James J Jeffries, former heavyweight champion, celebrates his 72nd birthday.
He is looking at a photo of his famous fight with Tom Sharkey in 1899. Jeffries won the bout in 25 rounds.
bits and pieces scrapbook
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
April 1947.
James J Jeffries, former heavyweight champion, celebrates his 72nd birthday.
He is looking at a photo of his famous fight with Tom Sharkey in 1899. Jeffries won the bout in 25 rounds.
James J Jeffries, former heavyweight champion, celebrates his 72nd birthday.
He is looking at a photo of his famous fight with Tom Sharkey in 1899. Jeffries won the bout in 25 rounds.
Last edited by doug.ie on 13 Feb 2015, 16:12, edited 1 time in total.
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
"The tap on the door came at 6 o'clock in the morning. I knew it was 6 o'clock because there was a clock on the dresser, next to a copy of the Bible, and I'd been lying in bed since 2 o'clock looking at it.
The phone had rung all night, friends from Philly and Montana and Tennessee telling me that Howard Cosell had painted Randall Cobb as some kind of a freak of nature on national television.
Yes, Randall took a pounding.
No, he didn't quit. The only other man Holmes has failed to knock out since he became champion was Trevor Berbick, but—as Holmes would tell me later in the day—Berbick wasn't fighting, he was just trying to survive. "Fifteen rounds, after all the shots," Holmes would say, sounding like he was remembering it from a long time ago, "Cobb was still tryin' to win the fight. He fought me harder than anybody."
I got up off the bed and opened the door. "I knew an ambitious young businessman like yourself would be an early riser," he said, coming in. "All of us are early risers.” One of his eyes was swollen half shut, there were six small stitches in the lid of the other one. He sat down on the bed and looked out the window at the Astrodome. It was still raining in Houston, as far as I knew it always had been.
"Are you hurt?” I said. I'd walked with him back to the dressing room after the fight, but I left when he and his trainer George Benton started talking about the next one. I think a lot of George Benton, but I didn't want to hear about any more fighting then.
"It looks a lot worse than it is," he said. "I don't know why, usually it's worse than it looks. No, I'm fine, except my ears." Randall always gets an ear infection after a fight. He hit himself on the side of his head, like a kid who has been in a swimming pool.
I said, "If something comes dripping out of there I'm going to lock myself in the bathroom.”
He smiled and looked at the television. I'd left it on, trying to sleep. It was a Kung Fu rerun, David Carradine remembering the advice of his old dime-eyed teacher on how to disarm a troop of drunk and insensitive American cavalry troops. "You must listen to the color of the sky," he said, "and see the sound of the hummingbird's wing."
"You think I need a blind trainer?" he said.
"He did have a right hand," I said, meaning Holmes.
There was a tiny, unstitched cut about an inch under his left eye, where so many of the right hands had landed, and as he spoke it leaked watery blood down his cheek. The cut must have gone all the way into a tear duct, and his face, on that side, was streaked with two long, bloody tears.
"Are you hurt?” I said.
He shook his head no. "It was just an advanced game of tag," he said, "and Larry won.”
A fresh bloody tear came out of the cut underneath his eye and worked its way down his face."
(by Pete Dexter)
Howard Cosell gave up boxing after calling the fight.
.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5e_vS1rmgA8
The phone had rung all night, friends from Philly and Montana and Tennessee telling me that Howard Cosell had painted Randall Cobb as some kind of a freak of nature on national television.
Yes, Randall took a pounding.
No, he didn't quit. The only other man Holmes has failed to knock out since he became champion was Trevor Berbick, but—as Holmes would tell me later in the day—Berbick wasn't fighting, he was just trying to survive. "Fifteen rounds, after all the shots," Holmes would say, sounding like he was remembering it from a long time ago, "Cobb was still tryin' to win the fight. He fought me harder than anybody."
I got up off the bed and opened the door. "I knew an ambitious young businessman like yourself would be an early riser," he said, coming in. "All of us are early risers.” One of his eyes was swollen half shut, there were six small stitches in the lid of the other one. He sat down on the bed and looked out the window at the Astrodome. It was still raining in Houston, as far as I knew it always had been.
"Are you hurt?” I said. I'd walked with him back to the dressing room after the fight, but I left when he and his trainer George Benton started talking about the next one. I think a lot of George Benton, but I didn't want to hear about any more fighting then.
"It looks a lot worse than it is," he said. "I don't know why, usually it's worse than it looks. No, I'm fine, except my ears." Randall always gets an ear infection after a fight. He hit himself on the side of his head, like a kid who has been in a swimming pool.
I said, "If something comes dripping out of there I'm going to lock myself in the bathroom.”
He smiled and looked at the television. I'd left it on, trying to sleep. It was a Kung Fu rerun, David Carradine remembering the advice of his old dime-eyed teacher on how to disarm a troop of drunk and insensitive American cavalry troops. "You must listen to the color of the sky," he said, "and see the sound of the hummingbird's wing."
"You think I need a blind trainer?" he said.
"He did have a right hand," I said, meaning Holmes.
There was a tiny, unstitched cut about an inch under his left eye, where so many of the right hands had landed, and as he spoke it leaked watery blood down his cheek. The cut must have gone all the way into a tear duct, and his face, on that side, was streaked with two long, bloody tears.
"Are you hurt?” I said.
He shook his head no. "It was just an advanced game of tag," he said, "and Larry won.”
A fresh bloody tear came out of the cut underneath his eye and worked its way down his face."
(by Pete Dexter)
Howard Cosell gave up boxing after calling the fight.
.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5e_vS1rmgA8
Last edited by doug.ie on 13 Feb 2015, 16:15, edited 1 time in total.
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
"The relationship between Ali and Patterson goes back to the 1950s, when Ali was inspired by Patterson's example to dream about becoming heavyweight champ. Ali and Patterson were in each other’s company at the 1960 Rome Games, where Floyd visited the American boxing team as a former gold medalist and where Ali would win the gold medal himself as a light heavyweight. Patterson seemed to find Ali amusing."
(W.K. Stratton)
(W.K. Stratton)
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
His father threatened to lick him if he went near a boxing bout, but his mother would sneak his fighting trunks out to him so he could battle...
(article from 1917)
(article from 1917)
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
1941
Last edited by doug.ie on 13 Feb 2015, 16:17, edited 1 time in total.
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
"Sometimes I was actually just a few pounds over middleweight. I used to get a stiff neck looking up at heavyweights all the time but the lead shoes made me their weight.
‘I’d go to the weigh-in and the commissioner would say, “OK Mr Johnson, you can come over to the scales.’”
Harold leapt from his bed and started shouting, ‘Clunk, clunk, clunk,’ with each step around the room, walking as though it was an effort to lift his feet.
‘The commissioner would look at me suspiciously and say, “You better take those shoes off.’’
‘Then I’d sneeze.’
With that, Harold faked a sneeze that shook his apartment windows and made me jump from my perch at the foot of the bed.
‘I would say that I didn’t want to take my shoes off because I might catch a cold before the fight. “I think I’m coming down with something already,’’ he would tell officials.
‘I’d clunk on to the scales; the commissioner would look at me, look at the scales, look at me and look back at the scales again. He’d scratch his head and say “190lb?” And really I was just over 170lb.
The commissioner would say, “OK, you can walk away now.’’
‘Clunk, clunk, clunk,’ again filled the room as Harold stepped off the make-believe scales and moved around his room.
‘I learned to walk up on my tip-toes so they wouldn’t hear me so much,’ he continued.
With that, Harold tip-toed carefully, demonstrating, on his way back to sit beside me.
‘One time I had a guy come up to me and he said, “You know Harold, you could lose this fight tonight and make very good money.”
‘I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I said, “What do you mean? I’m going to try to win.”’
‘He said, “But you could lose.”’
‘I said, “Noooo way!” In a roundabout way he was telling me to throw the fight. I was scared. Back then there were some bad guys hanging around boxing. Someone wanted me to throw a fight with Archie Moore but they didn’t have to. He beat me fair and square.’
Harold chuckled at that one.
‘So when you finally won the title against Doug Jones, how did you feel?’ ‘I was like a kid who got what he wanted for Christmas,’ he enthusiastically answered. ‘People would ask, “How does it feel Mr Johnson, now you’re champion?” And I was speechless. I was so excited I could hardly reply.
A friend had asked me to get Harold to sign a piece of 10x8 photo paper so he could scan a picture over it. I asked Harold to make his mark, adding he was under no obligation to do so. He said he would try but wasn’t sure he could do it very well. I instantly regretted asking him as he struggled with the pen and scrawled across the slick paper.
With time moving swiftly and the interview becoming increasingly repetitious I asked if he would pose for some photos. A little reluctant at first, he soon warmed to the task.
‘Like this?’ he asked, standing with his hands clasped in front of his belly. ‘How does this look?’ he said, changing position. ‘Is this the type of thing?’ he went on, as he held his hands up in a traditional boxing pose. ‘Yes, Harold. Yes, that’s great.’ ‘One more like that?’ I asked. ‘How about a jab,’ he offered, prodding out his once meticulous left. ‘Good,’ I said, encouragingly. ‘And follow it through with a right hand.’ He was getting into it, smiling, and then he suddenly stopped and looked at me.
‘You came all the way from England to see me?’ ‘Yes, Harold, you were a great champion. Of course.’ ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I might not be how you wanted me to be. I hope you haven’t been disappointed,’ he said softly, as we sat back on the bed. ‘Don’t say that, Harold. I’m privileged to meet you.’ ‘But look at me,’ he said. ‘Harold, you’re brilliant. I can’t believe you’re in such good shape.’ ‘Really?’ he said, looking up hopefully.
‘Are you sure you have to go?’ he asked, as I gathered my things. ‘Yes, I must.’ He thanked me again and crushed my hand once more. I promised we would stay in touch and he watched me walk back down the long, dark corridor towards the lift. I turned and waved, then heard the door close.
(Tris Dixon)
‘I’d go to the weigh-in and the commissioner would say, “OK Mr Johnson, you can come over to the scales.’”
Harold leapt from his bed and started shouting, ‘Clunk, clunk, clunk,’ with each step around the room, walking as though it was an effort to lift his feet.
‘The commissioner would look at me suspiciously and say, “You better take those shoes off.’’
‘Then I’d sneeze.’
With that, Harold faked a sneeze that shook his apartment windows and made me jump from my perch at the foot of the bed.
‘I would say that I didn’t want to take my shoes off because I might catch a cold before the fight. “I think I’m coming down with something already,’’ he would tell officials.
‘I’d clunk on to the scales; the commissioner would look at me, look at the scales, look at me and look back at the scales again. He’d scratch his head and say “190lb?” And really I was just over 170lb.
The commissioner would say, “OK, you can walk away now.’’
‘Clunk, clunk, clunk,’ again filled the room as Harold stepped off the make-believe scales and moved around his room.
‘I learned to walk up on my tip-toes so they wouldn’t hear me so much,’ he continued.
With that, Harold tip-toed carefully, demonstrating, on his way back to sit beside me.
‘One time I had a guy come up to me and he said, “You know Harold, you could lose this fight tonight and make very good money.”
‘I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I said, “What do you mean? I’m going to try to win.”’
‘He said, “But you could lose.”’
‘I said, “Noooo way!” In a roundabout way he was telling me to throw the fight. I was scared. Back then there were some bad guys hanging around boxing. Someone wanted me to throw a fight with Archie Moore but they didn’t have to. He beat me fair and square.’
Harold chuckled at that one.
‘So when you finally won the title against Doug Jones, how did you feel?’ ‘I was like a kid who got what he wanted for Christmas,’ he enthusiastically answered. ‘People would ask, “How does it feel Mr Johnson, now you’re champion?” And I was speechless. I was so excited I could hardly reply.
A friend had asked me to get Harold to sign a piece of 10x8 photo paper so he could scan a picture over it. I asked Harold to make his mark, adding he was under no obligation to do so. He said he would try but wasn’t sure he could do it very well. I instantly regretted asking him as he struggled with the pen and scrawled across the slick paper.
With time moving swiftly and the interview becoming increasingly repetitious I asked if he would pose for some photos. A little reluctant at first, he soon warmed to the task.
‘Like this?’ he asked, standing with his hands clasped in front of his belly. ‘How does this look?’ he said, changing position. ‘Is this the type of thing?’ he went on, as he held his hands up in a traditional boxing pose. ‘Yes, Harold. Yes, that’s great.’ ‘One more like that?’ I asked. ‘How about a jab,’ he offered, prodding out his once meticulous left. ‘Good,’ I said, encouragingly. ‘And follow it through with a right hand.’ He was getting into it, smiling, and then he suddenly stopped and looked at me.
‘You came all the way from England to see me?’ ‘Yes, Harold, you were a great champion. Of course.’ ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I might not be how you wanted me to be. I hope you haven’t been disappointed,’ he said softly, as we sat back on the bed. ‘Don’t say that, Harold. I’m privileged to meet you.’ ‘But look at me,’ he said. ‘Harold, you’re brilliant. I can’t believe you’re in such good shape.’ ‘Really?’ he said, looking up hopefully.
‘Are you sure you have to go?’ he asked, as I gathered my things. ‘Yes, I must.’ He thanked me again and crushed my hand once more. I promised we would stay in touch and he watched me walk back down the long, dark corridor towards the lift. I turned and waved, then heard the door close.
(Tris Dixon)
Last edited by doug.ie on 13 Feb 2015, 16:20, edited 1 time in total.
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
Joe Frazier, pictured in his dressing room after defeating Muhammad Ali on March 8, 1971
Last edited by doug.ie on 13 Feb 2015, 16:23, edited 1 time in total.
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
October 1937.
At Shawfield Park (Glasgow, Scotland), capacity packed with 40,000 and thousands more unable to get in, it was vintage boxing, the likes of which a man would see, if he was lucky that was, only once in a lifetime.
It was Peter Kane at his greatest - unbeaten in 42 professional fights - and Benny Lynch at his pinnacle - and the best man won.
Peter Kane was a youngster of nineteen and had been a pro since he was sixteen - although he had been fighting long before that as a youth in the booths around the market towns of the North of England. Some scoffed at the idea of such a young fellow taking on the likes of Lynch. Nevertheless, Kane was unbeaten.
The English were convinced he was their answer to Benny Lynch.
Tommy Farr said it was the best fight of any weight he had ever seen. Elky Clark, former British flyweight champion, rated it the greatest flyweight match of boxing history. And Victor McLaglen, the former heavyweight boxer turned sucessful actor, picked him up in his arms to announce to everyone that he was holding the Jack Dempsey of the small men. “Oh boy, what a fight,” he said. In his commissioned report of the fight he enthused even more...
"It’s the most exciting fight of its weight I have ever seen and although Kane was the aggressor until about the ninth round, Lynch seemed to have his measure all the time. . . . You would notice that Kane’s punches had little effect on your boy who seemed as fresh as paint after the fight. Indeed, I was surprised when I met him in Mr Russell Moreland’s office afterwards to see how little bruised he was. How Kane weathered the twelfth round I don’t know. Lynch had him at his mercy . . . it wasn’t a knock out in the accepted sense. Kane was too weak to get up in the thirteenth . . . the gamest loser I have ever seen. And what a clean, fair fight it was. If you can promise me another fight as thrilling and sporting as this one then, boy, I’m certainly coming back to Scotland."
No one ever offered that promise.
And there never was another fight like that night at Shawfield Park, although other Scots were to win world titles. It was the fight men were to speak about for the rest of their lives. It was the fight the fifty-bob fighters, the men who knew and suffered their industry, said they never thought they would see the likes of, for they never thought two men could fight like that. Some of them had seen Jimmy Wilde. But no one had ever produced what they said was the ultimate in the sporting science called pugilism that Benny Lynch produced that night.
(by John Burrowes)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2iaIqLVTIA
At Shawfield Park (Glasgow, Scotland), capacity packed with 40,000 and thousands more unable to get in, it was vintage boxing, the likes of which a man would see, if he was lucky that was, only once in a lifetime.
It was Peter Kane at his greatest - unbeaten in 42 professional fights - and Benny Lynch at his pinnacle - and the best man won.
Peter Kane was a youngster of nineteen and had been a pro since he was sixteen - although he had been fighting long before that as a youth in the booths around the market towns of the North of England. Some scoffed at the idea of such a young fellow taking on the likes of Lynch. Nevertheless, Kane was unbeaten.
The English were convinced he was their answer to Benny Lynch.
Tommy Farr said it was the best fight of any weight he had ever seen. Elky Clark, former British flyweight champion, rated it the greatest flyweight match of boxing history. And Victor McLaglen, the former heavyweight boxer turned sucessful actor, picked him up in his arms to announce to everyone that he was holding the Jack Dempsey of the small men. “Oh boy, what a fight,” he said. In his commissioned report of the fight he enthused even more...
"It’s the most exciting fight of its weight I have ever seen and although Kane was the aggressor until about the ninth round, Lynch seemed to have his measure all the time. . . . You would notice that Kane’s punches had little effect on your boy who seemed as fresh as paint after the fight. Indeed, I was surprised when I met him in Mr Russell Moreland’s office afterwards to see how little bruised he was. How Kane weathered the twelfth round I don’t know. Lynch had him at his mercy . . . it wasn’t a knock out in the accepted sense. Kane was too weak to get up in the thirteenth . . . the gamest loser I have ever seen. And what a clean, fair fight it was. If you can promise me another fight as thrilling and sporting as this one then, boy, I’m certainly coming back to Scotland."
No one ever offered that promise.
And there never was another fight like that night at Shawfield Park, although other Scots were to win world titles. It was the fight men were to speak about for the rest of their lives. It was the fight the fifty-bob fighters, the men who knew and suffered their industry, said they never thought they would see the likes of, for they never thought two men could fight like that. Some of them had seen Jimmy Wilde. But no one had ever produced what they said was the ultimate in the sporting science called pugilism that Benny Lynch produced that night.
(by John Burrowes)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2iaIqLVTIA
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
Doug
Can't thank you enough for what you've given the forum.
What a gift.
Best wishes
Ezzard
Can't thank you enough for what you've given the forum.
What a gift.
Best wishes
Ezzard
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
thanks for saying that.....but i'm just a magpie really...saving stuff i find online, or quoting from the books i have here.Ezzard wrote:Doug
Can't thank you enough for what you've given the forum.
What a gift.
Best wishes
Ezzard
thank you.
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
Kid Graves v Harry Greb -
-
Datsue
- Heavyweight
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
Counter-puncher wrote:doug.ie wrote:@ 9.20 here...coolness personified with a wink..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x40HigpdewE
fantastic quality of footage for the time period
That wink man... Damn. That's up there--though in the other direction, like--with Zaragoza nodding to Morales.
So much fantastic stuff here Doug, thanks a million mate.
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
August 2, 1980
Aaron Pryor vs. Antonio Cervantes
As the fighters awaited the opening bell they presented a study in contrasts. The 24-year-old Pryor couldn’t stand still. Keyed up and ready to go, he danced about the ring, shadow boxing and flexing his muscles and glaring at Cervantes. Meanwhile the champion sat slumped on his stool like a man patiently waiting for the next bus. A veteran of well over a hundred bouts, this appeared to be just another day at the office for “Kid Pambele,” his facial expression and body language that of someone ready for a dip in the hot-tub, not a world championship fight. Or maybe it was that of a ring-worn veteran who was ripe for the taking.
Columbia’s Antonio Cervantes was something of a mysterious figure to U.S. boxing fans. Despite the fact he had been a world champion for most of the preceding eight years, had dominated the super-lightweight division, and was a living legend in his native Columbia, his face and name were little known, most of his fights taking place in Venezuela and Panama. Another mystery was his age. He insisted he was 34, but he looked older; it was whispered he was past 40. And while he had won 13 straight since losing to the gifted Wilfred Benitez back in 1976, he was a decided underdog going into his defense against Pryor.
But the real mystery was why he was here in the first place, why he had agreed to do what so many would not: take on Aaron “The Hawk” Pryor, in his hometown, no less. But whatever back room deals may have been involved, Pryor finally had a title shot and an appearance on national television.
Pryor had been laying waste to the lightweight division, setting a breakneck pace to compliment his swarming, all-action style. In less than three years he racked up 19 straight wins, all but two by knockout. He was still “Aaron Who?” outside of his native Cincinnati, but the top contenders in the lightweight division were definitely aware of both his presence and his reputation for being a very dangerous individual.
Broadcast live on CBS, Pryor vs. Cervantes followed the timeless script of the proud, old king versus the young upstart in search of glory. At the bell, “The Hawk” tore after the champion, chasing him about the ring and firing a non-stop barrage of leather. Cervantes appeared briefly perplexed by the challenger’s aggression and the absence of any “feeling out” process but soon enough began to find openings for counter shots. Displaying admirable grace under pressure, the champion connected with counter left hooks as Pryor kept barreling in, a veritable buzzsaw, though he landed relatively few effective blows. Setting a whirlwind pace, he forced Cervantes into the ropes again and again but then, with seconds left in the round, a short counter hook followed by a right hand put Pryor down briefly on one knee. Round one to the champion.
The torrid pace continued in the second in what was clearly a contest between youthful exuberance and veteran ring-smarts. Cervantes repeatedly got home with clean punches as Pryor’s brazen attack left him wide open for counter shots, but it was the champion who appeared hurt near the end of the round this time, as Pryor landed two hard right hands. Returning to his corner at the bell, Cervantes could be seen gulping air, the pace already affecting his stamina.
With his cornermen shouting at Pryor to “Go get that old man!” he started the third with two more powerful rights as he worked to take full control of the battle. Seconds later a series of right hands put Cervantes on the run and opened a deep gash over his right eye. The champion scored with solid counters but the punches had no effect on the constantly charging Pryor. Like a shark, the sight of his quarry’s blood drove the challenger to attack with even more intensity, his unceasing assault driving a bewildered Cervantes from one side of the ring to the other. His legs already unsteady, he clinched and held to survive the round.
To his credit, the champion never gave up. Hurt, tired and bleeding, he fought back as Pryor went for the kill in the fourth. His counter punches kept landing on Pryor but they were like small pebbles thrown at a tank; they had no effect and the challenger just kept driving forward. Backing Cervantes into his own corner, Pryor unloaded with right hands. The champion, overwhelmed, tried to clinch but “The Hawk” shrugged him off and kept firing until a crushing overhand right landed flush on Cervantes’ chin and dropped him. The old king gallantly tried to rise but could not. The long championship run of “Kid Pambele” had come to a sudden end.
(by Michael Carbert)
Aaron Pryor vs. Antonio Cervantes
As the fighters awaited the opening bell they presented a study in contrasts. The 24-year-old Pryor couldn’t stand still. Keyed up and ready to go, he danced about the ring, shadow boxing and flexing his muscles and glaring at Cervantes. Meanwhile the champion sat slumped on his stool like a man patiently waiting for the next bus. A veteran of well over a hundred bouts, this appeared to be just another day at the office for “Kid Pambele,” his facial expression and body language that of someone ready for a dip in the hot-tub, not a world championship fight. Or maybe it was that of a ring-worn veteran who was ripe for the taking.
Columbia’s Antonio Cervantes was something of a mysterious figure to U.S. boxing fans. Despite the fact he had been a world champion for most of the preceding eight years, had dominated the super-lightweight division, and was a living legend in his native Columbia, his face and name were little known, most of his fights taking place in Venezuela and Panama. Another mystery was his age. He insisted he was 34, but he looked older; it was whispered he was past 40. And while he had won 13 straight since losing to the gifted Wilfred Benitez back in 1976, he was a decided underdog going into his defense against Pryor.
But the real mystery was why he was here in the first place, why he had agreed to do what so many would not: take on Aaron “The Hawk” Pryor, in his hometown, no less. But whatever back room deals may have been involved, Pryor finally had a title shot and an appearance on national television.
Pryor had been laying waste to the lightweight division, setting a breakneck pace to compliment his swarming, all-action style. In less than three years he racked up 19 straight wins, all but two by knockout. He was still “Aaron Who?” outside of his native Cincinnati, but the top contenders in the lightweight division were definitely aware of both his presence and his reputation for being a very dangerous individual.
Broadcast live on CBS, Pryor vs. Cervantes followed the timeless script of the proud, old king versus the young upstart in search of glory. At the bell, “The Hawk” tore after the champion, chasing him about the ring and firing a non-stop barrage of leather. Cervantes appeared briefly perplexed by the challenger’s aggression and the absence of any “feeling out” process but soon enough began to find openings for counter shots. Displaying admirable grace under pressure, the champion connected with counter left hooks as Pryor kept barreling in, a veritable buzzsaw, though he landed relatively few effective blows. Setting a whirlwind pace, he forced Cervantes into the ropes again and again but then, with seconds left in the round, a short counter hook followed by a right hand put Pryor down briefly on one knee. Round one to the champion.
The torrid pace continued in the second in what was clearly a contest between youthful exuberance and veteran ring-smarts. Cervantes repeatedly got home with clean punches as Pryor’s brazen attack left him wide open for counter shots, but it was the champion who appeared hurt near the end of the round this time, as Pryor landed two hard right hands. Returning to his corner at the bell, Cervantes could be seen gulping air, the pace already affecting his stamina.
With his cornermen shouting at Pryor to “Go get that old man!” he started the third with two more powerful rights as he worked to take full control of the battle. Seconds later a series of right hands put Cervantes on the run and opened a deep gash over his right eye. The champion scored with solid counters but the punches had no effect on the constantly charging Pryor. Like a shark, the sight of his quarry’s blood drove the challenger to attack with even more intensity, his unceasing assault driving a bewildered Cervantes from one side of the ring to the other. His legs already unsteady, he clinched and held to survive the round.
To his credit, the champion never gave up. Hurt, tired and bleeding, he fought back as Pryor went for the kill in the fourth. His counter punches kept landing on Pryor but they were like small pebbles thrown at a tank; they had no effect and the challenger just kept driving forward. Backing Cervantes into his own corner, Pryor unloaded with right hands. The champion, overwhelmed, tried to clinch but “The Hawk” shrugged him off and kept firing until a crushing overhand right landed flush on Cervantes’ chin and dropped him. The old king gallantly tried to rise but could not. The long championship run of “Kid Pambele” had come to a sudden end.
(by Michael Carbert)
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
Dec 10, 1966.
"Horacio Accavallo of Argentina, his right eye swollen shut and his face masked in blood, kept his world flyweight championship Saturday night with a unanimous 15 round decision over Efren (Alacran) Torres of Mexico. The fight, looking much like a street brawl most of the way, kept 25,000 fans howling in Luna Park, the big downtown sports stadium. The 32 year old champion survived a 6th round knockdown from one of Torres murderous right crosses and from the 4th round on kept wiping and blinking blood from his right eye. With the bout just about even after 10 rounds, Accavallo really salted the fight away in the 12th and 13th rounds. He captured the 12th by a big margin with a series of flurries that tore Torres' right ear lobe and reopened a cut under the Mexican's left eye. In the 15th Accavallo expertly flurried in the final minutes."
-Associated Press
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OZkLOxnNsE
"Horacio Accavallo of Argentina, his right eye swollen shut and his face masked in blood, kept his world flyweight championship Saturday night with a unanimous 15 round decision over Efren (Alacran) Torres of Mexico. The fight, looking much like a street brawl most of the way, kept 25,000 fans howling in Luna Park, the big downtown sports stadium. The 32 year old champion survived a 6th round knockdown from one of Torres murderous right crosses and from the 4th round on kept wiping and blinking blood from his right eye. With the bout just about even after 10 rounds, Accavallo really salted the fight away in the 12th and 13th rounds. He captured the 12th by a big margin with a series of flurries that tore Torres' right ear lobe and reopened a cut under the Mexican's left eye. In the 15th Accavallo expertly flurried in the final minutes."
-Associated Press
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5OZkLOxnNsE
Re: bits and pieces scrapbook
What made Mickey Walker different from the norm was that he couldn’t do things within the boundary of a set timetable. For Mickey, the difference between day and night needed to be blurred. Time and timepieces were of scant importance to him.
Manager Jack Kearns made this discovery when he got it into his head that a more regimented training regime would work wonders for Walker and push him to greater heights. Jack got his great idea at Madame Bey’s camp while Mickey was preparing for a fight with King Levinsky. Trainer Teddy Hayes, much more knowing in such matters, was out west on other business and blissfully unaware of this potentially fatal change to Walker’s civilised routine. Kearns’ fanciful notion was at once doomed to failure. It gave Mickey the collywobbles and upset his entire system.
Jack wanted him to cut down on the booze, eschew sweet and fatty foods and go for long runs at the crack of dawn. The great plan quickly bombed. The clincher, the one rule that gave Walker the shudders more than any other, was that he had to go to bed early.
As hard as he tried, Mickey simply couldn’t persist with what he regarded as the sacrilegious act of retiring to his bed on the same day he got out of it.
(by Mike Casey)
*Enhanced photo courtesy of regular Classic Boxing Society contributor JTheron
Manager Jack Kearns made this discovery when he got it into his head that a more regimented training regime would work wonders for Walker and push him to greater heights. Jack got his great idea at Madame Bey’s camp while Mickey was preparing for a fight with King Levinsky. Trainer Teddy Hayes, much more knowing in such matters, was out west on other business and blissfully unaware of this potentially fatal change to Walker’s civilised routine. Kearns’ fanciful notion was at once doomed to failure. It gave Mickey the collywobbles and upset his entire system.
Jack wanted him to cut down on the booze, eschew sweet and fatty foods and go for long runs at the crack of dawn. The great plan quickly bombed. The clincher, the one rule that gave Walker the shudders more than any other, was that he had to go to bed early.
As hard as he tried, Mickey simply couldn’t persist with what he regarded as the sacrilegious act of retiring to his bed on the same day he got out of it.
(by Mike Casey)
*Enhanced photo courtesy of regular Classic Boxing Society contributor JTheron
Last edited by doug.ie on 13 Feb 2015, 16:25, edited 1 time in total.