1961

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March 31, 1980.

Mike Weaver wins the WBA Heavyweight Title by knocking out defending belt holder John Tate in the 15th round.

Weaver knocked Tate out with a left hook. Tate laid unconscious, face down and spread eagle on the canvas as he was counted out.

"The crowd cost Tate the fight," Weaver said afterwards. "He made the mistake of trying to come out and slug with me. He was boxing before that. He was responding to the crowd."

Weaver v Tate produced one of the divisions finest knock outs ever. The giant taller Tate dominated Weaver for all the first 10 rounds. But then with sheer determination a battered Weaver suddenly turned it around, pushing Tate backward. But he'd left it 'too late?' noted the commentator, as only 5 rounds remained and Tate was expected to resume his lead. However with only 40 seconds left in the 15th round, Weaver caught Tate bouncing off the ropes towards him with a truly lethal left hook. It dropped Tate to the canvas out cold for well over a minute. Press pictures showed Tate sound asleep whilst Weaver did a handstand alongside to celebrate.

In the summer of 1940, a balding New York restaurant owner named Jack Dempsey launched a comeback at the advanced aged of 45.

After his retirement - following a second loss to Gene Tunney in the infamous 'Night of the Long Count' - Dempsey remained a massively popular figure in America. He remained active in boxing, often refereeing matches at the same arenas where he once headlined. He also refereed wrestling matches where the inclusion of Dempsey, in any capacity, boosted sales at the box office.

On one such occasion, in Atlanta in May 1940, Dempsey was refereeing a tag-team match. During the match, one of the participants, Cowboy Luttrell, decided to make a name for himself and change the script. He shoved Dempsey across the ring and beckoned the former champion to take a poke. Dempsey shoved the wrestler back, prompting Luttrell to throw a clumsy punch, but the former champion ducked and the whole thing fizzled out.

Afterwards, a local newspaper claimed Dempsey tried to smooth things out backstage, but Luttrell - over 24lbs heavier than the 45-year-old former champ - refused to shake hands and, after a few hastily chosen words, again went for a punch. The two were separated swiftly, but not before a furious Dempsey challenged the grappler to a real contest, and even offered to donate his purse to charity.

Because of Luttrell's dubious day job, there were fears that the match would be a fix, but Dempsey made sure the record was put straight. Speaking to the New York Times, he said: "No. It's no gag. I'm going to fight a wrestler down in Atlanta on July 1. We're going to fight with gloves, the lightest ones Georgia officials will permit, and under Marquis of Queensbury rules. I ought to knock him out quick because I can still punch, and he doesn't know how to fight."

Concerns immediately turned to the popular former champion's health. He was, after all, a 45-year-old restaurant owner, who had not fought in over a decade. But he told the Times: "Naw, I'm not takin' any chances. This Luttrell must be as old as I am. You know how those wrestlers are - they keep workin' till they're ready for the old men's home. And I know he can't fight. He swings from the floor. He's muscle-bound and slow. I don't like any part of this Luttrell and it will be a pleasure to take care of him."

Luttrell, obviously a seasoned veteran of hyperbole, retorted in the Atlanta Constitution: "I'm going to knock Dempsey's front teeth out. Boy, oh, boy, will people be surprised when I wade into Mr. Dempsey with both these big fists flying."
He added: "Don't you realise that any guy who could go around the rest of his life and say he was the man that knocked out Jack Dempsey would be a big gate attraction as a professional wrestler? I have everything to gain. He's crazy to risk himself in a bout with a man so much younger and in much better physical condition. But that's his business. From now on I am dedicating myself to the task of being the man who licked Jack Dempsey."

A strange phenomenon creeps up on sports fans and writers when a childhood hero returns. It could easily be dismissed as wishful sentimentalism, but it is more powerful than that. Many of those who snapped up tickets to see Dempsey's return, or rushed to write stories about it, grew up during Dempsey's hey-day.

They associated their youth, and the prime of their lives, with him. Now their hero was attempting to turn back the clock and, if he succeeded, they maybe believed the clock would turn back for them, too.   These feelings, and genuine excitement at the chance to see the Manassa Mauler in action just one more time, drew an impressive 10,000 fans paying an even more impressive $37,000. The American public and media, who idolised Dempsey, whipped each other into a frenzy in anticipation of their hero's return after his years in the wilderness.

In the days leading up to the fight, perspective - and perhaps reality - seemed to slip away from many writers. Impartiality went out of the window, many of them even wrote that Dempsey would challenge reigning heavyweight champion Joe Louis. But the old fighter did little to ground their flights of fancy, maybe because he didn't want to ruin their fun or admit he was too old.

At the pre-fight press conference, Dempsey said: "That is something I cannot answer. If I prove I can still punch and, if the public demands the match, we will talk about it later. The man who takes Joe Louis' title away must have dynamite in either hand."   Then, with a wry grin, he added: "I have been searching for a fighter to beat Louis. Wouldn't it be strange if he turned out to be Jack Dempsey?"

Dempsey received a 10 minute standing ovation when he entered the ring that night. Reporters waxed lyrical about a deafening roar that just wouldn't stop. They also mentioned that Dempsey looked much trimmer than expected. In fact, they noted that he was in better shape than his supposedly fitter opponent.

The fight was a mismatch. Luttrell, despite some boxing experience in his youth, was totally out of his depth and was battered from pillar to post in the first round, where only the bell  and a vice-like grip for a defence - saved him.
But in the second, Dempsey - fighting from the memory of what he used to be - seemed to tap into whatever was left of his greatness. He dropped Luttrell three times in round two, finally knocking the Cowboy through the ropes and onto the arena floor, where he was counted out.

Dempsey stood in the ring, his arms aloft in victory for the first time in over 14 years, and one can only guess how he must have felt when the crowd, almost rabid with excitement, chanted his name. He had not disappointed them.
A New York newspaper read: "Dempsey, possessed with all the savagery and relentless fury of the Manassa Mauler of old, last night brought back memories of the days when he ruled the heavyweights of the world with a smashing two-round knockout of Cowboy Luttrell, a 224-pound Texas bull.

"Stalking his prey from the opening gong, the old warrior may have battered his way back into the heavyweight title picture as he turned loose a murderous attack on the huge wrestler that left Luttrell senseless and the crowd gasping in amazement.

"Contrary to pictures painted by crepe hangers before the fight, Dempsey was not fat. And he was not clumsy. Instead, fans saw a trim, tigerish Dempsey, lacking the speed of his golden days, but still perhaps the most dangerous fighter in the business, outside of the Brown Bomber."

Another newspaper was equally carried away: "Dempsey was not the flabby, aged ghost of a former great that some of our self-styled sports experts and humanitarians in this vicinity would have you believe. He was a whirling and slashing killer. Over four rounds, he would be a match for heavyweight champ Joe Louis."

But, deep down, Dempsey knew what would happen to him if he challenged Louis. He fought several more bouts against non-boxers, including a professional American football player, and then retired for good.

Luttrell, his 15 minutes of fame used up, disappeared from history almost immediately after guest referee Nat Fleischer completed the 10 count. His defeat was so crushing, so complete, it is unlikely any wrestling promoter hired him to cash in on his brief notoriety. He remains an obscure footnote in history.

(by Anthony Evans)


picture caption reads - 'View of a crowd of people surrounding professional wrestler Cowboy Luttrell who is receiving medical attention after his exhibition boxing match against heavyweight boxer Jack Dempsey'

August 1952.

"He (Walcott) is, of course, a far better boxer than Rocky, who still is a virtual beginner in that phase of his career, and he can hit like a ton of bricks when an opening comes. Also, he can take a punch.....It all adds up, as the wise money sees it, to a fairly easy victory for the old pappy guy.."

(Associated Press)

In the small room is a large bed he makes up himself, several record albums he rarely plays, a telephone that seldom rings. The larger room has a kitchen on one side and, on the other, adjacent to a sofa, is a fireplace from which are hung boxing trunks and T-shirts to dry, and a photograph of him when he was the champion, and also a television set. The set is usually on except when Patterson is sleeping, or when he is sparring across the road inside the clubhouse (the ring is rigged over what was once the dance floor), or when, in a rare moment of painful honesty, he reveals to a visitor what it is like to be the loser.

"Oh, I would give up anything to just be able to work with Liston, to box with him somewhere where nobody would see us, and to see if I could get past three minutes with him," Patterson was saying, wiping his face with the towel, pacing slowly around the room near the sofa. "I know I can do better. . . . Oh, I'm not talking about a rematch. Who would pay a nickel for another Patterson-Liston fight? I know I wouldn't. . . . But all I want to do is get past the first round."

Then he said, "You have no idea how it is in the first round. You're out there with all those people around you, and those cameras, and the whole world looking in, and all that movement, that excitement, and 'The Star-Spangled Banner,' and the whole nation hoping you'll win, including the President. And do you know what all this does? It blinds you, just blinds you. And then the bell rings, and you go at Liston and he's coming at you, and you're not even aware that there's a referee in the ring with you.

". . . Then you can't remember much of the rest, because you don't want to. . . . All you recall is, all of a sudden you're getting up, and the referee is saying, 'You all right?' and you say, 'Of course I'm all right,' and he says, 'What's your name?' and you say, 'Patterson.'

"And then, suddenly, with all this screaming around you, you're down again, and you know you have to get up, but you're extremely groggy, and the referee is pushing you back, and your trainer is in there with a towel, and people are all standing up, and your eyes focus directly at no one person—you're sort of floating.

"It is not a bad feeling when you're knocked out," he said. "It's a good feeling, actually. It's not painful, just a sharp grogginess. You don't see angels or start; you're on a pleasant cloud. After Liston hit me in Nevada, I felt, for about four or five seconds, that everybody in the arena was actually in the ring with me, circled around me like a family, and you feel warmth toward all the people in the arena after you're knocked out. You feel lovable to all the people. And you want to reach out and kiss everybody—men and women—and after the Liston fight, somebody told me I actually blew a kiss to the crowd from the ring. I don't remember that. But I guess it's true because that's the way you feel during the four or five seconds after a knockout. . . .
"But then," Patterson went on, still pacing, "this good feeling leaves you. You realize where you are, and what you're doing there, and what has just happened to you. And what follows is a hurt, a confused hurt—not a physical hurt—it's a hurt combined with anger; it's a what-will-people-think hurt; it's an ashamed-of-my-own-ability hurt. . . . And all you want then is a hatch door in the middle of the ring—a hatch door that will open and let you fall through and land in your dressing room instead of having to get out of the ring and face those people. The worst thing about losing is having to walk out of the ring and face those people. . . ."

Then he walked over to the stove and put on the kettle for tea.

(by Gay Talese - 1964)

1924.

Harry Wills poses with his wife Sara at Wills training camp in Southampton, New York where he is preparing for his fight with Luis Firpo.

From the Classic Boxing Society YouTube channel...

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)

Dec 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

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)

"Gorbals King Is Finished At 25"

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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)

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.

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)

"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)