THRILLS IN BOXING

Otago Witness, Issue 3808, 8 March 1927, Page 76

THRILLS IN BOXING

By Bohux Lynch, in John o’ London’s Weekly. Gene Tunney, the new champion of the world, is said to have expressed his dissatisfaction with Mr Shaw’s novel, ‘‘Cashel' Byron’s Profession.” Certainly it is not the best fiction concerning the Ring, and no doubt Mr Tunney resents G. B. S.’s reference in the Preface to ‘‘retaliatory violence,” which the author deplores, and' to stories in which “the hero knocks the villain down.” .We know well enough that in life the hero does not invariably do so. More is,”no doubt, the pity. Tunney would, I imagine, prefer to read about that admirable fight between Joe Berks and Boy Jim in the coachhouse in “Rodney Stone.” (The Big Fight in the same story, the set-piece between Champion Harrison and Crab Wilson, is not nearly so good a piece of description. It is far more noticeably extracted from history.)

Jack London’s “The Game” is the record of an exciting battle with the ' gloves, but it is spoiled for anyone who takes seriously the fair name of sport by its clinching and ruffianism, and by! the quite absurd conclusion when an admittedly exhausted man knocks down his opponent with slich a crash that the back of his skull is shattered ov contact with the padded floor.

Real life, reported and otherwise, has shown more vivid and exciting moments than any yet described in fiction. William Hazlitt, in “The Fight,” tells us how Tom Hickman—the Gas-man, as he was called—went up to Bill Neate in the Fives Court before their great fight, and said to him: “What, are you Bill Neate? I’ll knock more blood out of that great carcase of thine this day fortnight than you ever knocked out of a bullock’s.” But when it came to the day of the battle, Neate struck Hickman “with his left at full swing,” and “planted a tremendous blow on his cheekbone and eyebrow, and made a red ruin of that side of his face.” Sometimes m the bad old days of the Prize backers, far more intent on seeking a decision which would settle the bets than on good sport, would a'low men—nay, urge them—to go on fighting long after they should have been carried away. The battle between Deaf Burke and Simon Byrne, the Irishman, was a case in point.

This affair took place at No Man's Land in Hertsfordshire in 1833. The men were evenly matched so far as physical strength and skill were concerned, but Byrne’s constitution had been sadly undermined by the vigour with which he “went out of training” between fights. For a long time there was, as they say, nothing in it. Now Byrne, now Burke, gained some advantage, and they had fought nearly a hundred rounds in a matter of three hours before at last the brave Irishman fell senseless to the grass. For some rounds past it had been a mere toss-up which would fail first to reach the scratch at the call of “Time.” Poor Byrne survived the battle only three days. The fact that he had lost it, the severe strain, and the depressing effect of having himself been in a similar manner responsible for another man’s death some time before, combined to kill him. -Burke was tried for manslaughter and acquitted on the surgeon’s evidence. Modern boxing produces thrills, but little “red ruin.” A good example of a bloodless but exciting victory took place in the Oxford and Cambridge match 0f'1906. The Dark Blues had already won the Bantams and Featherweights, and were indeed destined to win every event. The match took place in the Town Hall at Oxford, and the great room was solidly packed by an eager crowd. Mr Eugene Corrie and the late Mr G. T. Dunning were the judges, whilst Mr Benninson of the N.S.C. acted as referee. I was timekeeper and sat next to him. ,C. C. Wilson, the Oxford light-weight, shook hands, manoeuvered for an opening, and brought his right across with a crisp de-, cision which was immediately effective. Brocklehurst, the Cambridge captain, fell. The blow, however, had landed rather high on the jaw, not near enough to the ‘‘point” to paralyse' him. He rose almost at once, and immediately caught another whack of the same sort. Down he fell again. The excitement of the crowd could hardly keep within bounds, and there were yells of applause as tire Light Blue captain got unsteadily to Iris feet and squared up again. A third time he was knocked down. Now, Wilson, a courageous boxer and cool as a rule, had no doubt been somewhat effected by the cheering crowd. He, too, became excited, which is the last thing a boxer should. He hit out wildlv, missed his aim, and Brocklehurst, quickly recovered from his three falls, smashed in his right. Wilson fell forward, as a man nearly always does when he is knocked out. I, for one, thought he would never get up on time. But he did. With a great effort he pulled himself together, and rose at the ninth second, and with deadly intentness “covered up” until the mists, caused by that crash on the jaw, had cleared. Next moment he led with the left, and then brought the right across once- more with a tremendous finisher. Brocklehurst went down, and stayed down, knocked clean out. Breathless work this; for the whole encounter had occupied but two minutes by my stop-watch!