HOW I FOUGHT THE CHAMPS—THE DEMPSEY-GIBBONS FIGHT
as told to Les Etter
By Tommy Gibbons
Jack Dempsey was the perfect picture of a fighting man as he stood in the ring outlined against the distant, snow-capped Rockies that hot afternoon of July 4, 1923.
Even after twenty years the scene in that sun-baked arena at Shelby, Montana, is as clear to me as if it had all happened a moment ago. Burned almost black by the sun, Dempsey shuffled restlessly in his corner, eyes narrowed and glittering. He could hardly hold still as Jack Kearns laced on the six-ounce fighting mitts.
My heart pounded with excitement as I looked at the champion. In a few minutes the gong would give me a crack at him, a chance at the heavyweight championship of the world.
I strove to keep calm, to concentrate on my ring strategy. That strategy was simple enough- to outbox the champion, make him miss, then pour it on when he tired. This was to be fifteen rounds to a decision. I figured the distance would count against Jack, that and the fact that I was the better boxer.
Dempsey hadn't gone more than three or four rounds since he'd won the title, except for the time Bill Brennan had forced him to twelve in his first bout after slaughtering big Willard.
But would that strategy work against one of the mightiest hitters of all time? Dempsey looked as dangerous as a big jungle cat. When he turned to jerk at the ropes I could see those hitting muscles ripple along the back of his arms and shoulders. For a fleeting moment doubt crept into my mind. I'd seen what he'd done to Willard, to Carpentier, with his murderous munching. A single slip and I, too, might be groveling in the blood and resin as they had.
But that hollow feeling in my stomach passed quickly. After all, I'd fought a hundred battles myself, fought many of them against the same men who had faced Dempsey. I could hit, too, as I'd proved with a string of twenty consecutive knockouts to get this opportunity. And I'd studied Jack, analyzed his style, worked out a block or counter for everything I'd seen him do.
My mind flashed back seven years to a comparable situation. That was the night when Brother Mike fought Jack Dillon in St. Paul. Dempsey was a big Jack Dillon, or Dillon was a little Jack Dempsey-take your choice. Yet Mike had made Dillon miss a thousand times that night, miss by the fraction of an inch that left him in position to counter effectively nearly every lead of the Hoosier Bearcat. That fight had been a revelation to me.
That's the sort of a fight I'd planned against Dempsey's lethal socking. Jack would tire, come down off his toes; I was sure of that. If it went fifteen I was certain I'd be the new heavyweight champion.
The bettors, the fellows who laid their money on the line, didn't agree with me though. The odds varied from 3 to 1, to 5 to 1, that I wouldn't come up for the eighth. A few predicted that if the bout went past the tenth, Gibbons would win, but they weren't many, and they weren't backing their opinions with cash.
To keep relaxed, I glanced around the ringside. That setting was one of the most colorful in the history of heavyweight boxing. Sweltering around the glistening square were Blackfeet Indians in tribal dress, gun-packing cowboys, hardbitten gamblers, oil men, eastern millionaires and sports writers. Shelby was one of the last real frontier towns of the Old Wild West.
Many of those Indians and cow hands had crashed the gate just before Jack and I climbed through the ropes. The small crowd amounted to only about seven thousand paid admissions and there were plenty of choice seats left. The boys evidently found a couple of gatemen who were either cooperative or easily intimidated, and about four thousand of them rushed the ringside They formed a vociferous cheering section, too, and there wasn't a sissy among them.
They had the spirit of Shelby with all its glamour and romance, these blanket Indians bronzed sheep herders and wiry, slouching range riders. Day and night they roamed the streets before the battle, drinking in the breathless excitement of the day and night gambling and dance halls, exuding the "ride-'em-cowboy" spirit of the West.
I glanced out over the edge of that blistering pine board bowl toward the prairies shimmering in the heat. Somewhere out there were Mrs. Gibbons and my two small sons - everything I was fighting for. They'd gone for a drive that afternoon; they wouldn't know the results until I returned to our tiny cottage that night.
Personally, I was never in better shape for a fight than I was at Shelby. I had Gorman, a corking good heavyweight from Kenosha, Wis., and Jimmy Delaney of St. Paul as my chief sparring partners. Gorman was smart and a good hitter and Delaney was one of the fastest, cleverest light heavies that ever stepped in a ring.
Gene Tunney later found Delaney invaluable in training for Dempsey. Jimmy's untimely death from an infection halted a really promising career. Between he and Gorman I had to be on my toes all the time.
We worked outdoors in the hot Montana sun except when it rained and then we drilled in the town hall before curious cowboys, who lounged around with their artillery conspicuous and their cartridge belts full. They didn't wear those six-guns for decorative purposes either.
One of the amusing things about training at Shelby were the "nut" letters I got amount the sacks of fan mail that came from well-wishers everywhere, even from India and the Philippines.
A couple of samples of these curious letters will suffice. One chap wrote he'd been a schoolmate of Jack's in Utah. He knew, he said, that Jack had suffered from a mastoid behind one ear in childhood. He wasn't sure which side it was on but he advised me to pound Jack's left ear for a few rounds. Then if he didn't fall, to switch to the right side. he was sure I'd cop the title if I followed this advice For it he generously offered to share the gate if I won. He didn't say anything about losses, however.
Another gent offered to sell me a secret "jumper punch." But his explanation of it was so confused that I decided to struggle along with my own style against Dempsey.
Jack trained at Great Falls and didn't move down to Shelby until right before fight time. The champ had trouble, as usual, getting spar mates, even though he paid top prices. But Jack could never go easy on anyone and even at the wages and grub he offered, the takers were scarce.
A six-foot, six-inch cowboy, who fancied himself as a scraper, heard about this "easy money" and decided to grab some of it for himself. So he ambled into Jack's camp, discarded his gunbelt and announced he was ready for action.
They dug up some oversized ring togs for him and laced the gloves on his ham-like hands, he started out real tough-like, swinging like a gate. Jack ducked and came up with a terrific right to the jaw. The giant started to topple in sections and two more punches struck him before he hit the canvas. When they reassembled the bossy-wrangler he had a broken jaw.
Jack footed the doctor bill and paid him well besides, but the giant decided he had gone far enough in the realm of Fistiana.
Good old Eddie Kane, my manager and close friend-God rest his soul-talked quietly to me. We'd dreamed, ate and talked this moment ever since Eddie brought back great news from Chicago five month before.
"Box him, Tommy-make him miss," said Eddie. "Lots of time."
I nodded. I knew the task before me. Despite my 32 years, I was at that perfect combination of age, fighting experience and condition that puts a man at his best.
Dempsey's scowl deepened as fight preparations continued to drag. Jack was the old Manassa Mauler that afternoon, keyed up, bursting with explosive energy. "Watch him," whispered Eddie, "He'll come out fast."
Finally Referee Jim Dougherty of Philadelphia, called us together. Jack's black eyes bored into mine. "How're you, Tommy?" he said in that curious, high-pitched voice of his.
O.K., Jack," I replied, staring back at him.
Dougherty's instructions were brief. He yanked his visored cap lower to keep the sun glare from his eyes and stepped back. Quickly we went to our corners.
Eddie Kane gave me a slap on the back. "That left hook-watch it," he said, and climbed from the ring. I saw Kearns slip out through the ropes in Dempsey's corner.
Clang!
Savage warwhoops from the Blackfeet rent the air as Dempsey came plunging toward me. I stood my ground and blocked his first blow, a short left aimed at the body. We clinched and I felt Jack's quick, wrenching strength for the first time. He weighed 188 to my 174 1/2, and what a difference that made as we wrestled along the ropes.
I arched away from several short, slamming lefts to the body and tied Jack up. He got his right loose and then I got the first taste of what I was to feel many times during that long, hot afternoon. A jolting blow pounded the back of my head once...twice...three times. Across my shoulder the champ's two-day beard rasped like a file.
We broke ad I kept my eyes glued on Jack's left. We both were left hookers and the body was our favorite target. I knew Dempsey had a trick of feinting with his right, then coming up with the left. I was watching for that, ready with a counter. So when that right started I thought, "Oh-oh, here's that left!"
But Jack crossed me up. This time he led with the right, a thing he'd never done before. Too late I saw it coming through, with everything Jack had on it.
Three split-second alternatives flashed through my mind. I could slip to the right and take the punch high on the jaw. Maybe I'd land in the cheap seats. A dodge to the left and he'd tear half my face off. So I bobbed in and took it on the forehead.
Lights flashed before my eyes and the ring whirled crazily. It felt like being slugged with a brick. If I'd ever been knocked off my feet before, I'd have kissed the canvas there. But I'd never learned how to fall down.
Jack leaped in, raining punches. Instinctively I rode or slipped the most dangerous ones. I hooked a left to his face and he paused, as he came on again I tied him up. But he worked an arm free and slammed more of those short jolts to the back of my head. We broke and a glancing right brought the salty taste of blood to my mouth. Jack crowded in again. This time several stiff straight lefts slowed him down and a hard right cross made him step back. But I was still dizzy. That single punch had nearly ruined me and it took three rounds for it to wear off.
Eddie Kane was plenty worried. As I sat in my corner I gave thanks for that six miles of daily roadwork I'd done along the prairie ridges near Shelby. Some of those days I'd jogged in the rain and carried a stick to clean the mud from my shoes nearly every hundred yards. But it was worth it now. My legs felt strong and loose.
I was still shaky when we came together for the second. I dove into a clinch and Jack tried to hurl me into the ropes but I jerked free and danced away. He missed a long right and I slammed him hard with a left hook that opened a cut under his eye and started the blood flowing.
Instantly the crowd was on its feet. Warwhoops split the air. The Blackfeet were all for their white brother in the ring. "Thunder Chief" they'd named me when they initiated me into the tribe during my training.
Jack fought wildly and missed half a dozen punches. We clinched and he went after my body. But I managed to partially block most of those shots. We broke and I speared him with a long left. Near the ropes Jack unintentionally landed a low one that didn't do me a bit of good. I fought all through my career with a hernia and low punches were plenty bad for me.
The crowd saw it and began to boo. I didn't blame Dempsey. He was never a foul fighter. But when a man is as aggressive as Jack was, he's bound to become wild at times.
But to the crowd it made him the villain. He had two strikes on him with those fans anyway because of Kearns' insistence that the champ's $300,000 guarantee be fulfilled. There had been delays and wrangling over the payment of the last $100,000 and for a time it looked like the battle might be called off. The promoters had over-estimated the possibilities of the little boom town and it looked like the whole community might go broke trying to meet costs of the bout.
Kearns could hardly be blamed for trying to collect the full guarantee. After all, Dempsey was laying his highly-prized heavyweight title on the line. And no one in his right mind kicks a million dollar championship around.
Incidentally, my own end totaled exactly zero, minus several thousand dollars training expenses, plus a number of lumps on the back of my head.
By the third, the effects of that terrible first round wallop had worn off. My timing was coming back and with it my confidence. Jack kept trying to wage a close-in fight and took plenty of punches to get in and maul.
He was easy to hit as he came in. I kept on the move and forced him to wade through a cross-fire of jabs, hooks and right crosses. I scored plenty at long range but he was simply dynamite inside, especially with those short digging lefts to the body, and those clubbing rights to the head.
Just before the end of the third Jack blasted a right to the body. I gasped and thought a rib was cracked. As I bent forward, he crashed a half dozen rapid fire socks behind the ear that knocked me off balance.
I leaped back out of danger and leaned forward to catch my breath. As Jack came crashing after me I let fly a left hook that surprised him. Following it up with a long right I made him break ground. It was a hard punch but it landed high.
The crowd, thinking I was going after the champ in earnest, went wild. But it was more of a counter attack. That body blow hurt like the blazes. I went after him to keep him from getting another shot at the same spot.
Eddie Kane was jubilant. "You had an edge there - keep boxing- that's the stuff," he said. Then he heard me gasping and saw the look on my face and he went to work quickly and efficiently. He was a great second.
Dempsey knew he'd hurt me with that body smash. I saw a savage gleam in his eyes as he charged out, intent on following it up. I circled but when I slipped he forced me into a corner. When I fought my way out and made him back away, it gave me a great thrill.
During training I'd made it a particular point to keep out of corners, of staying away from the roped. I knew Jack was bad medicine if he got you there. He and Bill Miske were two of the most dangerous men I ever saw against a cornered opponent. They were merciless and dew dazed foes ever got away from either of them.
Out in the middle I suddenly waded into Jack again and traded rights and then nailed him with a hard smash behind the ear. that punch jarred him and another hard right opened an old cut on his left eyebrow and he began to bleed again.
"Ride him, Tommy" shouted a lanky cowboy at the ringside.
"Yippee! Give him the spurs," screamed another. Shouts and shrill yells came from all parts of the arena as I walked to my stool.
The fifth was one of my best rounds. Jack came out with a rush but I couldn't land a punch for nearly a minute. I blocked or slipped his every lead. When he missed three hefty hooks in a row, he began fighting wildly again. That was just what I wanted. I opened up with a stiff left jab to his nose when he led with his right. Next time he led I stepped inside and hit him four times without a return. Jack backed into the ropes and I followed, hitting him almost at will.
He reached for a clinch but I stepped away and my left beat his counter. Again the crowd was on its feet screaming. Looking to my corner I caught Eddie's one-minute sign. Jack tried to feint with that right but I jumped back, then slid in quick and fired both hands to the head, forcing him to the ropes, mowing him off balance.
As he bounced off and started to bob and weave, several stiff right uppercuts straightened. At the bell I landed a left hook on the side of his head. Jack looked worried and there was blood on his face as he turned toward his corner.
"Keep boxing-keep boxing. That's the stuff. He's getting tired," chanted Eddie as I sat down. I thought so too. Jack wasn't on his toes any more. Over there in the opposite corner he sprawled against the ropes looking all in. Doc Kearns leaned over him talking a blue streak in his ear. Kearns didn't look to confident either.
I felt great. Dempsey was beginning to run out of gas. It was working perfectly - just the way we'd planned. From now on the champion would be out speeded.
I was elated at the bell rang for the sixth, and I landed several stiff jabs to his face as we came together. Jack danced out of range and circled. Suddenly he swept in, bobbing and weaving again. I gave ground, boxing him, scoring with more jabs against that pantherish lunge. Then he broke through and beat a tattoo on my forearms with punches intended for my body.
Then for the first and only time during the bout I lost my temper. I was nearer the ropes than I realized and in snapping away from a looping left, my head went under the top rope and I stumbled off balance.
Like a flash Jack was on me, his right cocked, trying to pull me back. I stayed where I was, covering, and waited for Dougherty to push him away so I could get back inside the ring without getting my head knocked off.
But Jimmy failed to shove Dempsey back and as he raised the top rope to let me in I dropped my guard. Jack reached out and smashed me on the mouth while I was still outside. The blow turned my lip black and blue and I yelled in protest to Dougherty.
Then I piped down. I learned early in the ring game to keep my temper and take the bad breaks with the good. Later Jack Sharkey forgot that and Dempsey knocked him stiff.
Dougherty took a razzing from the fans. but in justice to him the bout was a hard one to work. I was outboxing Jack at long range and he wanted to make a mauling fight of it. In close his superior weight and strength counted. He also was getting nervous. Only Bill Brennan had carried him further since he won the title.
As I got clear, he came in fast again and tried to one-two. It was blocked and he caught a retaliating right flush on the mouth for his pains. Closing in, he banged me around the body but just as the bell rang I caught him with a peach of a left hook. The blow landed squarely on the button.
I had to grin as I saw his eyes flicker. He'd started his old shift. but I blocked the left to the body and fired the hook as his right missed. I was working nicely now. The effects of that first round had worn off. I felt strong and my confidence was growing by leaps and bounds.
Between rounds I saw Jack Kearns really was giving it to Dempsey. That was a sign they were worried over there. I knew what Kearns was saying. "Pull up your socks, Jack, and smack the bum" - that was his old war cry.
Jack sprinted out for the seventh, dancing on his toes again. In a flash I knew what had happened. He'd fought himself into shape, gotten that second wind that sometimes comes to fighters and distance runners in a grueling contest. One minute you think you can't possibly go on; the next instant something clicks and you're piling in like a house afire. the champion was stronger, fresher, faster that at any time since the second.
He bulled in close, shooting those short punishing licks to the head and body. I tied him up and I wasn't worried. I felt pretty good myself and I was saving something for the finish. A couple of rounds of fast moving and Jack would go down off his toes again.
II
I kept circling and boxing, constantly on the move. But his speed made him tough. Then came the real turning point of the fight although nobody but myself realized it at the moment.
We were mixing it up near the ropes. I ducked a long right and my back and side were exposed. Jack suddenly leaned far over and landed a kidney punch that almost killed me. It was the most agonizing moment I have ever experienced in the ring.
That punch was sharp, clean and perfectly legal. But it drove every bit of breath from my body. Somehow I escaped to the middle of the ring with Dempsey in hot pursuit. I fenced him off with the left and bent double, pounding my side with my glove to drove the wind back.
While I was doing this Jack slipped in again and cracked me in exactly the same spot once more. If he'd realized my condition the bout would have ended right there. Any kind of a tap on the chin would have done it. I know, because I've had other fellows in the same spot.
But I didn't go down. Instead when he swung again I grabbed his arm with both hands and hung on tightly. Dougherty had to break us and I backed away stabbing the champ's face as he followed. At the bell we were locked tight again.
My legs felt like stumps as I wobbled to my corner. I felt a trickle of blood running down my face. My eye had been cut slightly. Eddie and Bud Gorman worked feverishly over me.
I remember being somewhat surprised by the crowd's remarks despite the pain. They buzzed excitedly between rounds about how I was outboxing the champ. Some of those who bet on Dempsey began to plead with him to get busy. No one but myself and the boys in my corner realized what those kidney punches had taken out of me.
"Take it easy, Tom," warned Eddie as he left the ring. If I hadn't been in perfect shape I'd never have snapped out of it. But I was surprised myself. One instant I was slumped in my corner, wondering if I'd ever be able to stand again. The next second I was in mid-ring, jabbing and hooking.
We clinched quite a bit in the eighth and I kept Jack tied up tight. Once I sent Jack back out of range with a pair of left hooks to the chin. Jack then surprised me with a left jab to the nose. It was one of the few times during the entire fifteen rounds that he nailed me with a jab.
Jack was over-eager in the ninth and missed as I sidestepped his rush. But in close he smacked me with several short rights to the back of the neck that jolted plenty. Then he almost got me again, accidentally.
Stepping away from a clinch I felt the ropes at my back. The champ swung a terrific left hook intended for the body. Instead it caught me squarely in the groin.
"For God's sake, Jack, keep 'em up!" I protested. I was sick to my stomach for the rest of the round and my left leg was numb for the remainder of the bout. I clung to him tightly while Dougherty sweated and wrestled to separate us. As I backed away I kept the left flicking at Jack's face.
The tenth was tough on me. That low one had taken plenty out of me. Jack was able to force his way through my defense despite a barrage of left hands and several short rights. But I was weak and the blows had no snap. I clinched when I could tie up Dempsey and just before the bell I suddenly stepped in and drove him into the ropes with a left swing. He was leaning back against the barrier and I tried to measure him for a right at the gong.
With ten rounds away I figured I was ahead on points but I was getting terribly tired. Many sports writers afterward told me that if it had been a ten-rounder I should have won. The least I could have received was a draw.
True, Jack inflicted a lot of damage in close. But I'd been doing the cleaner hitting at long range and had made him miss a lot. Discounting the low ones, he'd only hit me three really dangerous punches, although his blows carried plenty of steam. Some of those right crosses Jack had tasted hadn't made him feel any better either.
Speaking of that tenth frame, Fight Stories readers may have noted the little drawing on the upper left-hand corner of the magazine's title page. That sketch was made from an actual photograph of the Dempsey-Gibbons fight, taken in the tenth. The guy charging in is Jack, the one with his back toward the reader, with his left extended is your truly.
The eleventh round was a Gibbons round all the way. But it proved to be my last good one. From then on Jack's weight, the cruel heat and those battering punches around the body and the back of the head took their toll.
Jack came out slowly for that eleventh. His face was drawn and tired looking. When he tried a long left, I slipped it and crossed a right. We traded rights and lefts and clinched. At the break I backed away before his attack. Once I turned and ran out of a corner and half way around the ring to keep him from trapping me. The crowd roared with laughter and Jack scowled.
Suddenly I halted and landed with both hands, then danced away again. When he led a left hook I tipped his head back with three rapid-fire lefts of my own. Jack shook me with two crashing body blows toward the end of the round and we were both punching furiously at the bell.
Dempsey came out with a snarl and a rush for the twelfth. I knew he was out to end it quick. Doc Kearns had been riding him hard. He came at me so fast that the left hook he started as he left his corner sailed over my head.
I fought hard to keep him at long range but he kept breaking in to get in some heavy punches to the body. In the clinches he mauled me, jolting me with clubbing rights to the head. I was very tired and his rushes were getting harder to stop.
The last three rounds were a nightmare. Eddie kept yelling for me to stay away. I remember making Jack miss several long swings in the thirteenth. I landed a few punches myself but he gave me a hard thumping in a clinch that seemed to last forever.
Dougherty finally broke us and Jack swung through his arms and hit me an awful belt on that sore lip again. I still carry the scar. It felt numb at first, then puffed up and hurt like blazes. That Dempsey was a rough one. Once I pushed a right to his face and we stood there and feinted while the crowd laughed. We both were too tired to move.
After about a minute of the fourteenth I wondered if I'd last. Then I saw how tired Jack was too. I still had hopes of being able to make a stronger finish than he could. But that awful heat seemed to wither me inside. My body was sore as a boil from those body blows. I had to fight for breath.
Jack would miss with the left and close in. Then I'd grab his right and hang on. We'd wrestle and repeat. Then he'd club the back of my head again until I pulled his arm down. Once I did manage to back Jack into a corner and pound both hands to the head.
That fourteenth seemed like an endless nightmare but the fifteenth was worse. Dimly I sensed the crowd was pulling for me to give it to him, to finish on my feet. We seemed to be in one tiny, white-hot spot with a continuous wave of sound beating at us. Both spectators and writers knew ring history was being made. They'd expected me to go down early-but I was still in there pitching.
I was awfully tired. I felt disappointed, too. I felt I had the title in my grasp in those middle rounds. But I determined to stay on my feet at all cost, to fight on to the end.
As we shook hands the crowd was almost up in the ring, screaming hysterically and throwing hats and seat cushions in the air. Kearns had his head halfway through the ropes shouting and waving his arms wildly.
Dempsey's face was drawn but he wore his battle scowl. He started in like a wild mustang, as if he meant to end it with a punch. The two Jacks didn't want a decision, they wanted a knockout because it wasn't helping the champion's prestige any to have a man fifteen pounds lighter stay fifteen full rounds and finish on his feet.
Jack came at me with a hard right and we clinched and wrestled around until Jim Dougherty pried us apart. Dempsey must have heard Kearns' frantic shouts because he immediately started swinging with everything he had left. I managed to sway just enough to make him miss most of them. If I had been a little fresher I could have taken advantage of some of those openings. There were some dandies.
Once a terrific right swing came my way. Nearer and nearer that big maulie came. At the last instant I moved my head and it sailed into the thin Montana air. Again we clinched. Jack tried to lift me off my feet and hurl me into a corner. I caught my balance just in time. I kept circling as he tried to jam me against the ropes.
Suddenly I stepped in the way of a hard right. For the first time since the opening round I was groggy. Dempsey saw what was up and belted me three times with hard lefts to the body to pull down my gloves.
From far away I could hear Eddie yelling to Dougherty - something about low ones. Then I felt Dempsey's left against the side of my head. The knuckles of my right jarred his face. We were locked in a tight clinch at the bell.
For a moment we clung to each other, panting and spent. Then we stepped back, mumbled something to each other and grinned. I don't recall what we said. Dougherty jumped in and raised Jack's arm high. The bout was over. I had lost.
I stood there, arms dangling, drinking great gulps of air into my tortured lungs. I was too tired to care about anything else for the moment. Eddie leaped through the ropes ad pounded me on the back, laughing and shouting.
Bud Gorman was holding off a couple of wild-eyed cowboys who were trying to throw their arms around me. At the ringside the Blackfeet were dancing. The cowpunchers were yelling and tossing their ten-gallon hats in the air.
A big rancher slipped and fell down in the ring, upsetting a water bucket. Somebody missed my shoulder with a well-meant slap and banged the back of my head. I winced with pain. I couldn't wear a hat for days on account of the bumps back there.
In Dempsey's corner a flying wedge of special police hurried Dempsey and Kearns through the crowd to the railroad station. A special trained waited to carry them back to Great Falls, seventy miles away.
There were many stories afterward about threats of bodily harm to Dempsey and Kearns at Shelby. I don't think any of them were true. It's a fact that there were many guns around the ringside, but I never met anyone who actually heard threats against any of the Dempsey party there.
Rumors were rife before the bout that it might be called off. Apparently these threat stories got started in Great Falls a few days before the bout when Kearns and the Shelby promoters met to discuss the champ's final payment.
Ed Shave, a St. Paul sports scribe, who was present with Damon Runyon and several other New York writers, told me of that meeting in a Great Falls hotel room. The meeting itself was a quiet, business-like affair.
In the hall outside, however, some of the community's more turbulent element, attracted by the importance of the occasion, lounged around. One or two of these characters, under the influence of the distilled lightning juice that passed for liquor out there, talked real tough. There'd be a fight "or else", they said suggestively. But no one paid much attention to them.
Aside from the seat-rushing episode at the start, which might happened anywhere where the gatemen and officials were mostly amateurs, the crowd was orderly enough. I've seen much more unruly throngs in the East. But there was never a more colorful crowd than that at Shelby.
A mob of fans escorted me to the dressing room and big Bud Gorman, who had fought one of the prelims as well as acting as my second, topped off a strenuous day by wrestling Indians and excited cowhands away from my door while I dressed. It's a wonder he didn't get shot or scalped.
The feeling of disappointment clung to me for a while. But Kane pointed out that the bout had its other aspects for us, too. After all, I'd stayed fifteen rounds with the heavyweight champion and given a good account of myself, although badly outweighed.
While we actually lost considerable cash on the fight it looked good for a possible return bout back East where it would draw well. We should be in line for some other lucrative matches also. We'd tried to get Harry Wills, Tunney, practically all the others. Now they'd have to beat me before tackling Jack.
Tunney later frankly admitted in his autobiography that he was certain he'd be knocked out if he met me at that stage of his career. This may sound like boasting but it's down in black and white, written by Gene.
I think Dempsey gained a lot from that fight. Fifteen rounds of milling in that hot sun really got him in shape for his titanic battle with Firpo a couple of months later. Without that Shelby battle under his belt, Firpo might have beaten him down when he had him dazed.
I would have liked another shot at Dempsey. For a time it looked like we might get together but circumstances prevented it. I was certain that first time that I could whip him. Maybe I would have if it hadn't been for that right hand I misjudged in the first round I know he wouldn't have hit me with that again in a thousand rounds.
