BOXING.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 4, 27 July 1910, Page 8

BOXING.

To Fight Jack Johnson, AMERICA'S HOPE. THE AMATEUR CHAMPION. Warren Barbour, amateur heavy* weight champion of America, is considering whether he will leave the amateur ranks in order to endeavour to accomplish the task that proved over much for Jeffries. Barbour is known throughout America as the “society heavy-weight champion.” He is the son of Colonel William Barbour, a multi-millionaire thread manufacturer, of New’ York, a man with the facial fascination of a beauty actor, a member of the exclusive Four Hundred, who constitute New York society, and the most sought youth in America today by match-making mothers. Like many other great athletes, young Barbour owes his prowess to the delicacy of his boyhood. He is now 21, but four, years ago, when, as a lad of 17, he entered Princeton University, his health was so uncertain that his parents were afraid to let him take part in strenuous sport. At that time the boy was 6ft high, and weighed 17.0, facts that led tho football coaches of the college to seize upon him as a likely player. But he w’as as soft as butter. He had grown too fast for his health, and football proved so exhausting that, at last, his father eried a halt, took him away from the University, and put him on a high stool in his own office, where his exertions "were restricted to hauling on the levers of the copying press. It was his mother who was responsible for his becoming to-day the idol of athletic America, and the man to whom all America must be looking, after the debacle of July 4, to rehabilitate the physical supremacy of the Caucasian. Mrs Barbour is strong on science. While she agreed with her husband that the rough and tumble of college football might result disastrously for their son, she argued that scientifically-applied physical culture ought to be just the proper treatment for a youngster who could get on to one side of the scale and weigh down two ordinary boys of his age. She ’phoned an expert, and the expert, knowing the financial standing of the Barbour menage, agreed that physical culture, according to his system, was precisely what was wanted, though his system was so scientific that it was expensive, and apt to weigh heavily on the slender resources of the suffering proletariat. Mrs Barbour said the Four Hundred's equivalent for “hang the expense,” and told him to get a move on with little Warry’s physique at 8 a.m. next day. At the marble palace of the Barbour family the expert felt as an Arabian Nights’ hero would have felt had he intruded on a caucus meeting of the Giants’ Union. Colonel Barbour, who welcomed him in a hall glittering with old masters at £2OOO a time, was 6ft lin high, and built in proportion. Mrs Barbour, who swept down the rouge marble staircase clad in a £5OO Worth gown, rose to an altitude of Oft; Henry Barbour, the eldest son, who expressed a hope that the expert would put Warry right, looked ever the heads of his father and mother

without straining his neck. He was 6ft ttin high, and went 18.0, “without being fat.” Harold Barbour, who stood on a Persian rug that cost £1250, and gave inoral support to the gathering, was a little fellow only Oft 3in high, while his slab-sized form turned the scale at only 10.5. The physical culture expert was so overcome that he nearly upset a vase that once belonged to the Doge of Venice, and which Colonel Barbour had bought during a European visit for £3BOO.

Next day Warren Barbour started his work. He proved the best training athlete who ever- occupied a prominent position in the United States. Most athletes are willing enough for competitive events, but they look askance at the drudgery of training. Not so with Warren Barbour. He simply revelled in toying with masses of pig-iron in the seclusion of the expert's gymnasium. He took the same delight in laborious extension motions that mean nothing that the average lad does in winning a hard-fought contest. The expert couldn’t drive him away from his work. He liked training better than most people like eating. Warren Barbour decreased in weight and increased in hardness. From being a big, soft,clumsy lad, he became an active, agile man. His movements became graceful, his eye bright. The flabbiness left his cheeks, and he began to gain a reputation as a beauty man. The girls of the Four Hundred commenced to sit up and take notice. Ladies connected with the theatrical profession started to confide to one another that Warren Barbour was one of the nicest boys in the Republic. But Warren Barbour took no hints. He seemed to regard the society girls as a bore, and the high-heeled shoes and dainty lace petticoats of the show girls in their hours of ease made him yawn. He was a Galahad of the ring. “I’ll always be an athlete,” he announced. “It’s one of the only things worth while.” Neither had the company of other millionaires’ sons any attractions for him. References to European trips, golfing, motor-racing, tarpon fishing at Florida, nor the joys of little old New York, with its cold bots and hot burrds, took his thoughts from the arena of sport. Warren Barbour had no use for the little brothers of the rich. He sought his friends among the men with the round heads and the hard muscles.

His physique firmly established, the expert tried out Barbour at various sports, and the first day he put on the gloves he was hailed as a natural fighter. It was decided that his career should be in the ring, and Barbour - became a slave of the ring, more devoted than any genie who suffered solitary confinement in a bottle. He became a boxer of outstanding ability among amateurs. Coupled with immense bulk and strength, he developed wonderful speed. Charlie White, the famous referee, happening in one afternoon without knowing -the identity of the society fighter, refused to believe that he was not a professional. “That boy’s got the finish and style of the man who fights for his living,” said White. Barbour developed confidence. He was 19, and wanted to enter for the national championship. “Not on your life,” said the expert. “Next year for yours.” And Barbour, disappointed, but quite content, went back to his labour of love of giving and taking solid punches from all heavyweights who could be persuaded to mix it with him. After a time these were all professionals. Amateurs weren’t “taking any.” Every day Barbour fought—not boxed—for the contests were so willing that there were always from a score to 100 onlookers.

The national championships came round again, and the expert gave his consent. Barbour entered. During the last 10 days of his training his hitting grew so powerful that his professional sparring partners couldn't pace it with him. One, Mick McDonough, who has put up some good fights against half a dozen American fighters in the champion class, was knocked down six times, and forgot to come up for the seventh. Tom Kennedy had enough after one round, and left saying he would take on an easier job, as sparring partner with Al Kaufman, one of Jack Johnson’s late opponents.

On the first night of the championship he drew a bye, and saw Day, the champion of Canada, beaten by Salisbury, a burly trolly-driver, against whom Barbour was drawn for the next bout. There was a large attendance for this, and those who did not know Barbour thought it would be great fun to see the pampered son of wealth knocked about by the sturdy worker of the wharves. But the pampered son of wealth declined to provide the element of humour. Following

the advice of his corner, he contented himself with outpointing his adversary. But it was in the final that the millionaire pug. simply paralysed the followers of the game. His hitting and side-step-ping and smothering were perfect. Burke, the holder of the ehampionship, who opposed him, might have been a featherweight. Barbour - simply played with him. Before the end of the first round he had demonstrated his ability so eloquently that Twin Sullivan, who was at the ringside, swore that he was a strange pro., wdio had been rung in under the name of Barbour. In the first minute of the second round Burke was clean knocked down twice, and came up to meet an uppercut that sent him out, Barbour ibreaking a bone in his right finger by the force of the hit.

There were 100 millionaires present at this fight, and Colonel Barbour, hysterical with joy at his son’s success, called on them all to go to supper at the Hotel Touranne. As the procession of motorcars shot along Broadway the proud old man stood up and tossed out 10-dolkir notes to the newsboys in the street. This is the man that the eyes of America now centre on as a possible victor over Johnson. Whether he will be satisfied to forfeit his amateur status is uncertain, but it must be remembered that professionalism in athletics does not carry with it in America the stigma that attaches in England. Barbour, whose name is now known among all followers of pugilism in the United States, is said to be undoubtedly a better man than any living fighter, barring only Jeffries and Johnson. He is bigger and stronger than Ketchell, a better tactician than either Ruhlin or Kaufman, or either of the Sullivans, and quicker than any of them. His hitting is harder than that of Papke or - Marvin Hart, and though there is generally an immense gap between the best amateur and the mediocre professional, Barbour is said to have so much to spare in his superior-

ity over other amateurs that he is able to hold his own with the best. In addition to other qualifications, Barbour has the advantage of youth. He has just turned 21, while Johnson has already reached an ago when most athletes are regarded as has-bocua*