Boxing skill relates inversely to age. The older a man gets, the better a fighter he was when young, according to the watery eye of memory. By reputation, Jim Jeffries could endure more punishment than any prizefighter since the cruel days of the cestus. Never beaten, never off his feet, until Jack Johnson did away with him in 1910 at Reno, he remains the tantalizing central figure in boxing's non-stop argument. Was he the greatest of them all? Maybe so, maybe not.
    Oldtime referee Billy Roche, who bridged the gap between boxing generations, once told me that Jeff's iceberg bulk (220 lbs.)made him appear slower than he really was. His legs measured 25 inches at the thigh, 10 inches at the ankle. His size and rough manner gave him the title of "The Beast," and effete New Yorkers looked upon him as a throwback to primeval man.
    "Jeff's looks were belying," Roche said. "Before age got to him, he had the acrobatic springiness of a circus tumbler in his legs. He was no lumbering ox, anchored to one spot, but a natural athlete who kept himself in shape by tramping through the Sierra Madre Mountains. Big as he was, he was agile enough to run 100 yards in 11 seconds, high jump 5 feet, 10 inches and hold his own in rough-and-tumble wrestling."