BOXING.

New Zealand Illustrated Sporting & Dramatic Review, Volume XVI, Issue 914, 12 September 1907, Page 9

BOXING.

(By “ Head Stop.”)

Tom Fennessy (13st 91b) and “Props” Reeder (12st 71b), both well over six feet high, met in "Wren’s Athletic Pavilion, Melbourne, last month in a clumsy scramble through a tenround series of the most extraordinary outrages on the Marquis . of Queensbury rules ever seen in a ring. The men met in a preliminary conversation in the middle of the ring, when the referee distinctly gave them to understand what they could do and what they couldn’t do. The gong sounded, and the contestants started in to do exastly as they pleased, and did it. After a little manoeuvring Fennessy shot in a straight left and hit Reeder on the nose. Reeder swung and missed, and Fennesy, jumping in, got a Cumberland body hold, and raising Reeder chest high tried to hip him, but failed to bring him to the mat. Reeder broke the hold, and swung a right that landed on Fennessy’s neck. He then got his head under his left arm and punched him with his right. The rest of the round and the next three consisted Fennessy meeting Reeder’s rushes with a straight flush poke in the face, and Reeder trying hard for his favourite hold. Most of the time Reeder had Fennessy round the neck, and hung to his hold with the tenacity of a half-hitch. Time after time the referee besought him to let go, but Reeder, who seemed to be satisfied only when he had his opponent’s head in chancery, was far too busy to take any notice of what he considered un-called-for remarks. He simply ground his teeth and snorted, and punched anywhere and everywhere. In the fifth round Fennessy knocked his opponent down, hut Reeder got up •before Fennessy could get on top of him, and rushing in bit Fennessy hard on the ear and brought him down with a cross buttock. Neither of Fennessy’s shoulders was near the mat, however, and no fall being allowed, both men, rising, continued the struggle on their feet. The refeeree at this stage warned the men that they were going very close to a transgression of the rules, but Reeder, who was trying to punch Fennessy on the chin in the break away, told the referee to “keep away,” a request the referee courteously complied with. In the seventh round Reeder, who had been catching Fennessy’s left hand on the point of his nose time after time with wonderful smartness, at length managed behind the referee’s back to hit Fennessy on the chin, and, knocking him down, stood over the top of him making unpleasant remarks and gnashing his teeth, but was eventually prevailed upon to move back a bit at the earnest solicitation of the referee, who appeared to be extremely distressed concerning the excess of feeling the men had brought to bear upon their In the eighth round the two boxers and the referee got all mixed up together, and fell on the floor in a heap, and when Reeder got up he had a large black eye tinged with orange, and with a tint of green in it. It certainly was a remarkable ooking optic, a.-nd nobody seemed to know who had given it to him. The referee was suspected by many. He certainly had plenty of provocation, but all rightthinking people agreed that it couldn’t fairly be attributed to him, for the only time he interfered was when the men caught him, and then he had always cautioned them to be careful. The boxers continued to roll over and over each other, but neither could gain a decisive fall. Once Reeder got Fennessy nearly on two shoulders, but Fennessy “ bridged,” and got on the spread. Reeder’s seconds appealed for a fall, but it wasn’t allowed. Reeder then turned him with a halfNelson, and sat on his stomach, but try as he might he could not get both shoulders down. The ninth and tenth rounds were similar, and in the middle of some real exciting work on the floor, while Fennessy was on top, the referee declared him the winner on points.

The crowd had howled themselves to a state of hysteria, and most of them were convulsed with laughter, and the last thing seen before the crowd rushed the ring was Reeder lying back in his corner gazing defiantly out of one eye, while big Tom Fennessy was wildly waving his arms over the heads of the roaring spectators like an excited politician bereft of his clothes. The Melbourne “ Age” suggests that the next time these men meet in “ friendly rivalry” the referee should be armed with a gun or a quarter-staff.

Tommy Hanley, of Australia, and Godfrey, the local champion, will meet in a glove contest at Wellington, under the auspices of the Wellington Association, on November 25th inst. * * * * Squires has accepted Wren’s advice to try to get a match with some other boxer, for last week he cabled: “ Matched against Jack Sullivan, September 28, at Colma.” Squires’ prospective opponent is known as “ Twin” Sullivan, and he must be a fair class of boxer, as he fought Burns a 20rounds’ draw, and afterwards beat the same boxer on points in a match which lasted 20 rounds. This was in 1905, and Burns was probably not as good then as he has since proved himself to be. Sullivan is a middleweight, and one of his latest fights was in America against the English boxer, Palmer, whom he defeated. Jack Sullivan is’ one of twin fighting brothers, the other being Mike of that ilk, and both have fine records. Jack Sullivan made pretty short work of Palmer, an ex-champion of England, whom Mike Williams beat once in South Africa, and who has a notch against Williams, gained through a foul. Jack Sullivan certainly was a middle-weight, but is such no longer. All his later battles have been with heavy-weights. He was fighting round about Dawson City, Klondyke, last year, and there defeated those big fellows, Billy Bates and Nick Burley. If Bill Squires gets away with Jack Sullivan, he can claim recognition from all America’s heavyweights bar the absolute champion. The fixing-up of the match is certainly a good move, which it is to be hoped will serve the purpose in view, viz., the placing of “ our Bill” among the top-rungers again, and better seasoned for what he may be called upon to do. * * * * The American comic poets must be in a parlous way, judging by some of their effusions of the Squires debacle. Their work shows a sad ignorance of the geographical, natural and physical features of Australia, and speaks but too plainly of the poor system of State education in the United States. Here are some samples of their drivel: — “THE BLOOMIN’ KANGAROO.” (By W. O. McGeehan). (Before). “’E’s a rugged sort of beggar, Hand ’e as a wallop, too, Hand ’e’s blawsted good at boxing,” Said the bloomin’ Kangaroo. “’E’s a bucketful of ginger, With a cannon cracker bang, Hand e’s always dancing at you Like a blawsted boomerang. “ ’E’s a ’itter, ’e’s a wonder, Hand you ought to see ’im duck, Bly’me, I feel blawsted sorry For your blawsted poor Kanuck. Hi will wager hall my money Hand my blawsted wardrobe, too; Hi will wager you the islands,” Said the bloomin Kangaroo. (After). “ Ho, I say there, what’s the matter? Can my blawsted heyes see true? Oo was that shot the beggar ?” Asked the bloomin’ Kangaroo. “’E ain’t out, e’s only kidding, ’E got kicked by some big mule; ’lt ’im, Bill, you blawsted bushman, Ho, get up, you bloomin’ fool. “Ho, I say there, Bill, old chappie, Don’t lie down too blawsted long; Lift your ’ands and kill the beggar, Blawst my heyes, there goes the gong, Hit’s a long way to the island, But the seas are smooth and blue, So I’m swimming to Australia,” Said the bloomin’ Kangaroo. “BACK TO THE MINE. (By “Waldemar Young.”) “ I’m Boshter Billiam Squires, and I’m on me way for ’ome, While Barney with his blarney olds me ’ead. And if anyone inquires

For a champion named Squires, Just say for me I’m not a champ— I’m dead.” Australia’s pride assuredly tried, but was lacking a bit of luck; He might know how to handle a plough, but never a bold Kanuck. He’s a modest lad and it’s really sad that he ran against a clout, An awful bump—did you see the hump, as he staggered down and out ? He’s thinking yet of the coin he bet, the work of his brawny hand, And he’s wondering if, in a rowing skiff, he could find his native land. He has had his fling in the' canvassed ring and is off on the tossing brine; He is going home, no more to roam—back to the waiting mine. “ I’m Boshter Billiam Squires, and I’m on me way for ’ome, With Barney and his blarney o’er the sea; I have done me bloomin’ tasks, Just tell any one that asks That Australia’s plenty good enough for me.” “NOT GAWN, BILL.” You did wot was hexpected, Boshter Bill. Your boko was neglected, Boshter Bill. We hexpected hof that paste Somew’er hup habove the waist, But wy such a bally ’aste, Boshter Bill. Hand you’re gawn to sile for ’ome, Boshter Bill, With a goose heg on your dome, Boshter Bill. Hit stroikes hus rather queer You don’t linger hover ’ere, Wheere the oof birds ’over near. Boshter Bill. They are many you can lick, Boshter Bill. Tho’ they may be pale and sick, Boshter Bill. Just stick habout a bit, Han’ hexpline ’ow you were ’it. The suckers stand for hit , Boshter Bill. —“ Chicago Tribune.” These numbskull efforts have produced the following from our indignant office boy: — UNCLE SAM. You were always full of skite Uncle Sam I More of skite than of fight Uncle Sam I You loom up a grim, gaunt figger, Full of sarcasm and snigger, But you draw the line at nigger Uncle Sam! If your fighters are so great Uncle Sam, Why did they hesitate Uncle Sam ? When our ’Strallan boxer Jackson Put a very heavy tax on Your world-beaters, wax on Uncle Sam. Fitzsimmons wasn’t Yankee, Uncle Sam ! And our Bill Beach gave you twankee Uncle Sam ! Though you’ve Stars and Stripes in four rows Flaunting o’er their Plaza Toros, Yet you cannot beat the Moros Uncle Sam ! Burns isn’t Yankee bred Uncle Sam ! He’s Canadian we have read Uncle Sam ! So don’t brag about your fighters And your “ bar the colour” skiters, ’Cause we don’t for all the blighters Give a .