Tales and Fancies

Greymouth Evening Star, 25 June 1927, Page 9

Tales and Fancies

From the Pen of Fritz Holland

COMPENSATION Kid Brady was in disgrace. He, a pugilist, had hit a fellow who had never boxed in his life, and that’s one thing that a fighter must not do, except in self-defence. Brady was a lighter, a good one, and he looked the part. Hitting the other man had been bad enough, but, to aggravate things, Brady had broken his nose. The evidence showed that the quarrel had begun in a peculiar way. The injured man had argued that boxers were overpaid. Brady, in his last fight, bad held out for a 500 dollars guarantee, “win, lose, or draw.” Brady had won. The club, of which the aforesaid fellow was a member, had lost money on the affair. / He had berated Brady for his “graball” policy. Words led to anger, and finally the “lie” was passed. Brady slapped him, he swung at Brady, and Brady cracked him with a snappy jolt. Both were fined. In a civil action that followed, Brady was sued for 2,500 dollai’s “actual damages” by the man who thought that boxers were overpaid. WHENCE?

Once, nearly all pugilists were Irish; but as the game became more popular, and attained to legality everywhere, and became more and more remunerative, the Jews took it up. And at one timte they held six of the world’s championships, at different weights. Later, still other nationalities and races were represented in seelct boxing circles. Stanley Ketchell was a Polish-Slav, his right name being Stanislaus Kiecal. Lithuania produced Giorgas Chipulonis, known to fame as George Chip. Carpenter and Criqul were France’s most famous contributions. Denmark was worthily represented by Battling Nelson. Wolgast was a German. Papke was a Dutchman. Negroes innumerable have made ring history. Driscoll, Welsh and Wilde were from Wales. South America produced Firpo. Mexico sent Herrera, the hardesthitting lightweight the ring ever knew. Australia is proud of Darcy, Griffo and scores of other great fighters. The Philippine Islands claim Pancho Villa, world’s flyweight champion. New Zealand contributed the greatest fighter of all time, the only man who ever held three world’s championships at the one time —Bob Fitzsimmons. It; also producd Dan Creedon. Scotland’s most noted ringman is Johnny Dundee. He hails from Genoa, Italy. His right name is something similar to “Spiglioni.”

WHITE FEATHER

There were three of the Attels— Caesar, Monty and Abe. Abe Attell was featherweight champion of the world. He held the title for 12 years. Monty Attell was the wearer of the bantamweight crown. Caesar was a discredit to the fighting class. He was a squib. But Caesar could fight when 'he wanted to. He was as clever as either of his brothers, but Caesar abhorred punishment. Harry Foley was to second Caesar one evening. Caesar was to box Kid Harrison. Foley had a “brain wave." “Look here, Caesar,” he orated. “This guy’s a- quitter. He’s got a yellow streak, a mile wide. Now you have made some bad fights, too, but right here’s where you make a change. You do what I tell you, and you’ll beat this Mexican, and beat him quickly.” “What’ll I do, Harry?” he asked. “Well, you get into the ring, and look as determined and fierce as possible. Frighten the life out of 'him. Look as savage as you can.” This sounded all right to Caesar. “How’s this?” he demanded, scowling. ' i ' “Fine! Just the thig. You look like a lion!” Caesar was delighted. In the dressing-room he glared hide-

ously and asked again: “How do 1 look now, Harry?” “Like a lion. Caesar.” In the ring, again, the same question and answer. Caesar went out in the first round, and set about Harrison like a terrier after a pig. He halfkilled the poor Mexican. He returned to his corner, happy and confident, too confident in fact. “You look like a lion, Caesar. But be careful; this guy can punch.” Foley warned him. The pride-intoxicated Caesar had thrown caution to the winds. Before the round was a half-minute old, Harrison landed on Caesar’s Hebraic proboscis, and wrecked it utterly. Caesar’s self-confidence evaporated. He wanted to last the round out, if only to tell that lying Irishman what he thought of him, and to describe his genealogy. By dodging, holding and precipitate flight he managed to escape a knockout. ( He returned to his corner—licked. Foley was ready with words of encouragement. “Throw in the towel,” Caesar commanded. “I’m finished.” “Don’t be silly!” Foley pleaded. “You’ve got him beaten.” “Have I!” Caesar exclaimed, then: “How do I look?” “You look like a lion, Caesar.” “Go on, you lousy loafer! You neve*saw a lion!”

FRIENDSHIP Eddie McGoorty and I were training together at Sandringham, Sydney. He was to fight Clabby, and Les Darcy and I were to fight a week later.' Tommy Burns and McGoorty were “backing” me. There were races on the day of the fight. Burns and McGoirty were at the course. Burns could not “get set” at a satisfactory price. He jvaited until he saw one of the biggest of the bookies watching him. Then he called McGoorty. “Go and lay off that money that you bet on Holland!” “Why?” asked Eddie. “Is he twisting?” “Never mind! Go lay it off!’ Away went Eddie, to back Darcy. Burns had some friends waiting there. Eddie went up to Aldrett, the bookie, and said: “Two hundred on Darcy!” The bookie had just seen him talking to Burns, my manager, and the bookmaker knew that Burns and McGoorty were great friends. The odds reversed immediately. “Ten to eight, Darcy!” bawled Aldrett. Money was flung at him by Burns’s waiting henchmen. McGoorty came back to the training quarters and demanded an explanation. I told him, as before, that I hoped to win. But Burns’s money had made me favourite, and McGoorty could not “get set” again. When I won he wanted some explanation from Burns. “Well, Eddie,” said Burns, naively, 1 had to use you. I couldn’t get set any other way. But don’t worry, I’ll give you a chance again to even up—if you’ll do as I tell you.” “I will—like hell!” McGoorty retorted bitterly.