STORY OF BILLY MURPHY SHEDS GRIM LIGHT ON ROMANCE AND TRAGEDY OF BOXING RING

Manawatu Times, Volume LIV, Issue 6867, 23 March 1929, Page 15 (Supplement)

STORY OF BILLY MURPHY SHEDS GRIM LIGHT ON ROMANCE AND TRAGEDY OF BOXING RING

ff ssmm Man Who Brought First World’s Championship to New Zealand Ekes Out Struggling Livelihood in Auckland—How Murphy Turned Down Gambler’s Gold to Bring Title Back to New Zealand —Now 67 Years of Age, Famous Old-Timer Avers He Could Still “Come Back”

What is Fight Game Doing For Its Old-Time Champions ?

rPHE tragic death in New York last year of the great Griffo, acclaimed by many as the cleverest boxer the world has seen, supplied an abrupt and saddening contrast to the amazing rise of Gene Tunney, who, within the space of a few years, was able to retire a millionaire from his ring earnings. Coming nearer home, Tom Heeney rose from the rank of a second-rate boxer in Australasia and England to a challenger for the world's championship within the space of 18 months, and made about £20,000 out of one fight. Contrast this with the old-timers like Fitzsimmons and Murphy, greater fighters in every respect, who had to be content with a few hundred pounds for most of. their big fights. To-day, you will find Billy Murphy ekeing out a struggling existence as sartorial Voronoff to the residents of Auckland. Billy will tell you with the pride of an honest craftsman that he numbered among his patrons Sir Walter Stringer, a former judge of the Supreme Court, and one of the

best-loved men in the public life of the Dominion. These days, however, times are hard, and the old champion candidly admits that business is not as good as it might be. "He does a good Job," remarked a neighbouring shopkeeper to.the writer yesterday, referring to Murphy. “He would do better still, if he had a better place." Until the cult of modernism was inflicted on the intriguing business sign over his little shack in Dominion Road, Auckland, it was like a whiff from the old days to read the quaint inscription;—

BILLY MURPHY TFos champion boxer of the icorld Now champion clothes cleaner of the world.

Behind that, what a world of path and tragedy! It is easy to write the smoot

running story of the world-famed champions of to-day. Jack Dempsey, hobo on trans-continental trains, climbs to world’s championship honours; Gene Tunney, shipping clerk at £3 10s a week, makes a fortune at boxing, and weds an heiress of the Carnegie steel trust —the careers of these men are saturated with the sort

of romance which makes “best-sellers” of the flctibn year. But it is hard work to come back to every-day things; to write honestly and conscientiously the ordinary account of a man like Billy Murphy, born and bred in an Auckland suburb, who won a championship of the world when sport was sport for sport’s sake; and there were no Tex Rickards to make fortunes for themselves and for the men they raised for a brief period as much boosted champions, not merely of a great continent wallowing in post-war riches, but as the. socalled champions of the civilised world. The old-timers of boxing will tell you that while Heeney and.,Van Porat are crudely tussling for world’s championship elimination honours there W'ere greater fighters in their day. They will quote Bob Fitzsimmons, the fiercest puncher the game has known; Jim Jeffries, mountain of flesh and muscle, who demolished all his opponents by sheer strength and physical prowess; and Peter Jackson, the master craftsman, against w'hom John

L. Sullivan sought his last remaining pretext, the colour line. And these same old-timers in reminiscent mood will tell you that no man has ever approached the consummate artistry of Jem Mace, or the wicked right-hand wallop of Billy Murphy, in whose footsteps Johnny Leckie is following to-day. t

More than forty years ago Billy Murphy was committed to the ten-to-one proposition of knocking out Albert Griffiths (“Griffo”) in four rounds. In the second, such a great jockey as Sam Floyd was moved to get up in a Melbourne prize-ring, and declare that the g'enuine count over Griffo had gone 18 seconds, and the Australian was still being allowed to continue. Murphy went to America in 1889, stopped Johnny Griffen in three rounds, drew with Frank Murphy in 27 rounds in spite of a broken hand, and was then matched with Ike (“Spider”) Weir for the feather-weight championship of the world towards the end of the same year. A week or two before the fight the proposal was put to Murphy: " Lose this fight, and you get 10,000." Billy's reply was characteristic of his fighting career.' “I told my friends when I left New Zealand that I would not come back till I had won the championship belt." Murphy knocked out Weir in 14 rounds. The scene shifts hack to Auckland, a vigorous pioneering town of 1890.

Walking up Queen Street from the American steamer comes Billy Murphy, top-hatted, in frock-coat and brand new spats, carrying under the arm which did not manipulate his gold-mounted cane a case containing the “Police Gazette Belt,” emblematical of the championship of the world. “I thought I was Lord of Creation in those days,” Billy remarked only yesterday with a whimsical smile. • “I have learnt my lesson. There are other things in life besides a.world’s championship.” Without shirking anything, Murphy tells the subsequent story in simple and direct language —of how he went back to Sydney and threw away his chances by taking a much heavier opponent in Griffo too cheaply, and worse still by throwing off the gloves and angrily announcing that he had come there to fight, and not to indulge in circus tricks; of his return to America, as Tom Heeney made his, when other men had arisen in his absence and usurped his position for the championship. All this, and much more, Murphy frankly admits.

To-day, In his sixtyseventh year, Billy Murphy, , forgotten by a new race of fighting men, lives in memories of the past. Of the lean and wiry type, only his whitening hair gives away his age. He still thinks he could show some of the presentday fighters something about the game. The writer ' hufriddly side-stepped out of the way when Billy started to demonstrate the wicked right-hand wallop which dropped Ike Weir, the great feather-weight champion of the world, for the full count ,ip gpn, . , Francisco exactly 40 years ago. Times have changed in the boxing world, and the champions of the • long ago are forgotten Uy’ the fnen' • of to-day. It has been left for Robert Edgren, doyen of American sports writers, to compile their epitaph:— They never thought of having so much money that they’d be “business men.” They were sports. There are no more “sports” in the fighting game. Business men all, and perhaps the world’s average of intelligence and progress hasn’t lost anything by the change. But they were an interesting lot—those oldtimers!