Damon Runyon

Wilkes-Barre Evening News/April 21, 1925

R. H. Benton, whose nom deplume as a sportswriter was “Rob Roy,” called on this writer out in Los Angeles not long ago and left an interesting collection of photographs and data on American Boxiana.

“Rob Roy” is now seventy years old. For more than fifty years he has been writing on sports, mainly boxing. That has always been his favorite.

Kindly consider that his observation covers the boxing game for some years before the time of John L. Sullivan and the Marquis of Queensbury rules.

He has rubbed elbows with the pugilistic giants of a bygone day, whose names and exploits run through the early chapters of American boxing history. He knew Tom Allen, Mike McToole, Paddy Ryan, Joe Gone, Tom Mace, Joe Coburn, Johnny Dwyer and Jimmy Elliott.

These were men who fought on the turf with their bare knuckles for the title that is now quoted at $1,000,000. He saw the great Sullivan appear as a mere novice, saw his rise to the heavyweight title, was on intimate terms with him.

“Jack Dempsey could have whipped Sullivan,” said “Rob Roy” Benton. “I think Dempsey could have beaten any heavyweight we had in my time, with the possible exception of James J. Jeffries.”

“Rob Roy” Benton, still hale and hearty, and carrying his seventy years well, now makes his home in Los Angeles. His son is one of the best known writers on the subject of the movies in the country, using the pen name “Tamar Lane.”

For many years “Rob Roy” was an institution in Boston. He has managed scores of boxers in his day. His last fighter was a negro, Sailor Darden, still active in the game. For a time “Rob Roy” handled Harry Wills.

He left a number of photos of “The Brown Panther of New Orleans” as he was in the days of his management with the writer. They show Wills a lean flanked, sinewy looking fellow. “The Brown Panther” was younger then than he is today.

A set of three photograph of the same present a curious study.

They are pictures of James J. Corbett, one as he was when he won the championship from Sullivan, a boyish looking, robust chap with black hair standing straight up on his head in the fashion that gave him the nickname of “Pompadour Jim.”

Another photo shows Corbett at the zenith of his career, still champion immaculate in evening clothes, with a spray of sweet peas in his lapel, his hair still pompadoured, his lace and bearing more sophisticated than in the first photo.

A third photo shows Corbett after he lost his title. He has his hair parted in the middle, and brushed back flat on either side of the part. His face looks tired.

The writer, running through the photographs left by “Rob Roy” Benton, finds one of Joe Gans, the greatest lightweight that ever lived, taken when he was at his best.

It shows the spidery Gans in a characteristic flat-footed boxing pose, his deadly skinny left thrust well forward, his right across his flat stomach, his bullet head dropped slightly forward.

No trace in this picture of the tuberculosis that came on Gans from trying to reduce his weight for grueling battles.

Here is a picture of James J. Corbett taken soon after he won the title. He was a burly looking man, every line of his body suggesting his prodigious strength.

Here is Patsy Shepard who came over from England years ago and remained to run a cafe in Boston. He was accounted a good fighter in his day.

“Rob Roy” Benton has mixed in a little modern history with the ancient. Here’s Jack Denning, a New York middleweight of some little ability, and of only about a decade back. The once familiar face of “Knockout” Brown, the New York lightweight, is in the stack.

Brown was then a fair haired, nicely built, pleasant looking lad. In his day he was the greatest drawing card on Manhattan Island.

Frank Gotch, the great wrestler, champion when this picture was taken, looks powerful, formidable, as he stands with his arms folded across his chest.

This would be Jimmy Britt, has body crouching backward instead of forward, his left leg well out in front, left hand extended almost straight. Britt was San Francisco’s favorite lightweight years ago. He might have been world’s lightweight champion if he hadn’t lived his pugilistic life in the time of two good fighters, Gans and Battling Nelson.

This is Matt Wells, former champion of English lightweights. He fought over here many times. George Ashe, Philadelphia Jack O’Brien. Bill McKinnon, Jack Britton as a youngster. Tony Ross, the Pennsylvania heavyweight. Andy Morris and Harry Foley, a Pacific coast middleweight of some years ago, can be found in the stack.

Finally there is a photo of a pleasant looking man with a heavy moustache.

This is Siler, the referee—George Siler, of Chicago, perhaps the best known referee the game has ever had. He is dead.

He refereed the famous Gans-Nelson fight at Goldfleld, among others. He finally disqualified Nelson for fouling. Frankie Murphy, featherweight champion of England years ago; Jem Driscoll, the British marvel who died not long ago, and many others are in the list.

Here, in conclusion, in evening clothes and a nonchalant attitude is Jack McAuliffe, who signs himself “Only Unbeaten Retired Lightweight Champion of the World.” He will have to change that now if Benny Leonard keeps his threat. Or perhaps you esteem it a promise.

Damon Runyon

Wilkes-Barre Evening News/April 2, 1925

Jack Dempsey is emerging from what might be called the mental doldrums.

For a considerable period the heavyweight champion has had the idea that he couldn’t fight any more.

That is to say, he had doubt as to his ability.

He said as much to the writer on a number of occasions. He has told others the same thing. Once he remarked. “I never could fight.”

Now there is nothing unusual in this mental altitude.

Men who write for a living will tell you they are frequently similarly affected.

Some very brilliant writers have told this reporter that they often had spells when they felt they couldn’t write another line, that their ideas were exhausted, their ability forever affected.

They would mope around depressed, moody, for some time. Then suddenly they would discover themselves anew and begin writing more brilliantly than ever.

Perhaps this mental attitude comes at times to men in every line of endeavor.

Certainly Jack Dempsey has been severely afflicted for some months past. The reader will recall that he was talking of retiring not long ago.

Now he is training daily in his new gymnasium, boxing four and six rounds, working hard “on the floor” which means punching the bag, calisthenics and the like.

He doesn’t say he can’t fight any more now. He is more apt to say others you mention can’t fight. His old belief in himself, his confidence, has returned.

The writer has been watching the champion at his boxing.

He takes on the little men, Tod Morgan, the Pacific Coast featherweight; “Gentleman Gene” Delmont, the Memphis lightweight; Harry Galfund, the Eastern welterweight; and others.

Most of the bigger men around the gymnasium decline to box with Dempsey. They have a horror of his punches, even with the large gloves. The tales of Dempsey’s devastation of sparring partners have become pugilistic tradition. Bald-headed old Frank Farmer, of Seattle, tackled him one day, and Dempsey turned loose his heavy artillery.

It seems impossible for him to resist the temptation to let his punches fly against men as big as himself. He finds it difficult to “pull” his punches even against the little fellows.

“Gentleman Gene” Delmont told the writer that Dempsey’s arms are so heavy that when he merely drops one of his huge hands on a small man the effect is stunning.

Dempsey usually contents himself with chasing the little chaps around, weaving, bobbing, blocking.

The other day Harry Galfund, the welterweight, let several well-directed left hand jabs fly at Dempsey’s synthetic nose.

Dempsey was obviously “sore” for an instant. His eyes flashed. He “cocked” a punch that would have knocked Galfund out of the ring, then held it back.

It wasn’t the blow as much as Galfund’s obvious intent that made Dempsey angry.

An erroneous impression prevails about Dempsey’s “new” nose.

It is less susceptible to injury than the ordinary nose because there is no bone in it. The cartilage was long ago removed from Dempsey’s nose.

The “new” nose is constructed mainly of gristle and skin taken from behind one of his ears. This had commenced to lop down as the result of old Bill Brennan’s punches in the battle in Madison Square Garden some years ago. The surgeon tacked this ear closer to Dempsey’s head while repairing the nose.

You can twist Dempsey’s nose around in your fingers, if you are not afraid to twist the nose of a lion. It is like India rubber.

Dempsey seems to have much of his old speed afoot in his boxing.

His wind is very good considering that he hasn’t done any real training for a long time. He weighs in the neighborhood of 200 pounds, is lean flanked and sleek looking.

Dempsey keeps himself in remarkable condition, no doubt of that. His nervous energy probably prevents him picking up any real fat.

He will be thirty years old June 24, is right now probably at the peak of his physical development. He didn’t really commence to fill out until he was around twenty-two.

He told the writer the other evening that he weighed about 165 pounds when he fought Andre Anderson, John Lester Johnson and Wild Burt Kenny in New York. He was then twenty-one, a tall, raw-boned fellow.

“When I started real training I’ll first go out into the country for a long rest,” Dempsey said, “You can’t train properly in town.”

Only a week or so before he was obviously avoiding all discussion of boxing. Now he is back in the environment, the atmosphere of the game, eagerly talking of it.

He busies himself trying to make matches for the men who train in his gymnasium, discussing terms and conditions with the matchmakers, dickering, parleying like an old manager.

He refereed a bout the other night, he has served as chief second to Mickey Walker and Joe Benjamin recently, and personally directed Walker’s training for the bout with Bert Colima.

Jack Kearns stands back watching his champion’s activities with mingled feelings of relief and amusement. Kearns’s keenly commercial sensibilities are doubtless harassed. He knows he could be getting thousands of dollars for the things Dempsey is doing for nothing.

But Kearns knows also that Dempsey is emerging from his mental fog, that he is returning to normal, that soon he will be saying, “Say, get me a fight, will you?”

Damon Runyon

Wilkes-Barre Evening News/April 3, 1925

Perhaps you have sometimes wondered what becomes of the immense sums of money that flow through the fingers of baseball players, boxers, jockeys and other sport professionals, since you are constantly reading of them being broke.

A little light is shed on the subject by Babe Ruth’s admission that he lost $7,700 at the race tracks last May. He didn’t have the ready cash at the time, so he told the bookmaker he would pay later.

The unfeeling bookmaker assigned the claim to another man who has brought suit against Ruth. The suit disclosed the fact of Ruth’s temporary financial embarrassment.

Also it may partly explain what Ruth did with some of his income of $70,000 last year. If he lost $7,700 that he didn’t pay it is conceivable that he lost plenty that he did pay.

But the race tracks probably didn’t get all Ruth’s money last year.

He probably found many other ways of spending it.

The writer a couple of years ago traveled with Ruth from New York to Hot Springs, and en route Babe narrated some astounding incidents of his experience with money.

He probably doesn’t know himself exactly how it gets away from him. He spends it, loses it, gives it away. His dollars are equipped with wings, also skates and motors.

He is the victim of many impositions. He is a big, good-natured, free-handed fellow who can’t say no.

He told the writer he once made $40,000 on a vaudeville tour that cost him $45,000. He couldn’t account for one-third of the money to save his life. It went—that’s all there was to it.

Also he said—this was two years ago—that he intended saving some of his money in the future. No doubt poor Babe really tries to save. But he is like many thousands of other men who can gather in big money but can’t keep it.

The fortunate man who has the faculty of saving says of the spendthrift, “He’s a fool.”

And, of coure, he is.

But many men—and women—don’t know how to save.

The lesson of thrift should be taught to the very young. That’s the only time they can learn it.

Gambling is one absolutely sure way of getting rid of money. But there are many other ways equally sure. One of them is high living, which is extravagance.

That’s how most of Tod Sloan’s money went.

Sloan was the greatest moneymaker of his time in sport—king of the jockeys, lord of the turf on two continents.

His yearly income rolled up into many thousands at a time when money meant even more than it does now. He must have had at least half a million dollars at one time.

He lived like a prince of the realm. Nothing was too good for Sloan. The money seeped away into high living during a long period of idleness. Today Sloan is broke.

He gambled some, made some bad investments. But mainly he was extravagant beyond any other young fellow in sport before or since his time.

James J. Jeffries had a considerable fortune when he quit the ring. So did Jess Willard. No one thought these ex-heavyweight champions would ever be broke.

Jeffries lost most of his money investing in a mine that turned out worthless. He put the money into the mine without asking the advice of his family or friends—always a dangerous procedure.

Willard dropped a lot of his earnings from the prize ring in oil investments that proved bad investments. Both Willard and Jeffries have recouped their fortunes to some extent; neither can be said to be broke.

Extravagance and a life that brought on many troubles with the law broke Jack Johnson, another former heavyweight champion of the world.

Johnson, now living around Chicago, had a great deal of money at one time. For years he was a fugitive from this country, compelled to live abroad. He lived there in royal state. Rockefeller’s fortune wouldn’t have held out for Johnson’s lifetime at the rate he lived.

His legal affairs must have cost the negro immense sums.

It isn’t always dissipation, and it isn’t always bad investments that take the money of the men of the sport game. Sometimes it is just plain bad luck—circumstances over which they have no control.

Willie Jackson, a New York lightweight of considerable ability a few years ago, at one time had fully $200,000 saved up. It is said domestic troubles broke him.

Ad Wolgast, a former lightweight champion of the world, encountered something similar, it is said. He probably had even more money than Jackson. Now he also is broke.

The writer could name scores of other instances of once noted figures in the sport game who are penniless.

For every retired ball player, boxer, or jockey, who has enough money to live on, you find twenty who are broke. Some have gathered in well over $100,000 in a single year.

Of course not every ball player, boxer or jockey has enough during his active career. Only comparatively few get to the top. Perhaps the proportion of big earnings is no greater in sport than in any business or profession.

But the man in sport has only a few years of earning capacity, at best, and he should save from the beginning.

It’s better to have them say: “He’s got the first dollar he ever made,” than “He hasn’t got a quarter.”

Damon Runyon

Wilkes-Barre Evening News/April 4, 1925

Out here in Southern California they are disposed to smile at the claim of one Samuel Mandell, of Rockford, III., to the lightweight title, vacated for the Winter season by Benny Leonard.

Out here they have a home-grown lightweight, Phil Salvadore, who licked Mandell last October and most of the local “ringworms” think he can do it again.

And Salvadore’s name isn’t mentioned with the names of their two leading lightweights out here, Joe Benjamin and Ace Hudkins. Benjamin has twice whipped Salvadore to decisions in the old four-round game.

Here they attach just as much importance to a four-round licking they do in the East to a ten or fifteen-round licking. Perhaps they are right. After all, in the four-round days a man knew he was going four rounds, was keyed to that pitch, and probably fought as well, if not better, than if he were scheduled for a longer battle.

The New York State Athletic Commission nominated the recent bout between Benjamin and Jack Silver in San Francisco as one of the bouts in its lightweight tournament.

Benjamin won, and was recently drawn to meet Tommy O’Brien in April, presumably in New York. But here arises a most interesting situation:

Benjamin can meet a young man named Ace Hudkins, of Omaha, out here, and draw more money than the entire lightweight tournament has drawn to date in New York. If Hudkins, who is a legitimate lightweight, should defeat Benjamin, does that affect Joe’s standing in the tournament?

This Hudkins is the pugilistic pride of Hollywood, where he first started his California fighting. In Hollywood they think he is a great fighter.

That remains to be seen. Ace hasn’t yet met Benjamin, although he whipped one “Spug” Meyers, who beat Joe. Young Mr. Benjamin’s explanation of this is that Meyers caught him out of condition.

The possibilities of a Benjamin-Hudkins match will perhaps be appreciated when it is stated that Benjamin is asking $10,000 for his end and Hudkins, $7,500. They will probably get it.

Benjamin, who is something of a business man, may not go East to meet O’Brien. He may, through the California commission, invite O’Brien to call on him out here, where Benjamin is a big drawing attraction.

This would seem fair. San Francisco has had one of the bouts of the tournament, Los Angeles is entitled to another, especially when a Los Angeles youth is competing. Benjamin was born at Stockton but claims this as his home.

They like the lightweights in Los Angeles better than any city in which the writer has studied boxing conditions, with the exception of Philadelphia.

Like Philadelphia, this city doesn’t care much for the big men. Philadelphia has tossed nearly every heavyweight of any reputation in the country out of its rings. Almost it tossed out Jack Dempsey one night, when he was fighting Billy Miske.

They haven’t had the opportunity of tossing them out in Los Angeles as yet. Jack Doyle has held one all-heavyweight show at his Vernon arena, and other shows in which heavyweights were featured. They went off fairly well.

Doyle’s face is a study when a heavyweight bout is in progress.

He doesn’t like the big men. He is afraid of accidents while they are in the ring. Years ago he had Jess Willard fighting Bull Young, and Young died afterward.

His death was perhaps due as much to his physical condition when he went into the ring as to the blows he received. But Doyle has never forgotten the accident. He is fearful of a repetition.

The lightweights, and light welterweights—that is to say men between 133 and 142 pounds—seem to be able to find plenty of work out here.

That is because the best drawing cards are lightweights, of course. There are not many little fellows who draw enough to please the promoters. The middleweights are scarce; the light heavies and heavies so far haven’t acquired sufficient reputation.

One California promoter, a gentleman at San Diego, has already quit the ten-round game and gone back to the four-rounders.

He says the ten-round events are too slow for his patrons, that this is the Jazz Age, and people want action. Moreover, he says he has been losing money at the ten-round business because the fighters get it all.

With the four-round events in vogue, he doesn’t have to pay the fighters so much. Also his shows will please his customers more, he says. Perhaps other California promoters will come to the same conclusion.

Some of the pugilistic managers who were here in the four-round days prefer that game to the present era.

Charley Harvey, the famous importer of English boxers, who has returned to New York with Bermondsey Billy Wells, is one of these.

“You could keep a boxer going constantly in the four-round game,” Harvey told the writer. “He could appear every week, and get $1,000 per bout at least for his services if he happened to be just a fair card. From that the scale ranged up to as high as $3,000.

“Now it’s difficult to get matches once a month for a boy, and he has to take much less money. From the manager’s standpoint, as well as from the boxer’s, the old game was much better. And I’m not so sure it wasn’t better for the fans.”

Damon Runyon

Wilkes-Barre Evening News/April 6, 1925

The Spallas of Italy are among the many brother combinations of pugilistic history.

They are unique in that they wish to fight each other for the heavyweight championship of Italy. This would be a nice arrangement. The title would be kept in the family, no matter what the outcome.

Such a match probably would be permitted in this country. There are too many “brother acts” in American Fistiana as it is, and between gentlemen not blood relatives.

The rule has been in the Queensbury realm that when one brother is a real food fighter, the other isn’t much. Pugilistic talent doesn’t seem to run by families any more than other talent.

There have been exceptions, notably the Gibbons of St. Paul, the Gardners of Lowell, the Sullivans of Ireland, and a few others.

Erminio Spalla, who claims the heavyweight championship of Italy, is a better fighter than many of the American heavyweights. If his brother, Guiseppe, is better than Erminio he is a pretty fair man.

Among the brother combinations of the game, past and present, are these:

The Whites, of Chicago; the Jeffries of California, Jim and Jack; the Dempseys, of Colorado, Jack and Bernard; the Gibbons of St. Paul, Tom and Mike; the Gardners of Lowell, Mass., George, Jimmy and Billy; the Sullivans of Ireland, Dave and Spike; the Sullivans of Cambridge, Mass., Mike and Jack; the Forbes of Chicago, Harry and Clarence; the Attens of California, Abe, Monte and Caesar; the O’Briens of Philadelphia, Jack and Young Jack; the Crosses of New York, Leach and Marty; the Trambitas of California, Jimmy (Darcy), Alex and Johnny; the Hermans of California, Babe and Joe (Souza); the Leonards of New York, Menny and Joey; the Mitchens of Milwaukee, Ritchie and Pinkie; the Ropers of Mississippi, Boo and Tom; the Shades of California, Dave, Billy and George; the Zivics of Pittsburgh, Jack and Pete; the Palusos of Salt Lake, Emil and Lew; the O’Gatty’s of New York, Packy and Jimmy; the Latzos of Pennsylvania, Steve and Pete.

There were many others.

Just one hundred years ago, Jem Ward won the heavyweight championship of England. Fifteen years later, Jem’s brother, Nick, won the title and held it a short time.

That seems to be the only instance of brothers holding the same pugilistic title. Nick won the alleged title on a foul. He wasn’t much of a fighter, history says.

The writer is inclined to think that the best brother fighters of the Queensbury days, taking them as a pair, were the Gibbons boys.

Neither ever held a title. Mike was probably the best middleweight in the country, at one time. Tom is today about the best of the light heavyweights, if he cares to make his weight limit. But neither ever was recognized as a champion.

There have been better fighters than either Tom or Mike on one end of other brother combinations, considering them as individuals. The other brother’s lack of ability weakens most of the combinations, however.

Nearly all the combinations named above were, and are, contemporaneous.

One exception is the Dempseys, Jack and Bernard. The latter is the heavyweight champion’s older brother. He fought under the name of Jack Dempsey in the mountain towns of Colorado long before the present Jack started out.

Bernard Dempsey, now a tall, thin fellow, is one of the three Dempsey brothers who are running Jack’s gymnasium here. Bernard’s most notable battle was with Fireman Jim Flynn, at Durango, Colo., Flynn winning in nine rounds.

Gentlemen who make a scientific study of such matters might say that it is natural that all the offspring of one mother have the combative tendency.

The theory immediately goes to pieces on close analysis of the brother combinations.

Many of the young men named above have real fighting spirit, real boxing instinct and courage. The brother in the combination, however, may be quite lacking in the latter quality.

It isn’t fair to blame lack of courage, “a yellow streak,” on a mother or father, is it?

There’s only one son of a former fistic champion now in the ring. He is young Bob Fitzsimmons of New Jersey, who has been fighting some years.

He rates as one of the craftiest light heavyweights in the business. He inherited none of his great father’s hitting power. He probably knows more about defending himself, however, than his father ever heard of.

Young Bob is such a good defensive boxer that few light heavyweights care to meet him. It is said old “Ruby Robert” didn’t think the boy would ever make a real boxer. He would be greatly astonished if he should come back to earth and try to land a set hand on Young Bob.

Kid Murphy, whose right name is Peter Frascella, a little boxer from Trenton, N. J. has a son in the game.

Kid Murphy lost his eyesight some years ago after a ring career that extended from 1903 to 1913. He met some of the best bantamweights of his day.

Damon Runyon

Wilkes-Barre Evening News/April 8, 1925

Read this extract from a letter from a real father.

He is an old “bush league” baseball player of the writer’s acquaintance, now living in Los Angeles.

“I have three fine boys now, all ball players. One boy is pitcher on his high school team, and two years ago another son was his catcher.

“My third son, who was fifteen years old, was killed one year ago in an automobile accident while at a high school track rally. The fourth son is ten years old.

“We all enjoy baseball, boxing and other sport if it is on the square. I am just a wage worker, a broom-maker by trade, but have always lived clean—don’t smoke or drink—and am bringing up the boys in the same way.

“I have played with them and am their pal, and at forty-one years of age I am one of them.”

That’s a fine man, and those boys will amount to something.

They will have a finer rearing, a better training, than the sons of millionaires, because millionaires can’t afford the time from their millions these day to play with their sons.

That’s one of the sad features of a great deal of money.

The average rich man is so busy with his affairs he loses intimate touch with his family, especially with his children.

Only too many of the boys of the rich nowadays spend their young years away from home at fashionable “prep” schools, or under the guidance of private tutors.

Their fathers rarely know what they are doing, how they are doing. Their playmates also are the sons of rich men. They are brought up in a soft, easy atmosphere.

Only too frequently they travel a speedy trail by roaring red roadsters in their ’teens to the primrose path of dalliance in their early twenties.

Their fathers are greatly astonished, greatly mortified, when they suddenly turn to the son for assistance in carrying on the business that made the millions, to find they have on their hands, not the uesful citizen, the manly man they expected, after a prodigious expenditure of money in education, travel—but a total loss.

This isn’t a lecture, it’s a statement of fact.

If there are any millionaire fathers readers of this column they will admit it.

Perhaps some of these rich men were poor men’s sons, with fathers who played with them and was their pal. That’s the finest heritage a young man can possibly have.

The memory of such a father is a legacy beyond millions.

The poor man’s house isn’t ordinarily a large house. Life therein is close intimate. The daily doings of each member of the household are of interest to the others, are recited, eagerly discussed.

That doesn’t happen in the average rich man’s house, as the rich man will tell you, with regret. The family is generally scattered far and wide, the boys away at school, mother and the girls in Florida, or White Sulphur Springs, or abroad; father at business.

In the poor man’s house the boys are always under the father’s immediate and friendly observation if he is such a father as the broom-maker, subject to his kindly coaching—and discipline.

They can turn to him at any moment for advice, instruction.

He can step out into the vacant lot and play ball with them; can go fishing or hunting with them; can teach them how to make boats, and bows and arrows, and “beanies,” how to build lean-tos, and put up tents, and make campfires, and even to cook.

Also, he teaches them how to work.

The writer says to you here that the average son of a poor man has four hundred thousand times more chance in this world than the average son of a rich man.

And if you don’t believe it, ask any rich man.

Every boy naturally craves the companionship of his father, until from lack of it he finally is weaned away from the desire.

Every boy is naturally proud to be with his father, prouder still if that father is adept in the ways of the Kingdom of Boy, if he can play with him.

Some men haven’t the faculty of companionship with the young, they feel cumbersome, awkward. To other men it is easy, natural. They are boys at heart all the days of their life, are at once and always one with the fraternity of boy.

Not every father is really acquainted with his son.

He sees him, vaguely, but he doesn’t really know him. The idea of playing with the boy probably would greatly alarm this species of father.

How well do you know your son, Mr. Father, who reads this?

As well as this broommaker, whose reward in his old age will be the tender love and regard of those boys who are not apt to forget their boyhood pal?

Think it over.

Damon Runyon

Wilkes-Barre Evening News/April 8, 1925

Far out in the wild of Oregon,

On a lonely mountainside,

Where Columbia’s mighty waters

Roll down to the ocean’s tide,

Where the giant fir and cedar

Are imaged on the wave,

O’er grown with weeds and lichens,

I found poor Dempsey’s grave.

Captain Bob Roper read the above verse in an elocutionary tone, to the writer.

Captain Bob had called socially.

The captain never wears a hat, a hygienic thought. The captain thinks air and sunlight beneficial to the hair, also the brain.

Perhaps the captain is right. There is really not much sense in hats. They cramp the hirsute development. The primitive Indians always had crops of hair and they never heard of Stetson, Knox, Dobbs, Dinsey or Truly Warner.

Also, going hatless attracts attention to Captain Bob Roper as he strolls the boulevards.

The writer hesitates to suggest that this may have been in the captain’s mind when he discarded headgear—for the captain is something of a showman.

He is a stocky built gentleman, of upright, military carriage. His hands are always carefully gloved. A snakewood cane is invariably dangling from one arm. His ears are gently crimped around the edges, the result of nearly a hundred ring battles.

He is a Mississippian. He eliminates many “r’s” from his speech. And the Captain is one of the most intelligent men that ever crawled through the ropes.

He had but recently completed the devastation of a local pugilistic hope when he called on the writer.

He had already dismissed the affair from his mind. Boxing bouts are quite a matter of course with the captain, all in the day’s work.

He was chiefly concerned on the occasion of his call with raising an appropriate monument to the memory of the original Jack Dempsey, “The Nonpareil.”

This Jack Dempsey, an Irishman born in 1862, and dead since 1895, was middleweight champion of the world from about 1884 to 1891, when he was knocked out by Bob Fitzsimmons.

“The Nonpareil” is buried in Oregon, where he died.

The verse read by Captain Bob is the first stanza of a little poem, written years ago by an unknown poet whose inspiration was the fact that Dempsey’s grave was unmarked.

Captain Bob thinks Fistiana should raise a real memorial to the original Jack, recorded in pugilistic history as one of the greatest fighters that ever lived.

“I’ll gladly contribute a hundred dollars myself, and if we can get others to give similar amounts we can put a nice monument over Dempsey’s grave,” said the captain. “It would be a proper tribute to his memory from the game.”

The captain is something of a sentimentalist, as you will observe.

He was born the year before Dempsey died. All he knows of “The Nonpareil” is what he has read and heard from the old timers of American Fistiana.

He has more sentiment about the game he follows than those old timers, because they knew Dempsey personally. They will tell you of his prowess, of their admiration for him, but they haven’t moved in all these years to express that admiration in the material form of a memorial to “The Nonpareil.”

He must have been all they say. He fought many great battles in a ring career of about twelve years. You look over his record and you find only the entry “W,” meaning won, or “K,” meaning knocked out, save in one or two instances.

George LaBlanche, called “The Marine,” won from Dempsey in thirty-two rounds at San Francisco in 1889, using a full swing which was described as the pivot punch. This punch was barred thereafter, and LaBlanche’s victory was regarded as much of a fluke.

LaBlanche claimed the middleweight title, but he was presently knocked out by Johnny Herget, whose ring name was Young Mitchell, and who couldn’t make the middleweight limit. The title reverted to Dempsey who held it until he was beaten by Fitzsimmons.

Herget is a well-known citizen of San Francisco, LaBlanche is living in a little town in Southern California, a tailor by occupation.

Dempsey’s last public appearance was in New York in 1895. He died about five months later. Dempsey was one of a trio of great champions who were contemporaneous. The other two were John L. Sullivan and Jack McAuliffe.

Captain Bob Roper, at thirty, seems to be better than ever before in his ring career.

He wrote this reporter some months ago that he was retiring to go into business. Then he changed his mind, and kept on fighting. He has met Jack Renault, Quentin Romero-Rojas, and a dozen others more or less well known since changing his mind.

The captain in the ring is rugged and WISE. He knows how to take care of Captain Roper’s interests inside the ropes. He may not always win, but he is always there at the finish. He covers many thousands of miles of country in the course of a year traveling from place to place to combat.

He ought to have some money saved up. He is intelligent enough to have plenty.

Damon Runyon

Tampa Tribune/December 26, 1925

I traversed historic ground today. ‘Twas out here that Mr. William Harrison Dempsey, the Manassa Mauler, heavyweight champion of the world, first attracted attention as one of vast pugilistic potentialities. 

Over the very road I now travel Mr. Dempsey passed in his early youth, mayhap, clinging like a caterpillar to the brake beams of this very train, or flattened on the deck or roof thereof, for in those days Mr. Dempsey abhorred commercialism in any form. I believe I should not mention this circumstance, however. I am informed that Mr. Dempsey dislikes references to his peripatetic youth. 

Though once he proudly made much of his talent, a rider of the rods, now he feels that his social position is such that he should cancel his past. Well. I presume the Astors don’t care to be reminded of the fact that their chief ancestor was a fur peddler. 

Raised in Utah

Mr. William Harrison Dempsey began his pugilistic career around the town of Montrose, Colo., but his parents moved to Salt Lake City before he had progressed far in the manly art of scrambling ears. Thus it was in Utah that he did much of his early fighting, and it was out of Utah there came the first rumors of his prowess. 

Old Billy Roche, the famous referee, drifted into Utah along in 1916, and refereed a couple of bouts in which Mr. William Harrison Dempsey was a participant, and on returning east Old Bill remarked to me one day, “There’s a young guy out in Utah named Jack Dempsey that ought to be champion of the world if the right fellow gets hold of him. He can fight.” 

Mr. William Harrison Dempsey at that time was a gangling youth of twenty-one, weighting 167 pounds. He fought several bouts around Salt Lake City, losing one four-rounder to Jack Downey and fighting another four-round draw with this same Jack Downey. Mr. William Harrison Dempsey wasn’t much of a fighter then, just a strong, rough, willing young man. 

He fought the Boston Bear Cat in Ogden, stopping him in a round, the Boston Bear Cat being a slambang individual of color, who was expected to knock Mr. Dempsey cock-eyed. He fought George Christian, another negro, in Provo, clipping him in a round. 

Went to East

It was out of Utah that Mr. Dempsey journeyed to New York with the fat Mr. Jack Price, one of the first of his many managers, and fought Wild Burt Kenny, Andre Anderson and John Lester Johnson; also signing a business contract with Mr. John the Razor, whose moans over Mr. Dempsey’s subsequent hurried departure are historic. 

It was in Utah, in Murray, just out of Salt Lake City to be exact, after his return from New York, that Mr. Dempsey was knocked over by Mr. Jim Flynn, the venerable fighting fireman of Pueblo, Colorado, in what some folks aid was a fake. I have been told that Mr. Dempsey was paid $300 cash money for that performance, and that he insisted on getting it in advance. 

Wasn’t Trusting

Old Billy Roche is said to have paid over the money to Mr. Dempsey, Roche being the referee, and Mr. Dempsey carried the dough in his trunks when he entered the ring. I gather that Mr. Dempsey was not a trusting nature even then. His manager at that time was the ubiquitious Mr. Fred Windy Winson, afterwards manager of Senor Don Fuentes, the Mexican jumping bean. 

Following this incident, Mr. Dempsey and Mr. Wilson moved with some celerity to San Francisco, where Mr. Dempsey fell into the hands of Mr. John Joseph Leo McKernan, otherwise Mr. Jack Kearns. The rest, I believe, is history. 

Mr. Dempsey didn’t do right by the home folks in Utah in that affair with Mr. Jim Flynn, if the story of it is true, but no doubt he has since repented. 

The next time he got a crack at Mr. Flynn he knocked Mr. Flynn stiff in one smack.

Damon Runyon

Buffalo Courier/July 3, 1925

One tremendous splurge of wild fighting in the fourteenth round during which he had Mickey Walker, welter-weight champion of the world, tipsy and teetering from his splashing punches, probably saved the title of middleweight champion for Harry Greb, the “Pittsburgh windmill,” at the Polo Grounds tonight. 

He had been lagging along a bit behind up to this round, when he suddenly clipped Walker on the chin with a swinging right that dazed the little fighting Irishman from New Jersey.

Walker backed into his own corner, dizzy, prepped himself there, and stood with slightly swaying head, and staring eyes as Greb laid every punch in his locker on him.

It looked for a moment as if there would he another pugilistic surprise equal to one sprung a short time previously, when Dave Shade of California knocked out the sensational Jimmy Slattery of Buffalo. 

Crowd In Turmoil

Fifty thousand men and women who paid approximately $375,000 to see the bouts for the benefit of the Italian Hospital fund were on their feet shrieking as Greb pounded at Walker. Then, presently, when little Walker emerged from the storm of blows, shaking his head until the water flew from his dripping black hair, and staved off Greb’s mad attack with a right to the chin, a roar rolled up out of the bowl under Coogan’s Bluffs that must have echoed over all Harlem and Washington Heights.

Walker outfought Greb in the fifteenth and last round, but the “whoop-tee-doo” finish of the windmill marvel-man of fistiana had off-set anything Walker might now do, barring a knockout. There was little demonstration as Joe Humphrey, the veteran announcer, raised Greb’s soaking glove. 

Eddie Purdy, the referee, fell while twisting the men out of a cIinch early in the fight, and threw a knee-joint out. He fell again when he made a quick turn later, and round after round he limped around in agony while the crowd laughed, as crowds always do in these situations. They had to help him out of the ring when the battle ended. 

Walker gave a demonstration of fighting heart at that moment such as is rarely seen in the ring. He was a masterly little fighter, and few fighters have ever received such a demonstration as he got when he came up out of the swirl.

Fight By Rounds

Round one; Walker took the lead at the bell, boring into Greb. Walker’s right caught Greb at the belt. They fought furiously in the center of the ring trading rights and lefts recklessly. A stiff right upper cut rocked Walker’s head. Walker countered with two rights to the jaw and Greb went back to the ropes. Greb measured Walker with a right to the jaw. They both were fighting willingly, trading punches at will. The park was in an uproar. They were sparring for an opening at the bell.

Round two; They traded punches to the body at close quarters. Greb rushed Walker to the ropes where he poured a furious head and body attack on his challenger; Walker’s head rocked from a furious right. Another right drove him to the corner. Walker landed a beautiful left to Greb’s mid section and followed it with a right to the same place. The milling was furiously fast. Greb rocked Walker with a right and left to the head and the welterweight king stumbled to his knee but he was up immediately. They stood toe to toe slugging mercilessly. The bell ended the furious fighting. 

Keep Up Maddening Pace

Round three: They continued the maddening pace, both fighting openly. A terrific left to the ribs shook Walker. They clinched. Walker scored heavily to Greb’s body. At close quarters Greb landed five times to Mickey’s face and body. Both landed rights to the head. A stinging downward right to Walker’s face slowed the welterweight king. They were engaged in an exchange of blows at the bell. 

Round four: Walker landed a left to the body. Greb countered with a stinging right to the face which staggered Walker. Another beautiful right to the race sent Walker back on his heels. A third one weakened Walker. They traded punches to the head. They wrested in a neutral corner. Greb was in and out to the body before Walker could counter. The maddening pace was slackening and the boys were dancing around at the bell.

Round five: Greb landed his right to Walker’s uncovered jaw, but Walker countered with a harder blow to Greb’s jaw. Blood began to show from Walker’s mouth. They mixed it furiously. They traded body blows at close quarters. Walker landed his left to Greb’s body, but took a stiff right to body and head in return. They were sparring for an opening as the bell halted the round. 

Round six: Greb opened up his windmill tactics and drove both gloves to Walker’s jaw with lightning rapidity. Walker’s doubled Greb with a left to the body. Walker landed another beautiful body blow. They traded blows in a neutral corner, Greb having an advantage. Greb landed four left uppercuts and crossed with his right to the jaw. A left to the jaw hacked Greb. They were locked tight at the bell.

Round seven: Walker staggered Greb with a terrific right to the jaw. Greb countered by staggering Walker with a like blow. They locked in a tight clinch frequently. The in-fighting was furious. A hard short left to the face caused Greb to reel. A right uppercut hurt Walker. A straight right backed him to the ropes. Greb missed a windmill left. In breaking the men from a clinch. Referee Purdy fell to the ring and the fighters fell over him. The bell found the fighters sprawled on the floor of the ring. 

Round eight: A trip-hammer right bored its way to Walker’s head. Six successive times it found its mark. Walker landed prettily to the body but took four on the head in exchange. Walker missed an uppercut but took one in exchange. Greb rushed Walker to a neutral corner, battering him with blows from every direction. They stood toe to toe and slugged. They traded blows at close quarters. Walker’ head rocked from the force of Greb’s right just as the bell sounded. 

Round nine: They met in the center of the ring both slugging rapidly and both landing effective blows. A straight right to Walker’s face sent him to the ropes. Walker took another on the chin but fought gamely against Greb’s fierce attack. Walker rushed Greb to the ropes. They clinched. Greb measured Walker but Walker beat him to the punch to the head. They were mixing it fast in the center of the ring at the bell. 

Greb Plies Up Points

Round ten: Greb landed a left to the jaw. Greb was covering nicely. He staggered Walker with a vicious body blow. Walker sank back on his heels when the one-two punch landed to his jaw but he came back strongly. A stinging right to the jaw turned Greb half around. It was a beautiful shot. Walker landed again to the head, tying Greb tight in the resulting clinch. Both were driving straight for the head and landing telling blows. Four times Greb’s right found Walker’s chin just as the bell rang.

Round eleven: They wrestled around the ring, neither landing effectively. A clean right staggered Greb, when it landed on his uncovered jaw. Greb missed his right and Walker scored twice to Greb’s jaw. The fighting was tremendously fast. Walker landed to the head with both his right and left and Greb drove to cover, as the jammed park yelled its applause. Another clinch upset the referee again. They stood in a neutral corner and punched furiously at will while the referee was struggling to his feet. The bell ended the milling,

Round twelve: They smashed at each other’s jaw, both landing cleanly. In a maddened exchange of blows they punched each other at will. Walker staggered Greb with a vicious right to the head. Walker landed effectively to the body and head and Greb clinched. Greb landed with terrific force to Walker’s jaw but the welterweight king came up for more. The crowd gasped as the battlers stood up under the fierce punishment. They were locked in a clinch at the bell. 

Round thirteen: They stood toe to toe in Walker’s corner and matched blow for blow. Walker’s left eye started to swell as Greb continued top pepper at Walker’s face. Greb missed a downward right. The one-punch backed Walker to the ropes. They continued to batter each other openly at long range. Greb rushed Walker to the corner and the bell interrupted an interesting skirmish. 

Round fourteen: Greb continued his aggressiveness but Walker was willing and they smashed away openly both landing telling blows. Greb started to dance and Walker came in to a one-two punch which forced him to clinch. A stinging right to the jaw rocked Walker to his own corner and he reeled about the ring helpless against Greb’s furious attack. He was almost out but he pulled himself together and staggered Greb with a short left to the face. Gamely Walker fought on, badly battered but taking everything Greb could throw and standing upright under the tremendous punishment. The bell saved Walker further punishment. 

Round fifteen: They shook hands. A right to the head reeled Walker around. He countered gamely with a left, rallying beautifully. Mickey put all in a furious charge at Greb, sending him back to cover. With blood streaming down his face from a cut on his left eye, Walker bore in, holding his own in a toe-to-toe exchange of blows that threatened to sweep both to the floor of the ring. Walker staggered Greb with a wicked left to the head. Walker charged Greb, driving him to his own corner as he recklessly poured his driving gloves at the middleweight king. The bell found them battling away at full speed. 

Damon Runyon

Wilkes-Barre Evening News/June 27, 1925

“What has become of  that noble race horse, Damon Runyon, that you wrote of before the Kentucky Derby? Have they shipped it to the glue works, or what?”

The writer will overlook the veiled insinuation contained in the last sentence and divulge the most recent information at hand concerning the whereabouts of a much maligned steed.

Damon Runyon has parted company with his breeder and former owner, Mr. John E. Madden, and is now with Mr. J. McMillen, of Cleveland, Ohio. Damon Runyon is getting ready to win many horse races for Mr. McMilllen, who has discovered what is, or rather what was, the matter with him.

This was more than Mr. John E. Madden could learn. Mr. Madden never did really understand Damon Runyon. The gallant equine won few races in Mr. Madden’s colors, but at all times it was apparent that Damon Runyon wasn’t entirely content. 

Something was wrong somewhere.

It remained for Mr. McMillen to ascertain the trouble.

A confidential report has reached the writer from Cleveland, signed by Mr. Danny Winkler, formerly of New York, but now associated with Mr. McMillen. 

He writes that Mr. McMillen in building a million-dollar race track near Cleveland, which opens on July 18, and is to be known as Thistle Down. He adds the information that Damon Runyon is in secret training, has reached the pink of condition and will have few excuses.

Now then, Mr. Winkler doesn’t so state, but the inference is plain that Mr. McMillen is building the race track for Damon Runyon. 

No doubt Mr. McMillen made a close study of the races Damon Runyon didn’t win for John E. Madden, and having numerous opportunities for this study, discovered exactly what the writer suspected all the time, to wit, that the race tracks on which he was running didn’t suit Damon Runyon.

The writer long ago made up his mind from observation at a distance of Damon Runyon’s races that there was something wrong with those tracks. An analysis of Damon Runyon’s time showed him the trouble. The tracks were too long. There were evidently too many furlongs to a mile. 

What Damon Runyon undoubtedly needed to show his mettle, the writer concluded, was a track that had no more than two furlongs to the mile.

On a two-furlong track the writer felt Damon Runyon would be absolutely unbeatable, if properly trained, and not raced too often. 

That is very likely Mr. J. McMillen’s thought in building the track for Damon Runyon. He will probably have everything arranged to the liking of the gallant animal; and thus will get great results. 

It is with no intention of giving a device to a horseman of Mr. McMillen’s standing and acumen, but the writer is convinced that too much care cannot be lavished on Damon Runyon’s material comforts. 

That is where Mr. Madden also erred in addition to racing him on tracks on which the miles were too long. Mr. Madden fed Damon Runyon only oats, hay, carrots, and a little sugar. A hard-bitten old horseman, Mr. Madden thought Damon’ Runyon was just about like any other race horse. He discovered his error when he raced Damon Runyon.

If he is anything like his namesake, and some of his racing convinces the writer that he is, Damon Runyon is the kind of horse that you must cater to. He must have the very best the market affords, and plenty of service, including hot and cold running water, and a little night life now and then to break up the monotony of things. 

Damon Runyon is now three years old, and he knows what’s what. 

It was just as well that Mr. Madden didn’t send him down to Kentucky to win the Derby, after all. At that time Damon Runyon probably was so disgusted by Mr. Madden’s insistence on him racing on those tracks with the long miles, that he wouldn’t have won the Derby. Not for Mr. Madden, anyway. 

The price against Damon Runyon in the future books, if you remember, was 500 to 1. The writer backed this price down to 450 to 1 with a sentimental wager of two dollars. George Meyers, the song writer, hurled a five-dollar note at the bookmakers, and the price dropped to 200 to 1. 

Four dollars more would have sent Damon Runyon to the post a hot favorite. If they have any two furlong Derbies around you can get out the family jewels.

Mr. McMillan once owned a horse named Flintstone, and Flintstone fell in the stretch while racing well in front in the Dixie Derby last year, and had to be destroyed.

Mr. McMillen thought so much of Flintstone that he is having a huge bronze statue of the horse made which is to stand at the gates of Thistle Down, Mr. Winkler says.

The writer hopes and trusts that Mr. McMillen will leave space for the erection of another statue in the near future for the perpetuation in bronze, or brass, or whatever other substance may be handiest, of the name and racing glory of Damon Runyon. 

Once that horse gets to going on his own two-furlong track, the turf world will forget that Man o’ War ever lived.