An Old Boxer

An Old Boxer

My father was a professional boxer back in the 1920’s. He was never a contender, but he had over two hundred fights, and was never knocked out. Boxing was the key to his life, and it always stayed with him.

I remember my father telling me, "That was the best part of my whole life, the fight game. When I was training for a fight, I was in tiptop condition. I wasn't afraid of any man alive. I had my whole life in front of me, and I knew I could do anything… I thought it would never end. I thought it would never end…"

My dad was an old boxer. He told me that once. He went into his fighting stance and a big grin came over his stubbled face. He told me, "I'm just an old boxer, Jackie. You know, what the fellow says, 'Old boxers never die, we jus' fade away.'"

My dad's story, like so many that shared with him the American Dream, began on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. His parents migrated from the coalfields of Lithuania, to a coal-mining town in Scotland, where he was born, and then after they scrimped and saved for several years, crossed over the Atlantic and settled in the coal region of Mt. Carmel,
Pennsylvania.

My grandfather worked in the mines and quickly saved up enough to open a small taproom where he earned a good living. Then, the First World War broke out. My grandpa went to Philadelphia with a buddy of his to work in the shipyards. In a couple of years he saved up enough to open up his own lumber company. He moved the whole family to the city for two or three years. Then, they returned to Mt. Carmel where he opened up a saloon and restaurant. This was a real moneymaker. But, I remember Aunt Marian saying my grandfather started drinking. He always did like a good time. He had an eye for the women, too. He began spending more and more of his earnings on wine, woman, and song. My grandma, stayed at home with her seven children, and put up with more and more of his abuse.

By this time, my dad was twelve years old and in sixth grade. Time to drop out of school and go to work in the mines, as most boys his age did back in Mt. Carmel in the early 1900's. But, Dad was determined not to give his soul up to the mining company. "When you go down to the mines in the morning, you never know whether you'll come out again or not," he told me.
He returned to Philadelphia and got a job as Western Union boy. Drove a bike to deliver messages. Cars were just coming out around this time. Most city dwellers still drove horse and carriage.

Once while making deliveries, he was hit by a car. The police had to jack up the car to get him out from under it. His father settled out of court for two hundred and fifty dollars. "He never even replaced the bike. Drank it all up. I never drank myself. Not even one beer," my father told me.

Grandma got tired of taking the abuse and neglect from her husband. She moved out with the whole family to Yonkers, New York. Dad started mailing her the best part of his earnings. He moved to New York City. Got a job as a baker with Horn and Hardart's.

My father became totally captured by the American dream; work hard, save every penny, gets your body in shape, don't drink, smoke, or gamble. Though I'm certain he never even heard of Horatio Alger, much less read his novels, he lived his life as part of that myth. He worked full time as a baker on the night shift, and spent his mornings working out at the local Y.M.C.A. Soon, a guy from a small boxing club recruited him. This was the time of the prizefighter. There was no amateur boxing. You fought four and five round matches. The winner would get a gold watch. "You could hock the watch for five bucks. The loser got nothing, but a good lesson from the guy who beat him," my Dad said.

He explained that he was what you call a slow learner. He lost his first four fights. The fifth was a split decision. "You can't believe what a feeling it is winning. The announcer reads off the scorecard. The crowd comes to their feet. Hundreds of people cheer you when you win. And, if you lose, they boo you. I fought mostly out’ a Atlantic City. I was what they called a crowd pleaser. I never backed off no matter how much punishment I took. Never knocked out. They called me the boxing baker. That was back in 1924.

"After a couple dozen fights, we started booking some semi wind ups out a the coal region. There was this one fellow who lived in the next town from Mt. Carmel, Tommy Maher, a real good boxer. He had a good left jab, but I could always beat him to the punch. The first time we fought in my old hometown. You wouldn't believe it. There was standing room only. They were cheering every punch I landed and even the ones he blocked. I got a unanimous decision. The crowd went crazy.

“We were a real good draw so they booked us two weeks later in Shamokin. My manager tells me I have to lay off a little let him take the fight in his hometown. We'll get another rematch. We fought each other five times. He got two split decisions in Shamokin. The fifth time we fought in Mt. Carmel. I gave him a real boxing lesson. I'll never forget the way they treated me. I was the town hero. After that, we started getting semi wind ups in Atlantic City and Philadelphia. I even fought a semi wind up in Madison Square Garden.

"That was the biggest fight of my life. Johnny Jadic later became featherweight champion of the world. I fought three world champions, Johnny Jadic, Toni Calingeero, and Benny Bass. I beat the three of them. But I was never a contender myself. If you don't have the right manager… He doesn't book the good fights. Everyone takes advantage of you when you're not educated. That was the biggest mistake in my life. I never got no education. I had to quit school in sixth grade. Over two hundred fights. Never knocked out. I broke my left hand fighting Jadic. I didn't even know the hand was broken. I got a unanimous decision. I felt like I owned the world…

"We had a fight already booked two weeks later in Mt. Carmel. I didn't wanna back out because of my hand. They would'a said I was chicken to fight Galante. I already beat him once. We figured the hand was healed. Wrapped it extra tight. I broke it again in the first round. I had to fight a defensive fight, back away, and clinch. That wasn't my style… I moved a lot, but I was always punching. Punching and counter punching. It hurt something terrible. My corner wanted to throw in the towel. The last round, I'm just holding on. I couldn't believe it when they booed me. My own hometown, and they 're up on their feet booing. 'Course they didn't know the hand was broke. That very same night I went down to the club and put my other fist through the wall. I said I'd never fight again," my Dad told me…

Later, I heard the story differently. When I was about ten years old, Aunt Marian came out to visit. I asked her about Dad putting his fist through the wall, and did he fight after that. She told us the story she heard back then in 1926. He had just won his biggest purse ever fighting a main event in their little coal region town, twenty four hundred dollars. "That was a lot of money back, then, at least a year's salary. He lost it all at a poker game down at the fight club where they all hung out. He lost every penny of it. Put his hand through the wall, and said he'd never fight again. That's where he learned to play cards. He never gambled at all until he started hanging out at the club.

"It was around that time he moved back to Philadelphia. That's where he met your mother. They soon got married. She was a beautiful woman, Jackie, but she drank. It's a sad story. Your grandfather couldn't stand to see her drinking, so he'd go down to the club to play cards. He gambled because she drank, and she drank because he gambled. He'd lose his whole paycheck every week. It's really a shame. He was always such a hard worker. He was a member of the Veteran Boxer's Association. All those years in Philadelphia he stayed with the club."

I’m not sure when my father quit boxing, it must have been before I was born. He took my brother and I to boxing matches at a small club on Broad Street. He bought a set of boxing gloves for us. He use to take us out to the front yard and give us boxing lessons. I remember it was the old one two. Jab with your left and then follow with the right. He called boxing the manly art of self-defense.

They had boxing clubs for young kids all over Philadelphia. A lot of them were police athletic leagues. If we hadn't left the city, I'm sure I would have signed up.

It is remarkable how boxing was my Dad's whole life. That short period of time stayed with him forever. I remember just a week or two before he died. We were doing our weekly trip to the doctor. Dad was all huddled up in his black sweater. He told me, “I never thought I'd get old like dis… When I was in the gym, training for a fight… I thought it would last forever… It seems like only yesterday…"