The First in a series of Three Articles

To understand boxing, one must first understand its roots. From its beginnings, the sport has resonated with urban ethnicity, drawing its recruits from the tenements, the ghettos, the projects, the barrios, the "nabes," places that offered little presence and even less of a future.

Many's the troubled and troublesome youngster who has embraced the so-called "sweet science" as a way out, a social staircase out of the mean streets that formed his limited world, fighting his way, bloody hand over bloody hand, up the ladder of acceptance the only way he knew - with his fists.

It has always been thus. The trail began in the back streets of London and Dublin and led to the teeming tenements of a young America where a new species of ruffian was first admitted into full fellowship in street battles and then turned his hands to boxing.

Ring archaeologists trace America's boxing roots back to the late 1840's when American politics and pugilism formed an unholy alliance of skull breaking and skullduggery. By the end of the decade, millions of Irish immigrants had fled their native land in the wake of the Great Potato Famine and arrived in America carrying only a valise of hope. That hope was soon thwarted in a world run by the hated White Protestant Establishment. Everywhere the immigrants encountered signs reading "NINA," or "No Irish Need Apply." They turned to the only world left open to them, the world of politics. The result was the most powerful and corrupt political machine ever known: New York's Tammany Hall. Tammany-which had built its political structure on the dual cornerstones of bullying and bribery--took to hiring thugs, all handy with their fists, as "immigrant runners,"--socalled "gentlemen" who welcomed the newcomers right off the boat guided them to secluded spots where they would be either swindled or induced to vote the straight Tammany ticket.

In the opposite corner, so to speak, where the "toughs" employed by the Native American Party, equally adept at using their dukes. Dubbed the "Know Nothings" because of their practice of answering any and all questions with "I know nothing," this anti-Catholic party was formed to counter what viewed as alarming waves of immigrants flocking into their precious home land, particularly those from Ireland. Dedicated to keeping the despised "Harps" "in their place," the Know ings frequently resorted to force.

It was inevitable that there would be wars between the two camps Tammany and the "Know Nothings." Not so inevitable--and yet natural--the antagonists would become America's pugilists.

Amongst those with Tammany stripes were such thugs-cum-pugilists as John Morrissey, Lew Baker,James Turner '"Yankee" Sullivan, while the "Know Nothings" could call on the likes of Tom Hyer and Bill Poole.

Prizefighting back then was regarded as little more than an unlawful activity engaged in by outcasts, a furtive trade carried out in secluded spots, often taking place in the back rooms of saloons or on river barges or in rings pitched in the pine-and usually just one step ahead of the local constabulary.

Challenges and fists began to fly in about equal proportions as Tammany and "Know Nothing' toughs faced off in continual brawls. When the dust cleared, one man,John Morrissey, stood as the best of the motley lot. After meeting every defi hurled in his direction, Morrissey retired from combat and, slipping white gloves over his I grotesquely misshapen fists, turned to the world of politics, becoming in the process a prominent figure in Tammany and twice winning a seat in Congress. He became a very wealthy man, establishing lucrative gambling houses in New York City and at Saratoga Springs, where he built the famous racetrack that still stands, monument to his successful escape from his ignoble roots.

In the two decades after Morrissey retired, other Irish fighters--many, like Morrissey, from the Auld Sod--began to fight their way up the fistic ladder. It would, however, remain for one man to embody the Irish spirit and personify their battle to kick over the traces of their then-second-class status: John Lawrence Sullivan.

JOHN L. SULLIVAN

By The 1880's, cocksure and confident of its future, America was casting about in search of natural heroes to tie its patriotic tail to. In those politically incorrect days when men were men and women damned glad of it, the man most men wanted to be was this swaggering, boastful bully boy called everything from "The Boston Strongboy" to "His Fistic Highness" to "The Prizefighting Caesar" to "The Great John L." to just plain ol "Sully."

The American tintype was tailor-made for the lusty era in which he fought. Meeting President Grover Clevland, Sullivan challenged established protocol by extending his burly paw in the direction of the President and booming, "How are ya, Boss! Sure glad to shake yer hand." Cleveland loved it. So did Sullivan's legion of fans, many of whom made shaking the hand of John L. the highlight of their lives.'Untold thousands extended theirs proudly to others proclaiming the catchphrase of the era: "Shake the hand that shook the hand of the Great John L."

In a day when the world received its news via two channels, those while-you-get-your hair-cut weeklies and word of mouth, John L. Sullivan's exploits monopolized both, his legend increasing in range and breadth with ever telling and retelling of the stories regaling the man and his feats. And the stories, all propped up with reverential anecdotes--his "I-can-beat-any-sonuvabitch-in the house" chest thumping challenge to one and all, his weeklong benders, his romances with the Bloomer Girl of the Month and, of course, his triumphs in the ring-didn't end at the twelve mile limit. For his supporters, most of whom were Irish, and for whom Sullivan had become the symbol of their own struggle, swept blarney off its feet in their story-telling.

Sullivan continued to write his legend with his mammoth fists, devouring opponents as easily as he did food, drink and women. One opponent remembering nothing of his battle with John L. other than that Sullivan's awesome right "felt like a telephone pole shove against me end-ways." Another said his punch "felt like the kick of a mule."

And wins over Paddy Ryan and Jake Kilrain--in the last bareknuckle championship in boxing history-earned him the title "Heavyweight Champion of the World" in the eyes of the sports fan and "The Strongest Man in the World" in the minds of his legion of fans.

John L., flushed with success, as well as excess, soon turned his back on the ring and his attention to the stage, choosing instead of fighting to star in a vehicle tailormade for his meager talents, "Honest Hearts and Willing Hands." Catcalls soon rained from the balconies and a torrent of calls began to pour in from everywhere demanding John L. return to the ring. Indignant, Sullivan took pen in hand and issued a proclamation. It read, in part: "I hereby challenge any and all bluffers to fight me for a purse of $25,000 and a bet of $10,000. The winner of the fight to take the entire purse. First come, first served." And then Sullivan listed three potential challengers, whom he listed as "bluffers." The third of these was James J.Corbett, who had, Sullivan proclaimed, "uttered his share of bombast." He added that "the Marquess of Queensbury must govern this contest, as I want fighting, not footracing." And signed the document," Yours Truly, John L.Sullivan, CHAMPION OF THE WORLD"--in capital letters, befitting its author and his stature.

JAMES J. CORBETT

The first to come forward and post good-faith money was the third of the above-mentioned "bluffers" James J. Corbett, practitioner of something he called "Scientific Boxing." And the bout was on, scheduled for New Orleans on September 7, 1892 with Sullivan, despite his prolonged layoff and bloated condition--not having fought in thirty three months and weighing some thirty five pounds over his normal fighting weight - installed as a 4-1 favorite to beat his challenger.

The fight was really no fight at all. For twenty rounds Corbett gave an exhibition of his "Scientific Boxing." Moving briskly but never urgently, Corbett would give the champion a com-hither look, but never be at home when Sullivan and his frsts came calling, remaining safely out of range of Sullivan's wild right-hand swings and leaving the champion growling and thrashing about the ring like a wounded bear. Finally, in the twenty first, by now as weak as day-old ginger ale and winded by his vain pursuit of the phantom Corbett, Sullivan stopped stockstill in the middle of the ring and demanded that his tormentor "come and fight." Corbett obliged, answering the taunt with his own right hand, driving Sullivan to the canvas face first. As he lay there, being counted out, his fans in the gallery quickly began to rid themselves of their Sullivan colors, throwing their green banners down upon the stricken gladiator until they covered the soon-to-be-ex-champion like a shroud.

When he finally groped his way from under his colors, Sullivan turned to his second, lightweight champ Jack McAuliffe, and asked, "What happened!" With tears in his eyes, McAuliffe told Sully the awful truth; he had been beaten, knocked out. Grasping the significance of having fought into the Indian Summer of his career and losing, the unsteady Sullivan, helped to the ropes by his handlers, grabbed the top rope for support and spoke to the assemblage: "The old man went up against it just once too often. He was beaten...but by an American." And then he ended his oration with his usual flourish: "Yours truly John L. Sullivan."

INTO THE 20TH CENTURY

The Torch was passed, not only to American but to an Irish-American. And yet Sullivan's thousands of fans were not about to pass on their adulation to the conqueror of their hero. In a case of illogical free assodadon that could only be explained by Professor Rorschach toppling over his inkwell, Sullivan's Irish-American fans scorned Corbett, derisively calling him "Gentleman Jim" and "PompadourJim," an obvious reference to his effete and fopish style of dress. And in several cities, gangs of Sullivan's followers took out their frustration and resentment by waylaying anyone rash enough to admit they had bet on or even rooted for Corbett, Irish-American or no.

To them, and to Irish-Americans everywhere, John L. Sullivan was the holder of the original copyright as the first great Irish American hero. No imitators need apply, thank you.

Just as sullivan had battled his way up the ladder of success, his non-boxing brethren were battling their own way up. And, in the process, they would become policemen, politicians, and part of America's growing middle class. In a real sense, they were fulfilling their hero's legacy by exiting their forced positions as second-class citizens in a society that promised that all men were created equal.

Now, more Irish-American fighters would follow Sullivans lead, with Irish-Americans enthusiastically embracing them. One old story, told by cauliflower tongues of the time, tells of the fight between Peter Maher and Tom Sharkey at the Lenox Club in New York back at he turn of the 19th century It seems that feelings were running high that night between the rival camps backing the two combatants. One old fellow, a townsman of Maher back in Galway, sat in the balcony overlooking the ring waving an Irish flag and proclaiming to everyone within earshot what his fighter would do to Sharkey, offering to bet all kinds of money that Maher would "knock Sharkey kicking" with a single punch. When the two boxers had taken their place in their respective corners, the announcer, Charley Harvey, advanced to the center of the ring and began the usual pre-fight ritual: "In this corner," he roared, without benefit of a megaphone, "we have Peter Maher of Galway, Ireland!!!" At that, the old Irishman began cheering wildly, waving the banner bearing the proud harp of his homeland and slapping everyone in the vicinity on any part of the anatomy available to him. "And," continued Harvey, "in the other corner is Tom Sharkey of Dundalk, Ireland." With that, the old Irishman sat quietly in his seat. After a few seconds he turned to his neighbor and said, "So Sharkey comes from Ireland, too, does he! Sure'n I thought he comes from Australia...Well, if that's the case, I don't give a damn who wins!"

Much as the old Irishman was confused by the entry of a new "player," so too were thousands of other Irish fans who cheered for one of their "own." Or fighters they thought were their own. So powerful was the Irish hold on boxing for the first two decades of the Twentieth Century that it became fashionable for fighters to adopt Irish names in the belief that it was the only way to make their "name" in the sport, even if it wasn't their own given "name". And so it was that boxers whose surnames were Piaga, Goldberg, Anchowitz and Giordino hid behind names like Young Kid McCoy, Kid McGowan, Charlie White and Young Corbett III--and on and on.

It began to look like, as the old Irish Saying made popular by Rudyard Kipling put it, "The colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady (were) sisters under the skin." As indeed almost every fighter was "Irish" ... whether by birth orby name change, their domination of the ring, beginning with the Great John L. continuing well into the third decade of the twentieth century.