The Bruiser (8 page)

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 for 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.”

He shifted his feet with different punches.

When he struck, he would step in with one foot and hold the other back as an anchor. He was always within hitting range. “Don't lean over to reach your mark—
that throws you off balance,” Tim reminded him.

Shane would make his left foot firm for leverage in driving a left-hand punch home, then move the right leg forward to give him balance for a right-hand blow. This enabled him to shuffle in with a balanced attack. In fast action he could punch straight or hook with either fist without drawing back a muscle. This was “snapping his punches,” the weight of his body behind them.

“You may know what
you're goin'
to do—the trick is to make the other fellow do what you want him to,” said old Tim often. “If your brain's trained well it'll work better when the fast fighters throw them at you a thousand a minute. You may think you forget—but you don't. You can make everything else even in the world but men's brains in the ring.”

Silent Tim had learned too late how to hit without injuring his hand. He passed the knowledge on to Shane. When hitting, he turned his fist so the thumb was downward.

To feint with a right and hit with a left, though seeming simple, was difficult to learn.

A pugilist who only charged and hit “in close” was soon helpless and “out of position” before Shane. He would step aside, catch his arms, and spin him around quickly. Before the man could gain his equilibrium, he was knocked to the canvas with zipping “one-twos” to the jaw.

To counter a swinging right hand, he would swerve under and snap a vicious right to his opponent's heart or solar plexus.

Before a “body puncher,” he would hold his arms close to his sides and counter with short snapping jolts to the chin.

He would get “the range” on a fast-moving target by “feeling” out with an open left glove. If this were not possible in the first few rounds, he would “slow him up” with hard, body punches by shuffling inside his guard. Whenever he touched his opponent's body with the end of his left glove, he would crash at the slowing target with his right. If the opponent went “in a shell” behind his left, with a right ready, Shane would “throw left hands.”

“There's a defense for every lead,” Silent Tim insisted. “The only trick in counter-punchin' is to punch harder'n the other fellow. Think when you hit.”

Tim would seldom leave him in a city. The din of traffic, the leg strain on hard pavement, these were not for his fighter. Shane would chop wood by the hour. It taught him coördination of eye and hand, and made, if possible, his arm muscles stronger.

Shane knew that the hitting power was below the shoulder, that the heavily muscled fighter was at a disadvantage by being “muscle bound,” that the great fighter's muscles must be lithe, rippling, tigerish, neither knotted nor bunchy. Heavier muscles were for the wrestler who must pull and maul.

Rory's right hand was used to protect the chin and deal destruction quickly. If his opponent were ready to hit, Shane would not have moved his guard to brush a hornet away.

He could crouch, side-step, weave, bob up and
down, and be equally balanced for a murderous lightning shift in either direction.

To be able to hit equally hard with either hand, his right was strapped to his side. Thus handicapped, he defended himself against two men with his left; later he reversed it, defending himself with the right.

As a “mouth-breather” never had the stamina of one who “breathed through his nose,” Shane always kept his lips pressed tight.

Never had a fighter been more carefully coached. A man who mixed caution with daring, Silent Tim would take any chance if the prize were big enough. Though he moved his fighter in and out of small clubs, against men who could not have whipped him except by a miracle, he said many times, “Every dub's dangerous so long as his hands are up—it's the things in the ring that can't happen that do—there's them fighters that play with other men—you wouldn't carry dynamite a half-hour if you could drop it in a minute.”

They moved slowly across the country toward New York. Shane had won seven fights.

Joe Mankerlitz tried to bring him into Omaha against Barney McCoy.

“Any time, Joe,” said Silent Tim. “We need a ten thousand guarantee—the boy knocked Barney out once, and it wouldn't be a draw any more.”

Mankerlitz pleaded with Shane.

“You were tough when you were on top, Joe—who were those gazabos who came into my dressin' room in Cheyenne—I'm the fighter—talk to Tim.”

“No grudges, Shane. Those were the little days—you're out of the bushes now.”

Silent Tim looked at Shane. “We're after Bangor Lang, the champion.”

“But Barney can take him,” said Mankerlitz.

“He'll have to do better than he did at Cheyenne.” Rory scowled.

McCoy moved forward.

Shane cocked his right.

The managers stepped between them.

“My God”—exclaimed Tim, “you'd fight for nothin'—shame on you!” He pushed Shane backward. “Well, so long, Joe—we gotta keep these roosters apart.”

Shane did not speak for several blocks.

“Quit scowlin',” advised Tim, “People'll think you're mad.”

After weeks of wire-pulling, Shane was matched with Lang. Unless Lang were knocked out the championship was not involved. If a knockout occurred, Lang was to be given a return match within two months.

“It's a great chance—and we couldn't of got it without Jack Gill. I think Lang's a damn fool myself. If I were him I'd go up against no such man as you for half the house. He can't get over twenty thousand—and you
may
knock him out. I think you're ripe enough to turn the trick. Naturally Jack Gill played you down to get you the chance. But once you're in there, only God can whip you.”

Tim's eyes danced.

“Do nothin' the first round—just remember you're fightin' a champion. Somebody's goin' to take Lang soon—and it's goin' to be you—and if you lick him once, you can again—only one man ever got a championship back after he'd been knocked out—Ketchell—may he long sleep sound.”

The fight did not end according to Silent Tim's dreams. Shane managed to get a draw—after his jaw was broken.

“It's just one of those things.” Silent Tim shook his head in bewilderment. “It can't be helped. The man who wrote ‘How to Live to be a Hundred' died at forty-six. He knew how, but he didn't. His jaw got in the way and the Lord called him home.”

Shane remained in seclusion for weeks with his bandaged jaw.

Bangor Lang called on him. “It'll be stronger'n ever when it heals,” the champion said. “Now don't let it get your goat. You might of won the newspaper decision if it hadn't happened. As it was, you got a draw—and gettin' a draw with me, even without a broken jaw's not done every day.”

Shane nodded, smiling.

Lang had majored in chemistry at a university. His father then owned a small drug store. Lang had since acquired a dozen with his ring earnings. His father managed them.

Looking upon pugilism as a business, he was able to veer with all its nefarious winds and become successful. Called “a civilized man” by that peerless authority on things pugilistic, Hot and Cold Daily, he was remarkable in that he used the most ruthless profession in the world as a crutch upon which to lean, and by so doing had made of it an oak under which he gained shelter from future economic storms.

“I started boxin' in the high school gym,” he told Shane, “and when I thought I'd be good and knew I'd be a heavyweight, I went in the ring with my eyes on the big dough—we're both lucky, bein' heavy—the heavy guys get the money.”

“Sometimes I think it'll be a relief when it's all over. No more chiselers and two-timers—no heartbreak and worry about training. Looking back, I don't know how I ever made it. I don't think I'd ever go through it again. I'd about as soon go to war as to another gymnasium. The fighting's the easiest part of it all—it's the long hours and the waits between fights—and in the early days, it was the desperation for money, or making it hold out till another good match came along. I'd have gone crazy if I hadn't taken up reading. I think I've been through everything. One time I fought a local boy in Bridgeport and every time I got him reeling, the lights would go out. By the time they went on again, he'd be fresh. I guess I hit him so hard it blew the fuses out. Another time I was going on in a main bout and I met one of the boys from the semi being carried into his dressing-room. I got one look at him and knew he was dying. I couldn't get him out of my head all through the fight. It was the hardest I ever had. He died before they got him in the ambulance. His name was Curly Roberts—I'll never forget him.”

After many maulings in the ring, Lang was still a handsome man.

“Half the fighters I know are slug-nutty.” His tone was low and without anger. “What the devil's the good of a million if you're on your heels? I fought Nealy Rogan four times in as many years. The last two he'd come in the ring just like he was drunk. He'd stagger around for a couple of rounds before he got warmed up. He used to have a rasp in his throat like he'd swallowed files. I've often wondered just what a hard punch
does to the brain—it must scatter those cells or weaken them—look at Jerry Wayne—nutty as a walnut tree. He was a dandy in his day—one of the best.”

Shane nodded in agreement.

Lang sighed— “Yeap—he was far too good a fellow to hear the bees buzzin' in his bonnet.”

Again Shane nodded.

“I'd have quit when I got the first fifty thousand—but I couldn't. It's the fascination of the game, I guess—then there's times a fellow feels he'd be happier nutty—you can't be happy if you see things too clear—some day I'm going to tell all I know about the racket—then I'll jump into the coffin and pull the lid over me and screw it down from the inside.”

His heavy hand felt the corrugated ridges of his jaw.

Like Shane, he feared women. Liquor had no place in his life. Neither man considered morals. They were just “bad for fighters.”

Shane often wondered, while laid up, just what qualities made a champion. Lang always said, “A champion's the best man—along with other things.”

Shane knew that Bangor Lang was a great pugilist. Feinting being a pretense of hitting—to draw an adversary out—Lang was a master at the art. He feinted with his eyes. In his fight with Shane, they darted quickly at a spot he did not wish to strike. Shane was ready to guard the spot, when suddenly Lang's gloves thudded against the opening his eyes had made. After the first round, Shane no longer looked at Lang's eyes.

Lang used every ring trick to his advantage.

When he fought John Atkins, he kept a safe lead at
all times. Atkins, a rushing and vicious fighter, crowded him each round. If he happened to get an advantage, Lang would speed up enough to overcome it. His object was always to keep the decision well in hand. The audience, noting Lang's mastery, demanded that he finish Atkins. Lang merely smiled at the rushing gladiator who was trying desperately to knock him out. At the end of ten rounds, Lang said in his dressing-room, “Well, he has to get along—so I let him stay.”

Atkins had asked for no such kindness—he would have granted none himself. He had a world to gain by whipping Lang. The latter had nothing to gain by whipping Atkins too severely. So he could afford to be kind.

So supreme a master was Bangor in the ring that opponents were hard to find. He was accused of “carrying” adversaries so that he might fight them again in some other section of the country. In such a case, it was to his interest to retain the lead and still allow his opponent to make a good showing. In other words, for financial reasons, the master did not dare show his complete mastery. He fought some men a half dozen times, always defeating them by narrow margins. John Atkins was one of these.

Lang was the first to use what later was known as “psychology” in the ring. Among bruisers it was called “getting the other fellow's goat.”

While still unknown, he was sent against Jim Murphy, one of the greatest ring sensations that ever lived. Murphy had knocked out the English champion in less than a round. This made him a world's champion.

The match was considered a “set-up” for Murphy, a light workout.

He met Murphy in a restaurant the day of the fight, and said to him quietly, “Be ready tonight, Jim—I'm goin' to tear your head off.” He then walked to his own table and ignored Murphy. This was exasperating … a cat had not only dared to look at a king-it had brushed its tail in his eyes.

That night Murphy tore at Lang, who sneered, “Come on, you Irish ape—you can't lick a stamp.”

Then holding him in a clinch, Lang told Murphy that he had seduced his only sister.

Religious and highly moral, Murphy became insane with rage.

When the gong rang for the second round, the terrible champion rushed at Lang. He was taunted even more about his sister. After each taunt, Lang drove a yellow sledge into Murphy's anatomy, and thus paved the way to oblivion for the champion in the next round.

Murphy later attacked Lang in his dressing-room.

“Take him out of here,” sneered Lang, “I don't want to knock him out twice for the same purse.”

Murphy shouted, “I'll fight you in the alley.”

“Don't be silly—who'll we get to count the house?” sneered Lang.

When his victory was called a fluke, Lang gave Murphy a return match, and knocked him out in two rounds.

Hot and Cold Daily wrote: “Unheralded, unknown, from out of nowhere has come this lad, to become the
master of one who was otherwise the master of all the world.”

On Lang's first visit, he looked about Shane's room. “What have you got to read?”

Shane shook his head, and motioned to a deck of cards.

“Solitaire, huh—” grunted Lang. “I'll send up some books. I spend a lot of time reading. It's saved my life many a time, drifting over the country. It keeps a fellow from chasin' skirts—besides, you don't have to think when you read.”

Shane had never thought about reading.

A messenger arrived with a dozen books.

One was a large history of the ring. Shane looked at the many strange pictures of men who had been champions in the days of James Figg and Jack Broughton.

William Thompson, known as Bendigo, intrigued him most. The first of the illiterate evangelists, and a man of abnormal muscular development, he violated every rule of boxing and became great. He would stand with right hand and foot extended. The first requisite of boxing was the reverse. Shane wondered how he would have fought Bendigo, who defeated the terrible Ben Caunt in ninety-three rounds. One million dollars changed hands on this fight. Shane's eyes opened in amazement.

Caunt, six feet, two and a half inches, was declared the strongest man ever to enter a British prize-ring.

Many old-time bruisers were continually in jail for violating the peace. While Bendigo was in jail for the twenty-eighth time he heard a sermon delivered by the
prison chaplain. Upon his release he became the Billy Sunday of his day, and preached salvation in the language of the prize-ring. His points regarding the life everlasting were made with a mighty slapping of hands, large as hams. Multitudes heard him in London.

A memorial was erected to the old bruiser, brother-keeper, and evangelist. It represented a lion sleeping peacefully on a pedestal. Carved below:

The historian digressed,

“Whether or not pugilists have duller sensibilities than other men has always interested me. Lord Byron boxed frequently with Jackson, a famous bruiser. John Keats was far more pugnacious than most boys. Roosevelt, who had all the qualities of a successful pugilist, except weak eyes, was not a dull witted fellow.

“Heenan, the great American bare-knuckle fighter of the Civil War period, was a man of fine sensibilities. He fought Sayers, the Englishman, for two hours and twenty minutes. The result was a draw. Sayers hit Heenan in the ribs, and the
London Times
correspondent said that the blow sounded ‘all over the meadow as
if a box had been smashed in.' Thackeray reported the fight for the
Cornhill Magazine
.

“Heenan placed over the grave of his Parisian mistress a marble finger pointing to heaven. Underneath were the words … ‘Thou knowest.'”

Like a new sponge, Shane's mind soaked in everything. The hotel employees brought him books and magazines. He now passed many hours reading.

Living in a world he had never known, the tranquil days brought dreams.

He thought of the girl he had known on a farm in North Dakota. He started to write her a letter. The words came slowly. The pen scratched. He tore up the letter.

Events of his boyhood stood out clearly. His father, sister, and mother had never seemed so near to him before.

He could see his father sitting in a pine rocking-chair on the little porch, the afternoon sun on him.

Remembering more vividly, he walked about the room.

On Bangor Lang's last visit, he brought a new book. “If you ever feel blue—read this,” he said. “It knocked me right out of the ring—here's a blind and deaf girl-nothing stopped her.” He handed it to Shame. “She's got a soul like a rose, and more nerve than all of us roughnecks put together.”

It was Helen Keller's
Story of My Life
.

“Well, so long, Shane—I've got to be away on an exhibition tour—ten towns in ten nights—but read the book, Old Timer—then read it over—take it from me
it's the best damned thing I've ever read. What a gal!”

He left the room whistling—

The broken-jawed bruiser opened the book and started reading.

Hours passed. He was still lost in the fascinating pages. The girl's struggle, told so simply, caused the tears to come.

Not only was she deaf, but blind. The miracle became greater.

He closed the book with a throbbing heart, and stared at the wall.

“She's seen more than I have,” the thought came again and again. He had never been aware of bees and flowers. The blind girl had. The world was a place he had never known.

He opened the book again, then closed it, and rubbed his eyes. Stunned, as if from a blow, he was motionless for some time.

Silent Tim entered, glanced at the title of the book—“What dame are you learnin' about now?” He sighed, “I'll be glad when your jaw heals— No fighter ever got anywhere readin'.”