner of making
the awards in those days. Ten to late now-no matter what might happen
the bell would save Obriens skin ! Eight seconds left and then—deep, unpenetrable night for O'Brien! A left hook caught him flush on the
button and down he went, his head resting In his own little
resin box which his handlers had neglected to remove.
There lay Obrien , inert as a stone log in a petrifed forest,
counted out! He remained stretched for fully 20 minutes.
Then came the question of who won the fight! The clock said
OBrien had been saved, yet we writers argued the point, over
our beer and chips for three or four hours. afterwards. Tad and
this writer finally convinced Billy Bicks sports editor of this paper he couldnt possibly give the fight to a man how finished the fight like a mummy.
, on theflat of his back. One of my alltime, never to be forgotten ring
classics!


(This is the first of a series of
articles In which Hype. Igoe, dean
of boxing writers recalls ring
epics he witnessed while covering
fights during the past 50 years).

Kevin
Are there any stories of Ketchel's fight with Langford? Your grandfather,Tad,Lardner. Were any of those fellas' there in Philly. I've read conflicting reports on who got the better of it? Thanks Roger

[dagosd2000]

FIGHTING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RING,THE REF,AND GREAT FIGHTS BY NOT SO GREAT FIGHTERS

The best fights,the great fights are fought in the middle of the ring. That's were the wills of the two fighters won't give in. Maybe there'll be a break. One opponent will be backed into the ropes,but drawing upon a reserve,he'll fight himself out of that calamity and turn his adversary to where he had just had his back against. Then it's back to the middle where pressure meets and comes to a boil .

The ref bends and peers and steps side to side. If there's a clinch he knows they are only in a short holding pattern. The fighters' will slug their way out of it. The pounding will then continue center stage. Their blood and sweat will bestowed on the referee. He'll hear their gasps,their grunts and heaves. He has the best seat in the house. And now the commisions have taken the scoring away from him. He's the best judge,not the judges.

The great fights don't have to be between great fighters,just great hearts. That's why in a time when every town was a tank town,there was a fight card. No title bouts. Maybe not even between contenders. Guys starting out,and some on their way out. But we remember standing up through all the action. The money thrown into the ring. The fighter being lifted upon the shoulders. Both fighters sometimes.

We see fights today that are hyped up. Millions are spent on the hype. Then the fight comes off as a lie. The TV announcers try to lie about it as disappointment unravels before our eyes. A guy with a microphone will stand in the middle of the ring moralizing about it when it's done. Only the great fights are in the middle of the ring. He's not where he belongs.