BOXING

Southland Times, Issue 19458, 24 January 1925, Page 15

BOXING

(By

"Punch”).

A Christchurch paper states that Let Murray, now recovered from his illness, may leave Dunedin and take up residence in either Ashburton or Christchurch. In American ring circles the new holder of the world’s feather-weight championship, Louis Kaplan, is known as the “Kid of Meriden.” What promises tn be the most important boxing conference ever held in New Zealand is the special general meeting of the New Zealand Boxing Association called for Wednesday next in Wellington. The meeting will discuss boxing from A to Z, and it is hoped to arrive at decisions which will clear up present anomalies, and place the sport on an altogether better footing, says Christchurch Sun. It appears that the butrecently instituted centre system of control will be dropped. So far as Southland is concerned the system does not seem to have been of much use. There are good men on the centre; it is the system which is wrong. Another matter which will in all probability be discussed is the proposal to form a referees’ and judges’ association. This matter was brought up at the last annual conference of Canterbury associations in Tirnaru, but since then nothing has been heard of it. Wednesday's meeting will be in the nature of a spring cleaning, and all enthusiasts will hope that the cleaning will be done thoroughly. Jimmy Hill, one of the cleverest boxers the Australian ring has known, is seriously thinking of making a return to the ring, and has left for New Zealand with his wife and family. When in the Dominion he intends to have two or three contests. Should he show the form which he believes himself capable of, Hill, upon his return to Australia, will be prepared to back himself for £lOO against any of the lightweights. Jimmy would only require to approach his old self to give the best of them a hard battle. New Zealanders will appreciate his cleverness, as the ex-featherweight champion of Australia is certain to make the best of the lightweights step. The European and British welter-weight titles have changed hands. Ted (Kid), Lewis is the ex-champion, the new king of the welters being the young Irishman, Tommy Milligan, who learned his boxing in Scotland and who recently annexed the Scottish welter title from his fellow-towns-man, Johnny Brown. The Lewis-Milligan affray happened in Edinburgh last month, and Milligan showed he was a much more vigorous fighter than the man he overthrew. His hitting was fiercer, and he never slackened his assault on the Londoner. For round after round Milligan harassed Lewis, and after the half-way stage the Londoner’s prospects faded into the limbo of things. The seventeenth round was a bad one for Lewis. He was not nearly so fresh, and a couple of rights to the jaw, followed by a left, made him hang on for safety. This practically put the finishing touches on Lewis, though he held on pluckily. Milligan saw that victory was

within his grasp, and allowed Lewis no quarter. The two last rounds saw Milligan fighting as a champion should. His twohanded work was fine, and it was only Lewis’s hanging on that saved him from getting the full force of the adopted Scot’s punches. It was a good fight, full of interesting periods, but on the night’s showing the rising young Milligan was easily Lewis’s master.

A few months ago Young Stribling was in line for the light heavy-weight title of the world. He was the Biggest Kid in all the U.S.A. Now, instead of motoring round the country on a triumphant tour of stoush, he wears a little cap on the back of his head and wrestles with the atomic theory, trigonometry and the like. He is back at school and liable to be spatted by the masters with the worst of ’em. There is no doubt about it—“Pa” Stribling, not to mention “Ma,” made a big mistake when they sent their son out of such a large purse-getting programme. Pug after pug was disposed of, and then, unexpectedly, came a crushing defeat at the hands of Ed. Stone at Newark. Another reverse followed, and at last “Pa” was made to realise that something was wrong. To his great grief he had to call off a bout with Jack Delaney in Madison Square Garden and a guaranteed purse of 15,000 dollars. His son had been overworked, and the reserves of youth drawn upon to too great an extent. The boy is said to be in bad shape, and though no doubt he will return to the ring after a good rest, there is just a chance that the overworking of him may keep him from developing into the world star he bade fair to become.

One of the greatest assets it is possible for a boxer to possess is a knock-out punch —not the slow weighty delivery which crashes or rather forces its way through the guard of an opponent, and on connecting does no more damage than to bruise him, but the short snappy blow which, when accurately timed, never fails to drop even the most teak-jawed pugilist in his tracks for well over the full count. How many powerfully-built boxers are singularly lacking in punching power? The answer seems to be “quite the majority of them,” says “Milo” in a Wellington paper. The middleweight title was contested by Eddie Parker and Lachie McDonald at Palmerston North on Boxing Day, and if ever two wellconditioned and muscular fighters took the ring, it was last Friday night. Neither of the boys is very tall, and both are of the “sawn-off-Hercules” type, compact, muscular, and rugged. Yet, strangely enough, if their recent contest can be taken as a fair indication of their capabilities, neither of them can punch a little bit. True, both of them are quite capable of removing every available square inch of skin from an opponent by dint of much pounding with swinging punches, but as for stopping a mace with one well-judged blow, this is an art in which both McDonald and Parker appear to be sadly lacking. During their recent contest both of them connected flush to the jaw on several occasions, but the recipient was in no way bothered, and always continued to fight on as hard as before.

“Anybody who has a punch has a chance.” This is the philosophy of the world’s champion, Jack Dempsey, as expounded by him to an American interviewer. “Firpo proved that,” he said. “Of course, I did not expect to be knocked silly with the first punch, or for that matter knocked out of the ring, but it all goes to prove what I say. . . . Anyone who has a punch has a chance. My chin is not made of concrete. When I am hit right’ I go down the same as anyone else. Another thing, I don’t believe all (hat stuff about what a ‘dub’ my friends think my opponent is. I always say to myself, Well, this is a big, tough fellow, and he has two good hands. Besides if he wasn’t something worth while he would not be stacked against the title-holder!’ But I suppose I wlil get it some day. They all do when they are hit in the right place and at the right time. The Frenchman (Carpentier) caught me a nasty punch, and he was supposed to be a soft thing for me. Firpo had my title in his grasp, and yet I was told beforehand that he was a joke. Joke! Well, it came near to the joke being on me. As for retiring, well I haven’t thought about that. Why should I? Boxing is my profession, and I like it. I hope to have a busy time this summer, entertaining Wills, Firpo, and Gibbons. And that’s that.”

“If it goes the distance, Baxter will win on points.” This was pretty general public opinion concerning the clash between Baxter and McDonald. Their opinion was correct, for it went the distance and Baxter won. There were many, however, who were quite decided that McDonald would beat Baxter by the short cut route, but although he tried hard, McDonald never had Baxter in serious trouble. McDonald’s weight was announced at lOst 81b and Baxter’s exactly a stone less, but the difference appeared to be greater. McDonald, too, had a big advantage in reach, but he failed to make the use of this he might have done. He used his weight well, and tried to wear his man down, but the wily Baxter was too clever. The honours of the battle were undoubtedly with Baxter. Against big odds he fough a brainy fight, and at the end the decision in his favour was the only possible one (says the Napier Telegraph). In justice to McDonald it must be stated that generally he was the aggressor, but it was almost heart-breaking (to McDonald at least) to see the way his leads went wrong time after time. Many a wicked-looking drive slashed nothing but air, and it was a tribute to Baxter’s cleverness and speed, especially his footwork, which enabled him to keep clear. Time after time the crowd was moved to generous applause through Baxter’s work, although in the latter rounds some of McDonald’s ducking and dodging was equally as clever. All of McDonald’s deliveries, however, did not go astray, but just when he looked dangerous for the lighter man, he closed in or went for the ropes, and here he was always master. OLD-TIMER TALKS. ONE ROUND WITH JOHNSON. RECOLLECTIONS OF OLD RING DAYS IN SYDNEY. A sudden “gloom” was cast over the office on Thursday afternoon, but the reason for this for quite apparent, says “Milo” of Wellington Evening Post. Peter Felix had called. Even though Peter’s huge black bulk did temporarily interfere with the equal distribution of light, this dusky battler could not have been more welcome, for he has an endless string of stories to relate which cannot fail to delight, the hearts of the fight “fan.” While he is talking he is back with Larry Foley in “White Horse” days in Sydney, and his ebonyhued face continually lights up with a reminiscent smile which displays two rows of splendidly kept white teeth. He makes no secret of his views on modern fighting. “The game’s gone back something awful,” is his way of putting it. “Why should I go to fights? Surely I’ve seen enough of them, and, anyway, I certainly won’t learn anything by following the game as it is at present.” Fifty-eight years ago Peter was born in the island of Santa Cruz, in the West Indies, and his mother was a sister of Peter Jackson’s mother, which means that these two great pugilistic Peters are full-cousins. At the age of fourteen, Felix began to follow the sea, and for fourteen years he sailed the world in wind-jammers—in the days when “the men were made of iron and the ships were made of wood.” His boxing he learnt in Sydney, and it was in Australia where he engaged in the many contests which have caused him to be known as a great fighter. Always, he was battling against hard-hitting opponents and unfair prejudice, for referees were never inclined to look favourably upon this burly darkie, who knew enough about the game to make the best-performed Europeans look like the veriest of novices. “Peter was robbed so many times that after a while he got used to being treated that way,” observed Pat Connors, who accompanied

Felix on his visit to “Milo.” “He’s fought under all conditions—even in the dark.” This latter remark reminded the big Ethiopian of a strange but nevertheless amusing incident which occurred in Western Australia. Peter was billed to fight a big fellow named Bill Doherty, on Saturday night at Kalgoorlie, and on this day an important racing event, the Kalgoorlie Cup, also was to be decided. “Of course,” said Peter with a grin, “we darkies are often known as ‘coons,’ and it was a strange thing that the favourite for the Cup was a horse named ‘The Coon.’- This gave the book-makers a chance to lay a good double, and the two coons the horse and myself, were looked upon as certainties. The bookmakers, however, continued to take this double, and, strangely enough, the Cup was won by The Coon. Then it only remained for me to win to complete a nice clean-up, and everything went well until we got into the ring. The referee must have been ‘in the know’ that something was going to happen, for when he was announcing the conditions he clearly stated that if there were any interruptions he would award the decision to whoever was ahead at the time the contest was stopped. Well, it was in the twelfth round, when I had him licked to a frazzle, that someone at the ringside called out at the top of his voice, ‘Doherty’s beaten,’ and almost the same instant the lights went out. The referee had a big lamp hung up in the centre of the floor, but it cast a shadow over the ring and I refused to continue, calling on him to stand by his word and give the decision. He wouldn’t do this, but announced that the fight would be continued on the following Monday. We did fight on that night, and I beat him by a street on this occasion also, but the referee gave jt a draw. He later admitted to me that was too much money at stake for him to give the decision against Doherty.” Peter also told of the time when he knocked out a heavyweight named Ruefeld, supposed to be a Maori, and the referee, after reaching eight in the count, suddenly declared the fallen man to be the winner. He gave no reason for his action to the surprised house, but he later confided in Felix that “the money laid the wrong way.” In those days, of course, there was no remedy against such unscrupulous officials, and the best that a victimised pugilist could do was to grin and bear it.

One man whom Felix holds in very high regard is the coloured ex-champion, Jack Johnson. This unfortunate fellow, he says, was blamed for a thousand and one questionable transactions about which he knew absolutely nothing. He was a brilliant fighter, and was, in Peter’s opinion, the most good-hearted ringman who ever visited the Commonwealth. Felix was comparatively an old man when he fought Johnson in Sydney, and his stay in the same ring as the world’s champion may well be described as “short and sweet.” “The first punch with which he caught me,” said Peter, “was a right to the body, which, I am sure, lifted me six inches clear of the floor. He let me off three times after that with his right hand—pulled the punch when he could have bowled me like a ninepin—and even then I didn’t manage to last the first round. I’ll say this about Johnson, that he was the most generous man I ever met. People were too ready to believe everything they heard about him simply because his skin was dark, and there were lots of good actions he did—and for white people at that—about which nothing was ever heard. It shows his generosity, when, after all the hundreds of pounds he collected in Australia, he had to borrow enough to pay his fare home. He could not have spent anything like the money he earned on himself.”

The years have dealt kindly with old Peter, and he looks nowhere near his correct age, 58. He now occupies his time travelling with shows—he was a member of the Oscar Asche Company, and at present he is attached to “The Sea Hawk.”