MY TRIBUTE TO NEW ORLEANS
Posted: 21 Sep 2005, 17:28
I LOVE NEW ORLEANS AND I HOPE THE CITY COMES BACK WITH ITS GRAND OLD CHARM. HERE'S AN ARTICLE I WROTE A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO AND IT IS MY TRIBUTE TO THE CITY. I HOPE YOU ALL LIKE IT.
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The Boxing Ghosts Of The Big Easy
By Enrique Encinosa
New Orleans was supposed to be a pure vacation, a decompression after several months of work on a draft of a Cold War novel set in Africa and a book of short stories in Spanish to be published later this year, or whenever the agents and editors reach agreements.
The Big Easy is a special place for me, a city visited sporadically over the last three decades with each trip searing a memory that only a hardcore boxing fan can understand. My first trip, while a high school student was capped with a handshake and a brief chat with Pete Herman, the great little rooster of the bantamweights, who owned a fine restaurant in the French Quarter. The second visit, while an amateur boxer and college freshman, provided the thrill of a ringside seat at the Municipal Auditorium, to watch Joe Brown out hustle a tough club fighter named Joe Barrientes, in one of "Old Bones" last performances. Such memories have linked me in a warm way to the city of Willie Pastrano and Ralph Dupas.
The last vacation turned into a quest. In the weeks preceding my trip to the Crescent City, I dug into old, yellowed magazines and newspaper clippings. I searched for an ancient site, the place where it all began, where time and circumstance joined together to serve as a midwife to the birth of modern boxing. Truly, I expected to find nothing other than a normal, run-of-the-mill street by the Mississippi River where long ago, history was made.
My cousin Jake, born and bred in the Big Easy, became a self-appointed tour guide. With his girlfriend Betty and my wife Ilia, we cruised the French Quarter. Bo Diddley and Eric Burdon and the New Animals were performing at the House of Blues. Street performers tap danced or played music at Jackson Square. The Cafe du Monde overflowed with tourists drinking Chickory Coffee and munching bignettes, flaky French pastries covered with powdered sugar. In the porch of a Cajun restaurnat a large metal pot boiled with red crayfish. Though the partially opened doors of strip clubs, slices of nakedness were glimpsed on the street. The air smelled of spices, broiled redfish and magnolias.
Eventually, somewhere between powdered donuts and buying a small statuette of Satchmo with his magic horn, I explained my historical quest to my Crescent City guides. So we piled into a white Honda and headed to a neighborhood close to the French Quarter.
The site I looked for is not listed in the tourist books. It is a square block of New orleans bordered by four streets: Clouet, Montegut, Charles, and Royal. My eyes scanned the street. To my astonishment, there it stood, a red brick wall wedged between two wooden residences.
"I can't believe it," I said, "There's still a wall left standing. This is incredible. Drop me off and pick me up in a half-hour."
I stood in front of 628 Clouet Street. The brick wall stretched the length of the property and curved around the back. I knew, from an old Lester Bromberg article that I was staring at the last remaining brick wall of the New Orleans Olympic Club, where the great John L. Sullivan lost his crown to Gentleman Jim Corbett.
I knocked on the door. A wiry man with long hair answered.
"Excuse me," I said, "I'm a writer and I...can you tell me how long this brick wall has been here?"
"Over a hundred years," Gerald Medina answered, "Yes, that is the wall."
"So you know what I'm talking about?"
"Yes. One day several cops showed up here and asked to see the wall. They are history buffs and they told me that some important fight took place here, and this is the original wall of the club. And an old timer around the corner also told me about the fight but I don't recollect the details."
Medina invited me into his home. As I walked around the back, looking at the red brick wall, I told him a brief story of the significant historical event that transpired in this street over a century before.
"In the past century boxing was illegal. Fighters fought on barges and barns, for bet money and with bare fists. In some cities, boxing was allowed only as exhibitions with gloves. The Olympic Club was a country club of the wealthy who sponsored athletes and sports. The political power of the Olympic Club joined with the permissive politics of Nineteenth Century Louisiana and legalized boxing at a big level was born here, during a three-day promotion where three title fights were held. It was the transition moment from the bare knuckle era to modern times, a significant moment in sports history. Did you ever see the movie 'Gentleman Jim' with Errol Flynn?"
"Yes," Medina answered, "I remember that movie."
"That's the story of how James J. Corbett beat John L. Sullivan," I said, "And now, my friend, you own a piece of history. Because this is the only wall left of the New Orleans Olympic Club. The two houses on the other side of this brick wall were built with wood salvaged after the place burned down years later. I'm going to write a piece about this and I'll send you a copy. Perhaps we can come up with some boxing fans or the city to put a plaque here. This is where modern boxing was born in the United States."
I walked around the block, entering a large yard where an industrial operation is established. I was walking on the site of the fights, on the place where Sullivan lost his crown, where Jack McAuliffe and George Dixon had flashed their skills. I asked more questions from locals, but nothing of value was gained.
I lit a Kool and stood on Chartres Street. I reflected on the significance of the events that happened here, in this square block by the Mississippi.
John L. Sullivan was significant for he was the first national sports hero and blue collar non-entrepreneur to earn a million dollars in Nineteenth Century America. He had brought some respectability to prize fighting, but was often arrested for his bare-knuckle contests. Corbett, a bank clerk from San Francisco was a handsome, lightning quick athlete, who advocated boxing with gloves, refusing to fight under London Prize Ring Rules.
I stood on Chartres Street and imagined the drama of a century before. Twelve thousand boxing fans arrived by train, filling the hotels and bordellos of the French Quarter. Gamblers consulted with Creole witches the possible outcome of the fight. A local politician complained that one of the three bouts featured George Dixon, the magnificent black featherweight, scheduled to fight a white contender long on valor and short on skills. Banners with photos of the fighters were displayed on storefronts and balconies. Fifty telegraph operators were involved in transmitting the round-by-round results of the event to awaiting crowds across America. New Orleans sparkled with excitement that week.
The arena, built with treated wood was the site of three title bots in three nights. The first event featured Jack McAuliffe, who as king of the lightweights would retire undefeated after twelve years of active fighting. The champion faced the "Streator Cyclone" Billy Myer, a top contender. A crowd of 4,357 fans saw the unbeaten McAuliffe stop Myer in fifteen face-slicing rounds.
The second night, "Little Chocolate" George Dixon performed with such brilliant finesse against club fighter Jack Skelly, that the white, prosperous southern audience gave the black featherweight a standing ovation, a significant gesture in an age not yet three full decades away from a bloody Civil War. Dixon defeated Skelly with ease, by an eight round knockout in front of 4,062 paying customers.
The night of September 7, 1892, Sullivan and Corbett faced each other in front of 4,973 fans with a door gate of 60,318, an astronomical sum in an age when a skilled tradesman made $3,000 a year.
It was a dramatic scenario. Sullivan was the idol of the Boston Irish, the first lad to become a national hero in America, a representation of his era, good hearted, boisterous, free spending and proud. The "Great John L." had up to this night, remained undefeated in twelve years of fighting with or without gloves. Forty two wins and three draws was his record as he entered the New Orleans ring, including his most famous victory, the bloody seventy five round brawl with Jake Kilrain in 1889. Sullivan was a brutal slugger who shattered ribs with his solid power.
"Gentleman Jim" was a handsome youth from San Francisco with a well combed pompadour and first rate style in dress and manners. Most important, he could fight, having beaten Joe Choynski and boxing a hard draw with top contender Peter Jackson. Corbett was an innovator, a pioneer in applying speed and technique over raw power. Pompadour Jim also had power, derived more from speed and accuracy than from brute strength.
It lasted twenty-one rounds. Sullivan charged as Corbett danced. Gentleman Jim drew first claret, bloodying Sullivan's nose in the third round. The Boston Strong Boy tried hard, but too many years of boozing and hard fights caught up to him, as the younger, faster contender danced and slashed. Twice Sullivan fell, Corbett became king and boxing entered a golden age.
I stood on that sidewalk and imagined it. A crowd of people lining up on the entrances on Royal and Chartres, most dressed in somber suits with derbies, while the flashier crowd wore straw hats or bright cravats. Little Chocolate dressed in a cotton suit celebrating his previous night's triumph over Skelly puffing on a Havana cigar. Sullivan leaving the building surrounded by his acolytes, his face a bruised mask of stunned disbelief. Gamblers paying or being paid. Neighborhood children on the outer fringes of the crowd, impressed with the drama of the spectacle. Corbett, triumphant, being congratulated by friends. Joe Choynski talking to boxing fans in the street corner under the gas lit lamps. Hansom cabs pulled by snorting horses filled with the sporting crowd in a festive mood. Blue suited policemen with handlebar mustaches moving along the masses, an eye out for the ruffian or pickpocket. Bat Masterson, the great lawman, walking with a slight limp, dressed in a suit with a brocade vest, a nickel-plated revolver resting on a dark holster at his waist. Old Southerners with well-clipped mustaches and linen dusters...
The white Honda turned the corner. Reality came back as the fantasy images vanished. Jake opened up the passenger's side.
"Where do you want to go now?" Jake asked.
"Anywhere you want," I answered, "I've seen it all today."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------.
The Boxing Ghosts Of The Big Easy
By Enrique Encinosa
New Orleans was supposed to be a pure vacation, a decompression after several months of work on a draft of a Cold War novel set in Africa and a book of short stories in Spanish to be published later this year, or whenever the agents and editors reach agreements.
The Big Easy is a special place for me, a city visited sporadically over the last three decades with each trip searing a memory that only a hardcore boxing fan can understand. My first trip, while a high school student was capped with a handshake and a brief chat with Pete Herman, the great little rooster of the bantamweights, who owned a fine restaurant in the French Quarter. The second visit, while an amateur boxer and college freshman, provided the thrill of a ringside seat at the Municipal Auditorium, to watch Joe Brown out hustle a tough club fighter named Joe Barrientes, in one of "Old Bones" last performances. Such memories have linked me in a warm way to the city of Willie Pastrano and Ralph Dupas.
The last vacation turned into a quest. In the weeks preceding my trip to the Crescent City, I dug into old, yellowed magazines and newspaper clippings. I searched for an ancient site, the place where it all began, where time and circumstance joined together to serve as a midwife to the birth of modern boxing. Truly, I expected to find nothing other than a normal, run-of-the-mill street by the Mississippi River where long ago, history was made.
My cousin Jake, born and bred in the Big Easy, became a self-appointed tour guide. With his girlfriend Betty and my wife Ilia, we cruised the French Quarter. Bo Diddley and Eric Burdon and the New Animals were performing at the House of Blues. Street performers tap danced or played music at Jackson Square. The Cafe du Monde overflowed with tourists drinking Chickory Coffee and munching bignettes, flaky French pastries covered with powdered sugar. In the porch of a Cajun restaurnat a large metal pot boiled with red crayfish. Though the partially opened doors of strip clubs, slices of nakedness were glimpsed on the street. The air smelled of spices, broiled redfish and magnolias.
Eventually, somewhere between powdered donuts and buying a small statuette of Satchmo with his magic horn, I explained my historical quest to my Crescent City guides. So we piled into a white Honda and headed to a neighborhood close to the French Quarter.
The site I looked for is not listed in the tourist books. It is a square block of New orleans bordered by four streets: Clouet, Montegut, Charles, and Royal. My eyes scanned the street. To my astonishment, there it stood, a red brick wall wedged between two wooden residences.
"I can't believe it," I said, "There's still a wall left standing. This is incredible. Drop me off and pick me up in a half-hour."
I stood in front of 628 Clouet Street. The brick wall stretched the length of the property and curved around the back. I knew, from an old Lester Bromberg article that I was staring at the last remaining brick wall of the New Orleans Olympic Club, where the great John L. Sullivan lost his crown to Gentleman Jim Corbett.
I knocked on the door. A wiry man with long hair answered.
"Excuse me," I said, "I'm a writer and I...can you tell me how long this brick wall has been here?"
"Over a hundred years," Gerald Medina answered, "Yes, that is the wall."
"So you know what I'm talking about?"
"Yes. One day several cops showed up here and asked to see the wall. They are history buffs and they told me that some important fight took place here, and this is the original wall of the club. And an old timer around the corner also told me about the fight but I don't recollect the details."
Medina invited me into his home. As I walked around the back, looking at the red brick wall, I told him a brief story of the significant historical event that transpired in this street over a century before.
"In the past century boxing was illegal. Fighters fought on barges and barns, for bet money and with bare fists. In some cities, boxing was allowed only as exhibitions with gloves. The Olympic Club was a country club of the wealthy who sponsored athletes and sports. The political power of the Olympic Club joined with the permissive politics of Nineteenth Century Louisiana and legalized boxing at a big level was born here, during a three-day promotion where three title fights were held. It was the transition moment from the bare knuckle era to modern times, a significant moment in sports history. Did you ever see the movie 'Gentleman Jim' with Errol Flynn?"
"Yes," Medina answered, "I remember that movie."
"That's the story of how James J. Corbett beat John L. Sullivan," I said, "And now, my friend, you own a piece of history. Because this is the only wall left of the New Orleans Olympic Club. The two houses on the other side of this brick wall were built with wood salvaged after the place burned down years later. I'm going to write a piece about this and I'll send you a copy. Perhaps we can come up with some boxing fans or the city to put a plaque here. This is where modern boxing was born in the United States."
I walked around the block, entering a large yard where an industrial operation is established. I was walking on the site of the fights, on the place where Sullivan lost his crown, where Jack McAuliffe and George Dixon had flashed their skills. I asked more questions from locals, but nothing of value was gained.
I lit a Kool and stood on Chartres Street. I reflected on the significance of the events that happened here, in this square block by the Mississippi.
John L. Sullivan was significant for he was the first national sports hero and blue collar non-entrepreneur to earn a million dollars in Nineteenth Century America. He had brought some respectability to prize fighting, but was often arrested for his bare-knuckle contests. Corbett, a bank clerk from San Francisco was a handsome, lightning quick athlete, who advocated boxing with gloves, refusing to fight under London Prize Ring Rules.
I stood on Chartres Street and imagined the drama of a century before. Twelve thousand boxing fans arrived by train, filling the hotels and bordellos of the French Quarter. Gamblers consulted with Creole witches the possible outcome of the fight. A local politician complained that one of the three bouts featured George Dixon, the magnificent black featherweight, scheduled to fight a white contender long on valor and short on skills. Banners with photos of the fighters were displayed on storefronts and balconies. Fifty telegraph operators were involved in transmitting the round-by-round results of the event to awaiting crowds across America. New Orleans sparkled with excitement that week.
The arena, built with treated wood was the site of three title bots in three nights. The first event featured Jack McAuliffe, who as king of the lightweights would retire undefeated after twelve years of active fighting. The champion faced the "Streator Cyclone" Billy Myer, a top contender. A crowd of 4,357 fans saw the unbeaten McAuliffe stop Myer in fifteen face-slicing rounds.
The second night, "Little Chocolate" George Dixon performed with such brilliant finesse against club fighter Jack Skelly, that the white, prosperous southern audience gave the black featherweight a standing ovation, a significant gesture in an age not yet three full decades away from a bloody Civil War. Dixon defeated Skelly with ease, by an eight round knockout in front of 4,062 paying customers.
The night of September 7, 1892, Sullivan and Corbett faced each other in front of 4,973 fans with a door gate of 60,318, an astronomical sum in an age when a skilled tradesman made $3,000 a year.
It was a dramatic scenario. Sullivan was the idol of the Boston Irish, the first lad to become a national hero in America, a representation of his era, good hearted, boisterous, free spending and proud. The "Great John L." had up to this night, remained undefeated in twelve years of fighting with or without gloves. Forty two wins and three draws was his record as he entered the New Orleans ring, including his most famous victory, the bloody seventy five round brawl with Jake Kilrain in 1889. Sullivan was a brutal slugger who shattered ribs with his solid power.
"Gentleman Jim" was a handsome youth from San Francisco with a well combed pompadour and first rate style in dress and manners. Most important, he could fight, having beaten Joe Choynski and boxing a hard draw with top contender Peter Jackson. Corbett was an innovator, a pioneer in applying speed and technique over raw power. Pompadour Jim also had power, derived more from speed and accuracy than from brute strength.
It lasted twenty-one rounds. Sullivan charged as Corbett danced. Gentleman Jim drew first claret, bloodying Sullivan's nose in the third round. The Boston Strong Boy tried hard, but too many years of boozing and hard fights caught up to him, as the younger, faster contender danced and slashed. Twice Sullivan fell, Corbett became king and boxing entered a golden age.
I stood on that sidewalk and imagined it. A crowd of people lining up on the entrances on Royal and Chartres, most dressed in somber suits with derbies, while the flashier crowd wore straw hats or bright cravats. Little Chocolate dressed in a cotton suit celebrating his previous night's triumph over Skelly puffing on a Havana cigar. Sullivan leaving the building surrounded by his acolytes, his face a bruised mask of stunned disbelief. Gamblers paying or being paid. Neighborhood children on the outer fringes of the crowd, impressed with the drama of the spectacle. Corbett, triumphant, being congratulated by friends. Joe Choynski talking to boxing fans in the street corner under the gas lit lamps. Hansom cabs pulled by snorting horses filled with the sporting crowd in a festive mood. Blue suited policemen with handlebar mustaches moving along the masses, an eye out for the ruffian or pickpocket. Bat Masterson, the great lawman, walking with a slight limp, dressed in a suit with a brocade vest, a nickel-plated revolver resting on a dark holster at his waist. Old Southerners with well-clipped mustaches and linen dusters...
The white Honda turned the corner. Reality came back as the fantasy images vanished. Jake opened up the passenger's side.
"Where do you want to go now?" Jake asked.
"Anywhere you want," I answered, "I've seen it all today."
