BATTLE WITH DEATH

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIX, Issue 21278, 3 September 1932, Page 2 (Supplement)

BATTLE WITH DEATH

EX-REFEREE'S DAILY ROUND LIFE HANGING BY THREAD TRAGEDY OF A LOST FORTUNE An account of tho tragedy 1 of a lost fortune and a man's " daily round with death " is given by Mr. Reginald Simpson in the Sunday Chronicle. lie writes from Southend. I havo spent to-day with a man whoso life hangs by a thread. If ho raises his arms above his head he has been told that his heart may giVo way. In fact, ho carries a live bomb about with him in his chest that, unless ho exercises the greatest care, may burst at any moment. This man who lives under tho shadow of death is Mr. Eugene Corri, tho famous boxing referee, tho man who has acted as referee in mora big championship bouts than anyone alive, and who is now living in a small flat here on a few shillings a week.

Rubicund, compact of light of tread, cheery as ever, Mr. Corri, his tanned faco beaming under a yachting cap set at a rakish angle, met me, when I called upon him one afternoon, with a handshake that has lost none of its warmth.

For tho moment I could easily imagine I was meeting the old Corri, tho cigarsmoking, immaculate referee skipping round the ring like a two-year-old, almost as litho and as light of foot as the boxers themselves. But Eugene Corri, though he looks so fit in appearance, has refereed his last fight in the ring. He has got the gloves on himself now for a much greater battle. 41 2 Might Drop Dead " Seated on his tiny balcony overlooking tho promenade, with a stately procession of pearly-sailed yachts mirrored against tho horizon, and tho laughing Southend crowds surging by underneath, Mr. Corri told me about his great fight against death. " I daren't even pull my shirt, over my head," ho said. " My doctor says it might prove fatal. I havo to bo careful when I walk upstairs, I'vo got to avoid all excitement. 1 daren't exercise or risk nnv physical oxertion whatever. "If I were to raiso my arms now I might drop dead." More than once in the past few months death has hit Mr. Corri on tho point and Stabbed him on the solar plexus. More than once he thought he was counted out. But ho has grimly said to himself what ho has told so many boxers —■** Fight on." And ho is fighting with a courage that would rouso the admiration of that glorious procession of champions—Mickey Walker, Jimmy Wilde, Tommy Burns, Sam Langford and the rest—who, too, knew how to " fight on." The Spoctre of Poverty But the shadow of doom which hangs over him is not Mr. Corri's real tragedy. Peath ho can face without fear. It is another spectre with a two-fisted punch below the belt that is getting through his defence: the spectre of poverty. A few days ago he was summoned at Southend regarding a judgment obtained in connection with a butcher's bill for £lO. It was stated in court that his incorno was £2 4s a woek. His rent was 30s, leaving a balance of 14s a week for him to live on. " It is terrible, too said Mr. Corri. " I was once a very rich man. 1 had a big houso at Westcliffe with two coachmen and a collection of beautiful horses that were my pride. I have just been up this morning looking at tho old placo. Someone else lives there now. .

JlUlOta WiOU >1 Ci U 4iJJ f'ifJO. JL •'« ' D juow been up this morning looking at the old placo. Someone else lives there now. . ." A rich man! And now. . . . Mr. Corn looked round his tiny flat. " I used to buy my cigars in quantities of four thousand,"* he said. "They were an expensive brand of Coronas, and even buying them in bulk I had to pay three-and-sixpence each for them. Then I had one of the finest cellars in the district, and never used to drink anything but 'B4 Fommery and 'B4 Clicquot. It used to cost me about twenty-six shillings a bottle, and sometimes on a Sunday morning I would open a dozen bottles for my friends." Mr, Oorri'B Lost Fortune Mr. Corn's charming wife, a former Gaiety girl, entered. She sat silent while her husband went on to talk of the past, and a s ha finished ehe turned to him, patted his hand, and with a sad smile said: "Well, it's no use worrying, Gene. We've just got to make the best of things now." Woman, the ever-practical! But 1 wondered how near she was to tears. The story of Mr. Corri's lost fortune is tho story "of a side of the great referee

which the public doesn't know. He made his money as a stockbroker long before lie became professionally interested in boxing. Once, he says, he mado £3OOO in commission over a singlo deal. He lost his money in the same way that ho made it—in stocks. He bought diamond shares at £22 7s 6d each. Forty-eight hours afterwards they were worth only £8 each. That broke him.

" Everything was swept away," Mr. Corri said. I had to sell my house, my horses, all that I had to pay my debts. But this I can say thankfully: T was never hammered on the Stock Exchange!" There spoko the indomitable spirit of the man.