Jimmy Wilde defeats George Clarke in the 4th round of a scheduled 20-round contest that had the British, European and World Flyweight Titles on the line...
When I started earning big purses I promised to hang up the gloves just as soon as I saved a million dollars. I haven't changed from that plan, except that I want a crack at the title before quitting. If I do get the crown, I want to defend it once. After that I'll have my million, and I'll quit the ring, raise a family, and live like any-body else.
Right now I'm paying off my first $200,000 worth of annuities, have an apartment building in Chicago, and another $500,000 in sight this summer.
I never saw Max Schmeling in action, but the movies of his knockout over Young Stribling in Cleveland in 1931 left a lingering impression of a great fighter. I was just a kid then, getting my baptism with gloves at the Detroit A. A., and hadn't been in any real bouts. But I was warming up to the game mighty fast, and saved my pennies to see the Schmeling-Stribling film when it arrived at my neighborhood show. Then I sat with my mouth open and marveled at the way Schmeling slipped under Stribling's piston jabs and countered with short jolts to the body, gradually raised his fire to the chin, and scored a knockout in the fifteenth round. At that time I got the idea Stribling might have done better by drawing away from the German's fists and stepping in with counters.
Now I know just how I'm going to fight Schmeling. I'll let him come winging into me, pull away from his gloves by doing my "backward shuffle," and then step in with counters. If he rushes too fast and furious, I'll grab his arms and spin him before opening up.
I know the "tip" that I'm weak against rushers has spread like a scandal in an old maids' home. That's partly because Adolph Wiater, a mediocre heavyweight, gave me the toughest shock of my career by pushing me back off balance and churning windmill arms. At the time I fought Wiater, which was my first ten-round shindig, I hadn't learned to shuffle in reverse.
Blackburn taught me a system of boxing on balance, as I explained in Liberty last November. At first he showed me how to shuffle forward into an opponent and keep my feet always in position for leverage so I could punch without waste motion. My right foot always is slightly behind the left — not too far, but enough to keep me from falling forward off balance when I strike. Blackburn had me watch a shot putter heave the iron marble at a track meet.
"Push your right cross off the right foot something like that," Jack said. "At the same time hold that right toe against the floor for an anchor to keep from falling into a clinch as you punch. Imagine that toe's a stake holding down the corner of a circus tent."
So I learned to shuffle into an opponent, and quick knockouts resulted. Then Wiater came along, hurtling headfirst into me, and I was fuddled for a couple of rounds, but never in distress.
Blackburn immediately taught me the backward shuffle. I simply moved the same way in reverse gear. I discovered I was at my best when a foe came charging into me, because primarily I'm a counterpuncher. In my first clash with Lee Ramage I shuffled ahead for seven rounds before catching up with the retreating Ramage in the eighth. Then, in our return match, Lee decided to wage a charging fight and take a chance on outslugging me. This time I shuffled out of his range, made him miss, and stepped in with counters that iced Lee in the second round.
Maybe Schmeling will switch from his usual style and wait for me to lead; but I don't think so. The German has forced the fighting in all his bouts and would be foolish to change at this time.
Blackburn says Max drops his left hand when he shoots the right. The first time he drops his left, there'll be a race of right hands, and I think mine will ring the button. I know the Teuton has a cast-iron jaw.
I never expect to hit another man as often with hard punches as I hit Baer before melting his chin, but I expect Schmeling to swing at me plenty. And I expect to get tagged by a few. I am prepared to take as well as dish out the leather poison this trip.
Schmeling is the big hurdle in my path to the championship match. If I can whip him decisively, I expect to leap right into a title shot as the next stop, although we might take on a warm-up bout in midsummer.
I feel that I've got a mission to fulfill for my race — to win the title and then prove that a colored man can wear the crown and still act like a gentleman.
Joe Louis - June, 1936
Right now I'm paying off my first $200,000 worth of annuities, have an apartment building in Chicago, and another $500,000 in sight this summer.
I never saw Max Schmeling in action, but the movies of his knockout over Young Stribling in Cleveland in 1931 left a lingering impression of a great fighter. I was just a kid then, getting my baptism with gloves at the Detroit A. A., and hadn't been in any real bouts. But I was warming up to the game mighty fast, and saved my pennies to see the Schmeling-Stribling film when it arrived at my neighborhood show. Then I sat with my mouth open and marveled at the way Schmeling slipped under Stribling's piston jabs and countered with short jolts to the body, gradually raised his fire to the chin, and scored a knockout in the fifteenth round. At that time I got the idea Stribling might have done better by drawing away from the German's fists and stepping in with counters.
Now I know just how I'm going to fight Schmeling. I'll let him come winging into me, pull away from his gloves by doing my "backward shuffle," and then step in with counters. If he rushes too fast and furious, I'll grab his arms and spin him before opening up.
I know the "tip" that I'm weak against rushers has spread like a scandal in an old maids' home. That's partly because Adolph Wiater, a mediocre heavyweight, gave me the toughest shock of my career by pushing me back off balance and churning windmill arms. At the time I fought Wiater, which was my first ten-round shindig, I hadn't learned to shuffle in reverse.
Blackburn taught me a system of boxing on balance, as I explained in Liberty last November. At first he showed me how to shuffle forward into an opponent and keep my feet always in position for leverage so I could punch without waste motion. My right foot always is slightly behind the left — not too far, but enough to keep me from falling forward off balance when I strike. Blackburn had me watch a shot putter heave the iron marble at a track meet.
"Push your right cross off the right foot something like that," Jack said. "At the same time hold that right toe against the floor for an anchor to keep from falling into a clinch as you punch. Imagine that toe's a stake holding down the corner of a circus tent."
So I learned to shuffle into an opponent, and quick knockouts resulted. Then Wiater came along, hurtling headfirst into me, and I was fuddled for a couple of rounds, but never in distress.
Blackburn immediately taught me the backward shuffle. I simply moved the same way in reverse gear. I discovered I was at my best when a foe came charging into me, because primarily I'm a counterpuncher. In my first clash with Lee Ramage I shuffled ahead for seven rounds before catching up with the retreating Ramage in the eighth. Then, in our return match, Lee decided to wage a charging fight and take a chance on outslugging me. This time I shuffled out of his range, made him miss, and stepped in with counters that iced Lee in the second round.
Maybe Schmeling will switch from his usual style and wait for me to lead; but I don't think so. The German has forced the fighting in all his bouts and would be foolish to change at this time.
Blackburn says Max drops his left hand when he shoots the right. The first time he drops his left, there'll be a race of right hands, and I think mine will ring the button. I know the Teuton has a cast-iron jaw.
I never expect to hit another man as often with hard punches as I hit Baer before melting his chin, but I expect Schmeling to swing at me plenty. And I expect to get tagged by a few. I am prepared to take as well as dish out the leather poison this trip.
Schmeling is the big hurdle in my path to the championship match. If I can whip him decisively, I expect to leap right into a title shot as the next stop, although we might take on a warm-up bout in midsummer.
I feel that I've got a mission to fulfill for my race — to win the title and then prove that a colored man can wear the crown and still act like a gentleman.
Joe Louis - June, 1936
His opponent was the WBC champion, Jim Watt. The fight was held in Glasgow, Scotland, Watt's homeland, a bad place for visiting boxers. But the day of the bout, he received the following letter:
We have watched you train etc. and could have taken you at any time, but we want to make this really dramatic which will go down in the Records. You won't be the only one to get it, your mother, sisters, and BIG MOUTH IRISH OF A FATHER, AND OF COURSE that ugly old bastard of a granny...So say your prayers you half bred IRISH BASTARDS, and remember 1690!!!...Ther [sic] will be at least twelve of [us] in the arena and no doubt one or two of us may get it, but as long as we have the satisfaction of ridding some of you Catholic Bastards it will be well worth it.—THE PROTESTANTS ARMY
Understandably distracted, he started slowly, but by the ninth round he had cut Watt badly enough that the ring doctor came in to examine him. The fight was allowed to continue, and in the 10th round Watt butted him, opening a gash on his forehead. The bout should have been stopped then, but the butt wasn't acknowledged by the referee. Blinded by blood streaming into his eyes, he was virtually defenseless by the 12th round, and the fight was finally stopped with Watt declared the winner on a TKO.
The O'Gradys waited until they were out of Scotland to shout We Wuz Robbed, which they clearly were. The WBA, which initially dropped Sean to No. 4 after he lost to Watt, reinstated him as the No. 1 contender after reviewing films of the fight. (Noel's suit resulted from this action.) "I cried like a little baby after I lost to Watt," O'Grady recalls. "I was upset after losing to Danny Lopez, but I didn't see it as the end of the world. The Watt fight, I did. For two months I didn't run or go near a gym. I almost quit."
from - 'A King Without A Crown' by E.M. Swift
*1980-11-01 : Sean O'Grady 133 lbs lost to Jim Watt 135 lbs by TKO at 2:37 in round 12 of 15
We have watched you train etc. and could have taken you at any time, but we want to make this really dramatic which will go down in the Records. You won't be the only one to get it, your mother, sisters, and BIG MOUTH IRISH OF A FATHER, AND OF COURSE that ugly old bastard of a granny...So say your prayers you half bred IRISH BASTARDS, and remember 1690!!!...Ther [sic] will be at least twelve of [us] in the arena and no doubt one or two of us may get it, but as long as we have the satisfaction of ridding some of you Catholic Bastards it will be well worth it.—THE PROTESTANTS ARMY
Understandably distracted, he started slowly, but by the ninth round he had cut Watt badly enough that the ring doctor came in to examine him. The fight was allowed to continue, and in the 10th round Watt butted him, opening a gash on his forehead. The bout should have been stopped then, but the butt wasn't acknowledged by the referee. Blinded by blood streaming into his eyes, he was virtually defenseless by the 12th round, and the fight was finally stopped with Watt declared the winner on a TKO.
The O'Gradys waited until they were out of Scotland to shout We Wuz Robbed, which they clearly were. The WBA, which initially dropped Sean to No. 4 after he lost to Watt, reinstated him as the No. 1 contender after reviewing films of the fight. (Noel's suit resulted from this action.) "I cried like a little baby after I lost to Watt," O'Grady recalls. "I was upset after losing to Danny Lopez, but I didn't see it as the end of the world. The Watt fight, I did. For two months I didn't run or go near a gym. I almost quit."
from - 'A King Without A Crown' by E.M. Swift
*1980-11-01 : Sean O'Grady 133 lbs lost to Jim Watt 135 lbs by TKO at 2:37 in round 12 of 15
It came in the eighth round. After several blistering exchanges, Fitzsimmons inexplicably paused, lowered his guard, and spoke to Jeffries, taunting him. The champion’s response was a hard right to the belly followed by a thunderous left hook that put Fitzsimmons on the floor and ended the fight. When the challenger later approached the champion to congratulate him, Jeffries regarded Fitzsimmons through swollen, bleeding eyes and said, “You’re the most dangerous man alive.” Anyone looking at the combatants’ faces would have been astonished to learn the unmarked fighter was the loser, while the man sporting a visage marred by lumps and bloody gashes had proven victorious.
*James J. Jeffries had won the championship in 1899 from the extraordinary Bob Fitzsimmons at Coney Island, New York. Fighting out of a crouch, Jeffries had bullied his way inside the champion’s guard and battered his ribs, forcing a stoppage in the eleventh round. It took a few years for this rematch to happen, this time in San Francisco. While some took note of the 39-year-old Cornishman’s advancing years and figured the younger, stronger and much heavier champion would likely prevail, others eyed Fitzsimmons’s thirst for revenge.
Rumor had it that the challenger was so determined to prevail, he planned to load his gloves with Plaster of Paris.
“Let him do it,” said Jeffries. “I’ll flatten him anyway.”
Jeffries had reason to be confident. The much bigger man, he outweighed Fitzsimmons by more than forty pounds.
The Mansfield News reported the following morning (July 26, 1902):
Robert Fitzsimmons has forfeited his last claim upon the heavyweight championship of the world. He stood off James J. Jeffries for eight rounds, and before receiving his quietus had astonished the thousands of spectators by his brilliant work. As early as the second round Fitzsimmons had Jeffries bleeding profusely from mouth and nose. Again and again he landed on his bulky opponent, getting away in such a clever manner that he roused the big crowd to enthusiastic cheering. It seemed indeed that Jeffries could scarcely stand the pace. But the 8th round came and after a series of hot exchanges Fitzsimmons paused with his guard down and spoke to the champion. The latter's reply was two terrific blows that saved him the championship.
*James J. Jeffries had won the championship in 1899 from the extraordinary Bob Fitzsimmons at Coney Island, New York. Fighting out of a crouch, Jeffries had bullied his way inside the champion’s guard and battered his ribs, forcing a stoppage in the eleventh round. It took a few years for this rematch to happen, this time in San Francisco. While some took note of the 39-year-old Cornishman’s advancing years and figured the younger, stronger and much heavier champion would likely prevail, others eyed Fitzsimmons’s thirst for revenge.
Rumor had it that the challenger was so determined to prevail, he planned to load his gloves with Plaster of Paris.
“Let him do it,” said Jeffries. “I’ll flatten him anyway.”
Jeffries had reason to be confident. The much bigger man, he outweighed Fitzsimmons by more than forty pounds.
The Mansfield News reported the following morning (July 26, 1902):
Robert Fitzsimmons has forfeited his last claim upon the heavyweight championship of the world. He stood off James J. Jeffries for eight rounds, and before receiving his quietus had astonished the thousands of spectators by his brilliant work. As early as the second round Fitzsimmons had Jeffries bleeding profusely from mouth and nose. Again and again he landed on his bulky opponent, getting away in such a clever manner that he roused the big crowd to enthusiastic cheering. It seemed indeed that Jeffries could scarcely stand the pace. But the 8th round came and after a series of hot exchanges Fitzsimmons paused with his guard down and spoke to the champion. The latter's reply was two terrific blows that saved him the championship.
AN ELECTRIC NIGHT AT HIGHBURY by Maurice Richardson
"I'd like to have a bet," said a sagacious American. "For heaven's sake what on? " asked his friend. "You never know. Anyway my old man always told me when I was a boy: always take the odds on a fight. It paid off over the ages." This was during the preliminary bouts, when the stadium was looking like the work of some decorative painter, Dufy perhaps. Just for a moment I had a faint flicker of optimism.
I had another when they were roaring Cooper on his way into the ring behind the Union Jack, and one last one when the entire crowd joined in the singing of God Save the Queen. You felt, such an extraordinary current of emotion that if only it could have been transmitted to Cooper something totally unexpected might have happened.
The introductions of celebrities, including Carpentier and Marciano brought a slightly comic element. Young man behind me complained bitterly about Billy Walker's appearance. "Why, have we got to have that commercial for hair cream?" Clay was behaving very civilised; he gave Terry Downes a handshake when he passed and smiled politely. Roar after roar of "Come on Henry boy, hang it on him!" but almost as soon as the fight started you knew more or less how it would be likely to finish.
Another sagacious American next to me says it might last seven rounds, just. In the-fourth there was just a moment when Clay turned and started yakking to the referee, when Cooper might conceivably have nailed him had he jumped in. But he was much too gentlemanly.
I was sitting fairly close to the ring but not close enough to see the punch that opened Cooper's eye. A knot of stubborn (enthusiasts round me" insisted that Clay had butted him and they kept hoping for a disqualification. No joy. It was a marvellous night for a fight to start with a strange multicoloured sky and scudding clouds. The ring, with its arched covering, looked like a Chinese pavilion. The ropes were bright electric blue.
There were the usual good-humoured crowd manifestations: sudden chants of "where's Diana Dors?" And complex harmonising of "sit down, my lords, sit down! " and the inevitable "why are we waiting?" The efficiency of the organisation was in some respects far from total.
The bars ran out of glasses, and the few seven elderly barmaids and barmen could only just cope with us. I found it impossible to get a programme that contained a list of the preliminary bouts. The closest to a fight that I got was between two anxiety-sufferers just behind me during a temporary blockage on the way to the seats.
It remained an electric night and we shambled off feeling very fond of Clay. A few wide boys shouted:"Oh, so you're drunk with power?" at a West Indian Undergound ticket collector who was keeping them at bay behind closed gates. He grinned cheerfully; the exercise of getting home by tube was a good deal more athletic than many fights.
"I'd like to have a bet," said a sagacious American. "For heaven's sake what on? " asked his friend. "You never know. Anyway my old man always told me when I was a boy: always take the odds on a fight. It paid off over the ages." This was during the preliminary bouts, when the stadium was looking like the work of some decorative painter, Dufy perhaps. Just for a moment I had a faint flicker of optimism.
I had another when they were roaring Cooper on his way into the ring behind the Union Jack, and one last one when the entire crowd joined in the singing of God Save the Queen. You felt, such an extraordinary current of emotion that if only it could have been transmitted to Cooper something totally unexpected might have happened.
The introductions of celebrities, including Carpentier and Marciano brought a slightly comic element. Young man behind me complained bitterly about Billy Walker's appearance. "Why, have we got to have that commercial for hair cream?" Clay was behaving very civilised; he gave Terry Downes a handshake when he passed and smiled politely. Roar after roar of "Come on Henry boy, hang it on him!" but almost as soon as the fight started you knew more or less how it would be likely to finish.
Another sagacious American next to me says it might last seven rounds, just. In the-fourth there was just a moment when Clay turned and started yakking to the referee, when Cooper might conceivably have nailed him had he jumped in. But he was much too gentlemanly.
I was sitting fairly close to the ring but not close enough to see the punch that opened Cooper's eye. A knot of stubborn (enthusiasts round me" insisted that Clay had butted him and they kept hoping for a disqualification. No joy. It was a marvellous night for a fight to start with a strange multicoloured sky and scudding clouds. The ring, with its arched covering, looked like a Chinese pavilion. The ropes were bright electric blue.
There were the usual good-humoured crowd manifestations: sudden chants of "where's Diana Dors?" And complex harmonising of "sit down, my lords, sit down! " and the inevitable "why are we waiting?" The efficiency of the organisation was in some respects far from total.
The bars ran out of glasses, and the few seven elderly barmaids and barmen could only just cope with us. I found it impossible to get a programme that contained a list of the preliminary bouts. The closest to a fight that I got was between two anxiety-sufferers just behind me during a temporary blockage on the way to the seats.
It remained an electric night and we shambled off feeling very fond of Clay. A few wide boys shouted:"Oh, so you're drunk with power?" at a West Indian Undergound ticket collector who was keeping them at bay behind closed gates. He grinned cheerfully; the exercise of getting home by tube was a good deal more athletic than many fights.
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