Huge Gaps in Shelby Stands Mark Missing Fans at Glove Feast
FEW GUESTS STROLL IN UNTIL SALE DAY STARTS ON TICKETS
Crowd Under Burning Sun Impatiently Demands Action During Delay Over Preliminaries and Big Shout Goes Up When Main Event Principals Appear in Arena; Colorful Assemblage.
Picture a feast fit for the gods, a banquet table groaning with epicurean delights, set for hundreds. Then visualize a few dozen guests strolling in, and one has something of the Dempsey-Gibbons fight atmosphere.
A mammoth arena, the last word in construction and pronounced superior to any fight terrain in the world, had but a few thousand souls pocketed in its huge maw when the heavy champion of the world and his challenger came down to fight what the oldest heads declare one of the greatest battles in the history of the title.
Full Press Quota
The only section of a heavyweight championship crowd which had its full quota was the press. Clinking typewriters, telegraph keys, and rows crammed with perspiring scribes surrounded the ring. High in the air a quartet of densely populated towers fairly bristled with cameras and moving picture machines, busily snapping and clicking off their photographic messages to a sport loving nation.
The ringside sections, the “inner circle”, were fairly well filled shortly after 1 p.m. But extending back were the “great open space”, row upon row of pine boards, shining in their newness and pathetic in emptiness. Here and there dotted little groups of a score or more of the $20 bench farmers.
Off on the hill to the southwest, a score of automobiles and several hundred fans had gathered. The knob, rising above the arena rim, was packed with the young mob of those who deemed from necessity of choice that the difference in distance was not worth the price of the pasteboards.
West Part Best Filled
Western sections of the ringside seats were the best filled. The number of women present was astonishing. There has never been a fight in history where the feminine portion of the gate has approached its July 4 percentage. This made it a more colorful gathering, of course, the more so since nearly all the feminine devotees simulated “native” apparel to the extent of highly colored neck kerchiefs. Yellow was the predominating kerchief motif, and this vied with the green eyeshades which found a liberal sale to ward off a blazing sun.
Josh Hanthorne, who found time to divulge his name and the fact that he was from Calgary, took the busy announcer’s role and was the first to grace a ring empty for some time after the alleged start of the big show.
What a magnet his megaphone was. No sooner had the curtain raising boys appeared and been introduced than there was a mob scene as all the holders of poorer seats rushed in one mad scramble for better perches. Down they clattered, leaping benches to the dismay and utter rout of the ushers. Like water drains from a washbowl, the scattered humanity swooped down on the ring from all sides and threatened to engulf it.
Perhaps dismayed by their brashness in taking matters thus into their own hands, the first rush brought the rim hounds down only part of the way. It was not long, however, before succeeding waves packed the thousands into a compact nucleus.
Demand Action
There were hints of impatience as time went on, but the crowd became good humored as the first bout started, at 1:30. To the chagrin of the promoters, who were reported engaged in argument over the rest of the pre-titular clashes, this was short, bloody and never got past the opening seconds of the second round. The knockout caused evident delight, however, serving to whet the appetite of a humanity which had been living on expectation for over an hour. There wasn’t anything to do except turn to one’s neighbor and utter some fervent if trite observation on the weather. The fire hazard was so great, for the lumber was dried to a tinder and all the exits were on top the outer rim. So the ushers warned all incomers “kindly to refrain”. Great saving of smoldering materials at that, and many the man who left the fight with the same cigar or cigarette in his mouth which he had intended lighting just as soon as parked.
There was a long wait after the first fight, the bands doing valiant service trying to pick up the slack. An Elks band on the south side sounded off alternately with the Calgary Hie’landers in the north stands. The northern kilties made a brave show in the striking red and black tarletons, breasts of the long-winded pipers ablaze with medals that would have shamed a village constable’s parading star. There was also a drum corps, which inspires the question, “Why is a drum corps?”
A pair of soloists were introduced, both soldiers in uniform. The first was a blind sergeant who lost his sight with the Canadian forces, the same who sang at the ball park show here. He is J. C. McMahon and handles the managerial end of Middleweight Billy Conley’s fistic progress. Soldier Caruse was the other.
Vocal Efforts Vain
But the crowd was impatient to encores. It had come there to see fights and not to listen to vocal efforts, no matter how much a favorite the selection or how pleasing the rendition.
The baking sun was not an inspiration of a Pollyanna vintage, and an eye trained across the level of the ring canvas focused on heat waves traveling across the ring to height of several inches from the footing.
There were cries of “We want a fight.” “Where are the fighters.” “Bring on Dempsey.” Rumors that there was no money to pay the preliminary boys sifted and grew to breed grumbles and more audible remonstrances.
Appearance of Harry Drake and Bud Gorman for their battle put the crowd in good humor again. Bud seemed to have the favor of the crowd over the rangy Englishman, who absorbed so many of the champion’s blows during the training weeks. But as the fight went on and ’Arry scrapped with a bulldog tenacity, refusing to be knocked out despite a stream of blood, which is his usual ring contribution, there were many exhortations for the Londoner to win. Particularly was this true after Gorman began his bantering and arm biting tactics.
The Champ Appears
Then this fight was over and the ring was deserted again. Were Pimmy Delaney and Jack Burke going to fight a semi-windup? The afternoon was no longer young. Reports threaded the ringside that Mike Collins would not put Delaney in the ring unless he got his $1,000 promised for the bout. And thousand-dollar pots were allowed to be growing in Shelby with their usual speed, which was not at all.
The appearance of the champion at the north gate was assurance that the big scrap was next and every mother’s son—and daughter-stood up and turned around and craned to glimpse the heavy king. He was flanked by Detective Mike Trant, and all the camp followed. Jack received a generous welcome and the ring swarmed with photographers as he arrived. Trant and his trainer, Jerry Lavattas, took turns holding an umbrella because of the sun. Jack sat in his corner, a blue sweater over his shoulders and bath towels over his legs.
Sitting just below the champion’s corner, a nervous twitching of the legs was the only sign that Dempsey realized the importance of the occasion. His face was a mask.
Gibbons came in by the south gate five minutes later and received an ovation. Clad in a faded brown bathrobe, the challenger climbed through the ropes and crossed directly to Dempsey and shook hands.
Then all the business of the final preparations had to be done. The ring ropes had to be tested, new resin had to be strewn. Up went Gibbons’ umbrella, the victorious Gorman playing Man Friday with the bumbershoot. Camera men were stepping all over one another. Jerry was rubbing Dempsey’s neck and Jack Kearns was smearing the champion’s face with vaseline.
Preliminary Delays
Up bounced a nurse in khaki skirt to climb through the ropes and give Jack a well wisher’s embrace.
Then the taping of the hands, and the breaking of the seals on a pair of “Sol’s” best six-ounce gloves, shipped up from San Francisco from the maker of gloves for title frays for the last quarter of a century.
The managers then tied on the gloves and the photographers got ready. Dempsey was in white trunks with a red, white and blue ribbon sash around his waist. Shedding of the challenger’s robe revealed him clad in darge green trunks.
Referee Dougherty called fighters and managers to the center and issued his perfunctory orders. The tenseness in the stands had increased since the fighters’ appearance to a point where it was well nigh hysteria, as the ring was cleared and the fighters returned to their corners to await the bell.
An instant before the bell, Dempsey turned to Kearns and whispered, “I’m going to do it quick”, and then the bell startled for the first round.
Although the main sympathy was with Gibbons, there was a realization that it was the champion’s fight before many rounds had been unwound. Any other opinion must have been inspired from Gibbonsomania. Filled with reports of the tremendous hitting power of the champion, the majority of the crowd sort of prayed for Gibbons to stay away and sighed its audible relief as the bell stopped each round with the challenger still on his feet.
Master of Defense
Before many rounds, the spectators realized that Gibbons was a master of defense and sincere were the tributes voiced as he foiled every attempt of the champion to land knockout blows. Shrieks of delight followed the frequent jabs which Tom planted on the glowering champion.
Jack Kearns was a study as he watched round after round unfold with Gibbons still on his feet. Near the end he was asked by ringside friends if it had not been a pretty fight.
“Yes,” was the reply, “but they can not say now that Dempsey is not a boxer. They’ve called him a slugger only, but he has outboxed Gibbons this afternoon.” Which may be stretching it a bit, but the statement contained much truth.
It was in the final round that hearts went out to the challenger. Jack. annoyed over 14 rounds at his inabiilty to land squarely, went after Gibbons hammer and tongs. Tom realized his danger, had been slowed by punishing body socks and rabbit jabs to where he could not longer attack, and it was something of a question whether he could complete a brave battle on his feet. But feinting, clinching, hanging on and retreating with all his skill, Tom Gibbons kept his record of no knockdowns clear and received a tribute of wild cheering which must have salved the soul of him who had tackled too big a job in trying to wrest the heavyweight crown of the world.
