Showing posts with label johnny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label johnny. Show all posts
"Before Johnny left for his New York training camp we talked at length about the future and he told me he knew we had not spent enough time together, that it had been one training session after another, but he tried to explain to me that he was finally in the position he had been waiting so many years to reach. He felt that if he won the title he wouldn't have to worry about anything else. He explained that champions get the largest share of the gate receipts and that he wouldn't have to fight as often as he had previously done working to the top.
I flew to New York the day before the fight and registered at the Roosevelt Hotel. Johnny had come in from camp and stayed at the Edison Hotel. Johnny came to see me the afternoon of the fight just after he had left the weighin and, as always, there were three or four fellows with him. He had to go eat his dinner at Jack Dempsey's restaurant at 4 o'clock so we didn't have much time together. As I walked to the elevator with him I took his hand and he flinched. I asked him about it and he told me not to worry. But I couldn't help worrying because I knew Johnny was no complainer.
I could not stand to watch the fight and shortly after the first round I went out to the lobby and walked around. The scene soon resembled a motion picture. One by one all of the people who had been sitting in our section—Johnny had purchased all of the tickets together—came out to the lobby and even Johnny's brothers joined us. His oldest brother passed me as if he didn't recognize me, and when I ran up to him all he said was, "They should stop it. Johnny has been hurt." I thought the fight would never end, and finally, from what seemed like a great distance, I could hear the announcer say: " Kid Gavilan, the winner!"
At the dressing room I learned Johnny was to be taken to the hospital right away. His jaw had been broken a third time and he had a broken bone in his right hand. I will never be convinced that he didn't go into the ring with a broken hand. In spite of his handicaps Johnny finished the full 15 rounds and was never knocked down. Within the next few days he had the wisdom teeth on the right side of his jaw removed, as had been done to the left side just a year before, and went back to the camp where he had trained for the fight. He said he needed time to get himself together and he wanted to be alone where he could think things out clearly and decide what his next move would be.
Johnny stayed at camp for almost two months. I was coming to the point where I felt that our marriage would never work. The baby was a little more than a year old now and he didn't even know his father. We didn't have any place that we could call home. Johnny agreed with me in principle, but he kept repeating one idea—this was no time to become disheartened. He asked for more time to get himself together.
It seemed he was always able to reach that point in fighting where he had only one more fight to win and everything would be all right in his world. Then, at the crucial moment with everything at stake, he could never pull through this last fight.
After a brief visit to Detroit, Johnny went to Chicago and I didn't hear from him again for two months. I tried calling everywhere but to no avail. His mother said she hadn't seen him, and even though I left messages he never returned my calls. He hadn't called even to find out how the baby was.
I got a job in Detroit and was working for about three weeks when one evening the phone rang. "Hi, Jo, what are you doing?" Johnny said casually. I had planned for weeks what I would say to him. Now that the time was here I was at a loss for words. The reason he hadn't gotten in touch with me, he said, was because there was nothing he could tell me. When I told him I was working he became quite disturbed and said he would be in Detroit the next day. The next day when I came home from work his car was parked in front of the house. I tried to be stern and forceful in the things I said to him but deep down inside I could see the change that had come over him and I knew he hadn't been too happy either. Johnny had decided to give fighting another try.
We had become indebted to the IBC to the extent of some $18,000, and Mr. Wallman had sent Johnny money during these months he had been laid off. We also owed the government $36,000 in back income taxes. Johnny explained that he knew no other way to erase these tremendous financial obligations. Mr. Wallman had told Johnny he wanted us to come to New York where he would get an apartment for us and make all the necessary arrangements. He would advance Johnny any money necessary for current living expenses until he could fight again. I wanted to go to New York, or anywhere else where we could all be together.
I came to New York and took a cab to Flushing, Long Island, which was to be our address and home from that first day of October 1951. It was more than I had expected. Johnny came in from camp and finished training at home for his next bout against Wilbur Wilson. It was the first time I had ever been able to cook his meals, go to the gym with him, take care of his clothes and really feel that I was helping him in his career.
At 26, when most men are just reaching the height of their careers, Johnny was an old man in the ring. On November 13, 1953 he was to fight Kid Gavilan again for the welterweight title. This was his second attempt to become world champion, and still the only prayer that I could offer was for him not to get hurt. The day of the fight Johnny seemed weaker than I had seen him in a long time and his face was very thin and drawn. The tension was stronger than I had ever felt it before. Everywhere the fight was advertised and everywhere people were after Johnny for attention. Under the pressure, Johnny did a funny thing. He shadowboxed on the street, something he had never done before.
I left the hotel for the fight a full half hour after it had started and I went in the first church I saw on the way to the stadium. I think it was a Catholic church, though I'm not a Catholic. The fight was still going on when I reached the stadium. I waited near the dressing room. After an eternity I could hear the crowds of people rushing from their seats, and again the announcer's voice reached my ears: "And still welterweight champion of the world, Kid Gavilan."
A crowd gathered at the dressing room door, and photographers began asking me to pose for pictures and popping questions at me from all sides. I saw Kid Gavilan come through and finally caught a glimpse of Johnny being almost carried by his handlers. Johnny's mother came past me, and the officer on the door allowed us to go into the dressing room, which was already so overcrowded with people that it was hard to catch your breath.
Johnny was in a prone position on the table and his face was completely covered by towels. For the first time in my life I heard him cry. I left the dressing room to try to compose myself. When Johnny finally came out he had on dark glasses, but they did not cover the horrible sight of his completely disfigured face. At the hotel the outer room of the suite was filled to capacity with people. When I went into the bedroom I wanted to turn and run but most of all I wished that I would soon awaken from what I hoped was a nightmare.
Johnny's face was indistinguishable. His eyes were so swollen that he couldn't open them at all. I walked up to the bed and he said, "Jo, is that you?" He then reached out his swollen hand to touch me. He wasn't out of his head but he just kept repeating that he couldn't understand what had happened to him. He said that he lost all of his strength in the seventh round. It was difficult for him to talk because he had gotten hit in the Adam's apple and he complained that his throat was very sore.
It was two days before Johnny could open his eyes at all. I came into the room and he said, "Jo, I can see you"—just as a child might have said it. I read him all of the newspapers and telegrams that he had received, and before long his friends started coming by. His parents took me aside and begged me to get him to stop fighting. I tried to explain what had happened before and that I was resigned to the fact that Johnny would not quit until he made the decision himself."
(Joanne Jackson - former wife of Johnny Bratton)
I flew to New York the day before the fight and registered at the Roosevelt Hotel. Johnny had come in from camp and stayed at the Edison Hotel. Johnny came to see me the afternoon of the fight just after he had left the weighin and, as always, there were three or four fellows with him. He had to go eat his dinner at Jack Dempsey's restaurant at 4 o'clock so we didn't have much time together. As I walked to the elevator with him I took his hand and he flinched. I asked him about it and he told me not to worry. But I couldn't help worrying because I knew Johnny was no complainer.
I could not stand to watch the fight and shortly after the first round I went out to the lobby and walked around. The scene soon resembled a motion picture. One by one all of the people who had been sitting in our section—Johnny had purchased all of the tickets together—came out to the lobby and even Johnny's brothers joined us. His oldest brother passed me as if he didn't recognize me, and when I ran up to him all he said was, "They should stop it. Johnny has been hurt." I thought the fight would never end, and finally, from what seemed like a great distance, I could hear the announcer say: " Kid Gavilan, the winner!"
At the dressing room I learned Johnny was to be taken to the hospital right away. His jaw had been broken a third time and he had a broken bone in his right hand. I will never be convinced that he didn't go into the ring with a broken hand. In spite of his handicaps Johnny finished the full 15 rounds and was never knocked down. Within the next few days he had the wisdom teeth on the right side of his jaw removed, as had been done to the left side just a year before, and went back to the camp where he had trained for the fight. He said he needed time to get himself together and he wanted to be alone where he could think things out clearly and decide what his next move would be.
Johnny stayed at camp for almost two months. I was coming to the point where I felt that our marriage would never work. The baby was a little more than a year old now and he didn't even know his father. We didn't have any place that we could call home. Johnny agreed with me in principle, but he kept repeating one idea—this was no time to become disheartened. He asked for more time to get himself together.
It seemed he was always able to reach that point in fighting where he had only one more fight to win and everything would be all right in his world. Then, at the crucial moment with everything at stake, he could never pull through this last fight.
After a brief visit to Detroit, Johnny went to Chicago and I didn't hear from him again for two months. I tried calling everywhere but to no avail. His mother said she hadn't seen him, and even though I left messages he never returned my calls. He hadn't called even to find out how the baby was.
I got a job in Detroit and was working for about three weeks when one evening the phone rang. "Hi, Jo, what are you doing?" Johnny said casually. I had planned for weeks what I would say to him. Now that the time was here I was at a loss for words. The reason he hadn't gotten in touch with me, he said, was because there was nothing he could tell me. When I told him I was working he became quite disturbed and said he would be in Detroit the next day. The next day when I came home from work his car was parked in front of the house. I tried to be stern and forceful in the things I said to him but deep down inside I could see the change that had come over him and I knew he hadn't been too happy either. Johnny had decided to give fighting another try.
We had become indebted to the IBC to the extent of some $18,000, and Mr. Wallman had sent Johnny money during these months he had been laid off. We also owed the government $36,000 in back income taxes. Johnny explained that he knew no other way to erase these tremendous financial obligations. Mr. Wallman had told Johnny he wanted us to come to New York where he would get an apartment for us and make all the necessary arrangements. He would advance Johnny any money necessary for current living expenses until he could fight again. I wanted to go to New York, or anywhere else where we could all be together.
I came to New York and took a cab to Flushing, Long Island, which was to be our address and home from that first day of October 1951. It was more than I had expected. Johnny came in from camp and finished training at home for his next bout against Wilbur Wilson. It was the first time I had ever been able to cook his meals, go to the gym with him, take care of his clothes and really feel that I was helping him in his career.
At 26, when most men are just reaching the height of their careers, Johnny was an old man in the ring. On November 13, 1953 he was to fight Kid Gavilan again for the welterweight title. This was his second attempt to become world champion, and still the only prayer that I could offer was for him not to get hurt. The day of the fight Johnny seemed weaker than I had seen him in a long time and his face was very thin and drawn. The tension was stronger than I had ever felt it before. Everywhere the fight was advertised and everywhere people were after Johnny for attention. Under the pressure, Johnny did a funny thing. He shadowboxed on the street, something he had never done before.
I left the hotel for the fight a full half hour after it had started and I went in the first church I saw on the way to the stadium. I think it was a Catholic church, though I'm not a Catholic. The fight was still going on when I reached the stadium. I waited near the dressing room. After an eternity I could hear the crowds of people rushing from their seats, and again the announcer's voice reached my ears: "And still welterweight champion of the world, Kid Gavilan."
A crowd gathered at the dressing room door, and photographers began asking me to pose for pictures and popping questions at me from all sides. I saw Kid Gavilan come through and finally caught a glimpse of Johnny being almost carried by his handlers. Johnny's mother came past me, and the officer on the door allowed us to go into the dressing room, which was already so overcrowded with people that it was hard to catch your breath.
Johnny was in a prone position on the table and his face was completely covered by towels. For the first time in my life I heard him cry. I left the dressing room to try to compose myself. When Johnny finally came out he had on dark glasses, but they did not cover the horrible sight of his completely disfigured face. At the hotel the outer room of the suite was filled to capacity with people. When I went into the bedroom I wanted to turn and run but most of all I wished that I would soon awaken from what I hoped was a nightmare.
Johnny's face was indistinguishable. His eyes were so swollen that he couldn't open them at all. I walked up to the bed and he said, "Jo, is that you?" He then reached out his swollen hand to touch me. He wasn't out of his head but he just kept repeating that he couldn't understand what had happened to him. He said that he lost all of his strength in the seventh round. It was difficult for him to talk because he had gotten hit in the Adam's apple and he complained that his throat was very sore.
It was two days before Johnny could open his eyes at all. I came into the room and he said, "Jo, I can see you"—just as a child might have said it. I read him all of the newspapers and telegrams that he had received, and before long his friends started coming by. His parents took me aside and begged me to get him to stop fighting. I tried to explain what had happened before and that I was resigned to the fact that Johnny would not quit until he made the decision himself."
(Joanne Jackson - former wife of Johnny Bratton)
March 1959
view a larger, more readable image here (click to enlarge) -
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiStTjKQ9O749iNWqQ09wgEw54UPOHhPKoHUJo0h6i-zoyIm8Zs1v7XY5xF_-ZP1gEfzSLV5Hr_Xm4iJwpk14hNwhZHdz_Lu7ObKdeDGlR_3VGd9-Onfn130t11TFyCq2KYc6fzkfPxOQ/s1600/scan6.jpg
Tony DeMarco Wins The Title
The crowd noise was at fever pitch as I walked the pathway to the ring. The closer I got, the more my friends and fans shouted encouragement. I was moved. I climbed the steps and entered my corner of the ring.
As my manager and trainer gave me last minute instructions, they had to yell over the shouts of the crowd. I looked at the people sitting ringside, recognizing many of them. All were waving, smiling and screaming words of encouragement as I sat waiting for the referee to call us to the center of the ring. I told myself that, with God’s help, I wouldn’t disappoint the fans. I was ready. This was the moment that I had worked for all of these years. It was almost surrealistic.
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 Johnny 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.
(by Tony DeMarco)
RETIRED boxer Johnny Melfah took on some of Britain’s most famous fighters during his long sporting career in sparring contests and title fights.
The Gloucester pugilist, now 53, is now facing his biggest battle yet as he fights back against debilitating disorder Lupus.
Johnny, from Robinswood, took on Herol ‘Bomber’ Graham, Nicky Piper, the Dark Destroyer Nigel Benn and his middleweight rival Chris Eubank at the Royal Albert Hall in 1989, losing in four rounds.
In a decade of fighting, Johnny rubbed shoulders with some of the best fighters in a golden generation of British boxing.
He finally retired in 1994 after two bruising encounters with Steve Collins in a super middleweight eliminator bout for a shot at the world title. Johnny then went on to coach boys in the art of boxing at the Viking Club in Coney Hill.
(The Gloucester Citizen)
.............................................
This week Johnny spoke with boxing journalist Steve Bunce (as part of his ESPN boxing podcast) about his career...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2ORHackhIk
The Gloucester pugilist, now 53, is now facing his biggest battle yet as he fights back against debilitating disorder Lupus.
Johnny, from Robinswood, took on Herol ‘Bomber’ Graham, Nicky Piper, the Dark Destroyer Nigel Benn and his middleweight rival Chris Eubank at the Royal Albert Hall in 1989, losing in four rounds.
In a decade of fighting, Johnny rubbed shoulders with some of the best fighters in a golden generation of British boxing.
He finally retired in 1994 after two bruising encounters with Steve Collins in a super middleweight eliminator bout for a shot at the world title. Johnny then went on to coach boys in the art of boxing at the Viking Club in Coney Hill.
(The Gloucester Citizen)
.............................................
This week Johnny spoke with boxing journalist Steve Bunce (as part of his ESPN boxing podcast) about his career...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2ORHackhIk
Dempsey never had a “boxing match” with anyone in his life. It was always a fight. He began talking about one of the fights, one of the toughest. It was a ‘fight he lost to a roughneck puncher named Johnny Sudenberg in Goldfield, Nevada, in 1915. Dempsey was 20 years old then, not fully grown, weighing 165 pounds. He had been hopping freights, working in mines, traveling all over Utah, Colorado, Nevada, trying to get into the ring against anyone who would fight him.
Sudenberg was a heavyweight, one of the most rugged and skilful the mining country had ever produced. Dempsey went up against him as a substitute for a fighter who had backed out. The promoters were worried, because Jack looked too small and seemed too green as a fighter. But Dempsey talked them into it.
He trained in a dive called the Northern Bar. His first sparring partner was a rough Indian pug named Kid Harrison. Dempsey, never easy on spar‑mates, knocked Harrison stiff one day and lost him. He took on another boy named Roy Moore. This one managed to stay on his feet during the training. Before the bout, Moore, who had seen Sudenberg fight, advised Dempsey not to start slugging it out with his opponent.
That went against Dempsey’s grain. He knew how to do only one thing, go in there and slug. The fight was held in the town dancehall. For three rounds, the two men stood toe to toe and tried to kill. each other with punches. The place was a madhouse of screaming miners and farmers. They had never seen anything like it.
“Johnny could hit,” Dempsey said. “From the fifth round on, I had no idea what was happening Sometimes there was a face in front of me. Sometimes there was nothing. I just kept throwing my fists.”
The fight went ten rounds. Dempsey was on his feet when the bell rang, but for hours afterwards he didn’t know whether he had won or been knocked out. The fight went to Sudenberg on a decision. Dempsey dragged his battered body and welted, shapeless face to a shack outside of town where he slept. When he woke up the next morning, he discovered that his manager had skipped off with the $100 Dempsey was to get for the fight. He was flat broke.
The beaten‑up kid fighter hung around town for a few days, then a wire came from a promoter in Tonopah, Nevada, 30 miles away. Would Dempsey fight Johnny Sudenberg again? Dempsey’s answer was to start for Tonopah, walking. It was a walk over the mountains. He legged it 15 miles before he was picked up by a wagon. And ten days later, his face and body still swollen and bruised, Young Dempsey, as he was then known, climbed into the ring again against Sudenberg.
The second Dempsey‑Sudenberg fight was rougher than the first. In the first round, Dempsey floored Sudenberg seven times. Each time, Johnny bounced back and crashed into Dempsey. Round after round wore on. One of the fighters had to retreat. It was Sudenberg. He began to back up, but as he went back, he kept belting away and gaining strength. Dempsey, not used to fighting in high altitudes, began to weaken. In the seventh round, Sudenberg brought up a right from the floor and knocked Dempsey flat on his back. Jack got ‑up. Sudenberg knocked him down again. Dempsey took three knockdowns in that round, but kept on boring in for more.
The crowd watching that fight was as exhausted as the fighters. By the last round, with the two men still slugging at each other, they watched in silent, breathless awe. They had seen the greatest prizefight of their lives, probably one of the most brutal of all time. It was called a draw. Dempsey pulled himself across the ring at the final bell, put his arm around Johnny Sudenberg’s shoulders. They left the ring that way, supporting each other.
“He was a fighter,” Dempsey said. “I really liked that guy.”
Those were the fights, dozens of them, that made Dempsey the kind of fighter he was. Hard, back‑breaking work and cruel jungle‑camp brawls developed Dempsey into the merciless, stalking killer he became in the ring Those who criticize Dempsey’s lust for mauling his opponents don’t realize that these were the only tactics he knew. The fighters of that day asked no quarter and gave none. To win, you had to be the tougher. You fought to prove how strong and mean you were.
(By Jack Sher)
Sudenberg was a heavyweight, one of the most rugged and skilful the mining country had ever produced. Dempsey went up against him as a substitute for a fighter who had backed out. The promoters were worried, because Jack looked too small and seemed too green as a fighter. But Dempsey talked them into it.
He trained in a dive called the Northern Bar. His first sparring partner was a rough Indian pug named Kid Harrison. Dempsey, never easy on spar‑mates, knocked Harrison stiff one day and lost him. He took on another boy named Roy Moore. This one managed to stay on his feet during the training. Before the bout, Moore, who had seen Sudenberg fight, advised Dempsey not to start slugging it out with his opponent.
That went against Dempsey’s grain. He knew how to do only one thing, go in there and slug. The fight was held in the town dancehall. For three rounds, the two men stood toe to toe and tried to kill. each other with punches. The place was a madhouse of screaming miners and farmers. They had never seen anything like it.
“Johnny could hit,” Dempsey said. “From the fifth round on, I had no idea what was happening Sometimes there was a face in front of me. Sometimes there was nothing. I just kept throwing my fists.”
The fight went ten rounds. Dempsey was on his feet when the bell rang, but for hours afterwards he didn’t know whether he had won or been knocked out. The fight went to Sudenberg on a decision. Dempsey dragged his battered body and welted, shapeless face to a shack outside of town where he slept. When he woke up the next morning, he discovered that his manager had skipped off with the $100 Dempsey was to get for the fight. He was flat broke.
The beaten‑up kid fighter hung around town for a few days, then a wire came from a promoter in Tonopah, Nevada, 30 miles away. Would Dempsey fight Johnny Sudenberg again? Dempsey’s answer was to start for Tonopah, walking. It was a walk over the mountains. He legged it 15 miles before he was picked up by a wagon. And ten days later, his face and body still swollen and bruised, Young Dempsey, as he was then known, climbed into the ring again against Sudenberg.
The second Dempsey‑Sudenberg fight was rougher than the first. In the first round, Dempsey floored Sudenberg seven times. Each time, Johnny bounced back and crashed into Dempsey. Round after round wore on. One of the fighters had to retreat. It was Sudenberg. He began to back up, but as he went back, he kept belting away and gaining strength. Dempsey, not used to fighting in high altitudes, began to weaken. In the seventh round, Sudenberg brought up a right from the floor and knocked Dempsey flat on his back. Jack got ‑up. Sudenberg knocked him down again. Dempsey took three knockdowns in that round, but kept on boring in for more.
The crowd watching that fight was as exhausted as the fighters. By the last round, with the two men still slugging at each other, they watched in silent, breathless awe. They had seen the greatest prizefight of their lives, probably one of the most brutal of all time. It was called a draw. Dempsey pulled himself across the ring at the final bell, put his arm around Johnny Sudenberg’s shoulders. They left the ring that way, supporting each other.
“He was a fighter,” Dempsey said. “I really liked that guy.”
Those were the fights, dozens of them, that made Dempsey the kind of fighter he was. Hard, back‑breaking work and cruel jungle‑camp brawls developed Dempsey into the merciless, stalking killer he became in the ring Those who criticize Dempsey’s lust for mauling his opponents don’t realize that these were the only tactics he knew. The fighters of that day asked no quarter and gave none. To win, you had to be the tougher. You fought to prove how strong and mean you were.
(By Jack Sher)
"Grimm took the first round by storm, slamming Johnny to all corners of the ring, with a series of two handed attacks. Dias somehow recovered his composure and kept Joe at distance with long and sharp jabs, like he had done before so efficiently. But this time he was counterpunched brutally, and blood began trickling out of his mouth. Until the end of the round, Dias was pounded with stiff shots over and over, forcing him to move backward across the ring. Only the bell saved Dias from a KO. Joe's fans were on their feet, screaming, "Go for KO!"
During the break Joe was sloshed with icy water by his overzealous brother and was told he was doing great. Dias's cornermen tried unsuccessfully to stop the bleeding, while his coach was shouting in his ear. Whatever instructions he recieved, Dias made good use of them. As Joe launched a new attack, Dias used his rapid footwork, forcing Joe to punch the air while enabling his rival to land well-placed blows. At one time Dias counterattacked in full force, and Joe had trouble escaping punishment. It looked like Dias had recovered and maybe even taken the lead. At least that's what his fans wanted to believe.
But, from the third round on, Joe relentlessly struck Dias's body and head with both fists to the delight of the Boy Scouts and Fall River spectators. Round after round, Joe proved himself to be the master of the ring, showing an excellent command of his actions and inexhaustable stamina. Dias fought bravely and once in a while, when he lashed with his left and right swings, his signature punches, his fans screamed with happiness. He moved a lot but could not avoid a serious battering that made him stagger, still, he remained on his feet. As for Joe, he continued to pummel him in the close sessions.
In round eight Joe decided to finish of his tradional rival who had tainted his record with two defeats. He unleashed one attack after another, forcing Dias to run around the ring and be stopped (from running around) by Referee McDonald. Obviously, he was doing everything he could to escape a KO. He was not a coward and continued to counterattack, but Joe's landings came from all angles and directions and were too painful and risky to absorb.
Dias was outpointed and outpunched by the little Syrian mittster, both boys were deserving the credit for their showing.
With his arm raised high by the referee, Joe enjoyed the crowd that could not stop its ovations as he proudly left the arena."
(Fall River Herald - April 12th 1924)
The above account is from the third battle in a series of fights between two journeymen boxers, Joe Grimm (not be confused with Joe Grim, often spelled Grimm who lost to Jack Johnson and Bob Fitzsimmons years earlier) and Johnny Dias, fought at lightweight at Fall River, Massachusetts, USA in 1924. Grimm had lost their two previous battles in 1923 both over points. The pair would have a fourth contest in 1927 with Grimm winning by KO in the first round.
*From the story of journeyman bantamweight boxer Joe Grimm, from the 1920s. Joe weighs 118 pounds and is flat-footed; nevertheless, he wins against boxers who are heavier than he is, he wins when he is booked as a last-minute replacement, and he wins against contenders who are headed to championship bouts. He is so gallant in the ring that the press calls him "Gentleman Joe." His career is interrupted when he and his brother are urgently called home by their immigrant parents. He leaves behind the arenas, with their cheering crowds and works as a butcher in his grocery shop bought with ring money for his family. Grimm lived to be 96 years old.
During the break Joe was sloshed with icy water by his overzealous brother and was told he was doing great. Dias's cornermen tried unsuccessfully to stop the bleeding, while his coach was shouting in his ear. Whatever instructions he recieved, Dias made good use of them. As Joe launched a new attack, Dias used his rapid footwork, forcing Joe to punch the air while enabling his rival to land well-placed blows. At one time Dias counterattacked in full force, and Joe had trouble escaping punishment. It looked like Dias had recovered and maybe even taken the lead. At least that's what his fans wanted to believe.
But, from the third round on, Joe relentlessly struck Dias's body and head with both fists to the delight of the Boy Scouts and Fall River spectators. Round after round, Joe proved himself to be the master of the ring, showing an excellent command of his actions and inexhaustable stamina. Dias fought bravely and once in a while, when he lashed with his left and right swings, his signature punches, his fans screamed with happiness. He moved a lot but could not avoid a serious battering that made him stagger, still, he remained on his feet. As for Joe, he continued to pummel him in the close sessions.
In round eight Joe decided to finish of his tradional rival who had tainted his record with two defeats. He unleashed one attack after another, forcing Dias to run around the ring and be stopped (from running around) by Referee McDonald. Obviously, he was doing everything he could to escape a KO. He was not a coward and continued to counterattack, but Joe's landings came from all angles and directions and were too painful and risky to absorb.
Dias was outpointed and outpunched by the little Syrian mittster, both boys were deserving the credit for their showing.
With his arm raised high by the referee, Joe enjoyed the crowd that could not stop its ovations as he proudly left the arena."
(Fall River Herald - April 12th 1924)
The above account is from the third battle in a series of fights between two journeymen boxers, Joe Grimm (not be confused with Joe Grim, often spelled Grimm who lost to Jack Johnson and Bob Fitzsimmons years earlier) and Johnny Dias, fought at lightweight at Fall River, Massachusetts, USA in 1924. Grimm had lost their two previous battles in 1923 both over points. The pair would have a fourth contest in 1927 with Grimm winning by KO in the first round.
*From the story of journeyman bantamweight boxer Joe Grimm, from the 1920s. Joe weighs 118 pounds and is flat-footed; nevertheless, he wins against boxers who are heavier than he is, he wins when he is booked as a last-minute replacement, and he wins against contenders who are headed to championship bouts. He is so gallant in the ring that the press calls him "Gentleman Joe." His career is interrupted when he and his brother are urgently called home by their immigrant parents. He leaves behind the arenas, with their cheering crowds and works as a butcher in his grocery shop bought with ring money for his family. Grimm lived to be 96 years old.
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