bits and pieces scrapbook
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
And now was the hour, on this bitterly freezing July night. Entering the arena proper, there was a massive roar from the crowd at the first sight of Fritz Holland and, in fact, for the man shambling along behind him, Tommy Burns. Oh, yes, they remembered Tommy all right, at least plenty of them did—Tommy, who, in the most humiliating fight any of them had ever seen, had been the great white Receiver-General for black anger…Helloooo, Tommy! Burns, in response, gave what seemed to some to be a slightly sheepish wave of acknowledgement, but no more than that. His focus was on his charge, Fritz, and getting him ready for this fight, not that he expected it would be too much trouble, despite the enormous crowd that this kid Darcy had pulled and the passion they had for him. For, as the battle knell sounded, all other thoughts were drowned as Darcy himself emerged into the light with a posse of three men behind him. At the sight of him, the fight fans, almost as one, were on their feet and cheering wildly. Les! Darcy! Les Darcy!
Some boxers, to be sure, could wither under such adulation, such pressure to perform, but not Les Darcy, never Les Darcy. For now in response to the roar Les waved cheerily, flashed a broad smile—much as he did to anyone who recognised him on the streets of Maitland—and made his way into the ring, attended closely by Hawkins, Fletcher and Newton. Of course there wasn’t really a need for all three of them to attend as his ‘seconds’, but Les just wanted them there, so that was that.
Same thing with Father Coady, who sat in the front row. It was not a part of Father Joe’s pastoral duties to be there, and he had not attended as a fight fan pure. Rather, he had become extremely close to Les over previous years, and it was unthinkable for him not to be there.
From his own corner, Fritz Holland surveyed the scene with an experienced and therefore entirely untroubled eye. There was no way this unmarked fellow opposite smiling at him could beat him, but he, too, had been interested that such a young man could have generated a following enough to fill a stadium this size, and apparently have 3,000 or so more outside trying to get in! How could this be? How could a man of so few years have already developed a following so strong? Such musings were interrupted, as young Darcy’s seconds unfurled a large Australian flag…and now the crowd roared even more!
From the opening bell, Les did what he had always done in boxing matches, which was to charge at his opponent like a bull at a gate, throwing lefts and rights, uppercuts and crosses, in furious flurries that would have completely overwhelmed a lesser opponent. And indeed, Fritz Holland was surprised at the extraordinary intensity of the young man. Nevertheless, by simply covering up, he was able to absorb and parry the worst of the blows, smother the charges, and come back with a few hard punches of his own. The key, the American knew, was to weather the storm. There was no way the kid could keep up this pace for long. But why did he keep smiling? It near put a bloke off to have to punch such a pleasant, friendly countenance, but Fritz did the best he could as Les continued to charge in…obviously enjoying it hugely!
Down in the crowd, Father Coady and not so far along from him, the Australian heavyweight champion Gentleman Dave Smith were watching the clash closely—the latter, as always, analysing every punch, every feint, every move. It was obvious that Les was giving a very good account of himself against this veteran boxer of vast experience, but equally apparent that much of young Darcy’s energy was being wasted against Holland’s bristling defensive shield.
Though the 27-year-old American really had seemed shocked early at the unexpected thunder and lightning emanating from the youngster’s fists, he was nothing if not wily, and bit by bit was able to adjust and make his way back into a fight that in the first rounds seemed to have escaped him.
The spectators, sitting in near-darkness as the two figures went at it beneath the harsh electrical light bulbs suspended above the ring, roared themselves hoarse, trying to will Darcy to a great win, but it was always going to be a nail-biter…No matter how hard Les bored in, the American always seemed to have an answer, a parry, a block, a sharp jab, to momentarily rock him backwards. In the thirteenth round the younger man did seem to get on top but, no, Holland held on and came out almost as strongly in the fourteenth round. True, by the end it was clear that the American was completely exhausted, while Darcy appeared comparatively fresh, but even then Holland was managing to counter most of what his young opponent threw at him and still give back some of his own. No matter, with just a few rounds left in the bout, Les said to Mick Hawkins during the break, ‘Gee this is great! I hope it keeps going.’
After twenty rounds of the finest fighting many in the crowd had ever seen, it seemed to most of the spectators that Les was the victor, but the referee and sole judge of the fight—Harald Baker, the brother of the manager of the stadium, Snowy—was not of the same opinion. And the winner is…Fritz…Holland!
Fritz Holland!?!?!
Never mind that Les himself smiled gracefully, and warmly shook the hand of the man who had bested him. All around, the stadium went crazy. Boos, hisses, chairs thrown, fists flying, the lot. The men of the coalfield did not take lightly one of their own being called a loser when he had bloody well won fair and square, and they made their feelings known in no uncertain terms. Order could only finally be restored by directing fire hoses at the brutes who simply wouldn’t quit…and those who were trying to set fire to the stadium besides. Even after the police arrived in force, there were still an estimated 8,000 men in the environs of the stadium an hour after the match was over. Back in the dressing room it was all quiet and Les, for his part, was not at all upset.
The smile he had displayed throughout the fight was genuine; he really had enjoyed going up against such an experienced campaigner as Fritz and, again, felt he had learned a lot. For now the most important thing was to gather himself together and get to Sussex Street in time to catch the 11.30 pm steamer to Newcastle, which would allow both him and Father Coady to make 6 am Sunday morning Mass. And though, because it was a Saturday and Les didn’t have to work on the morrow, he nevertheless wanted to get straight home so he could have the early pleasure of giving his prize money—no less than £500!—to his mother.
On the steamer, Father Joe was impressed by the young man’s upbeat mood. He had been afraid that Les would be downcast and need reassuring. Instead, Les was thrilled at having fought at the stadium, against such a veteran as Holland, and having acquitted himself well, without yet attaining victory. ‘It’s a step in the right direction,’ Les told Father Joe, as the throbbing of the small ship’s motors propelled them north along the sleeping Australian coastline.
(by Peter Fitzsimons)
Some boxers, to be sure, could wither under such adulation, such pressure to perform, but not Les Darcy, never Les Darcy. For now in response to the roar Les waved cheerily, flashed a broad smile—much as he did to anyone who recognised him on the streets of Maitland—and made his way into the ring, attended closely by Hawkins, Fletcher and Newton. Of course there wasn’t really a need for all three of them to attend as his ‘seconds’, but Les just wanted them there, so that was that.
Same thing with Father Coady, who sat in the front row. It was not a part of Father Joe’s pastoral duties to be there, and he had not attended as a fight fan pure. Rather, he had become extremely close to Les over previous years, and it was unthinkable for him not to be there.
From his own corner, Fritz Holland surveyed the scene with an experienced and therefore entirely untroubled eye. There was no way this unmarked fellow opposite smiling at him could beat him, but he, too, had been interested that such a young man could have generated a following enough to fill a stadium this size, and apparently have 3,000 or so more outside trying to get in! How could this be? How could a man of so few years have already developed a following so strong? Such musings were interrupted, as young Darcy’s seconds unfurled a large Australian flag…and now the crowd roared even more!
From the opening bell, Les did what he had always done in boxing matches, which was to charge at his opponent like a bull at a gate, throwing lefts and rights, uppercuts and crosses, in furious flurries that would have completely overwhelmed a lesser opponent. And indeed, Fritz Holland was surprised at the extraordinary intensity of the young man. Nevertheless, by simply covering up, he was able to absorb and parry the worst of the blows, smother the charges, and come back with a few hard punches of his own. The key, the American knew, was to weather the storm. There was no way the kid could keep up this pace for long. But why did he keep smiling? It near put a bloke off to have to punch such a pleasant, friendly countenance, but Fritz did the best he could as Les continued to charge in…obviously enjoying it hugely!
Down in the crowd, Father Coady and not so far along from him, the Australian heavyweight champion Gentleman Dave Smith were watching the clash closely—the latter, as always, analysing every punch, every feint, every move. It was obvious that Les was giving a very good account of himself against this veteran boxer of vast experience, but equally apparent that much of young Darcy’s energy was being wasted against Holland’s bristling defensive shield.
Though the 27-year-old American really had seemed shocked early at the unexpected thunder and lightning emanating from the youngster’s fists, he was nothing if not wily, and bit by bit was able to adjust and make his way back into a fight that in the first rounds seemed to have escaped him.
The spectators, sitting in near-darkness as the two figures went at it beneath the harsh electrical light bulbs suspended above the ring, roared themselves hoarse, trying to will Darcy to a great win, but it was always going to be a nail-biter…No matter how hard Les bored in, the American always seemed to have an answer, a parry, a block, a sharp jab, to momentarily rock him backwards. In the thirteenth round the younger man did seem to get on top but, no, Holland held on and came out almost as strongly in the fourteenth round. True, by the end it was clear that the American was completely exhausted, while Darcy appeared comparatively fresh, but even then Holland was managing to counter most of what his young opponent threw at him and still give back some of his own. No matter, with just a few rounds left in the bout, Les said to Mick Hawkins during the break, ‘Gee this is great! I hope it keeps going.’
After twenty rounds of the finest fighting many in the crowd had ever seen, it seemed to most of the spectators that Les was the victor, but the referee and sole judge of the fight—Harald Baker, the brother of the manager of the stadium, Snowy—was not of the same opinion. And the winner is…Fritz…Holland!
Fritz Holland!?!?!
Never mind that Les himself smiled gracefully, and warmly shook the hand of the man who had bested him. All around, the stadium went crazy. Boos, hisses, chairs thrown, fists flying, the lot. The men of the coalfield did not take lightly one of their own being called a loser when he had bloody well won fair and square, and they made their feelings known in no uncertain terms. Order could only finally be restored by directing fire hoses at the brutes who simply wouldn’t quit…and those who were trying to set fire to the stadium besides. Even after the police arrived in force, there were still an estimated 8,000 men in the environs of the stadium an hour after the match was over. Back in the dressing room it was all quiet and Les, for his part, was not at all upset.
The smile he had displayed throughout the fight was genuine; he really had enjoyed going up against such an experienced campaigner as Fritz and, again, felt he had learned a lot. For now the most important thing was to gather himself together and get to Sussex Street in time to catch the 11.30 pm steamer to Newcastle, which would allow both him and Father Coady to make 6 am Sunday morning Mass. And though, because it was a Saturday and Les didn’t have to work on the morrow, he nevertheless wanted to get straight home so he could have the early pleasure of giving his prize money—no less than £500!—to his mother.
On the steamer, Father Joe was impressed by the young man’s upbeat mood. He had been afraid that Les would be downcast and need reassuring. Instead, Les was thrilled at having fought at the stadium, against such a veteran as Holland, and having acquitted himself well, without yet attaining victory. ‘It’s a step in the right direction,’ Les told Father Joe, as the throbbing of the small ship’s motors propelled them north along the sleeping Australian coastline.
(by Peter Fitzsimons)
Last edited by doug.ie on 13 Feb 2015, 10:52, edited 1 time in total.
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
1948.
Last edited by doug.ie on 13 Feb 2015, 10:55, edited 1 time in total.
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
"I knew from the quiver in his voice that the gentleman calling on the phone wanted to tell me something he knew would knock my socks off. He was so right.
"They found a Harry Greb film!"
"You're full of you-know-what," I said. "Did you see it yet?"
"No. Not yet. But I'm getting a tape in a few days."
"Good," I said. "Give me a call after you do."
To understand the historic significance of what the gentleman was saying , you need some background. From the day when collecting boxing films became a cult art form, the most astute cult members grew increasingly frustrated when not an inch of film footage of Greb, an immortal of fistic immortals, had been uncovered. Compounding that frustration was the fact that extensive footage had been discovered of dozens of famous boxers, even 19th-century champion John L. Sulliven. As a matter of fact, the very first boxing movies were taken of an exhibition between Jim Corbett and Peter Courtney at Edison, New Jersey, in 1894, which was the year Greb was born. How could there be nothing on Greb?
My old friend, the late dean of boxing film collectors, Jim Jacobs, and I kidded each other for more than a quarter-century about the non-existence of Greb fim footage. Many times I would call Jacobs.
"Hey, Jimbo," I'd say, "You know what the mailman delivered this morning?"
"Don't give me that again," Jacobs would snort, knowing instinctivly that I was throwing him another Harry Greb curve. Jimmy knew I was jiving, but it was still fun.
The last time I saw Jacobs was a year before his death. He had come to our offices in Rockville centre in search of still photos of Stanley Ketchel. He found three pictures that he wanted. I promised I'd have prints made and send them to him. With Ketchel out of the way, we turned, as usual, to our favorite mystic subject.
"If somebody--somebody astute about fight films, not just a guy who knows nothing about collecting--found, say, Greb footage in his cellar or attic, and he called me for a deal, I would trade him anything I have in my collection for whatever he has of Harry greb," Jacobs said.
You can understand why, when i recieved that out-of-the-blue phone call about the possible discovery of Greb footage, why I immediately thought of my dear, late friend. As hopeful as I was that this would not turn out to be yet another Greb false alarm, I had mixed emotions. Wouldn't it be a shame if this was indeed the real thing and Jimmy hadn't lived long enough to enjoy it?
It was indeed the real thing! Remarkably sharp film footage of Greb had been discovered in the archives of a major American University, where it had rested, unnoticed, for about 65 years. You can imagine how tense and excited I was as I sat in the screening room with the young man who had brought me the film, collector Phil Guarnieri, waiting to see for myself wether or not this whole thing was for real. The first thing to fill the screen was the smiling face of Harry greb; the same face I had seen in hundreds of still photo's for more than half a century. But this time the face was alive. The eyes blinked, the head turned, the lips curled into a mischeivous smile. I was astonished and moved to the point of tears.
"I've got to be dreaming. This can't be! Pinch me, phil," I said to the young collector seated next to me. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."
For the next four minutes 43 seconds I was mesmorised, watching the great harry greb punching the bag, skipping rope, sparring with Philadelphia Jack o'Brien, exercising, clowning for the camera, playing handball, and suddenly dressed in the tight-fitting, striped suit of a broadway dandy, with an oversiazed brimmed straw hat and a broad grin on his one-of-a-kind face. (We all have lookalikes, but not Greb. He was a true original.)
To have an opportunity to see harry greb alive and in the prime of life was beyond my wildest dreams, comparable for a fight film collector to seeing Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address or Napoleon bidding farewell to his troops at waterloo. My only regret is that Jim Jacobs was not sitting with me in that screening room the day Harry greb was re-incarnated. Had he been there, years of kidding and teasing would have been erased by less than five minutes of wonderful reality."
(by Stanley Weston)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EUpN1x1uhms
"They found a Harry Greb film!"
"You're full of you-know-what," I said. "Did you see it yet?"
"No. Not yet. But I'm getting a tape in a few days."
"Good," I said. "Give me a call after you do."
To understand the historic significance of what the gentleman was saying , you need some background. From the day when collecting boxing films became a cult art form, the most astute cult members grew increasingly frustrated when not an inch of film footage of Greb, an immortal of fistic immortals, had been uncovered. Compounding that frustration was the fact that extensive footage had been discovered of dozens of famous boxers, even 19th-century champion John L. Sulliven. As a matter of fact, the very first boxing movies were taken of an exhibition between Jim Corbett and Peter Courtney at Edison, New Jersey, in 1894, which was the year Greb was born. How could there be nothing on Greb?
My old friend, the late dean of boxing film collectors, Jim Jacobs, and I kidded each other for more than a quarter-century about the non-existence of Greb fim footage. Many times I would call Jacobs.
"Hey, Jimbo," I'd say, "You know what the mailman delivered this morning?"
"Don't give me that again," Jacobs would snort, knowing instinctivly that I was throwing him another Harry Greb curve. Jimmy knew I was jiving, but it was still fun.
The last time I saw Jacobs was a year before his death. He had come to our offices in Rockville centre in search of still photos of Stanley Ketchel. He found three pictures that he wanted. I promised I'd have prints made and send them to him. With Ketchel out of the way, we turned, as usual, to our favorite mystic subject.
"If somebody--somebody astute about fight films, not just a guy who knows nothing about collecting--found, say, Greb footage in his cellar or attic, and he called me for a deal, I would trade him anything I have in my collection for whatever he has of Harry greb," Jacobs said.
You can understand why, when i recieved that out-of-the-blue phone call about the possible discovery of Greb footage, why I immediately thought of my dear, late friend. As hopeful as I was that this would not turn out to be yet another Greb false alarm, I had mixed emotions. Wouldn't it be a shame if this was indeed the real thing and Jimmy hadn't lived long enough to enjoy it?
It was indeed the real thing! Remarkably sharp film footage of Greb had been discovered in the archives of a major American University, where it had rested, unnoticed, for about 65 years. You can imagine how tense and excited I was as I sat in the screening room with the young man who had brought me the film, collector Phil Guarnieri, waiting to see for myself wether or not this whole thing was for real. The first thing to fill the screen was the smiling face of Harry greb; the same face I had seen in hundreds of still photo's for more than half a century. But this time the face was alive. The eyes blinked, the head turned, the lips curled into a mischeivous smile. I was astonished and moved to the point of tears.
"I've got to be dreaming. This can't be! Pinch me, phil," I said to the young collector seated next to me. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."
For the next four minutes 43 seconds I was mesmorised, watching the great harry greb punching the bag, skipping rope, sparring with Philadelphia Jack o'Brien, exercising, clowning for the camera, playing handball, and suddenly dressed in the tight-fitting, striped suit of a broadway dandy, with an oversiazed brimmed straw hat and a broad grin on his one-of-a-kind face. (We all have lookalikes, but not Greb. He was a true original.)
To have an opportunity to see harry greb alive and in the prime of life was beyond my wildest dreams, comparable for a fight film collector to seeing Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address or Napoleon bidding farewell to his troops at waterloo. My only regret is that Jim Jacobs was not sitting with me in that screening room the day Harry greb was re-incarnated. Had he been there, years of kidding and teasing would have been erased by less than five minutes of wonderful reality."
(by Stanley Weston)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EUpN1x1uhms
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
the story of 'nipper' ... pat daly (born - glamorgan, wales)....who turned professional at aged 10 in 1923...went on to become rated in the bantamweight world top 10 with ring magazine and fought his last fight aged 17...with professional record of 99 wins, 11 losses and 8 draws...including wins over british and european champions of the day...
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
ezzard charles looking towards an oncoming rocky marciano in their second fight..
Last edited by doug.ie on 26 Sep 2014, 12:00, edited 1 time in total.
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
muhammad ali v tommy hearns sparring exhibition...
and for those interested...a video clip of it...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2thglwsTak
and for those interested...a video clip of it...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2thglwsTak
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
this shows a 'mountain riveria' poster on the wall....i've been trying to get the one from the film (requiem for a heavyweight) for years and no luck...bigger version of that one...
actually....that film has one of the best opening scenes i ever seen......and this was very forward thinking too for the time, using a first person perspective...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAS7StFt_S0
actually....that film has one of the best opening scenes i ever seen......and this was very forward thinking too for the time, using a first person perspective...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAS7StFt_S0
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
walcott v harold johnson 1950
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
ali v foreman...always wondered at all the empty seats here...
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
"A snarling Tyson came to the center of the ring literally foaming from the mouth. The ever cocky Green , he always came to the ring sporting a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, barraged Tyson with insults. The action of the bout was to prove anti-climatic, Tyson as always was moving forward, but the 6’5″ Green managed to tie Tyson up repeatedly. Tyson’s most effective display of offense came in the third round when he landed a blow to Green’s jaw with force sufficient to dis-lodge a section of bridge work and send it flying several feet to the ring apron. Through it all “Blood” Green managed to survive the ten rounds, with Tyson the clear winner.
This was not the last time Iron Mike and Blood Green would meet. In the early morning hours of August 23, 1988, Mike Tyson stopped by Dapper Dans, a Harlem clothing store frequented by a clientele from rap stars to pimps. Tyson was there to pick up a custom made jacket. Mitch Green happened to be in the area and an argument ensued, in which Green threw a punch and Tyson responded with a straight right landing on the bridge of Green’s nose; requiring five stitches. Although Tyson won this second bout, shades of Walker vs. Greb, he suffered more in the long run. The bare knuckle punch resulted in a fracture to Tyson’s hand causing a postponement of his scheduled first fight with Frank Bruno"
This was not the last time Iron Mike and Blood Green would meet. In the early morning hours of August 23, 1988, Mike Tyson stopped by Dapper Dans, a Harlem clothing store frequented by a clientele from rap stars to pimps. Tyson was there to pick up a custom made jacket. Mitch Green happened to be in the area and an argument ensued, in which Green threw a punch and Tyson responded with a straight right landing on the bridge of Green’s nose; requiring five stitches. Although Tyson won this second bout, shades of Walker vs. Greb, he suffered more in the long run. The bare knuckle punch resulted in a fracture to Tyson’s hand causing a postponement of his scheduled first fight with Frank Bruno"
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
ali and frazier in 1967
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
Archie Moore vs Alejandro Lavorante...1962
and archie was old, very old, here...
and archie was old, very old, here...