by Graeme Kent
The manager did, however, provide his new heavyweight with a fight plan. Morgan informed Levinsky that when the bell rang to start the first round, Flynn usually remained facing his own corner post, rippling his back muscles in order to intimidate his opponent, before turning to start fighting. Morgan instructed Levinsky at the bell to cross the ring swiftly but stealthily and to be standing within punching range of his opponent as the heavyweight turned.
Levinsky obeyed orders to the last detail. When Flynn had completed his muscle-flexing act and whirled round to race to the centre of the ring and open fire, Levinsky was already standing facing him. The Philadelphia man promptly let fly with his best shot. If the Battler had been a puncher, the whistling left hook that he sent over might have disposed of the rugged Flynn in record time. As it was, the punch staggered the big man and closed one of his eyes.
At ringside, Dumb Dan sighed contentedly. ‘Run!’ he shouted to his new charge. Levinsky needed no such encouragement. He went on the retreat and boxed the stunned Flynn silly for the rest of the night. At the end of the ten-round, no-decision bout, Levinsky was given the unanimous decisions of the sports writers and Morgan had himself a White Hope.
In Levinsky the manager discovered that he had a workaholic, prepared to fight as often as Morgan could book him into a stadium. In 1914, the Battler had thirty-five contests, while in the following year he entered the ring on twenty-eight occasions. These were just Levinsky’s recorded bouts. With substitute appearances and the odd moonlighting fight the total could well have been much higher.
The Battler barred no one. He survived no-decision contests with such White Hopes as Fireman Jim Flynn, Jim Coffey, Tony Ross, Gunboat Smith, Tom Cowler, and many others. Morgan capitalised on the boxer’s known willingness to fight by issuing all sorts of completely untrue press releases about Levinsky’s crowded schedule. One flyer, for example, claimed that the heavyweight had engaged in three fights on one day on 1 January 1915, in Brooklyn in the morning, Manhattan in the afternoon and Connecticut in the evening. Equally lacking in foundation was the story featured in many newspapers that Levinsky had been whisked out in the first act of a show he had been attending with his wife to box as a substitute a few blocks away, had lasted the distance and had rejoined Mrs Levinsky before the final curtain.
Nevertheless, the Battler’s genuine schedule was impressive enough. For most of his career no one could put Levinsky away, but unfortunately his boxing style was so negative that he never got a shot at the World Heavyweight Championship.
Even here Dumb Dan Morgan was able to swing matters his fighter’s way. The World Light Heavyweight Championship had rather fallen into abeyance with the retirement of Philadelphia Jack O’Brien. One day the manager of a fighter called Jack Dillon, who had knocked the gigantic Jim Coffey out of contention as a White Hope, was bemoaning the fact that his fighter was too light to secure lucrative bouts in the heavyweight class and that he needed a gimmick to attract promoters. Naturally, Dumb Dan took this as a professional challenge. He hired a couple of typists for a day and got them to write to every major sports writer in the country, announcing that Jack Dillon was now the light-heavyweight champion of the world. ‘You just announced it,’ he said matter-offactly afterwards. ‘That was all there was to it.’
The ploy worked. Dillon became universally recognised as the new light-heavyweight champion. This boosted his standing and as a result he was able to secure lucrative bouts with Gunboat Smith and Fireman Jim Flynn, among others. This sudden success for Dillon and his manager began to rankle with Dumb Dan. After all, it had been his idea to claim the light-heavyweight championship for Dillon. It was time that Levinsky, his own fighter, got onto the gravy train.
Some years later, in 1916, Dumb Dan challenged Dillon to defend his title against Battling Levinsky. Dillon agreed without giving the matter a lot of thought. After all, he and Levinsky had already met in at least five no-decision contests and one draw without harming one another. In fact they had also fought a no-decision bout as far back as 1911, when Levinsky was still fighting out of Philadelphia as Barney Williams. So the two men met again, this time for the championship. Levinsky won and was able to claim the lightheavyweight title as his own.
His new championship came as something of a sop to Levinsky. He still went in with the major heavyweight White Hopes, though the newspaper decisions were beginning to go against him as he aged. But he placidly continued to be true to his style of circling, retreating and tying up all comers and thus avoiding major damage. Altogether he fought from 1906 until 1929, taking part in over 300 contests.
12
THE POTTAWATOMIE GIANT
Slowly, almost by default, a White Hope emerged to make a serious challenge to Jack Johnson. His name was Jess Willard and he was a giant of a man. He had been born in St Clere, Kansas, in 1881, the youngest of four brothers. His father, a Civil War veteran, had died at the age of 37 from the long-term effects of wounds sustained in battle. Willard had grown up on his stepfather’s ranch, but his ambition to become a cowboy had to be abandoned when he grew to an enormous size.
Instead he had earned a living for a time by breaking in and trading horses, often obtaining his wild mounts from the local Pottawatomie Native Americans and selling them on to ranchers. For a time he became a teamster, transporting goods in wagons. When times were hard the big man had settled down to a general labouring job among horses in a stable. On 28 March 1908, Jess Willard got married and started thinking about better ways of earning a living. This led him to a gymnasium and a boxing career.
He had shown no natural aptitude for the sport, and when he had first tried out as a boxer in Oklahoma City in 1910, he was completely outsmarted by a welterweight, who had spotted Willard a hundred pounds and still driven the big man in confusion from the gym. Later, after he had taken a hard punch in a fight against Joe Cox, Willard suddenly stopped fighting, pushed the referee in front of his opponent and stood behind the official, quitting on the spot, claiming that he had been warned by gangsters that it would be unsafe for him to continue. As in his previous contest Cox had been knocked out in two rounds by Fireman Jim Flynn and was to be stopped by Luther McCarty in six in his next bout, Willard’s actions were regarded with contempt in fight circles.
Nevertheless, the gigantic heavyweight managed to build up a successful record, mostly in and around Oklahoma, although his purses were small because he was such an unexciting fighter. Oklahoma had only been a state since 1907, and Oklahoma City had a population of about 65,000, so Willard was not exactly fighting at the centre of the fistic universe. He lost his first bout on a foul to Louis Fink on 15 February 1911, but after that built up a string of victories until his bizarre retirement against Joe Cox.
There was no doubt that Willard was an immensely strong man. He stood 6ft 5in tall, although his publicists claimed that he was an inch taller, had a reach of 83 inches and weighed 18 stone. He had a long, hard left jab, and, when he wanted to use it, a crushing right hand. He was, however, a cautious, unimaginative man and not a natural fighter. Unless he was roused to action, his bouts tended to be dull.
Once he had obtained the services of a good manager and publicist, and had been carefully guided through the ranks of the White Hopes, all sorts of stories were spread about how the big man came to take up boxing. One of them was that he had beaten up a couple of feared gunfighters in a saloon brawl and decided that fighting for cash would be a cinch. Another was that he had been spotted tossing huge bales of hay weighing 500lb each onto a cart and had been persuaded to adapt his strength for the boxing ring.
Willard’s grandson said that the more likely reason was that Willard saw his first professional bout at the Union Athletic Club while on a visit to Oklahoma City and had heard that there was money to be made from the fight game, especially for white heavyweights. As a poorly paid livery-stable worker with a wife and family to support, the prospect appealed to Willard and he decided to explore the possibilities.
&
nbsp; Years later, he wrote of his feelings at the time: ‘I knew that I was a big fellow and powerful strong. I just sat down and figured out that a man as big as me ought to be able to cash in on his size and that was what started me on the road to boxing.’
First he approached Billy McCarney, the leading promoter and manager in the area. After running his eye over Willard in the gym and witnessing his less-than-glorious display against the welterweight, McCarney at first passed on the opportunity to back the young giant. For a time Willard was passed from handler to handler. They were all impressed by his size but put off by his clumsiness and lack of enterprise in the ring. Then a manager called Brock had to flee from the law, leaving Willard unpaid from a bout and almost starving, and he was taken over by Jimmy Bronson.
Halfway through 1911, Willard started training at Billy McCarney’s gymnasium for the fight with Joe Cox. It was then that the conniving McCarney persuaded the touring Victor McLaglen to fight Willard in the gym and charged fifty cents a head for the spectators to watch Willard demolish the music-hall performer.
Any reputation that Willard might have earned in his unofficial bout with McLaglen was destroyed when he quit against Joe Cox on 16 July 1911. McCarney and Jimmy Bronson both decided that there was too much dog in the huge man for him ever to become a successful White Hope.
Almost in despair Willard went to Chicago. Here he persuaded Charles Kid Cutler to manage and train him. Cutler was an old heavyweight who had been managed by John L. Sullivan until he had been knocked out in one round by Jack Johnson, and then taken on as a sparring partner in Johnson’s music-hall act. Cutler did his best to instil a little skill and determination into his new heavyweight, and even took Willard into his home to feed him up.
Cutler taught Willard well and in 1912 the giant won a couple of fights and looked quite good in the process. In fact he performed a little too well, because at this juncture another manager stole Jess Willard from Kid Cutler. It amazed onlookers that anyone would want the Kansan heavyweight, but he was big, and any giant had some sort of chance in the current spate of no-decision bouts with newspaper verdicts delivered by venal, easily bribed sports writers. As White Hope Frank Moran remarked wryly, ‘When you go near a pressman in America you’ve got to make a noise like soft money.’
The man who wanted to take on the Kansan was Tom Jones, a bald, one-time Illinois barber. He seduced Willard away from Kid Cutler by promising to take him to New York, where the big money was to be had. The ungrateful Willard agreed and tiptoed away from Cutler into the night, without bothering to look back. This defection was regarded as unethical even by prevailing boxing standards, and Willard was forced to justify his flight in the Milwaukee Free Press of 13 April 1913. The giant told a reporter, ‘Cutler and I are not only old friends but good cronies. I like him and he likes me, but just the same we have not made much progress as a team. This is a time when I should be getting matches and making money and I find myself idle most of the time. I need someone who knows the managerial game and who can further my interest as well as his own.’
The chicanery had its repercussions a few years later when the Kid caught up with Jones in a Chicago bar, floored the manager with one mighty punch and made him pay $5,000 for the big man’s contract.
There was no doubt that the cunning and well-connected Jones was the right manager for Willard at this stage of his career. The Milwaukee Free Press of 13 March 1913 acknowledged this: ‘If there is any class to Willard at all, Jones will have him in the top flight, where the plums hang lowest, in a very short time.’
Willard took some time to settle down but slowly began to make headway. He knocked out Sailor White in the first round, and in a bout with Soldier Kearns he hit his opponent so hard that ringsiders swore that the soldier had been lifted inches off the ground by the blow.
Meanwhile, Tom Jones did his best to build up Willard’s reputation. He made the heavyweight don a ten-gallon hat and wear boots with lifts in order to emphasise his height. Wearing this attire Willard was introduced from the ring at big tournaments as the former cowboy who had abandoned his spread to win back the heavyweight title. All the same, those in the know bemoaned Willard’s lack of aggression. Timekeeper George Bannon, who worked several of Willard’s New York fights, summed up the opinion of many when he said simply, ‘I don’t think he liked to fight. I think he only fought for the money that was in it.’
Not everything went according to plan. In 1913, Willard lost on points over twenty rounds to White Hope Gunboat Smith in San Francisco. In the process the ex-cowboy managed, not for the first time, to drive his handlers to distraction. The Milwaukee Free Press of 1 June 1913 reported, ‘there was friction in the Kansan’s corner . . . poor Willard was the victim of conflicting instructions. Some of his henchmen were yelling to him to “go in” and others to “keep away”. During the hubbub, Manager Tom Jones grabbed one of the aids by the hair and nearly succeeded in making him as bald-headed as Jones is himself.’
Worse was to come. On 22 August 1913, Willard was matched with the journeyman fighter Bull Young, billed as the Wyoming Plainsman, in Vernon, California. Halfway through the bout Young stung Willard with several sharp blows. Jolted out of his lethargy Willard fought back with unaccustomed spirit. By the eleventh round he was landing some very hard right hands, punching for once with all his weight. Bull Young suddenly collapsed beneath Willard’s onslaught. He lapsed into a coma and died. Willard, his manager and the promoter were all arrested for manslaughter but were acquitted. The Philadelphia Inquirer of 27 August 1913 described the result of the trial. ‘The death of “Bull” Young was “unintentional” by Jess Willard according to the verdict of a coroner’s jury . . . The death was caused, the verdict said, “by contusion of the jaw due to a blow on the chin delivered by Jess Willard”.’
These events had a traumatic effect on the big heavyweight and he seldom punched his full weight again. This led to a temporary slump in his record, compounded when Jimmy Johnston persuaded the nervous Willard that his fighter Boer Rodel had a bad heart, so that Willard treated the South African in the ring with the greatest of care until Rodel connected with a knockout punch in the tenth round. Later Willard tried to explain his philosophy: ‘I never hurt any of my opponents before the eighth round because not one of them was able to hurt me much before the eighth round, and when they did hurt me I got real mad and just swung on them and settled matters as quickly as I could.’ Unfortunately, he could not harm the better White Hopes even when his dander was up. However, the ghoulish fact that he had killed a man in the ring was used in Willard’s publicity build-up and was one of the factors which finally secured him a shot at the world title.
In Europe, after the financial fiasco of his bout with Frank Moran, Jack Johnson was almost broke and desperate to fight again. It was 1914, and there were newspaper calls for the world champion to join the French Army and fight for the nation which had given him shelter. His finances were so low that Johnson was even reduced to contemplating fighting Sam Langford again. He had received none of the $14,000 he had been promised for fighting Frank Moran, he was still living expensively, and bookings for his not-very-good music-hall act had all but dried up.
Promoter Jack Curley got to hear of the champion’s plight, and in 1914 he cabled Johnson, who was in Moscow, and the two men agreed to meet in Paris. However, the war was now raging in France and their meeting took place in London instead. The two men had got on quite well when the promoter had put on Johnson’s last title defence in the USA, against Fireman Jim Flynn in 1912, but the black fighter was willing to consider propositions from almost anyone.
Curley’s first suggestion was dismissed by the champion as being too fanciful. The promoter had come up with the idea of a title defence in Mexico, sponsored by none other than the rebel leader Pancho Villa. Johnson refused on two grounds. On the one hand, an area swept by rebellions and counter-insurgencies might not be the most stable as far as receiving the purse money was concerned. On the ot
her, if the region were to enter a period of stability then the authorities might like to curry favour with the USA by handing Johnson back across the border.
Jack Johnson told Curley that he was all in favour of a title defence, but that the promoter would have to go away and come up with a more likely venue and a suitable opponent. The bout could not be held in the USA because the champion would be arrested as soon as he tried to return home. It was agreed that Johnson would receive $30,000, an additional $1,000 expenses and a share of the motion-picture rights. The challenger would practically have to buy his chance of the title, receiving half of what was left after Johnson had been paid and all expenses were taken care of. Curley also hinted that he would be able to bring influence to bear in certain quarters to allow Johnson back into the USA and to gain him a federal pardon. The promoter then left to put the wheels in motion.
When the news reached the USA that Johnson was up for a title defence, it caused a flurry of excitement among the White Hopes and their backers. It was generally agreed that, after the death of Luther McCarty, the two leading contenders, almost by default, were big Jess Willard and Gunboat Smith. Smith had the edge on the other man by virtue of an easy victory over Willard and a superior record. On the other hand, on several occasions Smith, a former sparring partner of the champion, had seemed reluctant to go into the ring on serious terms with Johnson. There was also the matter of Smith’s odd defeat at the hands of the Frenchman Carpentier and the more convincing crushing he’d received at the hands of Sam Langford.
Willard’s record was by no means bad. By this time he had had thirty fights, with twenty-one wins, including eighteen knockouts, four losses, and a number of no-decision bouts. There was no doubt, either, that Willard had the connections. By 1914, the Kansan was almost overmanaged. Others had weaselled their way in to give Tom Jones immoral support, and it was estimated that now the big white heavyweight owned only 25 per cent of himself. The rest of his purses went to his backers.
