Chapter IV Living by My Muscle
The manly art of self-defense, as practised then, was unhampered by much law or refinement. Still, with all this license, I was too brutish to make a successful prizefighter. My sponsor in this sporting life soon learned that I had a violent temper.
Time and time again I was matched to fight men who were not physically my equals, only to be defeated by them. It was useless to endeavor to impress me with the argument that these fighting matches were merely business engagements, in the same way as the playing of a part by an actor.
I fully understood all that was pointed out to me; would adhere to my instructions for two, perhaps three, rounds of fighting, then would forget all, rules, time limits and all else, to “sail in” with most deadly determination to “do” my opponent at all hazards.
During my brief career as pugilist I only met one man who was of the same brutish temperament as myself—Tommy Gibbons, of Pittsburg—and we fought four encounters.
Of the same age as myself, Gibbons had earned for himself a well-founded reputation for viciousness. He had never been defeated in his own state, and the promoters of this “manly” form of sport were anxious to find a more vicious brute than he to vanquish him.
I was chosen for this mission.
A paper manufacturer, still doing business in New York City, after seeing me “perform” in trial bouts, was induced to “put up” the necessary money for my side of the purse, and we were matched to fight in Pittsburg.
We “weighed in” at one hundred and forty pounds.
This, our first encounter, lasted twenty-seven rounds. The “humanity” of our seconds and backers prevented us from going any further. Our physical condition was the cause for stirring that “humanity.”
We were smeared with blood, but that alone would not have been sufficient to terminate the fight. A broken arm, a torn ear, a gash from eye to lower part of cheek, constituted Tommy Gibbons’ principal injuries. I was damaged to the extent of two broken thumbs and a broken nose, not mentioning minor disfigurements. But, what of that? Had not the noble cause of sport derived a new impetus from our performance? Had not the hearts and aspirations of the “select” crowd of spectators been moved to higher emotions?
We had behaved so right manfully, that, at the ringside, we were matched again for another meeting. In that, after seventeen rounds, I was declared the winner on a “foul” of Gibbons.
Again we were matched, this time to fight according to London prize ring rules—they permitting more latitude for our brutish instincts. It resulted in a “draw,” but not until we had entertained the very flower of the sporting world for forty-three rounds.
Not yet satisfied as to which one of us was the greater brute, another meeting was arranged, and I had the proud distinction of being the victor in this fight of eleven rounds.
Poor Tommy Gibbons took his defeat very much to heart. His fistic prestige was gone, and he went speedily to “the bad.” He ended his busy life at the hands of the hangman, paying therewith the penalty for one of the most horrible murders ever committed.
Too bad that such a promising light in the sporting world should meet with such ignoble end!
My backer, the paper manufacturer, who did so much, by effort and expenditure, for the cause of sport, is still on my list of acquaintances. He is eminently respectable, the father of an adoring family, the model for striving young men, a pillar of his church, a power in commercial life, and, withal, an enthusiastic follower of the Manly Art of Self-Defense, provided the specimen of it is not too tame.
Apropos of the manly art of self-defense I want to record my individual opinion that it is a lost art, if it really has ever been an art. In the knightly art of fencing, skill, artful skill, is necessary and acquired. Not so in boxing; at least not in that branch of boxing which is only practised for money. Men who step into the ring for a “finish fight” are not prompted by the desire of giving a clever exhibition of boxing. Their only desire—if the fight “is on the level”—is to “put out” their man somehow, as quickly as possible, and to collect their end of the purse as promptly as possible. I have seen my quota of fights in my life time, but never one in which claims of “fouls” were not made.
Is it not logical to suppose that leading exponents of their art should be able to give a demonstration of it without resorting to foul means?
Although I have given “physical culture lessons” of a certain kind I have but little knowledge of how boxing lessons are conducted in academies and reputable gymnasiums. The popularity of this branch of athletics indicates that the lessons are conducive to corporal perfection, and teach men how to use their strength to best advantage when driven to the point of defense.
This principle is not observed by “scrappers.” They pay less, if any attention to boxing than to learning tricks of their trade. It is all very well for sporting writers to speak about Fitzsimmons’ and Sullivan’s art, but I am quite sure that one or more efficient tricks is the real mainspring of many pugilistic reputations.
The rules of the prize ring are fair and formed to protect men from foul methods. For that very reason, all the tricks learned—and they are many and efficient—are, if not absolutely fouls, so near the dividing line that the margin of distinction is almost nil.
Through the press of the country we are informed that prizefighters now-a-days make considerable fortunes. Then they did not, and having a surprisingly healthy appetite in a healthy body, the fighting profession sadly delayed the perfect development of my embonpoint.