A Wide Ranging Discussion Of Boxing's Wearers of the Green
The second in a series of three articles by Bert Randolph Sugar

Together the ragtag team of writers entered the bar, trying mightily to will themselves a place to belly up. Normally there would be plenty of space available to rest one's elbows on the bar, but not on this night, for it seemed so-called "amateurs" were out in force, crowding the premises to overflowing and just plain ol' muscling in on those who frequented such places in search of recreation, refreshment and respectful appraisal of two-footed wildlife.

On this fine night there would be no discussion of Irish writers or Irish actors or even by the few fanatics, Irish revolutionaries. Tonight there would be nothing but serious drinking. And plenty of it. Interspersed with conversations about Irish fighters.

Finally, one of the eagle-eyed, at least for now, spotted a table in the corner and all five of the ink-stained wretches crowded into a space normally reserved for two. One of the group - it really doesn't matter who - looked up on the wall just over the table and caught sight of something which might pass for art d'bar, a framed poem. It stood out in bold relief from the items normally found on a bar's walls, the usual eclectic collection of olde Guinness signs, county flags and bland paintings, all of which could pass for either County Kildare or Doctor Kildare.

The poem, more a P.U.-litzer than a Pulitzer Prize winner, went something like this:

"Dear Son,
Just a few lines to let you let you know that I am still alive.

I am writing this slowly because I know you can't read fast. You won't know the house when you come home, we've moved.

About your father, he has a lovely new job. He has sOO men under him. He ruts grass at the cemetery. Your sister Mary had a baby this morning. I haven't found out yet whether it's a boy or a girl, so I don't know if you're an aunt or an uncle.

I went to the doctor's on Thursday and your father came with me. The doctor put a small tube in my mouth and told me not to talk for ten minutes. Your father offered to buy it from him.

Your uncle Patrick drowned last week in a vat of Irish whiskey at the Dublin brewery. Some of his workmates tried to save him, but he fought them all bravely. They cremated him and it took three days to put out the fire.

It only rained twice this week: First for three days, then for four. We had a letter from the under taker. He said if the last payment on your grandmother's plot wasn't paid in seven days, up she comes.

Your loving mother.

PS. I was going to send you five pounds, but I have already sealed the envelope."

So much for great Irish wit. It was now on to another topic: Boxing.

The subject warmed up as the drinks piled up, and became heated when someone---we still don't know who it was came over to the table and, without so much as a how-you-do, launched into an unsolicited treatise on great Irish boxers.

And so the rest of the evening passed in discussing the sons of the ould sod who gained fame in the ring--excluding, of course, those who tried to pass themselves off as the genuine article by adopting noms de guerre that sounded Irish, like Mushy Callahan, who went by the real name of Morris Scheer, or Young Corbett III, who had been christened Ralph Capablanca Giordano, or Artie O'Leary, whose name had been Arthur Lieberman, or even Kid McCoy whose real moniker was Norman Shelby.

No, this evenings bill defare would be Irish boxers. No others need apply, Ehank you.

Rattling off a string that rivalled McNamara's Band, we ran through a list that went from "Philadelphia" Jack O'Brien to John L. Sullivan, throwing in Jimmy Slattery, Billy Gonn and James J. Corben for effect. And then garnishing our discussion with such names as Jimmy Me Larnin, Tommy Sharkey, Mike O'Dowd and Mickey Walker.

But that was merely an appetizer, hardly an entire menu. And soon other names began being served up, like Gene Tunney, James J. Braddock, Packey O'Gatty, and Jack Dempsey--twice, almost as if it were hiccupped. Then came the names of Tommy and Mike Gibbons, the "Twin" Sullivans, the Flanagans and the Quarrys, with a McTigue here, a Donovan there and, of course, the latter-day Gerry Gooney and Barry McGuigan, almost as a dessert.

It was a fine list, one worthy of consideration. And the only thing to do with such a free-form list was to give it some form and shape by giving some qualities tb the quantities, a sort of party game, by selecting the top ten Irish boxers of all time.

After much thought--and several drinks--the group in concert assembled, which by this time had grown to an even drinker's dozen, began debating the finer points of all those sons of Erin who had entered the ring. And, in no time at all, or so it seemed to those who by now had had three fingers of truth serum, a consensus was arrived at--together with more than a few drinks thrown in for good measure to keep the discussion, and dissention, well oiled.

And while they were being totaled up, we came up with yet another list: those who had fought as heavyweights.

Those lists are herewith presented to you, free of charge. But the five pounds to afford you your favorite adult beverage, much like that of the Sainted Irish mother's supposed gift to her son, has somehow, someway been left out.

So you're on your own--to both digest these lists and to provide those names you think the committee of elbow benders forgot to include on their lists as the party-and the lists--wound down a little after dawn's early light.