bits and pieces scrapbook

[doug.ie]

Muhammad Ali v Tommy Hearns short sparring exhibition clip
The Bahamas, 1981, while Ali was in preparation for Trevor Berbick.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-Ik77QyAAw

[doug.ie]

1969

[doug.ie]

@ 9.20 here...coolness personified with a wink..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x40HigpdewE

[doug.ie]

[doug.ie]

Sept 16, 1967. Frankfurt, Germany.

Karl Mildenberger was solidly favored to beat the rugged but crude Oscar Bonavena, and some handicappers set odds of 4 to 1 favoring the German. Bonavena, however, turned out to be much too strong for Mildenberger in the ring. Mildenberger was knocked down four times by the powerful Argentine and lost the 12 round decision by scores of 56-48, 57-53, and 57-53.




Some amazingly clear and high quality footage, considering the time period..

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ccxPSbk49Tc

[Counter-puncher]

@ 9.20 here...coolness personified with a wink..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x40HigpdewE

fantastic quality of footage for the time period

[doug.ie]

After an operation whereby monkey's glands were grafted into his body, Frank Klaus, former Middleweight Champion, will attempt to come back in the roped arena and regain his crown.

"I never was in better physical health in my life than I am right now and I believe my vitality is stronger every day" he says.
Klaus kept the operation a secret at first, no-one but his wife knew that the operation was performed.

"I was advised by a friend who returned from France a few months ago to try the operation" said Klaus. "Through the aid of a prominent Pittsburgh doctor, who is at the head of one of the largest hospitals here, I had the job done."

Klaus has had offers to fight in England and Belgium and will sail for the latter country next month.

(The Milwaukee Journal - Feb 10, 1920)


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


some more info i found...

"One of the most interesting chapters in the long
history of the male hormone involves the medical career of Dr.
Serge Voronoff, a Russian-French surgeon who earned an
international reputation—and a great deal of money—back in
the 1920s by transplanting slices of monkey testicles into aging
men seeking a new physiological lease on life. Even today,
many people who lived through the 1920s and 1930s will recall
the term “monkey glands” and what it suggested about the men
who sought to have them implanted on or near their own sexual
organs.

The monkey gland operation played a very marginal
and rather bizarre role in the sporting life of that period. A
former middle-weight boxing champion of the world named
Frank Klaus, clearly hoping for a comeback, publicly announced his own operation, but even the simian glands could
not revive his career.
Meanwhile, similar operations had been underway at
San Quentin Prison in California. From time to time the
testicles of executed criminals were transplanted into other
inmates who were judged to be gland-deficient. At the prison’s
Thanksgiving Games in 1923, sportsmedical news was being
made. As the medical historian David Hamilton reports: “Glandtransplanted inmates did well, and the seventy-year-old John
Person, who was carrying an extra grafted testicle, came a good
second in the fifty-yard dash, beating several younger inmates
with only two testicles.”

(Klaus is pictured here in 1912 in a hotel room near Dieppe, France...receiving a massage while in preparation for his bout with World Title claimant Georges Carpentier.)

[doug.ie]

A hush fell over the vast stadium as Referee Patsy Haley called them to the center of the ring. Wasting little time on the usual instructions, he sent them back to their corners and signaled the timekeeper. The bell rang and battle was joined.

Walker bulled his way inside and hammered away at Shade’s body before the Californian surprised him with three straight lefts to the face. Two rights sent Walker to the ropes but he fought back fiercely as Shade closed in, and a further body attack sent Dave into his defensive crouch. Round two and Walker charged across the ring to hammer both hands to the body again. Shade was glad to clinch. Mickey tore himself free but an overhand right shook him and a right uppercut turned him halfway round before the bell.

The crowd was in an uproar; this was already a good fight. Into round three and a Walker left hook staggered Shade and a following right to the jaw almost floored the challenger. They clinched and Shade fought his way out, sending three lefts to Mickey’s face, then a hard right before the bell.

In round four Walker continued to hammer away at Shade’s body and Dave jumped into a clinch every time Mickey came in punching. A strong right to the jaw rocked Shade and a beautiful left almost decked him. He was coming back with a smart right uppercut at the bell. Starting the fifth, the champion cracked over a wicked left to the head that almost floored Shade. Dave fought back and they swapped leather at a furious pace with the crowd going crazy.

In round six the challenger opened up a serious attack on the champion. Trading effectively with both hands, Walker put over a vicious right square to Shade’s face that sent the challenger back on his heels. Four times Walker landed to the head without a return. Another left caught Shade off balance and he almost fell. The crowd was in a frenzied uproar as the fight assumed faster proportions. Both landed vicious blows to head and body as the bell halted a furious exchange.

Coming out for the seventh round, Shade was bleeding from the mouth and a cut under his right eye. Walker scored left and right to the head before they clinched. Then Shade flashed a right to the head and Walker reeled to the ropes, where a savage uppercut jarred him. Both landed smashing blows as they slugged away in the center of the ring before the bell gave them, and the fans, a minute’s rest.

Into round eight and Walker was at Shade like a terrier at a rat, and a vicious left hook to the body bent Dave in half. A following left to the head spun him around, then Walker was hammering at his ribs with thudding blows from either hand. Just before the bell another body shot doubled the Californian over.
Coming out for round nine, Dave jammed his left into Walker’s oncoming face and spun him halfway around before he could get his punches off. Mickey smashed a left to the body that staggered Dave, but he punched back and the champion was wild with a swinging left. Shade was having the best of it, and three times his jab sent Mickey’s head back on his shoulders. It was a good round for Mr. Shade. So was the tenth. Shade staggered Walker with a stiff right to the head. He came up with an uppercut and the champion came up with a bleeding mouth. Both blasted away viciously to the head, Shade getting the better of the battling. Shade landed to the head, then three uppercuts rocked Walker’s head. Shade forced Walker to the corner and poured leather at the champion from all directions. The champion came back strong, however, and forced Shade into a clinch as the bell ended the round.

Dave had come in tight at the weight and the ferocious pace was telling on him. For the most part he had cast aside the dodging, weaving defense by which he had often baffled opponents in other fights. He had traded punches toe to toe with the champion. It was a game at which Walker was highly proficient and the change in tactics spelled defeat for the crafty Californian.

At the bell for round eleven, Teddy Hayes sent Walker out to finish the fight. Mickey tried. He staggered Shade with a heavy left to the head and raked his body with savage hooks from either hand, but Dave stood his ground and caught Walker left and right to the face. They were both bloodied as the bell sent them back to their corners.

Round twelve and both fighters feeling the pace, there were more clinches and Referee Haley was a busy man, separating them so that they could come back punching. They did, Shade jabbing to the face, bringing the blood from Mickey’s eye again. But the champion was fighting for his life now and he forced his way inside again, where his hammering fists wracked Shade’s body.

The thirteenth and Walker put a vicious right to the body that creased Shade. Mickey was doing good work inside with Shade now lying back looking for a knockout. But as Joe Williams would write, “Walker knows now that Shade’s new knockout punch is no knockout punch at all. Shade hit Walker just as hard as he ever hit Jimmy Slattery but Walker was never in distress. Walker, unlike Slattery, does not possess a china chin.”6

In the fourteenth round they rushed to the ropes in a clinch and Shade had a little advantage at close quarters. Both stung with rights to the head. Walker continued his body punches. Both of Shade’s eyes appeared to be cut as he came out of a clinch. Walker missed three leads. A weak right grazed Shade’s face. He staggered Walker with a counter right. Shade’s crouching tactics had Walker at sea. Walker measured Shade with a right but the bell prevented the blow.

As the bell brought them out for the fifteenth and final round, Walker had more left in his tank than Shade had in his, and he set up a nonstop, two-fisted attack that almost chased Dave Shade clear out of the stadium. The crowd was on its feet for the entire three minutes as the champion fought for his life, hammering the challenger around the ring until it seemed he must go down.

In a United News dispatch, columnist Westbrook Pegler wrote, “For wild, reckless ferocity, this fight can only be compared to the one between Jack Dempsey and Luis Angel Firpo.... Joe Humphreys climbed through the ropes, collected the little voting slips from the referee and the two judges and, amid a throbbing silence that held the vast crowd, announced, ‘The winner and still champion of the world, Mickey Walker.’

“One prominent fan bet on Walker and stood to win $1,200 if the champion retained his title,” reported United Press sports editor Henry L. Farrell. “Yet in the tenth round he laid off as much money as he could, thinking that Shade was going to win and he ended up $60 out on the fight.”

Some years later Dave Shade would say, “Walker gave me all my hardest fights. He was no tougher than Ace Hudkins, but a lot smarter. Walker was smartly managed, too. Jack Bulger, and later, Jack Kearns, did a lot to keep Mickey up around the top.”

Trawling through the newspapers the day after the Shade fight, Mickey came across an item that gladdened his Irish heart: WALKER A REAL CHAMP—CORBETT. In an exclusive for the Universal News Service, James J. Corbett, the legendary former heavyweight champion of the world, had written, “Mickey Walker is a real champion. Let there be no doubt about that.... Walker won the decision and it was a fair verdict.... It was his wonderful boxing rather than his wallop that won for Walker.”

Jack Kearns and his Toy Bulldog were big winners with this fight. Doc had negotiated a $100,000 guarantee for Mickey to defend the title against Dave Shade. When he met Mickey a couple of nights after the bout, Doc handed him a check for $96,000. All he had taken out was $4,000 for training expenses. Mickey didn’t even look at the check, but just stuffed it in his pocket. A few days later Doc received a letter which contained a note and a check. Mickey’s note said, “Dear Doc, Everything we do is 50–50. Yours, Mickey.” The check was for $48,000.

(by John Jarrett)

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

(Mickey Walker and Dave Shade met for this World Welterweight Title fight on September 21st 1925 at Yankee Stadium, New York. The pair had met twice before in non-title bouts sharing a result each.)

[doug.ie]

“They say I haven’t trained hard enough for this fight. Who is to be the judge of how hard I work? I have worked all right, harder than most people think.” That’s Randy Turpin before the fight with Olson. He only spars 30 rounds leading up to it, and does this with his featherweight-size brother Jackie. Beats the hell out of Jackie, sure, but it ain’t a real workout. Does he not take Carl “Bobo” Olson seriously? Or is he distracted, something on his mind …

A woman. Adele Daniels. The light-skinned beauty from Harlem that Turpin met on his first trip outside of England, back in ’51 when he gave the middleweight title back to Sugar Ray Robinson, the belt he’d taken just months before.

Turpin’s in New York again and she’s hanging around. Getting crazy at his hotel, making a scene. George Middleton, Turpin’s manager, had warned Randy about Adele when they first met. Randy’s getting the message now, and he’s trying to hide out, staying at the camp, laying low. He won’t train in public, won’t talk to the press, even telling folks he may just fly back to England, forget the whole thing.

“Bobo” Olson doesn’t believe all the talk, thinks Turpin is in great shape. Thinks his opponent’s camp is trying to mess with his head, get him to let his guard down. So he trains twice as hard.

A few weeks before the match, Adele Daniels accuses Randy Turpin of assault.

The fight is held at Madison Square Garden, in front of almost 19,000. With Sugar Ray retired, the World Middleweight title is vacant – the winner will take it.

So they get to it. Turpin owns the first three rounds, despite his head being elsewhere. In the fourth, Olson opens up Randy’s cheek with a jab. They go back and forth a bit, but it’s Olson’s round. By the sixth, Olson is taking control, leading the fight.

Ninth round, Turpin gets a couple good shots in, regains confidence. He comes at “Bobo” with a left hook, but Olson slips it. Turpin comes at him with a right, but gets caught with a left hook of Olson’s. Back against the ropes, four, five, six big punches from Olson, no answer from Turpin. Randy gets off the ropes, throws his right but can’t land it. Back to the ropes and it’s left, right, left, right from Olson and Turpin goes down. He beats the count and the round is over.

Turpin’s caught on the ropes with another left hook in the tenth and is down for the second time. The eleventh, bang-bang, double-jab from “Bobo”, putting Turpin on the ropes again. Turpin gets away, only to get caught with a brutal belly shot, and he’s leaning, leaning. It goes on like this, Turpin being held up, Olson moving in, working it. Randy does get a good round off in the thirteenth, avoids punishment and dishes out some of his own, but it’s late.

In the last round, the fifteenth, Turpin lets it hang out, goes for the knockout, but he just can’t land the shot he needs. He takes the round, and there’s some pride in that, but the night is Olson’s.

“If I had been in my natural mental state, I could have stopped him about the eighth round. But I’ve had so many personal troubles recently, I wasn’t myself.” That’s Turpin after the fight. He says Olson is no Sugar Ray.

Adele Daniels drops the assault charges a couple weeks after the fight. She does end up suing Turpin for $100, 000 in damages, but gets only $3500, out of court, in the winter of ’55.

Turpin just fades after that, losing the bouts he needs to stay relevant. When he wins he’s putting down nobodies in nothing-fights. He finally retires in the early sixties. Short on cash, he turns to professional wrestling, but he was never a showman and even those crowds tire of him.

In 1966, he’s bankrupt. He shoots himself, and he’s gone.

But you go to Market Square in Warwick, England and you’ll find a statue of Randy Turpin. You look at that fighting pose, and you can flash way back to July 1951, when he took the belt from Sugar Ray in fifteen rounds. Way back when he got his taste, when everything shone so bright.

(by David Como)

[doug.ie]

Stephen Singer, a collector of all things Muhammad Ali, had sought out to collect the signatures of every man Ali fought in his 21-year professional career.

After all, many became famous for fighting Ali. Chuck Wepner's 1975 effort spawned the billion dollar Rocky franchise.

Joe Frazier's 1971 victory cinched his place in heavyweight history. Great Britain's own Henry Cooper became a knight of the British empire and his legend lives on long after him for what he did against a 21-year-old Clay in London, England.

Enlisting the services of a "professional autograph collector," the first 35 signatures came easy. As the pro's well ran dry, Singer set out to find the rest on his own.

Searching over the course of months, Singer went from gym to gym, seedy neighborhood to seedy neighborhood in his quest.

He located a notarized letter from a fighter turned Mafia hit man. A rabbi acted as a middle man in a small Argentine town for the passport of a fighter who'd been dead since 1964. He was No. 49.

Bit by bit, the puzzle came together as Singer counted his autographs.

He counted 49.

Only one remained.

One February night in 1961, just a few weeks removed from celebrating his 19th birthday with a 3rd-round stoppage over gangster Tony Esperti -- who later did time for a mob hit -- Clay was scheduled for his fourth fight.

The scheduled opponent had fallen through. Jimmy Robinson, a last-minute replacement from Miami, found himself with the assignment to pad Clay's record.

He lasted a mere 94 seconds in what turned out to be Ali's only 1st-round KO, sans the Sonny Liston dive.

"If promoter Chris Dundee had canvassed the women in the audience, he couldn't have found an easier opponent for Clay," The Miami Times wrote.

Robinson, known as "Sweet Jimmy" went on to carve a niche as a local "enhancement talent," a jobber - a guy paid to lose.

He retired in 1964 with an 8-24 record, coming out of retirement in '68 to lose once more.

There's been only one sighting since then. In 1979, a photographer shooting pictures for Sports Illustrated went to find Ali's earliest opponents. Michael Brennan located Jim Robinson, whom people down in Miami called "Sweet Jimmy." Most of what's known about his life comes from the brief blurb that ran with the photos. He lived off veteran's benefits. He claimed he was born around 1925. He claimed he was wrongfully convicted of armed robbery. Most days, he just hung out in the seedy Overtown neighborhood, at the pool hall owned by Miami concert promoter Clyde Killens.

The photos show a haunted man. His jaw juts out, like he's lost teeth. His eyebrows are bushy; once, they probably seemed delicate. A visor throws a shadow across his eyes. A deep scar runs along his left cheekbone. In one, he leans up against the wall of a Winn-Dixie. In another, he walks down railroad tracks, the skyline of Miami rising behind him. He never smiles.

Brennan shot the photos on a Friday night and Saturday morning. Sweet Jimmy smelled of booze and Camel cigarettes. Brennan remembers the last time he saw him. It was in the morning, on the railroad tracks, and he slipped the old fighter 20 bucks. Sweet Jimmy turned and walked off, negotiating the crossties. He never looked back.

"Tell Clay I ain't doing too good," he said.

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

Some other Ali opponents...

Tunney Hunsaker, the first opponent, spent nine days in a coma after a bout.

Trevor Berbick, the final opponent, was beat to death with a steel pipe.

Herb Siler went to prison for shooting his girlfriend.

Tony Esperti went to prison for a Mafia hit in a Miami Beach nightclub.

Alfredo Evangelista went to prison in Spain.

Alejandro Lavorante died from injuries sustained in the ring.

Sonny Banks did, too.

Jerry Quarry died broke, his mind scrambled from dementia pugilistica.

Jimmy Ellis suffered from it, too.

Rudi Lubbers turned into a drunk and joined a carnival.

Buster Mathis blew up to 550 pounds and died of a heart attack at 52.

George Chuvalo lost three sons to heroin overdoses; his wife killed herself after the second son's death.

Oscar Bonavena was shot through the heart with a high-powered rifle outside a Reno whorehouse.

Cleveland Williams was killed in a hit-and-run.

Zora Folley died mysteriously in a motel swimming pool.

Sonny Liston died of a drug overdose in Las Vegas. Many still believe the Mafia killed him.

(by Wright Thompson)

[doug.ie]

Sept 24, 1952.

Rocky Marciano, new world heavyweight champion, looks over his battle wounds that he received from Jersey Joe Walcott before Walcott was knocked out in the 13th round.

Marciano surveyed his head and nose cuts today after a refreshing sleep following last night's fight in Municipal Stadium before more than 40,000 persons who paid $504,645.

(Associated Press)

[doug.ie]

[doug.ie]

[doug.ie]

In 1935 Jersey Joe Walcott had become a boxing big shot around Camden, New Jersey, although this did nothing to help his financial situation as he was in debt and running out of credit. He and his wife Lydia were being hounded by the grocery store, the milkman and the landlord for immediate payment. Needing money, Walcott agreed to face his old mentor Roxie Allen. Allen had been calling Joe out for some time and had openly challenged him, so a fight was arranged at the convention hall.

Arriving for the fight, Joe was unexpectedly stopped at the entrance by a stranger who wanted to introduce Joe to a small dark man. “Here is the original,” said the stranger “Meet Joe Walcott, the Barbados Demon himself.” Joe was absolutely thrilled and inspired by the incident. After all, Joe Walcott was Jersey Joe’s idol. Although Joe didn’t have a dime to his name to buy a ticket, he managed to get his hero a ringside seat.

The fight started off as a bit of a shock for Walcott. Roxie, in a burst of fury, floored Jersey Joe with a big left hook in round one for a count of seven. Once up, Walcott proceeded to batter Allen without mercy, finally knocking Roxie out in round eight with a left hook. The blow sent Roxie to the canvas, his head hitting the floor of the ring hard enough to make it bounce. Roxie’s body stiffened and Jersey Joe again had the awful feeling that he might have killed an opponent. Roxie was taken to Cooper Hospital. That night Joe prayed for God to spare Roxie’s life. The next afternoon Roxie regained consciousness, but remained hospitalized for ten days. After the fight the Barbados Demon paid Joe a visit in his dressing room, giving him a hug and saying, “Lots of fellers take the name Joe Walcott but you’re the only boy I ever saw I was actually proud to have using it.”

For his victory over Allen, Joe walked away with $375. By the next evening, every cent of it was gone to pay the grocery store, landlord, milkman and a dozen other credits. By the next morning the family were living on markers once again.

(by James Curl)

[doug.ie]

[doug.ie]

[doug.ie]

"After introducing several celebrities in the audience, the ring announcer, Freddie Russo, said in his booming voice, “Ladieees and gentlemen, tonight we have a fifteen round fight for the Welterweight Championship of the World.” As is customary, he introduced the challenger first, “Weighing in at 145 ½ pounds, from Boston, Massachusetts, the challenger with a record of forty-five wins and six defeats, the Flame and Fury of Fleet Street, Tony Demarco!” The cheering was deafening and seemed never to end. When Saxton, the reigning champion was introduced, the cheering for me had not yet subsided.

Mel Manning, the referee, gave the instructions to each of us before we went back to our corners to wait for the bell. We stared at each other from our respective corners. It seemed as though our eye contact brought us closer and closer to the middle of the ring. We were both eager for the fight to start. The bell finally rang and we charged on one another, hurling leather. This was the defining moment.

Immediately I threw punches to Saxton’s head and body. I seemed to get the best of him with my body punches. The fact is that body punches don’t knock you out but they have a devastating effect on your stamina. It was certainly the case with this fight. Between rounds my trainer, Sammy Fuller, told me to keep using body punches and not to let up. I continued to throw body punches at every opportunity. We went back and forth, round after round, but the body shots on Saxton were finally taking their toll. Whenever I could, I threw left hooks and continued until I could see that they were hurting Saxton. Johnny was a devastating puncher, and believe me, he was inflicting some real punishment on me, but I began to wear him down.

The excitement mounted with every round. It got to a point where Saxton and I walked to the center of the ring and just stared each other down until the bell rang to start the round. My adrenaline was off the charts, and I was throwing shots that were coming from left field. A couple of times, Mel Manning, the referee, had to come between us to make sure we didn’t throw any punches before the bell rang.

For the first thirteen rounds, the fight seesawed back and forth between the two of us. At the beginning of the fourteenth round everything changed. I hit Saxton with a combination of punches ending with a vicious right that sent him to the canvas. He was hurt and the crowd went wild. Saxton struggled to his feet before the count of ten. Looking back at his condition at that point, I think it would have been better for the Champ if he hadn’t tried to stand up. He was helpless and defenseless as I attacked with punch after punch.

I caught the Champ with a relentless array of left hooks and right crosses that were devastating. I hit him with a total of twenty-four consecutive punches that were right on the mark. The crowd was amazed at the amount of punishment the Champ was capable of taking. Many in the crowd shouted for the referee to stop the fight before it was too late.

After those twenty-four punches, Johnny Saxton, the champion of the world, was dead on his feet. The Champ was helpless and the referee stopped the fight. I, Tony DeMarco, Leonardo Liotta, had reached the top of the mountain. I was the new undisputed Welterweight Champion of the World. The ring announcer tried to quiet the screaming crowd with no success. His only recourse was to yell over their volume. He brought the microphone closer to his lips and shouted, “One of the few undisputed champions from Boston Proper since the ‘Boston Strong Boy’ John L. Sullivan won the heavyweight crown on September 7, 1892. Ladies and gentlemen, the new Welterweight Champion of the World, Tony DeMarco!” "

(by Tony DeMarco)

[doug.ie]

[doug.ie]

The story of Benny Lynch and Nipper Hampston...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(by John Burrowes)

[Alex]

Great stuff, Doug. I'll have a proper look through this thread when I have a bit more time.

[doug.ie]

Sept 8, 1938.

Tony Canzoneri, former world lightweight champion - James J Braddock, former world's heavyweight champion - and Sixto Escabor, former bantamweight champion, watch Lou Ambers go through his training.

[doug.ie]

1989.

[doug.ie]

"I often wonder what other fighters feel, and what goes through their minds when they lose," he said, placing a cup of tea on the table. "I've wanted so much to talk to another fighter about all this, to compare thoughts, to see if he feels some of the same things I've felt. But who can you talk to? Most fighters don't talk much anyway. And I can't even look another fighter in the eye at a weigh-in, for some reason.

"At the Liston weigh-in, the sports writers noticed this, and said it showed I was afraid. But that's not it. I can never look any fighter in the eye because . . . well, because we're going to fight, which isn't a nice thing, and because . . . well, once I actually did look a fighter in the eye. It was a long, long time ago. I must have been in the amateurs then. And when I looked at this fighter, I saw he had such a nice face . . . and then he looked at me . . . and smiled at me . . . and I smiled back! It was strange, very strange. When a guy can look at another guy and smile like that, I don't think they have any business fighting.

"I don't remember what happened in that fight, and I don't remember what the guy's name was. I only remember that, ever since, I have never looked another fighter in the eye."

- Floyd Patterson

[doug.ie]

1962

[doug.ie]

Sparring partner to Mickey Walker – June 1927 (aged 14)


"When Mickey Walker was signed up to defend his world middleweight title against Scotsman Tommy Milligan at the Olympia on the above date the whole world of British boxing fans were agog with interest.

Jack Kearns, Walker’s manager, struck camp at Taggs Island, which was situated in the middle of the Thames river at Hampton Court. Kearns, who was the former manager of Jack Dempsey, former heavyweight champion of the world, was very businesslike and arranged what order we would spar with his present champ.

As he looked at me I could see the disappointment in his eyes, and he said, 'You’re far too light for this job.' I weighed 7st-12lb or 110lb, American method. My manager explained to him that I was engaged for my speed, not my strength. Mickey, who was talking to another of his partners, noticed that we were talking, rather excitedly came to us and on hearing the cause of the argument said, 'Okay I’ll just spar with him last to speed me up, and he better be fast.'

I sat at the ringside and watched Mickey spar two rounds each with a Malcolm Campbell, middleweight champion of Scotland and Tom Fowler, a heavyweight who had served his time as a sparring partner to most of our leading heavies. Walker, not a brilliantly clever boxer but clever just the same, with a K.O. punch in either hand, and I was his sparring partner. One of his punches could kill me. Still, I had a job to do and I intended to do it as well as I could.

While watching Mickey spar I had noticed that he would make his partner miss with their initial punch by swaying backward, and then counter [the hopelessly reaching boxer] with his right. At the first opportunity I had, I feinted with my left lead, Mickey drew back from his hips and was temporarily defenceless as I moved forward and connected with a perfect right hand punch on his jaw. Mickey stopped boxing, shook hands, patted me on the back and said, 'That was a great punch kid.'

After I had finished my training I was told that we had been booked to appear at Jimmy Butler’s boxing booth at the Welsh Harp, Hendon in the evening and that I was to stand on the front of the booth and take on all comers. I did two houses, which means I had two fights, three rounds each. Still, it brought my manager in a few shillings and saved me wasting time. I only fought two fights as there was not time for any more, as it was 10pm and the fair was closing down.

(On another occasion, as I had missed a 15 rd contest at Premierland on Sunday, my opponent Young Siki had not turned up, the Prof sent me the next day, Bank Holiday Monday, to work at a boxing booth at Lea Bridge Road. When I started work I created something of a sensation as it seemed that most of the young men in the crowd wanted to take me on as I was 15 years of age, skinny and did not look like a fighter.)

Still, the time saved me from having several more bouts. I’d had an easy day, only having sparred with the world middleweight champion and fought two opponents at a booth. I was very proud at having sparred with the world’s middleweight champion and also pleased that Mickey had pulled his punches."

- Nipper Pat Daly.





( via - http://blog.boxinghistory.org.uk/2012/1 ... -june.html )