"There's one thing I didn't get a chance to tell you, Doc," Mickey said next day as we nursed our hangovers. "I've already agreed to meet Harry Greb in New York in July for the middleweight title."
"How much are you getting?"
He was almost proud in his answer.
"Twenty thousand dollars."
My explosion took the wind out of his sails.
"Cripes almighty," I yelled at him. "You ought to be getting a hundred grand at least! Maybe we can get you out of the fight."
Mickey proved his honesty to me right then and there.
"I can't do that, Doc. I gave them my word."
We had a tune-up bout in San Francisco and headed east, where I found I was suddenly persona non grata with the New York boxing commission. They still were after Dempsey to fight Harry Wills, and nothing I could say would convince them that every time we tried to set up the match politicians blocked it. Bill Muldoon, the gruff commissioner, wouldn't even let me go to the arena for the Walker-Greb fight.
"If you show up, I'll ban Walker, too," he told me.
I sat it out at Billy LaHiff's Tavern, listening on the radio.
It was a tough night for Walker. Greb outweighed him seven pounds and gave him plenty of thumbs. What made it worse, the referee, Ed Purdy, dislocated a trick knee in the seventh round and from then on frequently supported himself by hanging on to both fighters, particularly Walker. Despite all this, Mickey rallied after nearly being knocked out and was hurting Greb at the end of the 15 rounds. Still, he lost.
Walker met me in LaHiff's after the bout, and we were having a drink at a corner table when who walks in out of the night, like Dangerous Dan McGrew, but Greb. Mickey's eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and Greb's lips were puffed and cut. Greb walked over to our table and leered down at Walker.
"How're you feeling, Mickey?"
Mickey pointed to his own eyes. "How do you think I feel with these peepers after you stickin' your thumbs in them all night?"
Greb grinned wickedly.
"Forget it. You were plenty tough on me, too."
Greb left, and Mickey, usually a happy guy, was pretty glum. "Come on," I said, trying to cheer him up. "Let's go over to the Silver Slipper and have some laughs."
By the time we got there, after visiting a few watering holes on the way, we were in, and full of, good spirits. And one of the first people we spotted was Greb, sitting with a pretty girl. After a few more drinks Mickey, obviously looking for trouble, invited himself over to Greb's table and began making a play for Greb's date. Within a few minutes I heard Walker's voice, loud and clear above the racket in the place.
"You Dutch so-and-so, you couldn't lick me again if your whole family was helping you."
Now they were both standing up, shoving their chins at each other.
"Why, you filthy bum," said Greb, "suppose I let you try right now?"
They were squaring off when a flying wedge of waiters hustled them out to the street. I was right on their heels and watched as Greb started to take off his coat. But Mickey couldn't wait for that. He fired a punch that sent Greb flying into the fender of a parked automobile. They were swinging away in earnest when I spotted a policeman hurrying up the street toward us. I jumped in between them.
"What's the matter with you guys?" I yelled. "You ain't even getting paid for this."
It broke them up. They started laughing, and then, throwing their arms around each other, they led the way back inside. We all greeted the sunrise together.
There was a great demand for a rematch, especially after word of their street fight swept the city, and I was all for putting them together again in the ring.
"Let's get somebody else, Doc," Mickey pleaded. "He's too good a friend of mine for me to bust up."
I asked Greb what he thought.
"You can keep that bum," Greb answered, grinning. "There must be easier ways for me to make money than fighting him."
Walker had been paid $20,000 to box Greb in a fight that drew a $339,000 gate. Now I got Mickey a $100,000 guarantee to defend his welterweight title against Dave Shade at the Polo Grounds.
A couple of nights after the bout, which Mickey won in 15 rounds, I met him and handed him a check for $96,000. All I took was $4,000 for training expenses. I figured that Mickey needed the money and that I wouldn't cut him because this was our first fight as a team. Mickey didn't even look at the check, just stuffed it in his pocket. A few days later I received a letter which contained a note and a check for $48,000. Mickey's note said:
Dear Doc:
Everything we do is 50-50.
Yours,
Mickey. "
(Jack [Doc] Kearns - Days Of Wine And Bloody Noses)
