New Page 2

	Jack Johnson-James J. Jeffries July 4, 1910
	On "Boxing Day," the day after Christmas 1908, a large black cat played with a small white mouse in a boxing-match-cum-race, less for nourishment than for sadistic pleasure. The winner not only took the heavyweight championship of the world, but unleashed a dammed-up wall of hatred. For on that day in Sydney, Australia, the "Galveston Giant," Jack Johnson, outweighed, outpunched, and outgunned little Tommy Burns, and took the heavyweight championship of the world. This wasn't merely a changing of the guard in the manner of Corbett beating Sullivan, or Fitzsimmons dethroning Corbett, or Jeffries knocking out Fitzsimmons. This was a black man beating a white man. Judgment Day had come. The "White Man's Burden" had become his master. Johnson underlined the importance of his victory by the manner in which he achieved it. He rubbed the collective Caucasian noses in the resin. He talked to the audience and taunted his foe from the opening bell. ("Come on leddle Tahmmy!" bam-bam-bam; "Come right here where I want you," bam-bam-bam; "No good, Tahmmy! I'll teach you," bam-bam-bam.) Between rounds he expectorated with unerring accuracy over the heads of his seconds onto a vacant space at ringside the size of a handkerchief, between members of the disbelieving white press. And throughout he grinned, smiling at the 20,000 white faces in the Sydney stadium, teeth agleam. He was insufferable. The helpless Burns was knocked down in the very first round and unable to land a blow throughout. By the fourteenth, he was hanging onto the ropes with his jaw dangling open, drooling. The local police stopped the fight. Jack Johnson had become the world's heavyweight champion. And the rallying point for a great white crusade. Seated at ringside in Sydney, Jack London sounded the initial call to arms in the final paragraph of his story in the New York Herald: "one thing remains. Jeffries must emerge from his alfalfa farm and remove that smile from Johnson's face. Jeff, it's up to you!" The call went out, from public and press alike, for the unbeaten James J. Jeffries to return and avenge the defiling of the white Desdemona by putting this black Othello back in his place. But Jeffries, who had not fought since 1904, had become bloated sitting on his farm in California. He saw no reason to leave it now. He refused to fight Johnson, invoking his right as an American citizen to "draw the color line." Hatred crescendoed as Johnson marched through the land disposing with equal ease of brave plowboys, willing white women, and tall glasses of rum. Only the invincible Jeff, the chosen representative of the white race, could answer for the real and imagined slights the Caucasian psyche was suffering at the hands of this black man who was living life to the fullest and flaunting his color in the white man's face. Jeffries finally succumbed. Whether it was because he heard the call for a standard-bearer, the tinkle of money, or the skin-pricking jibes of the devil-may-care Johnson, who had disposed of Jeffries' brother in five rounds in Los Angeles some eight years before, and now mocked, "I've got Jim's number," is not known. One thing is known: the first so-called "Battle of the Century" was about to take place. It was more than a morality play. It was an allegory: black versus white; invader versus avenger. No one grasped the marketing potential of the match better than Tex Rickard. And he eagerly sought to become its architect. But he was not alone. Others saw its inherent drama and profit. Representatives of Johnson and Jeffries met and agreed to a bout to be held in July 1910. They stipulated that all bids for the bout must be submitted to them on December 1, 1909, in New York. And the "promoters" came out of the proverbial woodwork. There was Sunny Jim Coffroth and his Fight Trust from San Francisco; there was Hugh D. ("Hugh Deal") McIntosh of Sydney, who had promoted Johnson-Burns; there was Eddie Graney, premier referee with promotional aspirations; there was Uncle Tom McCarey of Los Angeles; and, of course, there was George Lewis ("Tex") Rickard. More than 25 promoters, participants, press and predatory hangers-on crowded in the room at Meyer's Hotel in Hoboken, New Jersey, where the auction for the rights to the fight were held, all sipping the free champagne provided them. Sealed envelopes with bids quickly made their way to the head table. Eddie Graney offered a guarantee of $70,000 plus all film rights; Fat Jack Gleason, speaking for the San Francisco Fight Trust, offered a Chinese menu of choices, either $125,000 with no film rights or $75,000 plus two-thirds of the film rights; the Australian, Hugh McIntosh, offered $55,000 for the fight if it was staged in America or $100,000 and a quarter of the film rights if held in Australia; and Uncle Tom McCarey offered "on behalf of the Pacific Club of Los Angeles," the entire gate receipts and one-half (50 percent) of the film rights. Finally it was Rickard's turn. Like a good poker player, he had patiently waited. Now he came forward and dropped a bulky envelope on the table, cautioning the stakeholder to "Be careful with this one, it's got real money in it." When it was opened, the contents spilled out: fifteen $1,000 bills, a certified check for $5,000 more, and a piece of paper that read, "We offer the fighters the price guarantee of one hundred and one thousand dollars with sixty-six and two-thirds percent of the movie rights. The bout will be staged July Fourth in California, Nevada, or Utah. In addition to the twenty-thousand dollars contained in the envelope, twenty thousand will be deposited sixty days before the fight and an additional fifty thousand forty-eight hours before the encounter." The reading of the offer was superfluous. Jack Johnson kept staring at the bills and asked permission to touch them. "those checks may be all right," he said, "but they don't look so good to this baby as those bills with big numbers on them." Everyone had talked big money. Only Rickard had produced it. The battle of the century was his for $101,000-plus $10,000 bonuses for each fighter under the table. California didn't want him, but Rickard's old home state of Nevada did. He received offers from Goldfield, Reno, and Ely. Rickard now proceeded to Nevada to hear the three towns make their presentations. Each of the delegations had brass bands out to meet Rickard when he disembarked at the Reno station. Adjourning to the nearby Golden Hotel for the presentations, he emerged within the hour to announce his decision: "Boys, it's gotta be Reno because more railroads junction here." It wasn't the train service alone that influenced his thinking. Reno had promised to build a 20,000-seat stadium to accommodate the fans who would turn out for the battle of the century. Everyone who was anyone descended on Reno that Independence Day in 1910: writers, miners, land and cattle barons, swells and sports, pickpockets, society ladies and ladies of the street, promoters, thieves, millionaires, boxers, beggars, butchers, bakers, and Indian chiefs. It was a clan meeting of the great, the near-great, and the not-so-great. And all came bearing Jeffries' money. How could the Boilermaker, the man who had entered the ring 23 times and never lost, lose to a black man? The odds climbed to two-and-a-half to one, with no Johnson money to be found anywhere. A hopeful crowd of 15,760 crowded into the stadium, chanting, "Jeff, it's up to you." This would be their day, the white man's day, in the Armageddon between the forces of good and evil. In those innocent days before World War I, the outcome was preordained. It was as simple as black and white. But as a gleeful Johnson strode into the ring, a haggard and seemingly unnerved Jeffries slowly moved up the aisle. Some at ringside sensed that the hoped-for miracle might not take place. Maybe some of the fighters who had been criticizing Jeffries' training methods had been right. Maybe their prejudice and emotionalism had blinded them to the fact that the once-great symbol of white supremacy had been robbed of his skills by the loss of 70 pounds and a six-year absence. Still, he was the invincible Jeff, or so the miracle workers hoped. As the scheduled 45-round bout began, all of their misgivings took form. The huge black man played with the 35-year-old former champion and mouth-fought with those in his corner. For 14 rounds Johnson muffed everything Jeffries threw, playing pattycake with him. He picked of every blow and drew the frustrated white champion-turned-challenger into clinches, all the while taunting him with, "Now stop lovin' me like that, Mr. Jeff," and "How do you like this jab, Mr. Jeff?" In the fifteenth round Johnson did the unthinkable. Springing at the shambling form in front of him, the pantherlike Johnson sent Jeffries reeling to the ropes with a quick series of blows. Then he drove the dazed hulk in front of him to the canvas with a series of short, snappy punches to the head. For the first time in his career, Jeffries was down. He staggered to his feet only to be hit by two more jolts to the jaw and knocked down again. As the obviously hurt Jeffries fell to his knees, the crowd screamed, "Stop it! Stop it! Don't let him be knocked out!" hoping to save themselves and the Caucasian race the embarrassment of having their standard-bearer so simply disposed of. But Rickard waved the two fighters together again, oblivious of the pleading of the stricken crowd. As Johnson landed unanswered blow after unanswered blow on Jeffries' vulnerable Nordic jaw, he sank to the canvas for yet a third time, one arm wearingly hanging over the middle strand of rope. One of Jeffries' cornermen started climbing into the ring. Without finishing his count, Rickard walked over to Johnson and placed his hand on the champion's shoulder. The black man had won. The crusade had failed. Rickard, who had grossed $270,715 from the Battle of the Century-far below his original expectations of a half-million gate in the 30,000-seat bowl he had originally constructed in San Francisco-was now hailed as the "King of Sports Promoters." Tex, who never kept books and never knew until he had tabulated the gate receipts how he fared, never disclosed his profit. Johnson collected $120,000-$70,000 from Rickard; and Jeffries retired back to his alfalfa farm with $117,000-$50,000 of it Rickard's. Finally, Rickard's promotional victory was bittersweet in the face of his idol Jeffries' downfall. He swore he would never again promote a fight between a black man and a white man.
	Bert Randolph Sugar-The Great Fights