by Jim Tully
After a tirade of such talk, the chairman, fully convinced, but trying to hide it, drawled, “All right, Tim, but—we can’t take a chance—Harry Sully’d knock him clear outta the ring.”
“You think so,” snorted Haney. “There ain’t nobody knockin’ this bozo out of the ring. You see him go once an’ you’ll swear he’s got cyclones in his gloves. He blisters the air when he misses.”
The chairman looked indifferent. His manner irritated Haney, who said tersely,
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do-if he don’t lick Sully, I’ll kick in the four hundred.”
“Oh well, we wouldn’t have you do that,” said the chairman with more warmth.
“The devil you wouldn’t. Don’t try to kid any old kidder like me.” Silent Tim Haney frowned.
“Well—if you’d rather—we’ll take your offer,” returned the chairman.
“It’s too late—I take it back,” snapped Haney. “I’ll make you another. If he don’t win, he gets half of four centuries. If he does—he gets four hundred dollars.”
The directors looked startled.
“It’s a fair offer,” said Haney. “If he licks Sully he’s a card. If he don’t—you’ll see a great fight anyhow.”
“But how can he expect to lick Sully?” asked a director. “And how do we know he’s a great fighter?”
“I’m telling you he’s a great fighter. Don’t worry about what he’s done before. Who was young Corbett till he knocked McGovern silly? He learned the game in the tanks whippin’ a lot of mighty good men. There’s not much difference between a first and second rater … lots of times it’s as hard to lick one as the other. I’ve seen fighters wake up in the morning great fighters. Something happens to them. This kid’s about found himself. I can tell.”
“But we’re not stickin’ around till fighters wake up,” a director said.
“Well, have it your way,” returned Silent Tim, “I know more about this kid’n he thinks I do. I saw him belt Eddie Flynn out in less’n two minutes. Flynn might never be a champeen but he might lick a champeen—there’s no palookas knockin’ him over—it takes a hell of a good man to lick another good man in two minutes.”
“Maybe he got him cold,” said the chairman.
“Cold or hot,” Silent Tim came back, “not till you’ve been in there will you ever know how hard and swift a punch or how good a man it takes to knock a fighter like Flynn over. Ketchell popped up over night, didn’t he? And he was always a great fighter.”
“Who else did Rory lick?” asked the chairman.
“Blinky Miller for one—knocked him bow-legged. He sat down like a Buddha an’ rolled over.”
“Not the Blinky Miller?” two directors asked.
“Yeap—that’s him—I don’t want Wilson to know that—he won’t throw Sully in with a boy who can punch hard enough to drop Miller.”
“Who else did he lick?”
“Barney McCoy and Gunner Maley—he got ’em in a round like he did Flynn.”
The chairman looked at the clock. “All right, Tim—it’s on—we have confidence in you.”
“Shake,” said Haney.
On the night of the fight, Shane Rory skipped down the aisle with a ragged bath-towel thrown across his shoulders.
The open air building was cold. He worked his feet deep into the resin box in one corner of the ring and drew the towel about him.
Shane’s second patted his shoulder as the referee called the fighters to the center of the ring.
“He’s built like a brick barn,” a ringsider said, glancing at Rory’s slender waist and wide shoulders.
“You mean a tiger,” said another.
Smooth as still water, Shane’s muscles were without bulge. He walked as though highly resilient rubber were in his heels.
Sully, a red silk robe on his well-conditioned body, looked indifferently at his adversary, and then at the canvas floor. The audience cheered.
Both pugilists nodded approval of the instructions.
The gong sounded.
Silent Tim Haney watched from a ringside seat while the fighters maneuvered for openings.
None came during the first round.
After the bell rang for the second, Sully butted Rory.
There was a deep cut above his eye. His second tried to talk to him during the minute’s rest.
“I’m fightin’ this fight,” he said, “I’ll knock him back in the dollar seats before I’m through.”
The bell clanged.
Shane’s head was down. Sully ripped a right from his toes. It caught Shane on the chin. He rolled with the punch; then charged. It was as if a tiger sprang.
Sully’s body turned red under the thunder of blows. He sank and got up again.
Shane was on his toes, sizzling murderous punches. All hit their target. Sully sagged, and backed away from the fusillade. Rory tore in, his lips set, his eyes narrowed.
When the round ended, Sully was across the ropes.
His seconds hurried to him.
When the fourth round came, the applause had not subsided. Men stood upon their seats. Sully was not through.
His blood-soaked glove ripped upward. Rory went down. At the count of eight, he saw men fly through the air, carrying their chairs with them.
At nine he was up. Sully was upon him.
Blows cracked, swift as bullets. They stood in close. Under the merciless pounding, Sully crumpled and rolled over three times.
He was up before the count of ten, and charging Shane, head downward. The wound above Shane’s eye bled profusely.
His seconds were unable to stop the flow of blood between rounds.
The referee looked at the deep wound and awarded the fight to Sully.
“Thank God,” groaned Al Wilson.
Shane sneered in his corner. “They’re a lot of sissies—afraid of a little blood.”
“It’s for the good of the game,” soothed Silent Tim Haney. “You oughta be glad you made such a showin’.”
“Huh,” grunted Shane, “you ain’t never seen a good fighter.”
Silent Tim was abashed in the presence of such confidence. Before he recovered from his surprise, Shane added, “I kin live on turnips and lick stumble bums like him.”
“It’s tough he cut your eye open,” said Silent Tim Haney.
“Why should that make any difference—I kin lick him blind—and here I’m loser—I’m gettin’ out of here tomorrow.”
Silent Tim took Shane to his small hotel.
When he called the next day, Shane had gone.
VII
A barrel-shaped man, Silent Tim moved in his rough world without friction. His iron-gray hair was straight as wire. Gentle on the surface and never flustered, he early discovered that honeyed words were harder to dispute. He would often lapse into brogue.
“It’s too bad he never gets a break—he’s got a big brain,” was Wild Joe Ryan’s opinion of him. Wild Joe was a jewelry salesman whose hobby was pugilism. His entire world consisted of characters connected with the ring. Wherever a national contest was held, Wild Joe Ryan was among those present. About as wild as Tim Haney was silent, he had carried the nickname for years. He talked of ring dignitaries with deep respect. His conversation was full of such phrases as “Tex Rickard says to me,” and “I says to Jim Corbett—”
One of his shoulders was lower than the other.
He arrived in town some time after the Sully fight.
Deferential to Tim Haney, as one of the kings of his world, he now approached him. After the greeting, he said quickly,
“Saw a boy down South who’s a comer, Tim.”
In the course of many wandering years, Wild Joe Ryan had told Silent Tim of many such comers. They were never heard of again.
Thinking of Shane Rory, his heart beating swiftly, Tim said indifferently—
“Didya—who?”
Wild Joe Ryan fumbled in his pocket and brought out a piece of paper. Adjusting his nose glasses that dangled from a bla
ck string, he read for a minute; then said, “His name’s Rory—Shane Rory—he’s built like Bob Fitzsimmons—only better legs—big shoulders, slender hips—fast as hell and a killer—I saw him at a smoker the Elks gave—the boys thought they’d entertain me a little. After seein’ him go, I thought of you right away.”
“Kin he box?” Tim asked warily.
“Yes—but that’s not what impressed me, Tim. He kin take it and give it—his jaw’s so sharp it’d cut the leather of a glove. He’s a good-lookin’ boy—”
“To hell with that,” snapped Tim.
“I don’t mean it just that way, either—everybody likes him down there—he hardly ever talks, he don’t smoke or chase around with women.”
Wild Joe Ryan removed his glasses and said decisively, “If I knew the fight game like you do, Tim, I’d sink everything I had on him—he’s got it, I tell you— he must weigh a hundred and seventy or eighty now, and he’ll still fill out—he’s fast as a lightweight—and he hits like a mule kickin’.”
Wild Joe Ryan snapped his fingers quickly— “He was up against a big, fast coon when I saw him, and he knocked him sideways and backwards so fast the Nigger didn’t know which way to fall—it took two men to get that black man’s jaws back in place after he come to—”
Silent Tim Haney showed no surprise, as he asked, “What kind of a punch?”
“I don’t know,” returned Wild Joe Ryan, “he cracked him so fast nobody could see where it come from.”
“What was you drinkin’?” asked Tim.
Wild Joe Ryan was slightly irritated.
“All I’m doin’ is telling you where to find a million dollars in a hick town—that’s all I’m doin’.” He looked at Silent Tim Haney. “I’m telling you this, Tim, because we’re pals—we’ve known each other thirty-odd years.” He fingered his noseglasses, “And I know you’re on the level.”
“Most certainly,” replied Tim indignantly, “What town’s he in?”
“Buffington.”
“I’ll be seein’ you soon, Joe,” said Silent Tim Haney.
Haney arrived in Buffington.
A group of young fellows, among them Shane, were in a small gymnasium.
Unaware that a one-time great pugilist watched them through a hole in the building, they went through different exercises.
At last Shane boxed. He was now calm, where he had been a charging fury against Sully. He landed punches without effort. His opponent could not touch him. The gymnasium shook.
An unconscious master of melodrama, Tim visualized him in a ring surrounded by howling thousands. Primitive as the first religion, and cunning as the first lie, Tim felt more elated than a miser discovering gold.
His heart pumped with the ancient lure of battle. He felt the cleft in his jaw that many fists had battered. He stood in the office of Madison Square Garden making demands on manager and directors.
“But this boy’ll turn ’em away a mile down Broadway,” he was saying to himself. “Give him a pat on the back between rounds and he kin lick all the heavyweights alive.”
Shane, without a rest, began to punch the bag.
When all was over and the boys had dressed, he walked slowly away. Tim followed him.
Shane turned. Startled, he said, “You!”
“Yes—I got lonesome to see you.” Tim coughed. “I’d like to sign you to a contract.”
“Why didn’t you think of that before I fought Sully?”
“I did, but you left town too quick,” was the answer. “I had a return match for you with Harry Sully.”
“When?” Shane asked.
Tim thought quickly. “Three weeks from now—the club’s lined up till then.”
“How’d you happen to find me here?” asked Shane.
“I read about you knockin’ a Nigger out.”
Silent Tim looked about. “Got any relations here?”
“None—I’m like a crow—I’ve no relations no place,” replied Shane.
“Thank God for that,” snapped Silent Tim. “You’re a wild horse,” he continued. “You’ll tear yourself to pieces and get nowhere on the track—the steam in the engine, and the lightning in the sky—it’s no good if you don’t control it. Stick with me and I’ll get you in the big money. It don’t hurt any more to get beat up for a million than it does for a dollar.”
“I don’t know—I never got beat up for a million.”
“But you will if you stick with me,” Silent Tim added.
“All right, you do the matchin’ and I’ll do the fightin’.”
“Shake,” said Tim— “I just want your word—it’s fifty-fifty all the way. I’ll pay hotel expenses out of my end.”
“That’s a go,” agreed Shane.
Silent Tim smiled, and glanced at him with keen eyes. He could tell a better-than-average pugilist at once—the drawn skin, the muscles without bulge, the easy movement of body. He noted that Shane’s knees were close together, that he stood with his feet apart, unconsciously prepared to balance himself against the blows of an adversary.
“Come on, my boy, let’s go back and fight Harry Sully—I can get you five centuries.”
“All right,” agreed Shane.
“Then when you win, I’ll quit everything and look after you.”
“You’d better,” said Shane, “A club like that never saw a real fighter.”
VIII
Silent Tim Haney had but one ambition, to develop and manage a heavyweight champion. Close contact with the ring since boyhood had taught him its devious ways.
He had survived twenty years as a bruiser. He would study an adversary as a general would a map. Loquacious, thin-lipped, sardonic, he laid the gloves aside only when his knees began to creak. He spent hours each day trying to strengthen them.
Unusual in that he was a great manager who had also been a great pugilist, he was the only man who ever whipped Joe Slack. They were never friends afterward.
His four fights with Slack were memorable in ring annals. Knowing that his manager had absconded with his end of the purse, Tim won the last grueling contest with Slack.
The promoter wanted to pay his expenses.
“No, it was worth it to lick Slack.”
“Well, we’ll find your friend for you and make him give you the money.”
Silent Tim retorted, “No—a friend who’ll steal your money is not worth finding.”
When the manager was located later, Tim refused to prosecute.
He had a profound knowledge of the human body under strain. He knew that a great heavyweight pugilist came but seldom among millions of men. Three times he had been near the goal when the protégé developed some weakness. The Dublin Slasher was greatest of all. He died early. Eddie Curran might also have been a heavyweight champion had he been born five years later. He could whip the reigning champion—had done it convincingly in a no-decision fight. There was only one barrier in his way. He could not whip Billy Hill, a second-rate pugilist, after three attempts. The champion, afraid of the Slasher, when pressed to give him a fight, referred to his record with Hill. The latter had fought the champion and by so doing had proved that the man with the title did not belong in the same ring with him. Tim cursed his bad luck in matching his man with Hill, and concluded that guiding a man to a heavyweight championship was more delicate than assembling a watch.
Persuasive as good news, Tim was unctuous with men who wrote about pugilism for the daily papers. His anecdotes were many, and always had a laugh at the end.
Sensing early that in the heart of every newspaper writer was the seed of defeat, he tinged his flattery with humility. He would say of what they wrote, “I wish I had written that.” He had never, so far as men knew, read beyond the headlines and the first paragraph.
He would inveigle men into telling stories. Though his mind might be far away, he would nod his head at certain points, as if listening intently.
Knowing Shane had great possibilities, Silent Tim Haney’s chief idea in training him was f
or strength and endurance. Already an excellent boxer, he would absorb everything else. Trotting and walking rapidly, with occasional sprints, Shane went fourteen miles a day on soft country roads to avoid “shin splints.”
The average pugilist ran five miles.
For an hour he would use the light bag for speed, hitting it with accurate precision. The larger bag was used for punching power. Blows were delivered against it, hard enough to knock a horse down. He was always “on his toes” in the gymnasium, even when wrestling the immense sand bag. He would skip a rope to develop fast foot work. He would lie flat on the floor and raise up from the waist, often lifting a weight as he did so. He would stretch out across a chair, hooking his legs under another chair upon which Silent Tim would sit and give ballast.
It was long, tiresome and relentless labor. If it ever tired the young fighter, he said nothing. He entered the gymnasium with the same zest each day.
A contraption of leather pads pounded his stomach until it was a mass of writhing muscle.
Tim watched Shane closely in the gymnasium and pointed out errors. “It’s well I know that a man with never a glove on might whip you, but it’s best to know more than other men anyhow.”
He was satisfied that Shane knew instinctively how to hit.
A blow from him, traveling six inches, “in close,” and unperceived, could knock an opponent unconscious. He could “throw” a blow that distance as swiftly as one would fire a shot. In delivering an “uppercut,” he would “lift” his body with the punch. It was like being struck with a sledge his weight. Men who did not know how to put their weight behind blows were called “arm hitters.”
He could not explain his movements in the ring. Mind and muscle coördinated so evenly that one seemed to work as quickly as the other.
He averted blows by the imperceptible movement of the head. He “rolled with the punch” or was “going away” when it was delivered, thus breaking its force.
His judgment of distance was acquired by hours of practice. At the zenith of a whirling fray, he seldom missed.
“Watch lions, leopards, and tigers when they’re ready to spring. They’ll teach you how to attack,” said Tim. “And clinch as little as possible. That wears you out. You’ll seldom knock a good man like Sully out with one punch. It may take ten—all dynamite. You’ve got to be in a position to slam them in when you get an opening. If you throw your body forward with all you’ve got and miss, you either fall into a clinch or into a counter-sock. If you do hit and then clinch, you give your opponent time to recuperate, and he may tire you. Most fighters are maulers, always clinching and off balance.”
