Louis may have respected Dorazio, but he would have to go a long way to find someone else who shared his sentiments. Betting lines fluctuated and neared lottery odds before finally settling on Dorazio as a 15 to 1 underdog. James P. Dawson of The New York Times called Dorazio “…one of the most harmless challengers Louis, or any other champion of recent years, for that matter, has ever faced.” Even Pennsylvania Senator John J. Haluska, a former amateur boxer, called the match a farce and threatened a congressional hearing. In response, Dorazio promised to knock Louis through the ropes and into the lap of Senator Haluska. Rarely are wish fulfillment scenarios so farfetched.
Ticket prices, scaled from $1.25 to $5.75, were indicative of the second-rate show promoter Herman Taylor thought the fight would be. Dorazio, on the other hand, was as chipper as ever. “I’ve been training for three weeks now and I’ll be in top form when I meet Louis,” Dorazio told the Associated Press. “I can’t lose. I always fight best against the good boys.”
On February 17, 1941, Gus Dorazio entered the ring against Joe Louis for the chance of a lifetime. Even a strong losing effort would make him a hero throughout Pennsylvania. Anything less than that and Dorazio faced the possibility of being a laughing stock. Indeed, Dorazio seemed acutely aware of his reputation in the days leading up to the fight. “All the money in all the banks in Philadelphia couldn’t make me climb into that ring Monday night if I thought I couldn’t win,” he told the newswires. “Not with all those people looking at me.” Of course, if he won, his rough and tumble life would be changed forever. 15,902 fans jammed Convention Hall to see if he could do it.
When the bell rang for round one, Louis, 203 ½, and Dorazio, 193 ½, met at ring center. Dorazio was counting on his crouching style, in theory–if not exactly in practice–similar to that of Nathan Mann and Arturo Godoy, to fluster Louis, and it did–for all of a minute. Louis looked awkward sailing shots over his ducking opponent early in the opening round, and Dorazio, to the astonishment of the Milky Way, even managed to land several hard body shots as well as a flicking left hook. But Louis remained unflustered. Midway through the first round “The Brown Bomber” started to reach his target and Dorazio began to resemble a man staggering through Tornado Alley. Still, it was a fairly good round for Dorazio, and he returned to his corner in high spirits. During the rest period Dorazio told his trainer Jimmy Wilson that Louis was not nearly as tough as advertised. “I’m going out and stiffen him,” he said. But it was Dorazio who would wind up stiff.
Round two began with Dorazio squatting so low that he resembled Arturo Godoy in disguise. He exchanged a few jabs with Louis and rushed in without consequence. A little over a minute into the round, Dorazio popped up from his crouch and Louis straightened him up with a left hook. Then he stepped forward and connected with a short straight right that landed with the force of a Howitzer. “Dorazio,” reported Ted Meier, “fell flat on his face completely senseless.” The Philadelphia tough guy was counted out by referee Irving Kutcher while struggling to regain his feet. He had to be carried to his corner by his seconds.
Despite the humiliating knockout defeat, Dorazio continued his career, now losing nearly as often as he won. His record after the Louis fiasco includes an upset of Joe Baksi and decisions over Gunnar Barlund and Harry Bobo, but the TKOs started to mount and the scar tissue lining his brows began to split with revolting ease. He was still an attraction in Philadelphia, however, and thousands paid to see him war with the likes of Melio Bettina and Turkey Thompson. By 1943 Dorazio was under the management of the infamous Blinky Palermo, numbers king of Philadelphia and close associate of Frankie Carbo, and was hitting the road more often where spotty decisions often went against him.
In 1946 Dorazio, with his career in a deadfall, was convicted of draft dodging after the FBI discovered that his job as a wartime welder was strictly “no show.” He was sentenced to a year in prison. After his release, Dorazio mounted a dismal comeback before retiring for good in 1946 with a record of 77-20-5.
In retirement Dorazio revealed a bleak entrepreneurial side that included numbers running, leg-breaking, and armed robbery. But it was as a union goon that Dorazio found himself in existential trouble. In 1949 Dorazio lost control while performing his duties as an enforcer at the C. Schmidt and Sons Brewery in Philadelphia. Ostensibly a bottler at the plant, Dorazio was really hired muscle for the mob. The vicious beating he gave to Albert Blomeyer, 33, on January 27, 1949 proved to be fatal. Blomeyer, a bottler who had been circulating pro-labor petitions at the brewery, died of a fractured skull after Dorazio was through with him. Did Dorazio miscalculate the amount of force he needed to teach Blomeyer a lesson? Or did he just snap at the wrong time? When collared by detectives at his home in Yeadon, Dorazio spluttered out an impromptu, pre-Miranda Rights defense: “”People had been taunting me,” he said. “They called me punch drunk. They called me on the phone to heckle me. I just got the notion to get even with someone.” His outburst, negligible as a defense, seems odd in light of the circumstances. Did Dorazio slip over the edge and take out the frustrations of his life on Albert Blomeyer?
None of this, of course, made any difference to his open and shut case. The evidence against Dorazio was overwhelming and it took less than an hour for a jury to find him guilty of second-degree murder. Dorazio spent nearly three and a half years in notorious Eastern State penitentiary. After being released, he drifted in and out of both jobs and trouble for the next decade. Dorazio slowed down when a chronic back injury suffered during his days as a boxer flared up and forced him to collect disability. Never far from his mind, it seemed, was the fight with Joe Louis.
In his later years, out of work and with a reputation for being slightly punchy, Dorazio would repeat his claim that he would have beaten “The Brown Bomber” in a rematch to whoever would stop and listen. When Louis died in 1981, The Philadelphia Inquirer sought Dorazio out for an interview. “I still dream of that fight,” he said. “I was sure I could beat Louis, and in the first round I hurt him. I know I’d have beaten him if I hadn’t left my feet throwing a hook and he nailed me. I could’ve handled him–honest.” Gus Dorazio died in 1987, more than 50 years after he first stepped into the Waltz Dream Arena.
(by Carlos Acevedo)
